The Confession (24 page)

“There’s a chance,” Robbie said as he looked into the eyes of Samantha Thomas. She shrugged, nodded, a weak “Maybe.”

Robbie rubbed both hands and said, “Okay, Keith, here’s what we have to do. We have to meet Boyette and ask him a lot of questions, and if that goes well, then we’ll prepare an affidavit for him to sign and file it with a petition. We have time, but not much.”

Carlos handed Samantha a photo of Boyette he’d just printed out from a Web site for the Kansas Department of Corrections. She pointed at his face and whispered, “Get him on the phone.”

Robbie nodded and said, “Keith, I’d like to talk to Boyette. Can you put him on?”

Keith lowered his cell phone and said, “Travis, this is the lawyer. He wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t think so,” Boyette said.

“Why not? We’re driving to Texas to talk to the man, here he is.”

“Nope. I’ll talk when we get there.”

Boyette’s voice was clear on the speakerphone. Robbie and the rest were relieved to know that Keith actually had someone else in the car with him. Maybe he wasn’t some nut playing games at the eleventh hour.

Robbie pressed on. “If we can talk to him now, we can start to work on his affidavit. That’ll save some time, and we don’t have much of it.”

Keith relayed this to Boyette, whose reaction was startling. His upper body pitched forward violently as he grabbed his head with both hands. He tried to suppress a scream, but a very loud “Aghhhhh!” escaped, followed by deep guttural lurches that made the man sound as if he were dying in horrendous pain.

“What was that?” Robbie asked.

Keith was driving, talking on the phone, and suddenly distracted by another seizure. “I’ll call you back,” he said and put the phone down.

“I’m throwing up,” Boyette said, reaching for the door handle. Keith hit the brakes and steered the Subaru onto the shoulder. An 18-wheeler behind him swerved and sounded the horn. They finally came to a stop, and Boyette clutched his seat belt. When he was free, he leaned through the cracked door and began vomiting. Keith got out, walked to the rear bumper, and decided not to watch. Boyette puked for a long time, and when he finally finished, Keith handed him a bottle of water. “I need to lie down,” Boyette said, and crawled into the backseat. “Don’t move the car,” he directed. “I’m still sick.”

Keith walked a few feet away and called his wife.

———

After another noisy bout of gagging and throwing up, Boyette seemed to settle down. He returned to the rear seat, with the right-side door open, his feet hanging out.

“We need to move along, Travis. Slone is not getting any closer.”

“Just a minute, okay? I’m not ready to move.” He was rubbing his temples, and his slick skull seemed ready to crack. Keith watched him for a minute, but felt uncomfortable gawking at such agony. He stepped around the vomit and leaned on the hood of the car.

His phone buzzed. It was Robbie. “What happened?” he asked.

Robbie was seated now, still at the conference table, with most of
the crew still there. Carlos was already working on an affidavit. Bonnie had found Boyette’s arrest record in Slone and was trying to determine which lawyer had represented him. Kristi Hinze arrived around 7:30 and soon realized she was missing the excitement. Martha Handler typed furiously, another episode in her evolving story about the execution. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor roamed around the train station, sipping cup after cup of coffee and nervously watching all doors and windows. Thankfully, the sun was now up and they didn’t really expect trouble. Not at the office, anyway.

“He has these seizures,” Keith said, as an 18-wheeler roared by, its wind blowing his hair. “I guess it’s the tumor, but when they hit, they’re pretty frightening. He’s been throwing up for the past twenty minutes.”

“Is the car moving, Keith?”

“No. We’ll take off in a minute.”

“The minutes are getting by us, Keith. You understand this, right? Donté will be executed at six o’clock tonight.”

“I got that. If you’ll recall, I tried to talk to you yesterday, and you told me to get lost.”

Robbie took a deep breath as he collected the stares from around the table. “Can he hear you right now?”

“No. He’s lying in the backseat, rubbing his head, afraid to move. Me, I’m sitting on the hood, dodging 18-wheelers.”

