The Confession (32 page)

“We close at five.”

———

Travis Boyette was sitting by a window in the conference room, cane across his knees, watching the chaos of frantic people yelling at each other. Fred Pryor was close by, also watching.

Unable to make sense of what was happening, Boyette stood and approached the table. “Can anybody tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

“Yep, we’re losing,” Carlos snapped at him.

“What about my statement? Is anybody listening to me?”

“The answer is no. The court was not impressed.”

“They think I’m lying?”

“Yes, Travis, they think you’re lying. I’m sorry. We believe you, but we don’t have a vote.”

“I want to talk to the reporters.”

“I think they’re busy chasing fires.”

Sammie Thomas looked at her laptop, scribbled down something, and handed it to Boyette. “This is the cell phone number of one of our local TV idiots.” She pointed to a table near the television. “That is a telephone. Feel free to do whatever you want, Mr. Boyette.” Travis shuffled over to the phone, punched the numbers, and waited. He was being watched by Sammie, Carlos, Bonnie, and Fred Pryor.

He held the receiver and stared at the floor. Then he flinched, and said, “Uh, yes, is this Garrett? Okay, look, my name is Travis Boyette, and I’m down at the law office of Robbie Flak. I was involved in the murder of Nicole Yarber, and I’d like to go on the air and make a confession.” Pause. The tic. “I want to confess to the murder of the girl.
Donté Drumm had nothing to do with it.” Pause. The tic. “Yes, I want to say that on the air, and I have a lot more to say as well.” The others could almost hear the frantic thrill in Garrett’s voice. What a story!

Boyette said, “Okay,” and hung up. He looked around the conference room and said, “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Sammie said, “Fred, why don’t you take him out front, somewhere near the landing, and find a good spot.”

Boyette said, “I can leave if I want to, right? I don’t have to stay here?”

“You’re a free man as far as I’m concerned,” Sammie said. “Do whatever you want. I really don’t care.”

Boyette and Pryor left the conference room and waited outside the train station.

Carlos took the call from Cicely Avis. She explained that they arrived at the court at 5:07, the doors were locked, the offices closed. She called the clerk’s cell phone. The clerk said he was not there, he was in fact driving home.

Donté’s final petition would not be filed.

———

According to club records, Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe and his guest played tennis on court 8 for an hour, beginning at 5:00 p.m.

P
aul Koffee’s cabin was on a small lake ten miles south of Slone. He’d owned it for years and used it as an escape, a hiding place, a fishing hole. He’d also used it as a love nest during his romp with Judge Vivian Grale, an unfortunate episode that led to an ugly divorce that almost led to the loss of the cabin. His ex-wife got their home instead.

After lunch on Thursday, he left his office and drove to the cabin. The town was in a meltdown, it was beginning to feel dangerous, the phone was ringing nonstop, and no one in his office was even attempting to appear productive. He escaped the frenzy and was soon in the peaceful countryside, where he prepared for a party he’d thrown together a week earlier. He iced down the beer, stocked the bar, puttered around the cabin, and waited for his guests. They began arriving before 5:00 p.m.—most had left work early—and everyone needed a drink. They gathered on a deck near the edge of the water—retired lawyers, active lawyers, two assistant prosecutors in Koffee’s office, an investigator, and other assorted friends, almost all of whom had some connection to the law.

Drew Kerber and another detective were there. Everyone wanted
to talk to Kerber, the cop who broke the case. Without his skillful interrogation of Donté Drumm, there would have been no conviction. He’d found the bloodhounds that picked up Nicole’s scent in the green Ford van. He’d deftly manipulated a jailhouse snitch into obtaining yet another confession from their suspect. Good, solid police work. The Drumm case was Kerber’s crowning moment, and he intended to savor its final moments.

Not to be outdone, Paul Koffee commanded his share of attention. He would retire in a few years, and in his old age he would have something to brag about. Against a ferocious defense mounted by Robbie Flak and his team, Koffee and his boys had fought on, fought for justice, fought for Nicole. The fact that he had gotten his prized death verdict without a body was even more reason to gloat.

