Three Classic Thrillers (145 page)

But that had been many years ago, when the gas chamber seemed too distant to worry about. Goodman was pleased to hear that Sam now felt he should’ve testified at trial, and that Keyes had stopped him. Goodman was skeptical of the truth at this point, but he would take Sam’s word for it.

Both Goodman and Adam knew the issue should’ve been raised years ago, and that to do so now was a long shot at best. Law books were getting thicker by the week with Supreme Court decisions barring legitimate claims because they weren’t timely filed. But it was a real issue, one always examined by the courts, and Adam got excited as he drafted and redrafted the claim and swapped faxes with Goodman.

Again, the claim would first be filed under the postconviction relief statutes in state court. He hoped for a quick denial there so he could immediately run to federal court.

At ten, he faxed his final draft to the clerk of the Mississippi Supreme Court, and also faxed a copy of it
to the attention of Breck Jefferson in Slattery’s office. Faxes also went to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. Then he called the Death Clerk at the Supreme Court, and told Mr. Olander what he was doing. Mr. Olander instructed him to immediately fax a copy to Washington.

Darlene knocked on the door, and Adam unlocked it. He had a visitor waiting in the reception area, a Mr. Wyn Lettner. Adam thanked her, and a few minutes later walked down the hall and greeted Lettner, who was alone and dressed like a man who owned a trout dock. Deck shoes, fishing cap. They exchanged pleasantries: fish were biting, Irene was fine, when was he coming back to Calico Rock?

“I’m in town on business, and I just wanted to see you for a few minutes,” he said in a low whisper with his back to the receptionist.

“Sure,” Adam whispered. “My office is down the hall.”

“No. Let’s take a walk.”

They rode the elevator to the lobby, and stepped from the building onto the pedestrian mall. Lettner bought a bag of roasted peanuts from a pushcart vendor, and offered Adam a handful. He declined. They walked slowly north toward city hall and the federal building. Lettner alternately ate the peanuts and tossed them to the pigeons.

“How’s Sam?” he finally asked.

“He has two weeks. How would you feel if you had two weeks?”

“Guess I’d be praying a lot.”

“He’s not at that point yet, but it won’t be long.”

“Is it gonna happen?”

“It’s certainly being planned. There’s nothing in writing to stop it.”

Lettner threw a handful of peanuts into his mouth.
“Well, good luck to you. Since you came to see me, I’ve found myself pulling for you and ol’ Sam.”

“Thanks. And you came to Memphis to wish me luck?”

“Not exactly. After you left, I thought a lot about Sam and the Kramer bombing. I looked at my personal files and records—stuff I haven’t thought about in years. It brought back a lot of memories. I called a few of my old buddies and we told war stories about the Klan. Those were the days.”

“I’m sorry that I missed them.”

“Anyway, I thought of a few things that maybe I should’ve told you.”

“Such as.”

“There’s more to the Dogan story. You know he died a year after he testified.”

“Sam told me.”

“He and his wife were killed when their house blew up. Some kind of propane leak in the heater. House filled up with gas, and something ignited it. Went off like a bomb, a huge fireball. Buried them in sandwich bags.”

“Sad, but so what?”

“We never believed it was an accident. The crime lab boys down there tried to reconstruct the heater. A lot of it was destroyed, but they were of the opinion it had been rigged to leak.”

“How does this affect Sam?”

“It doesn’t affect Sam.”

“Then why are we talking about it?”

“It might affect you.”

“I really don’t follow.”

“Dogan had a son, a kid who joined the Army in 1979 and was sent to Germany. At some point in the summer of 1980, Dogan and Sam were indicted again by the circuit court in Greenville, and shortly thereafter
it became widely known that Dogan had agreed to testify against Sam. It was a big story. In October of 1980, Dogan’s son went AWOL in Germany. Vanished.” He crunched on some peanuts and tossed the hulls to a covey of pigeons. “Never found him either. Army searched high and low. Months went by. Then a year. Dogan died not knowing what happened to the kid.”

“What happened to him?”

“Don’t know. To this day, he’s never turned up.”

“He died?”

“Probably. There was no sign of him.”

“Who killed him?”

