"But I love Lee."
"And she loves you. But you need to adore her from a distance. Send her letters and cards from Chicago. Flowers for her birthday. Call once a month and talk about movies and books, but stay away from the family stuff."
"Who'll take care of her?"
"She's almost fifty years old, Adam, and for the most part she's very independent. She's been an alcoholic for many years, and there's nothing you or I can do to help her. She knows the disease. She'll stay sober when she wants to stay sober. You're not a good influence. Nor am I. I'm sorry."
Adam breathed deeply and grabbed the door latch. "I'm sorry, Phelps, if I've embarrassed you and your family. It was not intentional."
Phelps smiled and placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. "Believe it or not, my family is in many ways more dysfunctional than yours. We've been through worse."
"That, sir, is difficult to believe."
"It's true." Phelps handed him a key ring and pointed to a small building inside the fence. "Check in there, and they'll show you the car."
Adam opened the door and got out. He watched the Mercedes ease away and disappear. As Adam walked through a gate in the fence, he couldn't shake the unmistakable feeling that Phelps Booth actually still loved his wife.
36
RETIRED Colonel George Nugent was barely ruffled by the news of Naifeh's heart attack. The old guy was doing quite well by Monday morning, resting comfortably and out of danger, and what the hell he was only months away from retirement anyway. Naifeh was a good man, but past his usefulness and hanging on simply to bolster his pension. Nugent was considering a run for the head position if he could get his politics straight.
Now, however, he was pressed with a more critical matter. The Cayhall execution was nine days away, actually only eight because it was scheduled for one minute after midnight on Wednesday of next week, which meant that Wednesday counted as another day though only one minute of it was used. Tuesday of next week was actually the last day.
On his desk was a shiny leather-bound notebook with the words Mississippi Protocol printed professionally on the front. It was his masterpiece, the result of two weeks of tedious organizing. He'd been appalled at the haphazard guides and outlines and checklists thrown together by Naifeh for previous executions. It was a wonder they'd actually been able to gas anyone. But now there was a plan, a detailed and carefully arranged blueprint which included everything, in his opinion. It was two inches thick and a hundred and eighty pages long, and of course had his name all over it.
Lucas Mann entered his office at fifteen minutes after eight, Monday morning. "You're late," Nugent snapped, now a man in charge of things. Mann was just a simple lawyer. Nugent was the head of an execution team. Mann was content with his work. Nugent had aspirations, which in the past twenty-four hours had been bolstered considerably.
"So what," Mann said as he stood by a chair facing the desk. Nugent was dressed in his standard dark olive pants with no wrinkles and heavily starched dark olive shirt with gray tee shirt underneath. His boots gleamed with heavily buffed polish. He marched to a point behind his desk. Mann hated him.
"We have eight days," Nugent said as if this were known only to him.
"I think it's nine," Mann said. Both men were standing.
"Next Wednesday doesn't count. We have eight working days left."
"Whatever."
Nugent sat stiffly in his chair. "Two things. First, here is a manual I've put together for executions. A protocol. From A to Z. Completely organized, indexed, cross-indexed. I'd like for you to review the statutes contained herein and make sure they're current."
Mann stared at the black binder but did not touch it.
"And second, I'd like a report each day on the status of all appeals. As I understand it, there are no legal impediments as of this morning."
"That's correct, sir," Mann answered.
"I'd like something in writing first thing each morning with the updates."
"Then hire yourself a lawyer, sir. You're not my boss, and I'll be damned if I'll write a little brief for your morning coffee. I'll let you know if something happens, but I won't push paper for you."
Ah, the frustrations of civilian life. Nugent longed for the discipline of the military. Damned lawyers. "Very well. Will you please review the protocol?"
Mann flipped it open and turned a few pages. "You know, we've managed four executions without all this."
"I find that very surprising, frankly."
"Frankly, I don't. We've become quite efficient, I'm sad to say."
"Look, Lucas, I don't relish this," Nugent said wistfully. "Phillip asked me to do it. I hope there's a stay. I really do. But if not, then we must be prepared. I want this to run smoothly."
Mann acknowledged the obvious lie, and picked up the manual. Nugent had yet to witness an execution, and he was counting hours, not days. He couldn't wait to see Sam strapped in the chair, sniffing gas.
Lucas nodded and left the office. In the hallway, he passed Bill Monday, the state executioner, no doubt headed to Nugent's for a quiet pep talk.
Adam arrived at the Twig shortly before 3 P.m. The day had begun with the panic over Lee's drunk driving mess, and had not improved.
He had been sipping coffee at his desk, nursing a headache and trying to do some research, when in the span of ten minutes Darlene brought a fax from New Orleans and a fax from the district court. He'd lost twice. The Fifth Circuit upheld the decision of the federal court on Sam's claim that the gas chamber was unconstitutional because it was cruel and obsolete, and the district court denied the claim that Benjamin Keyes had performed ineffectively at trial. The headache had suddenly been forgotten. Within an hour, the Death Clerk, Mr. Richard Olander, had called from Washington inquiring about Adam's plans to appeal, and he also wanted to know what other filings might be contemplated by the defense. He told Adam that there were only eight working days to go, you know, as if Adam had to be reminded. Thirty minutes after Olander's call, a clerk at the death desk of the Fifth Circuit called and asked Adam when he planned to appeal the district court's ruling.
Adam had explained to both death clerks at both courts that he was perfecting his appeals as quickly as possible, and he would try to file by the end of the day. When he stopped to think about it, it was a little unnerving practicing law with such an audience. At this moment of the process, there were courts and justices watching to see what he would do next. There were clerks calling and asking what he might be contemplating. The reason was obvious and disheartening. They weren't concerned with whether or not Adam would seize the magical issue that would prevent an execution. They were concerned only about logistics. The death clerks had been instructed by their superiors to monitor the waning days so the courts could rule quickly, usually against the inmate. These justices did not enjoy reading briefs at three in the morning. They wanted copies of all last minute filings on their desks long before the appeals officially arrived.
Phelps had called him at the office just before noon with the news that Lee had not been found. He had checked every detox and recovery facility within a hundred miles, and no one had admitted a Lee Booth. He was still searching, but was very busy now with meetings and such.
Sam arrived at the prison library thirty minutes later in a somber mood. He'd heard the bad news at noon on television, on the Jackson station that was counting down the days. Only nine more. He sat at the table and stared blankly at Adam. "Where are the Eskimo Pies?" he asked sadly, like a small child who wanted candy.
Adam reached under the table and retrieved a small Styrofoam cooler. He placed it on the table and .opened it. "They almost confiscated these at the front gate. Then the guards picked through and threatened to throw them out. So, enjoy."