The Confession (25 page)

The family had learned years earlier that it was important to arrive at the Visitors’ Room with a pocketful of coins. Vending machines lined the walls, and the guards delivered the food and drinks to the inmates during the visits. Donté had lost serious weight in prison, but he craved a certain cinnamon bun coated with thick frosting. While Roberta and Andrea handled the first round of the visit, Marvin bought two of the buns, with a soft drink, and Ruth took them to Donté. The junk food helped his mood.

Cedric was reading a newspaper, not far from the attorney’s room,
when the warden popped in for a friendly hello. He wanted to make sure all was well, everything in his prison running smooth.

“Anything I can do to help?” he asked as if he were running for office. He was trying hard to appear compassionate.

Cedric stood up, thought for a second, and then got angry. “Are you kidding me? You’re about to put my brother to death for something he didn’t do, and you pop in here with some happy horseshit about wanting to help.”

“We’re just doing our jobs, sir.” Ruth was walking over.

“No, you’re not, unless your job allows you to kill innocent people. You wanna help, stop the damned execution.”

Marvin stepped between them and said, “Let’s be cool here.” The warden backed away and said something to Ruth. They had a serious conversation as the warden walked to the door. He soon left.

———

The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals (TCCA) has sole jurisdiction over capital murder cases and is the court of last resort in Texas before an inmate hits the federal circuit. It has nine members, all elected, all required to run statewide. In 2007, it still clung to the archaic rule that all pleadings, petitions, appeals, documents, and such had to be filed as hard copies. Nothing online. Black ink on white paper, and tons of it. Each filing had to include twelve copies, one for each justice, and one for the clerk, one for the secretary, and one for the official file.

It was a bizarre and cumbersome procedure. The federal court for the Western District of Texas, housed a few blocks from the TCCA, adopted electronic filing in the mid-1990s. By the turn of the century, paper filings were rapidly becoming obsolete as technology marched on. In law, both in courts and in offices, the electronic file became far more popular than the paper file.

At 9:00 a.m. on Thursday, the Flak firm and the Defender Group lawyers were notified that the insanity claim was denied by the TCCA. The court did not believe Donté was mentally ill. This was expected. Minutes after this denial was received, the identical petition was filed
electronically in the federal court for the Eastern District of Texas in Tyler.

At 9:30 a.m., a Defender Group lawyer named Cicely Avis walked into the clerk’s office at the TCCA with the latest filing by the lawyers for Donté Drumm. It was a claim of actual innocence based on the secretly recorded statements by Joey Gamble. Cicely routinely showed up with similar filings, and she and the clerk knew each other well.

“What else is coming?” the clerk asked as he processed the petition.

“I’m sure there will be something,” Cicely said.

“Usually is.”

The clerk finished his paperwork, handed a marked copy back to Cicely, and wished her a good day. Because of the obvious urgency of the matter, the clerk hand delivered a copy of the petition to the offices of all nine justices. Three happened to be in Austin. The other six were scattered around the state. The chief justice was a man by the name of Milton Prudlowe, a longtime member of the court who lived in Lubbock most of the year but kept a small apartment in Austin.

Prudlowe and his law clerk read the petition and paid particular attention to the eight-page transcript of the recording of Joey Gamble spilling his guts in a Houston strip club the night before. While it was entertaining, it was far from sworn testimony, and there was little doubt he would deny making the statements if confronted with them. No consent had been given to the recording. Everything about it was tinged with sleaze. The young man was obviously drinking heavily. And, if his statements could be delivered, and if he had indeed lied at trial, what would it prove? Almost nothing, in Prudlowe’s opinion. Donté Drumm had confessed, plain and simple. The Drumm case had never bothered Milton Prudlowe.

Seven years earlier, he and his colleagues had first considered the direct appeal of Donté Drumm. They remembered it well, not because of the confession, but because of the absence of a dead body. His conviction was affirmed, though, and in a unanimous opinion. Texas law had long been settled on the issue of a murder trial without clear evidence of murder. Some of the usual elements were just not necessary.