“Tell us why you believe this guy.”

“Well, let’s see, where do I start? He knows a lot about the crime. He was in Slone when it happened. He’s obviously capable of such violence. He’s dying. There’s no proof against Donté Drumm other than the confession. And Boyette has her senior class ring on a chain around his neck. That’s the best I can do, Robbie. And, I’ll admit, there’s a slight chance this is all a big lie.”

“But you’re helping him jump parole. You’re committing a crime.”

“Don’t remind me, okay? I just talked to my wife and she happened to mention that.”

“How soon can you get here?”

“I don’t know. Three hours, maybe. We’ve stopped twice for coffee because I haven’t slept in three nights. I bought myself a speeding ticket, one written by the slowest trooper in Oklahoma. Now Boyette is puking his guts out, and I’d rather him do that in a ditch and not in my car. I don’t know, Robbie. We’re trying.”

“Hurry up.”

W
ith the sun up and the town anxiously coming to life, the Slone police were on high alert, with holsters unfastened, radios squawking, patrol cars darting up and down the streets, and every officer looking for the next hint of trouble. It was expected at the high school, and for good measure the chief sent half a dozen men there early on Thursday morning. When the students arrived for class, they saw police cars parked near the main entrance, an ominous sign.

All of Slone knew that the black players had boycotted practice on Wednesday and had vowed not to play Friday. There could be no greater insult to a community that loved its football. The fans, so ardent and loyal only a week earlier, now felt betrayed. Feelings were strong; emotions were raw all over Slone. On the white side of town, the bitterness was caused by football, and now the burning of a church. On the black side, it was all about the execution.

As with most violent and sudden conflicts, the precise manner in which the riot began would never be known. In the endless retelling of it, two things became obvious: the black students blamed the white students, and the whites blamed the blacks. The question of time was a bit
clearer. Just seconds after the first bell at 8:15, several things happened at once. Smoke bombs were lit in the boys’ restrooms on the first and second floors. Cherry bombs were rolled down the main hallway, exploding like howitzers under the metal lockers. A string of firecrackers went off near the central stairwell, and panic swept the school. Most of the black students walked out of class and mingled in the halls. A brawl erupted in a junior homeroom class when a black hothead and a white hothead exchanged insults and started swinging. Others were quick to take sides and join in. The teacher ran from the room screaming for help. One fight sparked a dozen more. Before long, students were rushing out of the building, running for safety. Some were yelling, “Fire! Fire!” though no flames had been seen. The police called for backups and fire trucks. Firecrackers were popping all over the first and second floors. The smoke grew thicker and thicker as the chaos spread. Near the entryway to the gymnasium, some black kids were ransacking the trophy cases when they were seen by a gang of whites. Another fight broke out, one that spilled into a parking lot next to the gym. The principal stayed in his office and barked nonstop into the PA system. His warnings were ignored and only added to the confusion. At 8:30, he announced that school had been canceled for that day and the next. The police, with reinforcements, eventually settled things down and evacuated Slone High School. There were no fires, only smoke and the acrid smell of cheap explosives. There was some broken glass, clogged toilets, upended lockers, and stolen backpacks, and a soft drink machine was vandalized. Three students—two whites and one black—were taken to the hospital and treated for cuts. There were a lot of cuts and bruises that went unreported. Typical of such a melee, with so many taking part, it was not possible to determine who was causing trouble and who was trying to flee, so no arrests were made at the time.

Many of the older boys, black and white, went home to get their guns.

———

Roberta, Andrea, Cedric, and Marvin were cleared through the security desk at Polunsky’s front building and led by a supervisor to the
Visitors’ Room, a process and a walk they had endured many times in the past seven years. And though they had always hated the prison and everything about it, they realized that it would soon be a part of their past. If it meant nothing else, Polunsky was where Donté lived. That would change in a matter of hours.

