"Good day, Mr. Hall." And with that, Slattery hung up.
Adam walked around the table a dozen times, then watched the light rain on the Mall below. He swore quietly about federal judges in general and Slattery in particular, then returned to his computer where he stared at the screen and waited for inspiration.
He typed and read, researched and printed, looked from his windows and dreamed of miracles until it was dark. He had killed several hours with footless piddling, and one reason he worked until eight o'clock was to give Lee plenty of time to return to the condo.
There was no sign of her. The security guard said she had not returned. There was no message on the recorder, other than his. He dined on microwave popcorn, and watched two movies on video. The idea of calling Phelps Booth was so repugnant he nearly shuddered at the thought.
He thought of sleeping on the sofa in the den so he would hear her if she came home, but after the last movie he retired to his room upstairs and closed the door.
28
THE explanation for yesterday's disappearance was slow in coming, but sounded plausible by the time she finished with it. She'd been at the hospital all day, she said as she moved slowly around the kitchen, with one of her kids from the Auburn House. Poor little girl was only thirteen, baby number one but of course there would be others, and she had gone into labor a month early. Her mother was in jail and her aunt was off selling drugs, and she had no one else to turn to. Lee'd held her hand throughout the complicated delivery. The girl was fine and the baby was okay, and now there was another unwanted little child in the Memphis ghettos.
Lee's voice was scratchy and her eyes were puffy and red. She said she'd returned a few minutes after one, and she would've called earlier but they were in the labor room for six hours and the delivery room for two. St. Peter's Charity Hospital is a zoo, especially the maternity wing, and, well, she just couldn't get to a phone.
Adam sat in his pajamas at the table, sipping coffee and studying the paper as she talked. He hadn't asked for the explanation. He tried his best to act unconcerned about her. She insisted on cooking breakfast: scrambled eggs and canned biscuits. And she was doing a good job of busying herself in the kitchen as she talked and avoided eye contact.
"What's the kid's name?" he asked seriously as if he was deeply concerned with Lee's story.
"Uh, Natasha. Natasha Perkins."
"And she's only thirteen?"
"Yes. Her mother is twenty-nine. Can you believe it? A twenty-nine-year-old grandmother."
Adam shook his head in disbelief. He happened to be looking at the small section of the Memphis Press where it registered the county's vital records. Marriage licenses. Divorce petitions. Births. Arrests. Deaths. He scanned the list of yesterday's births as if he were checking scores, and found no record of a new mother named Natasha Perkins.
Lee finished her struggle with the canned biscuits. She placed them on a small platter along with the eggs and served them, then sat at the other end of the table, as far away from Adam as possible. "Bon appetit," she said with a forced smile. Her cooking was already a rich source of humor.
Adam smiled as if everything was fine. They needed humor at this moment, but wit failed them. "Cubs lost again," he said, taking a bite of eggs and glancing at the folded newspaper.
"The Cubs always lose, don't they?"
"Not always. You follow baseball?"
"I hate baseball. Phelps turned me against every sport known to man."
Adam grinned and read the paper. They ate without talking for a few minutes, and the silence grew heavy. Lee punched the remote and the television on the counter came on and created noise. They were both suddenly interested in the weather, which was again hot and dry. She played with her food, nibbling on a half-baked biscuit and pushing the eggs around her plate. Adam suspected her stomach was feeble at the moment.
He finished quickly and took his plate to the kitchen sink. He sat again at the table to finish the paper. She was staring at the television, anything to keep her eyes away from her nephew.
"I'll probably go see Sam today," he said. "I haven't been in a week."
Her gaze fell to a spot somewhere in the middle of the table. "I wish we hadn't gone to Clanton Saturday," she said.
"I know."
"It was not a good idea."
"I'm sorry, Lee. I insisted on going, and it was not a good idea. I've insisted on a lot of things, and maybe I've been wrong."
"It's not fair - "
"I know it's not fair. I realize now that it's not a simple matter of learning family history."
"It's not fair to him, Adam. It's almost cruel to confront him with these things when he has only two weeks to live."
"You're right. And it's wrong to make you relive them."
"I'll be fine." She said this as if she certainly wasn't fine now, but there might be a bit of hope for the future.
"I'm sorry, Lee. I'm truly sorry."
"It's okay. What will you and Sam do today?"
"Talk, primarily. The local federal court ruled against us yesterday, and so we'll appeal this morning. Sam likes to talk legal strategies."
"Tell him I'm thinking about him."
"I will."
She pushed her plate away and cuddled her cup with both hands.
"And ask him if he wants me to come see him."
"Do you really want to?" Adam asked, unable to conceal his surprise.
"Something tells me I should. I haven't seen him in many years."
"I'll ask him."
"And don't mention Joe Lincoln, okay Adam? I never told Daddy what I saw."
"You and Sam never mentioned the killing?"
"Never. It became well known in the community. Eddie and I grew up with it and carried it as a burden, but, to be honest, Adam, it was not a big deal to the neighbors. My father killed a black man. It was 1950, and it was Mississippi. It was never discussed in our house."
"So Sam makes it to his grave without being confronted with the killing?"
"What do you accomplish by confronting him? It was forty years ago."
"I don't know. Maybe he'll say he was sorry."
"To you? He apologizes to you, and that makes everything okay? Come on, Adam, you're young and you don't understand. Leave it alone. Don't hurt the old man anymore. Right now, you're the only bright spot in his pathetic life."
"Okay, okay."
"You have no right to ambush him with the story of Joe Lincoln."
"You're right. I won't. I promise."
She stared at him with bloodshot eyes until he looked at the television, then she quickly excused herself and disappeared through the den. Adam heard the bathroom door close and lock. He eased across the carpet and stood in the hallway, listening as she heaved and vomited. The toilet flushed, and he ran upstairs to his room to shower and change.
By 10 A.m., Adam had perfected the appeal to the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in New Orleans. Judge Slattery had already faxed a copy of his order to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit, and Adam faxed his appeal shortly after arriving at the office. He Fed-Exed the original by overnight.
He also had his first conversation with the Death Clerk, a full-time employee of the United States Supreme Court who does nothing but monitor the final appeals of all death row inmates. The Death Clerk often works around the clock as executions go down to the wire. E. Garner Goodman had briefed Adam on the machinations of the Death Clerk and his office, and it was with some reluctance that Adam placed the first call.
The clerk's name was Richard Olander, a rather efficient sort who sounded quite tired early Monday morning. "We've been expecting this," he said to Adam, as if the damned thing should've been filed some time ago. He asked Adam if this was his first execution.
"Afraid so," Adam said. "And I hope it's my last."