“Maybe the same person who killed his parents.”

“And who might that be?”

“We had a theory, but no suspect. We thought at the time that the son was grabbed before the trial as a warning to Dogan. Perhaps Dogan knew secrets.”

“Then why kill Dogan after the trial?”

They stopped under a shade tree and sat on a bench in Court Square. Adam finally took some peanuts.

“Who knew the details of the bombing?” Lettner asked. “All the details.”

“Sam. Jeremiah Dogan.”

“Right. And who was their lawyer in the first two trials?”

“Clovis Brazelton.”

“Would it be safe to assume Brazelton knew the details?”

“I suppose. He was active in the Klan, wasn’t he?”

“Yep, he was a Klucker. That makes three—Sam, Dogan, and Brazelton. Anybody else?”

Adam thought for a second. “Perhaps the mysterious accomplice.”

“Perhaps. Dogan’s dead. Sam wouldn’t talk. And Brazelton died many years ago.”

“How’d he die?”

“Plane crash. The Kramer case made him a hero down there, and he was able to parlay his fame into a very successful law practice. He liked to fly, so he bought himself a plane and buzzed around everywhere trying lawsuits. A real big shot. He was flying back from the Coast one night when the plane disappeared from radar. They found his body in a tree. The weather was clear. The FAA said there’d been some type of engine failure.”

“Another mysterious death.”

“Yep. So everybody’s dead but Sam, and he’s getting close.”

“Any link between Dogan’s death and Brazelton’s?”

“No. They were years apart. But the theory includes the scenario that the deaths were the work of the same person.”

“So who’s at work here?”

“Someone who’s very concerned about secrets. Could be Sam’s mysterious accomplice, John Doe.”

“That’s a pretty wild theory.”

“Yes, it is. And it’s one with absolutely no proof to support it. But I told you in Calico Rock that we always suspected Sam had help. Or perhaps Sam was merely a helper for John Doe. At any rate, when Sam screwed up and got caught, John Doe vanished. Perhaps he’s been at work eliminating witnesses.”

“Why would he kill Dogan’s wife?”

“Because she happened to be in bed with him when the house blew up.”

“Why would he kill Dogan’s son?”

“To keep Dogan quiet. Remember, when Dogan testified his son had been missing for four months.”

“I’ve never read anything about the son.”

“It was not well known. It happened in Germany. We advised Dogan to keep it quiet.”

“I’m confused. Dogan didn’t finger anybody else at trial. Only Sam. Why would John Doe kill him afterward?”

“Because he still knew secrets. And because he testified against another Klansman.”

Adam cracked two shells and dropped the peanuts in front of a single, fat pigeon. Lettner finished the bag and threw another handful of hulls on the sidewalk near a water fountain. It was almost noon, and dozens of office workers hurried through the park in pursuit of the perfect thirty-minute lunch.

“You hungry?” Lettner asked, glancing at his watch.

“No.”

“Thirsty? I need a beer.”

“No. How does John Doe affect me?”

“Sam’s the only witness left, and he’s scheduled to be silenced in two weeks. If he dies without talking, then John Doe can live in peace. If Sam doesn’t die in two weeks, then John Doe is still anxious. But if Sam starts talking, then somebody might get hurt.”

“Me?”

“You’re the one trying to find the truth.”

“You think he’s out there?”

“Could be. Or he might be driving a cab in Montreal. Or maybe he never existed.”

Adam glanced over both shoulders with exaggerated looks of fear.

“I know it sounds crazy,” Lettner said.

“John Doe is safe. Sam ain’t talking.”

“There’s a potential danger, Adam. I just wanted you to know.”

“I’m not scared. If Sam gave me John Doe’s name right now, I’d scream it in the streets and file motions by the truckload. And it wouldn’t do any good. It’s too late for new theories of guilt or innocence.”

“What about the governor?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, I want you to be careful.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Let’s get a beer.”

I’ve got to keep this guy away from Lee, Adam thought. “It’s five minutes before noon. Surely you don’t start this early.”

“Oh, sometimes I start with breakfast.”

