Authors: John Grisham
Tomorrow would be his finest day.
———
The Flak Law Firm watched the rally on the wide-screen television in the main conference room, and when it was finally over, Robbie retreated to his office with half a sandwich and a diet cola. The receptionist had carefully arranged a dozen phone message slips on the center of his desk. The ones from Topeka caught his attention. Something rang a bell. Ignoring the food, he picked up the phone and punched in the number for a cell phone of the Reverend Keith Schroeder.
“Keith Schroeder please,” he said when someone answered “Hello.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Robbie Flak, attorney in Slone, Texas. I have your message, and I think I saw an e-mail a few hours ago.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Flak.”
“It’s Robbie.”
“Okay, Robbie. It’s Keith on this end.”
“Fine, Keith. Where’s the body?”
“In Missouri.”
“I have no time to waste, Keith, and something tells me this call is a complete waste of time.”
“Maybe it is, but give me five minutes.”
“Talk fast.”
Keith ran through the facts—his encounters with an unnamed parolee, his search into his background, the man’s criminal record, his dire medical condition, everything he could cram into five uninterrupted minutes.
“Obviously, you’re not worried about breaching confidentiality here,” Robbie said.
“I’m troubled by it, but the stakes are too high. And I haven’t told you his name.”
“Where is he now?”
“He spent last night in a hospital, checked himself out this morning, and I haven’t heard from him since. He’d due back at the halfway house at 6:00 p.m. sharp. I’ll be there to see him.”
“And he has four felony convictions for sex offenses?”
“At least.”
“Pastor, this man has zero credibility. I can’t do anything with this. There’s nothing here. You gotta understand, Keith, that these executions always attract the nutcases. We had two fruitcakes show up last week. One claimed to know where Nicole is living now, she’s a stripper by the way, and the other claimed to have killed her in a satanic ritual. Location of the body unknown. The first wanted some money, the second wanted out of prison in Arizona. The courts despise these last-minute fantasies.”
“He says the body is buried in the hills south of Joplin, Missouri. That’s where he grew up.”
“How soon can he find the body?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Come on, Keith. Give me something I can use.”
“He has her class ring. I’ve seen it, held it, and examined it. SHS 1999, with her initials ANY. Blue stone, size about six.”
“This is good, Keith. I like it. But where is the ring right now?”
“I assume it’s around his neck.”
“And you don’t know where he is?”
“Uh, correct, at this moment, I don’t know where he is.”
“Who is Matthew Burns?”
“A friend of mine, a prosecutor.”
“Look, Keith, I appreciate your concern. You’ve called twice, e-mailed once, got one of your friends to call. Thank you very much. I’m a very busy man right now, so please leave me alone.” Robbie picked up his sandwich as he put down the phone.
G
ill Newton had been the governor of Texas for five years, and though polls showed an enviable level of approval among the electorate, the polls were dwarfed by his own estimation of his popularity. He was from Laredo, far down in South Texas, where he’d been raised on a ranch that had been owned by his grandfather, who’d once been a sheriff. Gill had scratched his way through college and law school, and when no firm would hire him, he became an assistant prosecutor in El Paso. At the age of twenty-nine, he was elected district attorney in the first of many successful campaigns. He had never lost one. By the age of forty, he’d sent five men to death row. As governor, he’d watched two of them die, explaining that it was his duty since he’d prosecuted them. Though records were sketchy, it was widely believed that Newton was the only sitting governor of Texas to witness an execution. This was certainly true for the modern era. In interviews, he claimed that watching the men die had given him a sense of closure. “I remember the victims,” he said. “I kept thinking about the victims. These were horrible crimes.”
Newton seldom passed on a chance to be interviewed.
Brash, loud, vulgar (in private), he was wildly popular because of his
antigovernment rhetoric, his unwavering beliefs, his outrageous comments that he never apologized for, and his love of Texas and its history of fierce independence. The vast majority of voters also shared his fondness for the death penalty.
With his second and final term secured, Newton was already gazing across the borders of Texas and contemplating a larger stage, something bigger. He was needed.
