THE meeting was organized quickly. E. Garner Goodman made the first phone call, and within an hour the necessary participants had been summoned. Within four hours they were present in a small, seldom used conference room next to Daniel Rosen's office. It was Rosen's turf, and this disturbed Adam more than a little.

By legend, Daniel Rosen was a monster, though two heart attacks had knocked off some of the edge and mellowed him a bit. For thirty years he had been a ruthless litigator, the meanest, nastiest, and without a doubt one of the most effective courtroom brawlers in Chicago. Before the heart attacks, he was known for his brutal work schedule - ninety-hour weeks, midnight orgies of work with clerks and paralegals digging and fetching. Several wives had left him. As many as four secretaries at a time labored furiously to keep pace. Daniel Rosen had been the heart and soul of Kravitz & Bane, but no longer. His doctor restricted him to fifty hours a week, in the office, and prohibited any trial work.

Now, Rosen, at the age of sixty-five and getting heavy, had been unanimously selected by his beloved colleagues to graze the gentler pastures of law office management. He had the responsibility of overseeing the rather cumbersome bureaucracy that ran Kravitz & Bane. It was an honor, the other partners had explained feebly when they bestowed it upon him.

So far the honor had been a disaster. Banished from the battlefield he desperately loved and needed, Rosen went about the business of managing the firm in a manner very similar to the preparation of an expensive lawsuit. He cross-examined secretaries and clerks over the most trivial of matters. He confronted other partners and harangued them for hours over vague issues of firm policy. Confined to the prison of his office, he called for young associates to come visit him, then picked fights to gauge their mettle under pressure.

He deliberately took the seat directly across the small conference table from Adam, and held a thin file as if it possessed a deadly secret. E. Garner Goodman sat low in the seat next to Adam, twiddling his bow tie and scratching his beard. When he telephoned Rosen with Adam's request, and broke the news of Adam's lineage, Rosen had reacted with predictable foolishness.

Emmitt Wycoff stood at one end of the room with a matchbox-sized cellular phone stuck to his ear. He was almost fifty, looked much older, and lived each day in a fixed state of panic and telephones.

Rosen carefully opened the file in front of Adam and removed a yellow legal pad. "Why didn't you tell us about your grandfather when we interviewed you last year?" he began with clipped words and a fierce stare.

"Because you didn't ask me," Adam answered. Goodman had advised him the meeting might get rough, but he and Wycoff would prevail.

"Don't be a wise ass," Rosen growled.

"Come on, Daniel," Goodman said, and rolled his eyes at Wycoff who shook his head and glanced at the ceiling.

"You don't think, Mr. Hall, that you should've informed us that you were related to one of our clients? Certainly you believe we have a right to know this, don't you, Mr. Hall?" His mocking tone was one usually reserved for witnesses who were lying and trapped.

"You guys asked me about everything else," Adam replied, very much under control. "Remember the security check? The fingerprints? There was even talk of a polygraph."

"Yes, Mr. Hall, but you knew things we didn't. And your grandfather was a client of this firm when you applied for employment, and you damned sure should've told us." Rosen's voice was rich, and moved high and low with the dramatic flair of a fine actor. His eyes never left Adam.

"Not your typical grandfather," Adam said quietly.

"He's still your grandfather, and you knew he was a client when you applied for a job here."

"Then I apologize," Adam said. "This firm has thousands of clients, all well heeled and paying through the nose for our services. I never dreamed one insignificant little pro bono case would cause any grief."

"You're deceitful, Mr. Hall. You deliberately selected this firm because it, at the time, represented your grandfather. And now, suddenly, here you are begging for the file. It puts us in an awkward position."

"What awkward position?" Emmitt Wycoff asked, folding the phone and stuffing it in a pocket. "Look, Daniel, we're talking about a man on death row. He needs a lawyer, dammit!"

"His own grandson?" Rosen asked.

"Who cares if it's his own grandson? The man has one foot in the grave, and he needs a lawyer."

"He fired us, remember?" Rosen shot back.

"Yeah, and he can always rehire us. It's worth a try. Lighten up."

"Listen, Emmitt, it's my job to worry about the image of this firm, and the idea of sending one of our new associates down to Mississippi to have his ass kicked and his client executed does not appeal to me. Frankly, I think Mr. Hall should be terminated by Kravitz & Bane."

"Oh wonderful, Daniel," Wycoff said. "Typical hard-nose response to a delicate issue. Then who'll represent Cayhall? Think about him for a moment. The man needs a lawyer! Adam may be his only chance."

"God help him," Rosen mumbled.

E. Garner Goodman decided to speak. He locked his hands together on the table and glared at Rosen. "The image of this firm? Do you honestly think we're viewed as a bunch of underpaid social workers dedicated to helping people?"