The booze loosened the tension. They howled with laughter at the story of their beloved governor shouting down a black mob and calling Drumm a monster. Things were a bit quieter when Koffee described the petition, filed hardly two hours ago, in which some nut claimed to be the killer. But have no fear, he assured them, the court of appeals had already denied relief. Only one other appeal was in play, a bogus one—“hell, they’re all bogus”—but it was as good as dead in the Supreme Court. Koffee happily assured his guests that justice was on the verge of prevailing.

They swapped stories about the church burnings, the cotton gin fire, the growing mob in Civitan Park, and the coming of the cavalry. The National Guard was expected by 6:00 p.m., and there was no shortage of opinions about whether it was actually needed.

Koffee was barbecuing chicken on a grill, breasts and thighs coated with a thick sauce. But the treat of the night, he announced, would be “Drumm sticks.” A chorus of laughter echoed across the lake.

———

Huntsville is also the home of Sam Houston State University. The school has an enrollment of sixteen thousand—81 percent white, 12 percent black, 6 percent Hispanic, and 1 percent other.

Late Thursday afternoon, many of the black students were drifting toward the prison, some eight blocks away in central Huntsville. Operation Detour may have failed in its attempt to block roads, but it would not fail in its efforts to raise a little hell. The streets closer to the prison were sealed off by Texas state troopers and Huntsville police. The authorities were expecting trouble, and security around Walls Unit was tight.

The black students gathered three blocks from the prison and began making noise. When Robbie stepped out of the death house to work the phone, he heard in the distance the organized chanting of a thousand voices. “Donté! Donté!” He could see nothing but the exterior walls of the death house and chain-link fencing, but he could tell the crowd was close.

What difference did it make? It was too late for protests and marches. He listened for a second, then called the office. Sammie Thomas answered by blurting, “They wouldn’t let us file the Gamble petition. They locked the doors at 5:00 p.m., Robbie, and we got there seven minutes late. They knew we were coming too.”

His first impulse was to launch the phone against the nearest brick wall and watch it shatter into a thousand pieces, but he was too stunned to move. She went on, “The Defender Group called the clerk a few minutes before five. They were actually in a car racing to file. Clerk said too bad, said he’d talked to Prudlowe and the office closed at five. Are you there, Robbie?”

“Yes, no. Go on.”

“Nothing left but the cert petitions before the Supremes. No word yet.”

Robbie was leaning on a chain-link fence, trying to steady himself. A tantrum would not help matters now. He could throw things and curse and maybe file lawsuits tomorrow, but he needed to think. “I don’t expect any help from the Supreme Court, do you?” he asked.

“No, not really.”

“Well, then, it’s almost over.”

“Yes, Robbie, that’s the feeling around here.”

“You know, Sammie, all we needed was twenty-four hours. If Travis Boyette and Joey Gamble had given us twenty-four hours, we could’ve stopped this damned thing, and there’s a very good chance Donté would one day walk out of here. Twenty-four hours.”

“Agreed, and speaking of Boyette, he’s outside waiting for a TV crew. He called them, not us, though I did give him the number. He wants to talk.”

“Let him talk, damn it. As of now, let him tell the world. I don’t care. Is Carlos ready with the video blast?”

“I think so.”

“Then turn him loose. I want every big newspaper and television station in the state to get the video right now. Let’s make as much noise as possible. If we’re going down, then let’s go down in flames.”

“You got it, Boss.”

Robbie listened to the distant chants for a moment while staring at his phone. Who could he call? Was there anyone in the world who could help?

———

Keith flinched when the metal bars closed behind him. This was not his first prison visit, but it was the first time he’d been locked in a cell. His breathing was labored and his colon was in knots, but he had prayed for strength. It was a very short prayer: God, please give me courage and wisdom. Then please get me out of here.

Donté did not rise when Keith entered the visitors’ cell, but he did smile and offer a hand. Keith shook it, a soft, passive handshake. “I’m Keith Schroeder,” he said as he sat on the stool, his back to the wall, his shoes inches from Donté’s.

“Robbie said you were a good guy,” Donté said. He seemed to concentrate on Keith’s collar, as if to confirm that he was in fact a minister.