Late Wednesday afternoon he met with his two closest advisers, two old friends from law school who had helped with every major decision and most of the minor ones as well. Wayne Wallcott was the lawyer, or chief counsel, as his letterhead proclaimed, and Barry Ringfield was the mouthpiece, or director of communications. On a routine day in Austin, the three met in the governor’s office at precisely 5:15 p.m. They took off their coats, dismissed the secretaries, locked the door, and at 5:30 p.m. poured the bourbon. Then they got down to business.
“This Drumm thing could get messy tomorrow,” Barry was saying. “Blacks are pissed, and they got demonstrations scheduled all over the state tomorrow.”
“Where?” the governor asked.
“Well, here, for starters. On the south lawn of the Capitol. Rumor has it that the Right Reverend Jeremiah Mays is flying in on his fancy jet to get the natives good and agitated.”
“I love it,” the governor said.
“The request for a reprieve has been filed and is on record,” Wayne said, looking at some paperwork. He took a sip. The bourbon, Knob Creek, was poured each time into a heavy crystal Waterford glass with the state’s seal on it.
“Definitely more interest in this one,” Barry said. “Lots of calls, letters, e-mails.”
“Who’s calling?” Newton asked.
“The usual chorus. The Pope. President of France. Two members of the Dutch parliament. Prime minister of Kenya, Jimmy Carter, Amnesty International, that loudmouth from California who runs the Black Caucus in Washington. Lots of folks.”
“Anybody important?”
“Not really. The circuit judge in Chester County, Elias Henry, has called twice and sent an e-mail. He’s in favor of a reprieve, says he has grave doubts about the jury’s verdict. Most of the noise from Slone, though, is gung ho in favor of the execution. They think the boy’s guilty. The mayor called and expressed some concerns about trouble in Slone tomorrow night, says he might be calling for help.”
“The National Guard?” Newton asked.
“I suppose so.”
“I love it.”
All three took a sip. The governor looked at Barry, who was not only his mouthpiece but also his most trusted, and most devious, adviser. “You got a plan?”
Barry always had a plan. “Sure, but it’s a work in progress. I like the demonstration tomorrow, hopefully with Reverend Jeremiah stoking the fires. Big crowd. Tons of Africans. A real tense situation. And you take the podium, stare down the crowd, talk about the orderly flow of justice in this state, the usual spiel, then, right out there on the steps, with cameras rolling and the crowd booing and hissing and maybe throwing rocks at you, right then and there, you deny the request for a reprieve. The crowd erupts, you make your escape. It’ll take some balls, but it’s priceless.”
“Wow,” Newton said.
Wayne actually laughed.
Barry continued. “Three hours later they nuke him, but the front page will be taking on the mob of angry blacks. For the record, you got 4 percent of the black vote, Governor, 4 percent.” A pause, a sip, but he wasn’t finished. “I like the National Guard angle too. Later in the afternoon, but before the execution, hold a quick press conference and announce that you’re sending in the Guard to quell the uprising in Slone.”
“The numbers in Chester County?”
“You got 71 percent, Gill. They love you there. You protect them by sending in the Guard.”
“But is the Guard necessary?” Wayne asked. “If we overreact, then it could backfire.”
“It’s fluid. Let’s monitor the situation and decide later.”
“Let’s do that,” the governor said, and the decision was made. “Any chance of some court issuing a last-minute stay?”
Wayne tossed some papers on the governor’s desk and said, “I doubt it. Drumm’s lawyers filed an appeal this morning claiming the boy’s gone crazy and doesn’t appreciate the gravity of what’s coming. It’s bullshit. I talked to Baker at the AG’s office an hour ago, and they see nothing in the pipeline. It’s all green lights.”
“Should be fun,” the governor said.
———
At Reeva’s suggestion, or insistence, the Wednesday night prayer meeting at the First Baptist Church was canceled. This had happened only three times in the history of the church, once for an ice storm, once for a tornado, and once for a power outage. Brother Ronnie could not bring himself to use the word “canceled,” so the prayer meeting was simply reclassified as a “prayer vigil” and was “moved” to another location. The weather cooperated. The sky was clear, and the temperature was almost seventy degrees.