"Or how about a bunch of nuns working in the projects?" Wycoff added helpfully, with a sneer.

"How could this possibly hurt the image of our firm?" Goodman asked.

The concept of retreat had never entered Rosen's mind. "Very simple, Garner. We do not send our rookies to death row. We may abuse them, try to kill them, expect them to work twenty hours a day, but we do not send them into battle until they are ready. You know how dense death penalty litigation is. Hell, you wrote the books. How can you expect Mr. Hall here to be effective?"

"I'll supervise everything he does," Goodman answered.

"He's really quite good," Wycoff added again. "He's memorized the entire file, you know, Daniel."

"It'll work," Goodman said. "Trust me, Daniel, I've been through enough of these things. I'll keep my finger on it."

"And I'll set aside a few hours to help," Wycoff added. "I'll even fly down if necessary."

Goodman jerked and stared at Wycoff. "You! Pro bono?"

"Sure. I have a conscience."

Adam ignored the banter and stared at Daniel Rosen. Go ahead and fire me, he wanted to say. Go ahead, Mr. Rosen, terminate me so I can go bury my grandfather, then get on with the rest of my life.

"And if he's executed?" Rosen asked in the direction of Goodman.

"We've lost them before, Daniel, you know that. Three, since I've run pro bono."

"What are his chances?"

"Quite slim. Right now he's holding on by virtue of a stay granted by the Fifth Circuit. The stay should be lifted any day now, and a new execution date will be set. Probably late summer."

"Not long then."

"Right. We've handled his appeals for seven years, and they've run their course."

"Of all the people on death row, how'd we come to represent this asshole?" Rosen demanded.

"It's a very long story, and at this moment it's completely irrelevant."

Rosen made what appeared to be serious notes on his legal pad. "You don't think for a moment you'll keep this quiet, do you?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe hell. Just before they kill him, they'll make him a celebrity. The media will surround him like a pack of wolves. You'll be discovered, Mr. Hall."

"So?"

"So, it'll make great copy, Mr. Hall. Can't you see the headlines - LONG-LOST GRANDSON RETURNS TO SAVE GRAMPS."

"Knock it off, Daniel," Goodman said.

But he continued. "The press will eat it up, don't you see, Mr. Hall? They'll expose you and talk about how crazy your family is."

"But we love the press, don't we, Mr. Rosen?" Adam asked coolly. "We're trial lawyers. Aren't we supposed to perform for the cameras? You've never - "

"A very good point," Goodman interrupted. "Daniel, perhaps you shouldn't advise this young man to ignore the press. We can tell stories about some of your stunts."

"Yes, please, Daniel, lecture the kid about everything else, but lay off the media crap," Wycoff said with a nasty grin. "You wrote the book."

For a brief moment, Rosen appeared to be embarrassed. Adam watched him closely.

"I rather like the scenario myself," Goodman said, twirling his bow tie and studying the bookshelves behind Rosen. "There's a lot to be said for it, actually. Could be great for us poor little pro bono folks. Think of it. This young lawyer down there fighting like crazy to save a rather famous death row killer. And he's our lawyer - Kravitz & Bane. Sure there'll be a ton of press, but what will it hurt?"

"It's a wonderful idea, if you ask me," Wycoff added just as his mini-phone buzzed somewhere deep in a pocket. He stuck it to his jaw and turned away from the meeting.

"What if he dies? Don't we look bad?" Rosen asked Goodman.

"He's supposed to die, okay? That's why he's on death row," Goodman explained.

Wycoff stopped his mumbling and slid the phone into a pocket. "I gotta go," he said, moving toward the door, nervous now, in a hurry. "Where are we?"

"I still don't like it," Rosen said.

"Daniel, Daniel, always a hard ass," Wycoff said as he stopped at the end of the table and leaned on it with both hands. "You know it's a good idea, you're just pissed because he didn't tell us up front."

"That's true. He deceived us, and now he's using us."

Adam took a deep breath and shook his head.

"Get a grip, Daniel. His interview was a year ago, in the past. It's gone, man. Forget about it. We have more pressing matters at hand. He's bright. He works very hard. Smooth on his feet. Meticulous research. We're lucky to have him. So his family's messed up. Surely we're not going to terminate every lawyer here with a dysfunctional family." Wycoff grinned at Adam. "Plus, all the secretaries think he's cute. I say we send him south for a few months, then get him back here as soon as possible. I need him. Gotta run." He disappeared and closed the door behind him.

The room was silent as Rosen scribbled on his pad, then gave it up and closed the file. Adam almost felt sorry for him. Here was this great warrior, the legendary Charlie Hustle of Chicago law, a great barrister who for thirty years swayed juries and terrified opponents and intimidated judges, now sitting here as a pencil pusher, trying desperately to agonize over the question of assigning a rookie to a pro bono project. Adam saw the humor, the irony, and the pity.

