In some metafictional world, I suppose, the painfully slow pace of this novel could be seen as an intentional strategy meant to reproduce the agonizing waiting that is involved in ensuring that a condemned prisoner keeps his appointment with the death house, but the book’s slackness is much more likely a simple reflection of the enormous difficulty Grisham encountered in telling a story whose ending was inevitable and which was, thus, incapable of producing any genuine dramatic tension. As it is, Grisham walks a thin line between depicting, on the one hand, the gruesome pitilessness of Sam Cayhall's crimes and the anguish of his victims and their families and, on the other, creating sympathy for the suffering of Cayhall and his own family (especially his grandson, Adam, the young lawyer who attempts to save Cayhall's life). In the end, the book comes down squarely against the death penalty, doing what it can to make clear that Cayhall’s crimes rippled far beyond his immediate victims, engulfing his own children and grandchildren in a legacy of suffering that permanently shapes their lives and threatens to have no end. (The demons, says Cayhall's daughter, Lee, in the book's final chapters, are never destroyed; they just go off to haunt someone else.) In that way, Grisham lets Cayhall stand as a symbol of the decades of hate in the South, the lynchings and racism, the crimes condoned, the horrors institutionalized, and his death is meant to suggest not that such an era has disappeared but rather to signal the end of a time in which no other choice was possible. “If I’d never heard of the Klan,” Cayhall declares in his final hours, “I’d be a free man today.” And so would the South, Grisham seems to suggest. At the conclusion of the novel, Grisham permits Adam and his aunt, Lee, to walk away with some small hope, but with their pain fully intact. Whether Cayhall’s death brought relief to his victims’ families or closed an agonizing chapter in Mississippi history, as the spineless, politically ambitious governor intones, remains an open question. Grisham nonetheless makes his own beliefs clear, and any reasonable reader would have difficulty discarding them: Cayhall’s execution changes nothing, resolves nothing, serves no tangible purpose. It is a last, useless act in the history of useless acts that Grisham traces. And perhaps that is what makes The Chamber such an utterly melancholy read.