Prudlowe and his law clerk agreed that this latest claim had no merit. The clerk then polled the clerks of the other justices, and within an hour a preliminary denial was being circulated.

———

Boyette was in the backseat, where he’d been for almost two hours. He’d taken a pill, and evidently it was working splendidly. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, but did appear to be breathing the last time Keith checked.

To stay awake, and to get his blood boiling, Keith had called Dana twice. They had words, neither retreated, neither apologized for saying too much. After each conversation, Keith found himself wide-awake, fuming. He called Matthew Burns, who was at the office in downtown Topeka and anxious to help. There was little he could do.

When the Subaru drifted onto the right shoulder of a two-lane road, somewhere close to Sherman, Texas, Keith was suddenly awakened. And mad. He stopped at the nearest convenience store and bought a tall cup of strong coffee. He stirred in three packs of sugar and walked around the store five times. Back in the car, Boyette had not moved. Keith gulped the hot coffee and sped away. His cell phone rang, and he snatched it from the passenger’s seat.

It was Robbie Flak. “Where are you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Highway 82, headed west, outside of Sherman.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“What are the chances of me talking to Boyette, now, by phone?”

“Slim. Right now he’s passed out in the backseat, still very sick. And he said he was not talking until he got there.”

“I can’t do anything, Keith, until I talk to this guy, okay? I have to know how much he is willing to say. Is he going to admit that he killed Nicole Yarber? Can you answer this?”

“Well, Robbie, it’s like this. We left Topeka in the middle of the night. We’re driving like crazy to get to your office, and the sole purpose, according to Boyette when we left Topeka, was for him to come
clean, admit to the rape and murder, and try to save Donté Drumm. That’s what he said. But with this guy nothing is predictable. He may be in a coma right now, for all I know.”

“Should you check his pulse?”

“No. He doesn’t like to be touched.”

“Just hurry, damn it.”

“Watch your language, please. I’m a minister and I don’t appreciate that language.”

“Sorry. Please hurry.”

T
he march had been whispered about since Monday, but its details had not been finalized. When the week began, the execution was days away, and there was a fervent hope in the black community that a judge somewhere would wake up and stop it. But the days had passed and the higher powers were still asleep. Now the hour was near, and the blacks in Slone, especially the younger ones, were not about to sit idly by. The closing of the high school had energized them and left them free to look for a way to make noise. Around 10:00 a.m., a crowd began to gather at Washington Park, at the corner of Tenth Street and Martin Luther King Boulevard. Aided by cell phones and the Internet, the crowd multiplied, and before long a thousand blacks were milling about, restless, certain that something was about to happen but not sure exactly what. Two police cars arrived and parked down the street, safely away from the crowd.

Trey Glover was Slone High School’s starting tailback, and he drove an SUV with tinted windows, oversize tires, glistening chrome wheel covers, and an audio system that could break glass. He parked it on the street, opened all four doors, and began playing “White Man’s Justice,”
an angry rap song by T. P. Slik. The song electrified the crowd. Others streamed in, most of them high school students, but the gathering was also attracting the unemployed, some housewives, and a few retirees. A drum ensemble materialized when four members of the Marching Warriors arrived with two bass drums and two snares. A chant began, “Free Donté Drumm,” and it echoed through the neighborhood. In the distance, away from the park, someone lit a round of firecrackers, and for a split second everyone thought it could’ve been gunfire. Smoke bombs were set off, and as the minutes passed, the tension grew.

The brick was not thrown from Washington Park. It came from behind the police cars, from behind a wooden fence next to a house owned by Mr. Ernie Shylock, who was sitting on the porch watching the excitement. He claimed no knowledge of who threw it. It crashed into the rear window of a police car, jolted the two cops into a near panic, and caused a roaring wave of approval from the crowd. The police ran around for a few seconds, guns drawn, ready to shoot anything that moved, with Mr. Shylock being the first possible target. He raised his hands and yelled, “Don’t shoot. I didn’t do it.” One cop sprinted behind the house as if he might chase down the assailant, but after forty yards he was winded and gave up. Within minutes, reinforcements arrived, and the sight of more police cars fired up the crowd.

