Three Classic Thrillers (120 page)

“I swear. I don’t know who did it. I never saw the man. The car was delivered to a parking lot. I found it. I was supposed to leave it where I found it. I never saw the man who delivered it.”

“Why wasn’t he discovered during the trials?”

“How am I supposed to know? He was just a minor accomplice, I guess. They were after me. Why bother with a gopher? I don’t know.”

“Kramer was bombing number six, right?”

“I think so.” Sam leaned forward again with his face almost touching the screen. His voice was low, his words carefully chosen as if someone might be listening somewhere.

“You think so?”

“It was a long time ago, okay.” He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “Yeah, number six.”

“The FBI said it was number six.”

“Then that settles it. They’re always right.”

“Was the same green Pontiac used in one or all of the prior bombings?”

“Yes. In a couple, as I remember. We used more than one car.”

“All supplied by Dogan?”

“Yes. He was a car dealer.”

“I know. Did the same man deliver the Pontiac for the prior bombings?”

“I never saw or met anyone delivering the cars for the bombings. Dogan didn’t work that way. He was extremely careful, and his plans were detailed. I don’t know this for a fact, but I’m certain that the man delivering the cars didn’t have a clue as to who I was.”

“Did the cars come with the dynamite?”

“Yes. Always. Dogan had enough guns and explosives for a small war. Feds never found his arsenal either.”

“Where’d you learn about explosives?”

“KKK boot camp and the basic training manual.”

“Probably hereditary, wasn’t it?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I’m serious. How’d you learn to detonate explosives?”

“It’s very basic and simple. Any fool could pick it up in thirty minutes.”

“Then with a bit of practice you’re an expert.”

“Practice helps. It’s not much more difficult than lighting a firecracker. You strike a match, any match will do, and you place it at the end of a long fuse until the fuse lights. Then you run like hell. If you’re lucky, it won’t blow up for about fifteen minutes.”

“And this is something that is just sort of absorbed by all Klansmen?”

“Most of the ones I knew could handle it.”

“Do you still know any Klansmen?”

“No. They’ve abandoned me.”

Adam watched his face carefully. The fierce blue eyes were steady. The wrinkles didn’t move. There was no emotion, no feeling or sorrow or anger. Sam returned the stare without blinking.

Adam returned to his notepad. “On March 2, 1967, the Hirsch Temple in Jackson was bombed. Did you do it?”

“Get right to the point, don’t you?”

“It’s an easy question.”

Sam twisted the filter between his lips and thought for a second. “Why is it important?”

“Just answer the damned question,” Adam snapped. “It’s too late to play games.”

“I’ve never been asked that question before.”

“Well I guess today’s your big day. A simple yes or no will do.”

“Yes.”

“Did you use the green Pontiac?”

“I think so.”

“Who was with you?”

“What makes you think someone was with me?”

“Because a witness said he saw a green Pontiac speed by a few minutes before the explosion. And he said two people were in the car. He even made a tentative identification of you as the driver.”

“Ah, yes. Our little friend Bascar. I read about him in the newspapers.”

“He was near the corner of Fortification and State streets when you and your pal rushed by.”

“Of course he was. And he’d just left a bar at three in the morning, drunk as a goat, and stupid as hell to begin with. Bascar, as I’m sure you know, never made it near a courtroom, never placed his hand on a Bible and swore to tell the truth, never faced a cross-examination, never came forward until after I was under arrest
in Greenville and half the world had seen pictures of the green Pontiac. His tentative identification occurred only after my face had been plastered all over the papers.”

“So he’s lying?”

“No, he’s probably just ignorant. Keep in mind, Adam, that I was never charged with that bombing. Bascar was never put under pressure. He never gave sworn testimony. His story was revealed, I believe, when a reporter with a Memphis newspaper dug through the honky-tonks and whorehouses long enough to find someone like Bascar.”

“Let’s try it this way. Did you or did you not have someone with you when you bombed the Hirsch Temple synagogue on March 2, 1967?”

