"So you've been here for nine months?"

"Yes sir."

"What do you think of it?" Goodman closed the file and stared at Adam. He slowly removed the reading glasses and stuck one stem in his mouth.

"I like it, so far. It's challenging."

"Of course. Why did you pick Kravitz & Bane? I mean, surely with your credentials you could've gone anywhere. Why here?"

"Criminal litigation. That's what I want, and this firm has a reputation."

"How many offers did you have? Come on, I'm just being curious."

"Several."

"And where were they?"

"D.C. mainly. One in Denver. I didn't interview with New York firms."

"How much money did we offer you?"

Adam shifted again. Goodman was, after all, a partner. Surely he knew what the firm was paying new associates. "Sixty or so. What are we paying you?"

This amused the old man, and he smiled for the first time. "They pay me four hundred thousand dollars a year to give away their time so they can pat themselves on the back and preach about lawyers and about social responsibility. Four hundred thousand, can you believe it?"

Adam had heard the rumors. "You're not complaining, are you?"

"No. I'm the luckiest lawyer in town, Mr. Hall. I get paid a truckload of money for doing work I enjoy, and I punch no clock and don't worry about billing. It's a lawyer's dream. That's why I still bust my ass sixty hours a week. I'm almost seventy, you know."

The legend around the firm was that Goodman, as a younger man, succumbed to the pressure and almost killed himself with liquor and pills. He dried out for a year while his wife took the kids and left him, then he convinced the partners he was worth saving. He just needed an office where life did not revolve around a clock.

"What kind of work are you doing for Emmitt Wycoff?" Goodman asked.

"Lot of research. Right now he's defending a bunch of defense contractors, and that takes most of my time. I argued a motion in court last week." Adam said this with a touch of pride. Rookies were usually kept chained to their desks for the first twelve months.

"A real motion?" Goodman asked, in awe.

"Yes sir."

"In a real courtroom?"

"Yes sir."

"Before a real judge?"

"You got it."

"Who won?"

"Judge ruled for the prosecution, but it was close. I really tied him in knots." Goodman smiled at this, but the game was quickly over. He opened the file again.

"Wycoff sends along a pretty strong letter of recommendation. That's out of character for him."

"He recognizes talent," Adam said with a smile.

"I assume this is a rather significant request, Mr. Hall. Just what is it you have in mind?"

Adam stopped smiling and cleared his throat. He was suddenly nervous, and decided to recross his legs. "It's, uh, well, it's a death penalty case."

"A death penalty case?" Goodman repeated.

"Yes sir."

"Why?"

"I'm opposed to the death penalty."

"Aren't we all, Mr. Hall? I've written books about it. I've handled two dozen of these damned things. Why do you want to get involved?"

"I've read your books. I just want to help."

Goodman closed the file again and leaned on his desk. Two pieces of paper slid off and fluttered to the floor. "You're too young and you're too green."

"You might be surprised."

"Look, Mr. Hall, this is not the same as counseling winos at a soup kitchen. This is life and death. This is high pressure stuff, son. It's not a lot of fun."

Adam nodded but said nothing. His eyes were locked onto Goodman's, and he refused to blink. A phone rang somewhere in the distance, but they both ignored it.

"Any particular case, or do you have a new client for Kravitz & Bane?" Goodman asked.

"The Cayhall case," Adam said slowly.

Goodman shook his head and tugged at the edges of his bow tie. "Sam Cayhall just fired us. The Fifth Circuit ruled last week that he does indeed have the right to terminate our representation."

"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 written 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."