"I'll agree to it, Mr. Hall," Rosen said with much drama in his low voice, almost a whisper, as if terribly frustrated by all this. "But I promise you this: when the Cayhall matter is over, and you return to Chicago, I'll recommend your termination from Kravitz & Bane."

"Probably won't be necessary," Adam said quickly.

"You presented yourself to us under false pretenses," Rosen continued.

"I said I was sorry. Won't happen again."

"Plus, you're a smart ass."

"So are you, Mr. Rosen. Show me a trial lawyer who's not a smart ass."

"Real cute. Enjoy the Cayhall case, Mr. Hall, because it'll be your last bit of work for this firm."

"You want me to enjoy an execution?"

"Relax, Daniel," Goodman said softly. "Just relax. No one's getting fired around here."

Rosen pointed an angry finger at Goodman. "I swear I'll recommend his termination."

"Fine. All you can do is recommend, Daniel. I'll take it to the committee, and we'll just have a huge brawl. Okay?"

"I can't wait," Rosen snarled as he jumped to his feet. "I'll start lobbying now. I'll have my votes by the end of the week. Good day!" He stormed from the room and slammed the door.

They sat in silence next to each other, just staring across the table over the backs of the empty chairs to the rows of thick law books lined neatly on the wall, listening to the echo of the slamming door.

"Thanks," Adam finally said.

"He's not a bad guy, really," Goodman said.

"Charming. A real prince."

"I've known him a long time. He's suffering now, really frustrated and depressed. We're not sure what to do with him."

"What about retirement?"

"It's been considered, but no partner has ever been forced into retirement. For obvious reasons, it's a precedent we'd like to avoid."

"Is he serious about firing me?"

"Don't worry, Adam. It won't happen. I promise. You were wrong in not disclosing it, but it's a minor sin. And a perfectly understandable one. You're young, scared, naive, and you want to help. Don't worry about Rosen. I doubt if he'll be in this position three months from now."

"Deep down, I think he adores me."

"It's quite obvious."

Adam took a deep breath and walked around the table. Goodman uncapped his pen and began making notes. "There's not much time, Adam," he said.

"I know."

"When can you leave?"

"Tomorrow. I'll pack tonight. It's a ten-hour drive."

"The file weighs a hundred pounds. It's down in printing right now. I'll ship it tomorrow."

"Tell me about our office in Memphis."

"I talked to them about an hour ago. Managing partner is Baker Cooley, and he's expecting you. They'll have a small office and a secretary for you, and they'll help if they can.

They're not much when it comes to litigation."

"How many lawyers?"

"Twelve. It's a little boutique firm we swallowed ten years ago, and no one remembers exactly why. Good boys, though. Good lawyers. It's the remnants of an old firm that prospered with the cotton and grain traders down there, and I think that's the connection to Chicago. Anyway, it looks nice on the letterhead. Have you been to Memphis?"

"I was born there, remember?"

"Oh yes."

"I've been once. I visited my aunt there a few years ago."

"It's an old river town, pretty laid back. You'll enjoy it."

Adam sat across the table from Goodman. "How can I possibly enjoy the next few months?"

"Good point. You should go to the Row as quickly as possible."

"I'll be there the day after tomorrow."

"Good. I'll call the warden. His name is Phillip Naifeh, Lebanese oddly enough. There are quite a few of them in the Mississippi Delta. Anyway, he's an old friend, and I'll tell him you're coming."

"The warden is your friend?"

"Yes. We go back several years, to Maynard Tole, a nasty little boy who was my first casualty in this war. He was executed in 1986, I believe, and the warden and I became friends. He's opposed to the death penalty, if you can believe it."

"I don't believe it."

"He hates executions. You're about to learn something, Adam - the death penalty may be very popular in our country, but the people who are forced to impose it are not supporters. You're about to meet these people: the guards who get close to the inmates; the administrators who must plan for an efficient killing; the prison employees who rehearse for a month beforehand. It's a strange little corner of the world, and a very depressing one."

"I can't wait."

"I'll talk to the warden, and get permission for the visit. They'll usually give you a couple of hours. Of course, it may take five minutes if Sam doesn't want a lawyer."

"He'll talk to me, don't you think?"

"I believe so. I cannot imagine how the man will react, but he'll talk. It may take a couple of visits to sign him up, but you can do it."

"When did you last see him?"

"Couple of years ago. Wallace Tyner and I went down. You'll need to touch base with Tyner. He was the point man on this case for the past six years."

Adam nodded and moved to the next thought. He'd been picking Tyner's brain for the past nine months.

"What do we file first?"

"We'll talk about it later. Tyner and I are meeting early in the morning to review the case. Everything's on hold, though, until we hear from you. We can't move if we don't represent him."

