Free The Chamber by John Grisham

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’tdivulge 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.”

      Six      
    T he apartment was a one-bedroom loft