it. It’s a horrible place filled with depressing people waiting to die. I was sixty years old before I saw it, and I didn’t sleep for a week afterward.” He took a sip of coffee. “I can’t imagine how you’ll feel when you go there. The Row is bad enough when you’re representing a complete stranger.”
“He is a complete stranger.”
“How do you intend to tell him—”
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’m sure it’ll just happen.”
Goodman shook his head. “This is bizarre.”
“The whole family is bizarre.”
“I remember now that Sam had two children, seems like one is a daughter. It’s been a long time. Tyner did most of the work, you know.”
“His daughter is my aunt, Lee Cayhall Booth, but she tries to forget her maiden name. She married into old Memphis money. Her husband owns a bank or two, and they tell no one about her father.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“Portland. She remarried a few years ago, and we talk about twice a year. Dysfunctional would be a mild term.”
“How’d you afford Pepperdine?”
“Life insurance. My father had trouble keeping a job, but he was wise enough to carry life insurance. The waiting period had expired years before he killed himself.”
“Sam never talked about his family.”
“And his family never talks about him. His wife, my grandmother, died a few years before he was convicted. I didn’t know this, of course. Most of my genealogical research has been extracted from my mother, who’s done a great job of forgetting the past. I don’t know how it works in normal families, Mr. Goodman, but my family seldom gets together, and when two or more of us happen to meet the last thing we discuss is the past. There are many dark secrets.”
Goodman was nibbling on a chip and listening closely. “You mentioned a sister.”
“Yes, I have a sister, Carmen. She’s twenty-three, a bright and beautiful girl, in graduate school at Berkeley. She was born in L.A., so she didn’t go through the name change like the rest of us. We keep in touch.”
“She knows?”
“Yes, she knows. My aunt Lee told me first, just after my father’s funeral, then, typically, my mother asked me to tell Carmen. She was only fourteen at thetime. She’s never expressed any interest in Sam Cayhall. Frankly, the rest of the family wishes he would quietly just go away.”
“They’re about to get their wish.”
“But it won’t be quietly, will it, Mr. Goodman?”
“No. It never is. For one brief but terrible moment, Sam Cayhall will be the most talked about man in the country. We’ll see the same old footage from the bomb blast, and the trials with the Klan marching around the courthouses. The same old debate about the death penalty will erupt. The press will descend upon Parchman. Then, they’ll kill him, and two days later it’ll all be forgotten. Happens every time.”
Adam stirred his soup and carefully picked out a sliver of chicken. He examined it for a second, then returned it to the broth. He was not hungry. Goodman finished another chip, and touched the corners of his mouth with the napkin.
“I don’t suppose, Mr. Hall, that you’re thinking you can keep this quiet.”
“I had given it some thought.”
“Forget it.”
“My mother begged me not to do it. My sister wouldn’t discuss it. And my aunt in Memphis is rigid with the remote possibility that we’ll all be identified as Cayhalls and forever ruined.”
“The possibility is not remote. When the press finishes with you, they’ll have old black-and-whites of you sitting on your granddaddy’s knee. It’ll make great print, Mr. Hall. Just think of it. The forgotten grandson charging in at the last moment, making a heroic effort to save his wretched old grandfather as the clock ticks down.”
“I sort of like it myself.”
“Not bad, really. It’ll bring a lot of attention to our beloved little law firm.”
“Which brings up another unpleasant issue.”
“I
“He is a complete stranger.”
“How do you intend to tell him—”
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’m sure it’ll just happen.”
Goodman shook his head. “This is bizarre.”
“The whole family is bizarre.”
“I remember now that Sam had two children, seems like one is a daughter. It’s been a long time. Tyner did most of the work, you know.”
“His daughter is my aunt, Lee Cayhall Booth, but she tries to forget her maiden name. She married into old Memphis money. Her husband owns a bank or two, and they tell no one about her father.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“Portland. She remarried a few years ago, and we talk about twice a year. Dysfunctional would be a mild term.”
“How’d you afford Pepperdine?”
“Life insurance. My father had trouble keeping a job, but he was wise enough to carry life insurance. The waiting period had expired years before he killed himself.”
“Sam never talked about his family.”
“And his family never talks about him. His wife, my grandmother, died a few years before he was convicted. I didn’t know this, of course. Most of my genealogical research has been extracted from my mother, who’s done a great job of forgetting the past. I don’t know how it works in normal families, Mr. Goodman, but my family seldom gets together, and when two or more of us happen to meet the last thing we discuss is the past. There are many dark secrets.”
Goodman was nibbling on a chip and listening closely. “You mentioned a sister.”
“Yes, I have a sister, Carmen. She’s twenty-three, a bright and beautiful girl, in graduate school at Berkeley. She was born in L.A., so she didn’t go through the name change like the rest of us. We keep in touch.”
“She knows?”
“Yes, she knows. My aunt Lee told me first, just after my father’s funeral, then, typically, my mother asked me to tell Carmen. She was only fourteen at thetime. She’s never expressed any interest in Sam Cayhall. Frankly, the rest of the family wishes he would quietly just go away.”
“They’re about to get their wish.”
“But it won’t be quietly, will it, Mr. Goodman?”
“No. It never is. For one brief but terrible moment, Sam Cayhall will be the most talked about man in the country. We’ll see the same old footage from the bomb blast, and the trials with the Klan marching around the courthouses. The same old debate about the death penalty will erupt. The press will descend upon Parchman. Then, they’ll kill him, and two days later it’ll all be forgotten. Happens every time.”
Adam stirred his soup and carefully picked out a sliver of chicken. He examined it for a second, then returned it to the broth. He was not hungry. Goodman finished another chip, and touched the corners of his mouth with the napkin.
“I don’t suppose, Mr. Hall, that you’re thinking you can keep this quiet.”
“I had given it some thought.”
“Forget it.”
“My mother begged me not to do it. My sister wouldn’t discuss it. And my aunt in Memphis is rigid with the remote possibility that we’ll all be identified as Cayhalls and forever ruined.”
“The possibility is not remote. When the press finishes with you, they’ll have old black-and-whites of you sitting on your granddaddy’s knee. It’ll make great print, Mr. Hall. Just think of it. The forgotten grandson charging in at the last moment, making a heroic effort to save his wretched old grandfather as the clock ticks down.”
“I sort of like it myself.”
“Not bad, really. It’ll bring a lot of attention to our beloved little law firm.”
“Which brings up another unpleasant issue.”
“I
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