Adam was thinking of the newspaper photos, the black and whites from 1967 when Sam was arrested, and the magazine photos, in color, from the third trial in 1981, and the footage he'd pieced together into a thirty-minute video about Sam Cayhall. "What does he look like?"

Goodman left his pen on the table and fiddled with his bow tie. "Average height. Thin - but then you seldom see a fat one on the Row - nerves and lean food. He chain-smokes, which is common because there's not much else to do, and they're dying anyway. Some weird brand, Montclair, I believe, in a blue pack. His hair is gray and oily, as I recall. These guys don't get a shower every day. Sort of long in the back, but that was two years ago. He hasn't lost much of it. Gray beard. He's fairly wrinkled, but then he's pushing seventy. Plus, the heavy smoking. You'll notice the white guys on the Row look worse than the black ones. They're confined for twenty-three hours a day, so they sort of bleach out. Real pale, fair, almost sickly-looking. Sam has blue eyes, nice features. I suspect that at one time Sam Cayhall was a handsome fellow."

"After my father died, and I learned the truth about Sam, I had a lot of questions for my mother. She didn't have many answers, but she did tell me once that there was little physical resemblance between Sam and my father."

"Nor between you and Sam, if that's what you're getting at."

"Yeah, I guess."

"He hasn't seen you since you were a toddler, Adam. He will not recognize you. It won't be that easy. You'll have to tell him."

Adam stared blankly at the table. "You're right. What will he say?"

"Beats me. I expect he'll be too shocked to say much. But he's a very intelligent man, not educated, but well read and articulate. He'll think of something to say. It may take a few minutes."

"You sound as if you almost like him."

"I don't. He's a horrible racist and bigot, and he's shown no remorse for his actions."

"You're convinced he's guilty."

Goodman grunted and smiled to himself, then thought of a response. Three trials had been held to determine the guilt or innocence of Sam Cayhall. For nine years now the case had been batted around the appellate courts and reviewed by many judges. Countless newspaper and magazine articles had investigated the bombing and those behind it. "The jury thought so. I guess that's all that matters."

"But what about you? What do you think?"

"You've read the file, Adam. You've researched the case for a long time. There's no doubt Sam took part in the bombing."

"But?"

"There are a lot of buts. There always are."

"He had no history of handling explosives."

"True. But he was a Klan terrorist, and they were bombing like hell. Sam gets arrested, and the bombing stops."

"But in one of the bombings before Kramer, a witness claims he saw two people in the green Pontiac."

"True. But the witness was not allowed to testify at trial. And the witness had just left a bar at three in the morning."

"But another witness, a truck driver, claims he saw Sam and another man talking in a coffee shop in Cleveland a few hours before the Kramer bombing."

"True. But the truck driver said nothing for three years, and was not allowed to testify at the last trial. Too remote."

"So who was Sam's accomplice?"

"I doubt if we'll ever know. Keep in mind, Adam, this is a man who went to trial three times, yet never testified. He said virtually nothing to the police, very little to his defense lawyers, not a word to his juries, and he's told us nothing new in the past seven years."

"Do you think he acted alone?"

"No. He had help. Sam's carrying dark secrets, Adam. He'll never tell. He took an oath as a Klansman, and he has this really warped, romantic notion of a sacred vow he can never violate. His father was a Klansman too, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Don't remind me."

"Sorry. Anyway, it's too late in the game to fish around for new evidence. If he in fact had an accomplice, he should've talked long ago. Maybe he should've talked to the FBI. Maybe he should've cut a deal with the district attorney. I don't know, but when you're indicted on two counts of capital murder and facing death, you start talking. You talk, Adam. You save your ass and let your buddy worry about his."

"And if there was no accomplice?"

"There was." Goodman took his pen and wrote a name on a piece of paper. He slid it across the table to Adam, who looked at it and said, "Wyn Lettner. The name is familiar."

"Lettner was the FBI agent in charge of the Kramer case. He's now retired and living on a trout river in the Ozarks. He loves to tell war stories about the Klan and the civil rights days in Mississippi."

"And he'll talk to me?"

"Oh sure. He's a big beer drinker, and he gets about half loaded and tells these incredible stories. He won't divulge anything confidential, but he knows more about the Kramer bombing than anyone. I've always suspected he knows more than he's told."

Adam folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 6 p.m. "I need to run. I have to pack and all."

"I'll ship the file down tomorrow. You need to call me as soon as you talk to Sam."

"I will. Can I say something?"

"Sure."

"On behalf of my family, such as it is - my mother who refuses to discuss Sam; my sister who only whispers his name; my aunt in Memphis who has disowned the name Cayhall - and on behalf of my late father, I would like to say thanks to you and to this firm for what you've done. I admire you greatly."

"You're welcome. And I admire you. Now get your ass down to Mississippi."

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