"I've read the opinion. I know what the Fifth Circuit said. The man needs a lawyer."
"No he doesn't. He'll be dead in three months with or without one. Frankly, I'm relieved to have him out of my life."
"He needs a lawyer," Adam repeated.
"He's representing himself, and he's pretty damned good, to be perfectly honest. Types his own motions and briefs, handles his own research. I hear he's been giving advice to some of his buddies on death row, just the white ones though."
"I've studied his entire file."
E. Garner Goodman twirled his spectacles slowly and thought about this. "That's a half a ton of paper. Why'd you do it?"
"I'm intrigued by the case. I've watched it for years, read everything about the man. You asked me earlier why I chose Kravitz & Bane. Well, the truth is that I wanted to work on the Cayhall case, and I think this firm has handled it pro bono for, what, eight years now?"
"Seven, but it seems like twenty. Mr. Cayhall is not the most pleasant man to deal with."
"Understandable, isn't it? I mean, he's been in solitary for almost ten years."
"Don't lecture me about prison life, Mr. Hall. Have you ever seen the inside of a prison?"
"No."
"Well I have. I've been to death row in six states. I've been cursed by Sam Cayhall when he was chained to his chair. He's not a nice man. He's an incorrigible racist who hates just about everybody, and he'd hate you if you met him."
"I don't think so."
"You're a lawyer, Mr. Hall. He hates lawyers worse than he hates blacks and Jews. He's been facing death for almost ten years, and he's convinced he's the victim of a lawyer conspiracy. Hell, he tried to fire us for two years. This firm spent in excess of two million dollars in billable time trying to keep him alive, and he was more concerned with firing us. I lost count of the number of times he refused to meet with us after we traveled all the way to Parchman. He's crazy, Mr. Hall. Find yourself another project. How about abused kids or something?"
"No thanks. My interest is in death penalty cases, and I'm somewhat obsessed with the story of Sam Cayhall."
Goodman carefully returned the spectacles to the tip of his nose, then slowly swung his feet onto the corner of the desk. He folded his hands across the starched shirt. "Why, may I ask, are you so obsessed with Sam Cayhall?"
"Well, it's a fascinating case, don't you think? The Klan, the civil rights movement, the bombings, the tortured locale. The backdrop is such a rich period in American history. Seems ancient, but it was only twenty-five years ago. It's a riveting story."
A ceiling fan spun slowly above him. A minute passed.
Goodman lowered his feet to the floor and rested on his elbows. "Mr. Hall, I appreciate your interest in pro bono, and I assure you there's much to do. But you need to find another project. This is not a mock trial competition."
"And I'm not a law student."
"Sam Cayhall has effectively terminated our services, Mr. Hall. You don't seem to realize this."
"I want the chance to meet with him."
"For what?"
"I think I can convince him to allow me to represent him."
"Oh really."
Adam took a deep breath, then stood and walked deftly around the stacks of files to the window. Another deep breath. Goodman watched, and waited.
"I have a secret for you, Mr. Goodman. No one else knows but Emmitt Wycoff, and I was sort of forced to tell him. You must keep it confidential, okay?"
"I'm listening."
"Do I have your word?"
"Yes, you have my word," Goodman said slowly, biting a stem.
Adam peeked through a slit in the blinds and watched a sailboat on Lake Michigan. He spoke quietly. "I'm related to Sam Cayhall."
Goodman did not flinch. "I see. Related how?"
"He had a son, Eddie Cayhall. And Eddie Cayhall left Mississippi in disgrace after his father was arrested for the bombing. He fled to California, changed his name, and tried to forget his past. But he was tormented by his family's legacy. He committed suicide shortly after his father was convicted in 1981."
Goodman now sat with his rear on the edge of his chair.
"Eddie Cayhall was my father."
Goodman hesitated slightly. "Sam Cayhall is your grandfather?"
"Yes. I didn't know it until I was almost seventeen. My aunt told me after we buried my father."
"Wow."
"You promised not to tell."
"Of course." Goodman moved his butt to the edge of his desk, and placed his feet in the chair. He stared at the blinds. "Does Sam know - "
"No. I was born in Ford County, Mississippi, a town called Clanton, not Memphis. I was always told I was born in Memphis. My name then was Alan Cayhall, but I didn't know this until much later. I was three years old when we left Mississippi, and my parents never talked about the place. My mother believes that there was no contact between Eddie and Sam from the day we left until she wrote him in prison and told him his son was dead. He did not write back."
"Damn, damn, damn," Goodman mumbled to himself.
"There's a lot to it, Mr. Goodman. It's a pretty sick family."
"Not your fault."
"According to my mother, Sam's father was an active Klansman, took part in lynchings and all that. So I come from pretty weak stock."
"Your father was different."
"My father killed himself. I'll spare you the details, but I found his body, and I cleaned up the mess before my mother and sister returned home."
"And you were seventeen?"
"Almost seventeen. It was 1981. Nine years ago. After my aunt, Eddie's sister, told me the truth, I became fascinated with the sordid history of Sam Cayhall. I've spent hours in libraries digging up old newspaper and magazine stories; there are quite a lot of materials. I've read the transcripts of all three trials. I've studied the appellate decisions. In law school I began studying this firm's representation of Sam Cayhall. You and Wallace Tyner have done exemplary work."
"I'm glad you approve."
"I've read hundreds of books and thousands of articles on the Eighth Amendment and death penalty litigation. You've written four books, I believe. And a number of articles. I know I'm just a rookie, but my research is impeccable."
"And you think Sam will trust you as his lawyer?"
"I don't know. But he's my grandfather, like it or not, and I have to go see him."
"There's been no contact - "
"None. I was three when we left, and I certainly don't remember him. I've started a thousand times to write him, but it never happened. I can't tell you why."
"It's understandable."
"Nothing's understandable, Mr. Goodman. I do not understand how or why I'm standing here in this office at this moment. I always wanted to be a pilot, but I went to law school because I felt a vague calling to help society. Someone needed me, and I suppose I felt that someone was my demented grandfather. I had four job offers, and I picked this firm because it had the guts to represent him for free."
"You should've told someone up front about this, before we hired you."
"I know. But nobody asked if my grandfather was a client of this firm."
"You should've said something."
"They won't fire me, will they?"
"I doubt it. Where have you been for the past nine months?"
"Here, working ninety hours a week, sleeping on my desk, eating in the library, cramming for the bar exam, you know, the usual rookie boot camp you guys designed for us."
"Silly, isn't it?"
"I'm tough." Adam opened a slit in the blinds for a better view of the lake. Goodman watched him.
"Why don't you open these blinds?" Adam asked. "It's a great view."
"I've seen it before."
"I'd kill for a view like this. My little cubbyhole is a mile from any window."
"Work hard, bill even harder, and one day this will all be yours."