______

John Doe sat on a park bench with a newspaper in front of his face and pigeons around his feet. He was eighty feet away, so he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He thought he recognized the old man with Adam as an FBI agent whose face had appeared in the newspapers years ago. He would follow the guy and find out who he was and where he lived.

Wedge was getting bored with Memphis, and this suited him fine. The kid worked at the office and drove to Parchman and slept at the condo, and seemed to be spinning his wheels. Wedge followed the news carefully. His name had not been mentioned. No one knew about him.

______

The note on the counter was dated properly. She had given the time as 7:15 p.m. It was Lee’s handwriting, which was not neat to begin with but was even sloppier now. She said she was in bed with what appeared to be the flu. Please don’t disturb. She’d been to the doctor who told her to sleep it off. For added effect, a prescription bottle from a local pharmacy was sitting nearby next to a half-empty glass of water. It had today’s date on it.

Adam quickly checked the wastebasket under the sink—no sign of booze.

He quietly put a frozen pizza in the microwave and went to the patio to watch the barges on the river.

T
he first kite of the morning arrived shortly after breakfast, as Sam stood in his baggy boxer shorts and leaned through the bars with a cigarette. It was from Preacher Boy, and it brought bad news. It read:

Bon voyage, Sam mumbled to himself as he crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor. The kid was slowly deteriorating, and there was no way to help him. Sam had already prepared a series of motions to be filed at some uncertain point in the future when Brother Randy was thoroughly insane.

He saw Gullitt’s hands come through the bars next door.

“How you doin’, Sam?” Gullitt finally asked.

“God’s upset with me,” Sam said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Preacher Boy finished his dream last night.”

“Thank God for that.”

“It was more like a nightmare.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Crazy bastard has dreams when he’s wide awake. They said yesterday he’s been crying for a week.”

“Can you hear him?”

“No. Thank God.”

“Poor kid. I’ve done some motions for him, just in case I leave this place. I want to leave them with you.”

“I don’t know what to do with them.”

“I’ll leave instructions. They’re to be sent to his lawyer.”

Gullitt whistled softly. “Man oh man, Sam. What am I gonna do if you leave? I ain’t talked to my lawyer in a year.”

“Your lawyer is a moron.”

“Then help me fire him, Sam. Please. You just fired yours. Help me fire mine. I don’t know how to do it.”

“Then who’ll represent you?”

“Your grandson. Tell him he can have my case.”

Sam smiled, then he chuckled. And then he laughed at the idea of rounding up his buddies on the Row and delivering their hopeless cases to Adam.

“What’s so damned funny?” Gullitt demanded.

“You. What makes you think he’ll want your case?”

“Come on, Sam. Talk to the kid for me. He must be smart if he’s your grandson.”

“What if they gas me? Do you want a lawyer who’s just lost his first death row client?”

“Hell, I can’t be particular right now.”

“Relax, J.B. You have years to go.”

“How many years?”

“At least five, maybe more.”

“You swear?”

“You have my word. I’ll put it in writing. If I’m wrong, you can sue me.”

“Real funny, Sam. Real funny.”

A door clicked open at the end of the hall, and heavy footsteps came their way. It was Packer, and he stopped in front of number six. “Mornin’, Sam,” he said.

“Mornin’, Packer.”

“Put your reds on. You have a visitor.”

“Who is it?”

“Somebody who wants to talk to you.”

“Who is it?” Sam repeated as he quickly slipped into his red jumpsuit. He grabbed his cigarettes. He didn’t care who the visitor was or what he wanted. A visit by anyone was a welcome relief from his cell.

“Hurry up, Sam,” Packer said.

“Is it my lawyer?” Sam asked as he slid his feet into the rubber shower shoes.

“No.” Packer handcuffed him through the bars, and the door to his cell opened. They left Tier A and headed for the same little room where the lawyers always waited.

Packer removed the handcuffs and slammed the door behind Sam, who focused on the heavy-set woman seated on the other side of the screen. He rubbed his wrists for her benefit and took a few steps to the seat opposite her. He did not recognize the woman. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and glared at her.

She scooted forward in her chair, and nervously said, “Mr. Cayhall, my name is Dr. Stegall.” She slipped a business card through the opening. “I’m the psychiatrist for the State Department of Corrections.”