Sam’s gaze fell a few inches below the opening, then to the counter, then to the floor. He pushed away slightly from the partition and relaxed in his chair. Predictably, the blue package of Montclairs was produced from the front pocket, and he took forever selecting one, then thumping it on the filter, then inserting it just so between his moist lips. The striking of the match was another brief ceremony, but one that was finally accomplished and a fresh fog of smoke lifted toward the ceiling.

Adam watched and waited until it was obvious no quick answer was forthcoming. The delay in itself was an admission. He tapped his pen nervously on the legal pad. He took quick breaths and noticed an increase in his heartbeat. His empty stomach was suddenly jittery. Could this be the break? If there had been an accomplice, then perhaps they had worked as a team and perhaps Sam had not actually planted the dynamite that killed the Kramers. Perhaps this fact could be presented to a sympathetic judge somewhere who would listen and grant a stay. Perhaps. Maybe. Could it be?

“No,” Sam said ever so softly but firmly as he looked at Adam through the opening.

“I don’t believe you.”

“There was no accomplice.”

“I don’t believe you, Sam.”

Sam shrugged casually as if he couldn’t care less. He crossed his legs and wrapped his fingers around a knee.

Adam took a deep breath, scribbled something routinely as if he’d been expecting this, and flipped to a clean page. “What time did you arrive in Cleveland on the night of April 20, 1967?”

“Which time?”

“The first time.”

“I left Clanton around six. Drove two hours to Cleveland. So I got there around eight.”

“Where’d you go?”

“To a shopping center.”

“Why’d you go there?”

“To get the car.”

“The green Pontiac?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t there. So I drove to Greenville to look around a bit.”

“Had you been there before?”

“Yes. A couple of weeks earlier, I had scouted the place. I even went in the Jew’s office to get a good look.”

“That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it? I mean, his secretary identified you at trial as the man who came in asking for directions and wanting to use the rest room.”

“Very stupid. But then, I wasn’t supposed to get caught. She was never supposed to see my face again.” He bit the filter and sucked hard. “A very bad move. Of course, it’s awfully easy to sit here now and second-guess everything.”

“How long did you stay in Greenville?”

“An hour or so. Then I drove back to Cleveland to get the car. Dogan always had detailed plans with several alternates. The car was parked in spot B, near a truck stop.”

“Where were the keys?”

“Under the mat.”

“What did you do?”

“Took it for a drive. Drove out of town, out through some cotton fields. I found a lonely spot and parked the car. I popped the trunk to check the dynamite.”

“How many sticks?”

“Fifteen, I believe. I was using between twelve and twenty, depending on the building. Twenty for the synagogue because it was new and modern and built with concrete and stone. But the Jew’s office was an old wooden structure, and I knew fifteen would level it.”

“What else was in the trunk?”

“The usual. A cardboard box of dynamite. Two blasting caps. A fifteen-minute fuse.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“What about the timing device? The detonator?”

“Oh yeah. I forgot about that. It was in another, smaller box.”

“Describe it for me.”

“Why? You’ve read the trial transcripts. The FBI expert did a wonderful job of reconstructing my little bomb. You’ve read this, haven’t you?”

“Many times.”

“And you’ve seen the photos they used at trial. The ones of the fragments and pieces of the timer. You’ve seen all this, haven’t you?”

“I’ve seen it. Where did Dogan get the clock?”

“I never asked. You could buy one in any drugstore.
It was just a cheap, windup alarm clock. Nothing fancy.”

“Was this your first job with a timing device?”

“You know it was. The other bombs were detonated by fuses. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Because I want to hear your answers. I’ve read everything, but I want to hear it from you. Why did you want to delay the Kramer bomb?”

“Because I was tired of lighting fuses and running like hell. I wanted a longer break between planting the bomb and feeling it go off.”

“What time did you plant it?”

“Around 4 a.m.”

“What time was it supposed to go off?”

“Around five.”

“What went wrong?”

“It didn’t go off at five. It went off a few minutes before eight, and there were people in the building by then, and some of these people got killed. And that’s why I’m sitting here in a red monkey suit wondering what the gas’ll smell like.”