The march finally began when the drummers stepped onto Martin Luther King Boulevard and headed north, in the general direction of downtown. They were followed by Trey Glover in his SUV, windows down, rap at full volume. Behind him were the others, a long line of protesters, many holding posters that demanded justice, a stop to the killing, and freedom for Donté. Children on bikes joined the fun. Blacks sitting idly on porches got up and began walking with the crowd. The parade grew in size as it inched along, seemingly without a destination.

No one had bothered with a permit, as required by Slone ordinance. The rally the day before in front of the courthouse had been legally conducted, but not this march. The police, though, played it cool. Let ’em protest. Let ’em yell. It’ll be over tonight, hopefully.
Blocking the parade route, or trying to disperse the crowd, or even arresting a few, would incite them and only make matters worse. So the police held back, some following at a distance while others circled ahead, clearing the way, diverting traffic.

A black officer on a motorcycle pulled alongside the SUV and yelled, “Where you going, Trey?”

Trey, apparently the unofficial leader of the event, replied, “We’re going back to the courthouse.”

“Keep it peaceful and there won’t be trouble.”

“I’ll try,” Trey said with a shrug. He and the officer both knew that trouble could erupt at any moment.

The parade turned onto Phillips Street and inched along, a loosely organized assemblage of concerned citizens enthralled by their freedom of expression, and who were also enjoying the attention. The drummers repeated their precise, impressive routines. The rap shook the ground with its deadening lyrics. The students shook and gyrated with the beat while chanting a variety of battle cries. The mood was at once festive and angry. The kids were quite proud of their ballooning numbers, yet they wanted to do more. Ahead of them, the police blocked off Main Street and spread the word among the downtown merchants that a march was headed their way.

The 911 call was recorded at 11:27 a.m. The Mount Sinai Church of God in Christ was burning, not far from Washington Park. A white van with a logo and phone numbers had been parked behind the church, according to the caller, and two white men in uniforms, like plumbers or electricians, had hurried from the church into the van and left. Minutes later, there was smoke. Sirens erupted as the first responders answered the call. Fire trucks rumbled from two of the three stations in Slone.

At the corner of Phillips and Main, the march came to a halt. The drummers were still. The rap was turned down. They watched the fire trucks go racing by, headed into their part of town. The same black officer on the motorcycle stopped at the SUV and informed Trey that one of their churches was now burning.

“Let’s disband this little march, Trey,” the officer said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then there’s gonna be trouble.”

“There’s already trouble,” Trey said.

“Ya’ll need to break up before this thing gets outta hand.”

“No, you need to get outta the way.”

———

Ten miles west of Slone there was a country store and deli called the Trading Post. It was owned by a large, loud, garrulous man named Jesse Hicks, a second cousin of Reeva’s. Jesse’s father had opened the Trading Post fifty years earlier, and Jesse had never worked anywhere else. The Post, as it was known, was a gathering place for gossip and lunch, and it had even hosted a few campaign barbecues for politicians. On Thursday, there was more traffic than usual, more folks stopping by to hear the latest on the execution. Jesse kept a photo of his favorite niece, Nicole Yarber, on the wall behind the counter next to the cigarettes, and he would discuss her case with anyone who would listen. Technically, she was a third cousin, but he called her a niece since she’d become something of a celebrity. For Jesse, 6:00 p.m. on Thursday, November 8, could not arrive soon enough.

The store was in the front part of the building, the small eating area in the rear, and around an ancient potbellied stove there were half a dozen rocking chairs, all occupied as lunch drew near. Jesse was working the cash register, selling gas and beer, and talking nonstop to his small crowd. With the riot at the high school only a few hours old, and the First Baptist Church still smoldering, and, of course, the looming execution, the gossip was hot and the men chatted away excitedly. A man called Shorty walked in and announced, “The Africans are marchin’ downtown again. One of ’em threw a brick through the window of a police car.”