Keith’s voice froze as he thought about what to say. A grave “How are you doing?” seemed ludicrous. What do you say to a young man who will die in less than an hour, whose death is certain, and could be avoided?

You talk about death. “Robbie tells me you didn’t want to talk to the prison chaplain,” Keith said.

“He works for the system. The system has persecuted me for nine years, and it will soon get what it wants. So I concede nothing to the system.”

Makes perfect sense, Keith thought. Donté was sitting straighter, his arms folded across his chest, as though he would welcome a good debate about religion, faith, God, heaven, hell, or anything else Keith wanted to discuss.

“You’re not from Texas, are you?” Donté asked.

“Kansas.”

“The accent. Do you believe the state has the right to kill people?”

“No.”

“Do you think Jesus would approve of the killing of inmates for retribution?”

“Of course not.”

“Does ‘Thou shalt not kill’ apply to everybody, or did Moses forget the exemption for state governments?”

“The government is owned by the people. The commandment applies to everyone.”

Donté smiled and relaxed a little. “Okay, you pass. We can talk. What’s on your mind?”

Keith breathed a little easier, pleased to have survived the entrance exam. He half expected to meet a young man without all of his mental assets, and he was wrong. Robbie’s noisy claim that Donté had been driven insane by death row seemed misguided.

Keith plunged ahead. “Robbie tells me you were raised in a church, baptized at an early age, had a strong faith, raised by parents who were devout Christians.”

“All true. I was close to God, Mr. Schroeder, until God abandoned me.”

“Please call me Keith. I read a story about a man who once sat right here, in this cell, his name was Darrell Clark, young man from West Texas, Midland, I think. He’d killed some people in a drug war, got
convicted and sent to death row, at the old unit at Ellis. While he was on death row, someone gave him a Bible, and someone else shared a Christian testimony. Clark became a Christian and grew very close to the Lord. His appeals ran out, and his execution date was set. He embraced the end. He looked forward to death because he knew the exact moment when he would enter the kingdom of heaven. I can’t think of another story quite like Darrell Clark’s.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is you’re about to die, and you know when it will happen. Very few people know this. Soldiers in battle may feel like dead men, but there’s always a chance they’ll survive. I suppose some victims of horrible crimes know they’re at the end, but they have such short notice. You, though, have had this date for months. Now the hour is at hand, and it’s not a bad time to make amends with God.”

“I know the legend of Darrell Clark. His final words were ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’ Luke 23, verse 46, the last words of Jesus before he died on the cross, according to Luke anyway. But you’re missing something here, Keith. Clark killed three people, execution style, and after they convicted him, he never made a serious claim of innocence. He was guilty. I am not. Clark deserved to be punished, not to be killed, but imprisoned for life. Me, I am innocent.”

“True, but death is death, and in the end nothing else matters except your relationship with God.”

“So you’re trying to convince me that I should go running back to God here at the last minute, and just sort of forget the past nine years.”

“You blame God for the past nine years?”

“Yes, I do. This is what happened to me, Keith. I was eighteen years old, a longtime Christian, still active in church, but also doing some things that most kids do, nothing bad, but, hell, when you grow up in a house as strict as mine, you’re gonna rebel a little. I was a good student, the football thing was on hold, but I wasn’t running drugs and beating people. I stayed off the streets. I was looking forward to college. Then, for some reason I guess I’ll never understand, a bolt of lightning hits me
square in the forehead. I’m wearing handcuffs. I’m in jail. My picture is on the front page. I’m declared guilty long before the trial. My fate is determined by twelve white people, half of them good, solid Baptists. The prosecutor was a Methodist, the judge was Presbyterian, or at least their names were on church rolls somewhere. They were also screwing each other, but I guess we all have a weakness for flesh. Most of us anyway. Screwing each other, yet pretending to give me a fair trial. The jury was a bunch of rednecks. I remember sitting in the courtroom, looking at their faces as they condemned me to death—hard, unforgiving, Christian faces—and thinking to myself, ‘We don’t worship the same God.’ And we don’t. How can God allow His people to kill so often? Answer that, please.”