“Dogan testified that the selection of Marvin Kramer as a target was a joint effort between the both of you; that Kramer had been on a Klan hit list for two years; that the use of a timing device was something you suggested as a way to kill Kramer because his routine was predictable; that you acted alone.”

Sam listened patiently and puffed on his cigarette. His eyes narrowed to tiny slits and he nodded at the floor. Then he almost smiled. “Well, I’m afraid Dogan went crazy, didn’t he? Feds hounded him for years, and he finally caved in. He was not a strong man, you know.” He took a deep breath and looked at Adam. “But some of it’s true. Not much, but some.”

“Did you intend to kill him?”

“No. We weren’t killing people. Just blowing up buildings.”

“What about the Pinder home in Vicksburg? Was that one of yours?”

Sam nodded slowly.

“The bomb went off at four in the morning while the entire Pinder family was sound asleep. Six people. Miraculously, only one minor injury.”

“It wasn’t a miracle. The bomb was placed in the garage. If I’d wanted to kill anyone, I’d have put it by a bedroom window.”

“Half the house collapsed.”

“Yeah, and I could’ve used a clock and wiped out a bunch of Jews as they ate their bagels or whatever.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“As I said, we weren’t trying to kill people.”

“What were you trying to do?”

“Intimidate. Retaliate. Keep the damned Jews from financing the civil rights movement. We were trying to keep the Africans where they belonged—in their own schools and churches and neighborhoods and rest rooms, away from our women and children. Jews like Marvin Kramer were promoting an interracial society and stirring up the Africans. Son of a bitch needed to be kept in line.”

“You guys really showed him, didn’t you?”

“He got what he deserved. I’m sorry about the little boys.”

“Your compassion is overwhelming.”

“Listen, Adam, and listen good. I did not intend to hurt anyone. The bomb was set to go off at 5 a.m., three hours before he usually arrived for work. The only reason his kids were there was because his wife had the flu.”

“But you feel no remorse because Marvin lost both legs?”

“Not really.”

“No remorse because he killed himself?”

“He pulled the trigger, not me.”

“You’re a sick man, Sam.”

“Yeah, and I’m about to get a lot sicker when I sniff the gas.”

Adam shook his head in disgust, but held his tongue. They could argue later about race and hatred; not that he, at this moment, expected to make any progress with Sam on these topics. But he was determined to try. Now, however, they needed to discuss facts.

“After you inspected the dynamite, what did you do?”

“Drove back to the truck stop. Drank coffee.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I was thirsty.”

“Very funny, Sam. Just try and answer the questions.”

“I was waiting.”

“For what?”

“I needed to kill a couple of hours. By then it was around midnight, and I wanted to spend as little time in Greenville as possible. So, I killed time in Cleveland.”

“Did you talk to anyone in the café?”

“No.”

“Was it crowded?”

“I really don’t remember.”

“Did you sit alone?”

“Yes.”

“At a table?”

“Yes.” Sam managed a slight grin because he knew what was coming.

“A truck driver by the name of Tommy Farris said he saw a man who greatly resembled you in the truck
stop that night, and that this man drank coffee for a long time with a younger man.”

“I never met Mr. Farris, but I believe he had a lapse of memory for three years. Not a word to anyone, as I recall, until another reporter flushed him out and he got his name in the paper. It’s amazing how these mystery witnesses pop up years after the trials.”

“Why didn’t Farris testify in your last trial?”

“Don’t ask me. I suppose it was because he had nothing to say. The fact that I drank coffee alone or with someone seven hours before the bombing was hardly relevant. Plus, the coffee drinking took place in Cleveland, and had nothing to do with whether or not I committed the crime.”

“So Farris was lying?”

“I don’t know what Farris was doing. Don’t really care. I was alone. That’s all that matters.”

“What time did you leave Cleveland?”

“Around three, I think.”

“And you drove straight to Greenville?”

“Yes. And I drove by the Kramers’ house, saw the guard sitting on the porch, drove by his office, killed some more time, and around four or so I parked behind his office, slipped through the rear door, planted the bomb in a closet in the hallway, walked back to my car, and drove away.”