They met at sunset, under a reserved pavilion at Rush Point State Park, on the edge of the Red River, as close to Nicole as they could possibly get. The pavilion was on a small bluff, with the river below, and about a hundred yards away was the sandbar that came and went with the level of water. Her gym card and student ID had been found there. In the minds of those who loved her, this had long been the spot of Nicole’s final resting place.
During her many visits to Rush Point, Reeva had always alerted whatever media she could arouse in Slone. As the years passed, though, the local reporters lost interest. She often visited alone, sometimes with Wallis trailing along behind, always on her daughter’s birthday and usually on December 4, the day she disappeared. But this vigil was far different. There was something to celebrate.
Fordyce—Hitting Hard!
was
represented by a two-man crew with a small camera, the same one that had been following Reeva and a weary Wallis for two days now. There were two TV news crews and half a dozen print reporters. The presence of so much attention inspired the worshippers, and Brother Ronnie was pleased with such a large turnout. Forty miles from home!
They sang a few hymns as the sunlight faded, then lit small candles and passed them around. Reeva sat in the front row and sobbed nonstop. Brother Ronnie could not resist the opportunity to preach, and his flock was in no hurry to leave. He dwelled on justice and relied on an avalanche of scripture to support God’s commands for us to live as law-abiding citizens.
There were prayers by deacons and testimonials from friends of Nicole’s, and even Wallis, after an elbow in the ribs, managed to stand and offer a few words. Brother Ronnie finished things up with a lengthy plea for compassion and mercy and strength. He asked God to walk the final mile with Reeva and Wallis and their family as they went through the ordeal of the execution.
They left the pavilion and moved in a solemn procession to the makeshift shrine closer to the river’s edge. They laid flowers at the foot of a white cross. Some knelt and prayed again. Everybody had a good cry.
———
At 6:00 p.m. on Wednesday, Keith walked through the front door of Anchor House with every intention of corralling Travis Boyette and having a serious confrontation. The execution was exactly twenty-four hours away, and Keith was determined to do whatever he could to stop it. The task seemed utterly impossible, but at least he would try. An associate minister was handling the Wednesday night supper at St. Mark’s.
Boyette was playing games, or maybe he was dead. During the day, he had not checked in with his parole officer, and had not been seen again at Anchor House. He was required to do none of these, but the fact that he seemed to have vanished was troubling. He was, however, required to check in for the night at 6:00 and could not leave until 8:00
the following morning, unless he had permission. He was not there at 6:00 p.m. Keith waited an hour, but there was no sign of Boyette. An ex-con named Rudy was manning the front desk. He mumbled to Keith, “You’d better go find his ass.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Keith said. He left his cell phone number with Rudy and started with the hospitals. He slowly drove from one to the other, killing time, waiting for a call from Rudy, watching the streets for any sign of a fortyish white weirdo limping along with a cane. None of the downtown hospitals had admitted a Travis Boyette. He was not loitering around the bus station, and he was not sharing a drink with the winos down by the river. At 9:00 p.m., Keith returned to Anchor House and sat in a chair at the front desk.
“He ain’t here,” Rudy said.
“What happens next?” Keith said.
“If he comes in later tonight, they’ll cuss him but let it slide, unless he’s drunk or drugged and then it hits the fan. They’ll give you one screwup. But if he stays out all night, they’ll probably revoke him and send him back to the pen. These guys are pretty serious. What’s Boyette up to?”
“It’s hard to say. He has trouble with the truth.”
“I heard that. I got your number. If he shows, I’ll give you a call.”
“Thanks.” Keith hung around for half an hour, then drove home. Dana heated up lasagna, and they ate on TV trays in the den. The boys were already asleep. The television was on mute. They said little. Travis Boyette had consumed their lives for the better part of three days and they were tired of the man.
———
After dark, it became apparent that no one wanted to leave the train station. There was little legal work to be done, and nothing of any consequence could be thrown together at that hour to help Donté Drumm. The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals had not ruled on the insanity claim. Fred Pryor was still loitering on the outskirts of Houston, hoping for another drink or two with Joey Gamble, but that looked doubtful.
This could well be the last night in the life of Donté Drumm. And his legal team needed the comfort of each other.