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〃So who was Sam's acplice？〃
〃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 acplice； 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 acplice？〃
〃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 wele。 And I admire you。 Now get your ass down to Mississippi。〃
6
THE apartment was a one…bedroom loft somewhere above the third floor of a turn…of…the…century warehouse just off the Loop； in a section of downtown known for crime but said to be safe until dark。 The warehouse had been purchased in the mid…eighties by an S & L swinger who spent a bundle sanitizing and modernizing。 He chopped it into sixty units； hired a slick realtor； and marketed it as yuppie starter condos。 He made money as the place filled overnight with eager young bankers and brokers。
Adam hated the place。 He had three weeks left on a six…month lease； but there was no place to go。 He would be forced to renew for another six months because Kravitz & Bane expected eighteen hours a day； and there'd been no time to search for another apartment。
Nor had there been much time to purchase furniture； evidently。 A fine leather sofa without arms of any kind sat alone on the wooden floor and faced an ancient brick wall。 Two bean bags … yellow and blue … were nearby in the unlikely event a crowd materialized。 To the left was a tiny kitchen area with a snack bar and three wicker stools； and to the right of the sofa was the bedroom with the unmade bed and clothes on the floor。 Seven hundred square feet； for thirteen hundred bucks a month。
Adam's salary； as a blue chip prospect nine months earlier； had begun at sixty thousand a year； and was now at sixty…two。 From his gross pay of slightly over five thousand a month； fifteen hundred was withheld for state and federal ine taxes。 Another six hundred never reached his fingers but went instead into a Kravitz & Bane retirement fund guaranteed to relieve the pressure at age fifty…five； if they didn't kill him first。 After rent； utilities； four hundred a month for a leased Saab； and incidentals such as frozen food and some nice clothes； Adam found himself with about seven hundred dollars to play with。 Some of this remainder was spent on women； but the ones he knew were also fresh from college with new jobs and new credit cards and generally insistent on paying their own way。 This was fine with Adam。 Thanks to his father's faith in life insurance； he had no student loans。 Even though there were things he wanted to buy； he doggedly plowed five hundred a month into mutual funds。 With no immediate prospect of a wife and family； his goal was to work hard； save hard； and retire at forty。
Against the brick wall was an aluminum table with a television on it。 Adam sat on the sofa； nude except for boxer shorts； holding the remote control。 But for the colorless radiation from the screen； the loft was dark。 It was after midnight。 The video was one he'd pieced together over the years … The Adventures of a Klan Bomber； he called it。 It started with a brief news report filed by a local crew in Jackson； Mississippi； on March 3； 1967； the morning after a synagogue was leveled by a bomb blast。 It was the fourth known attack against Jewish targets in the past two months； the reporter said as a backhoe roared behind her with a bucket full of debris。 The FBI had few clues； she said； and even fewer words for the press。 The Klan's campaign of terror continues； she declared gravely； and signed off。
The Kramer bombing was next； and the story started with sirens screaming and police pushing people away from the scene。 A local reporter and his cameraman were on the spot quickly enough to capture the initial bedlam。 People were seen running to the remains of Marvin's office。 A heavy cloud of gray dust hung above the small oak trees on the front lawn。 The trees were battered and leafless； but standing。 The cloud was still and showed no signs of dissipating。 Off camera； voices yelled about a fire； and the camera rocked along and stopped in front of the building next door where thick smoke poured from a damaged wall。 The reporter； breathless and panting into the microphone； jabbered incoherently about the entire shocking scene。 He pointed over here； then over there as the camera jerked in belated response。 The police pushed him away； but he was too excited to care。 Glorious pandemonium had erupted in the sleepy town of Greenville； and this was his grand moment。
Thirty minutes later； from a different angle； his voice was somewhat calmer as he described the frantic removal of Marvin Kramer from the rubble。 The police extended their barricades and inched the crowd backward as the fire and rescue people lifted his body and worked the stretcher through the wreckage。 The camera followed the ambulance as it sped away。 Then； an hour later and from still another angle； the reporter was quite posed and somber as the two stretchers with the covered little bodies were delicately handled by the firemen。
The video cut from the footage of the bombing scene to the front of the jail； and for the first time there was a glimpse of Sam Cayhall。 He was handc