There are two private rooms used by attorneys in the visiting area. They are slightly wider than the other booths used by visitors, and they are fully enclosed so no guard or prison official, or other inmate or lawyer, can eavesdrop. On his final day, a condemned man is allowed to see his family and friends in one of the attorney’s rooms. The Plexiglas is still there, and all conversations are through black phones on each side of it. No touching.

The Visitors’ Room is a loud and busy place on weekends, but on weekdays there is little traffic. Wednesdays are set aside as “Media Days,” and a man “with a date” is typically interviewed by a couple of reporters from the town where the murder took place. Donté had declined all requests for interviews.

When the family entered the visiting area at 8:00 a.m., the only other person there was a female guard named Ruth. They knew her well. She was a thoughtful soul who liked Donté. Ruth welcomed them and said how sorry she was.

Donté was already in the attorney’s booth when Roberta and Cedric entered. A guard could be seen through the window of a door behind him. As always, he placed the palm of his left hand flat on the Plexiglas, and Roberta did the same from the other side. Though the touch was never completed, it was a long, warm embrace in their minds. Donté had not touched his mother since the last day of his trial, in October 1999, when a guard allowed them a quick hug as he was being led from the courtroom.

He held the phone with his right hand and said with a smile, “Hi, Momma. Thanks for coming. I love you.” Their hands were still together, pressed against the glass. Roberta said, “And I love you right back, Donté. How are you today?”

“The same. I’ve already had my shower and a shave. Everybody’s
real nice to me. Got fresh clothes on, a new pair of boxers. This is a lovely place. They get real nice around here right before they kill you.”

“You look great, Donté.”

“And so do you, Momma. You’re as beautiful as always.”

During one of her first visits, Roberta had wept and had been unable to stop herself. Afterward, Donté wrote to her and explained how upsetting it was to see her so distraught. In the solitude of his cell, he wept for hours, but he couldn’t bear to watch his mother do the same. He wanted her to visit him whenever possible, but the tears did more harm than good. There had been no more tears, not from Roberta, Andrea, Cedric, Marvin, or any other relative or friend. Roberta made this very clear with each visit. If you can’t control yourself, get out of the room.

“I talked to Robbie this morning,” she said. “He has one or two more plans for the final appeals, plus the governor has not ruled on your request for a reprieve. So there’s still hope, Donté.”

“There’s no hope, Momma, so don’t kid yourself.”

“We can’t give up, Donté.”

“Why not? There’s nothing we can do. When Texas wants to kill somebody, they’re gonna do it. Killed one last week. Got another planned later this month. It’s an assembly line around here, can’t nobody stop it. You might get lucky and get a stay every now and then, happened to me two years ago, but sooner or later your time is up. They don’t care about guilt or innocence, Momma, all they care about is showing the world how tough they are. Texas don’t fool around. Don’t mess with Texas. Ever heard that?”

Softly she said, “I don’t want you to be angry, Donté.”

“I’m sorry, Momma, I’m gonna die angry. I can’t help it. Some of these guys go peacefully, singing hymns, quoting scripture, begging for forgiveness. Dude last week said, ‘Father, unto you I commend my spirit.’ Some don’t say a word, just close their eyes and wait for the poison. A few go out kicking. Todd Willingham died three years ago, always claimed to be innocent. They said he started a house fire that burned up his three little girls. Yet he was in the house and got burned too. He was a fighter. He cussed ’em in his final statement.”

“Don’t do that, Donté.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do, Momma. Maybe nothing. Maybe I’ll just lie there with my eyes closed and start counting, and when I get to a hundred, I’ll just float away. But, Momma, you’re not gonna be there.”

“We’ve had this conversation, Donté.”

“Well, now we’re having it again. I don’t want you to witness this.”

“I don’t want to either, believe me. But I’ll be there.”

“I’m gonna talk to Robbie.”

“I’ve already talked to him, Donté. He knows how I feel.”

Donté slowly withdrew his left hand from the glass, and Roberta did the same. She placed the phone on the counter and removed a sheet of paper from her pocket. No purses were allowed past the front desk. She unfolded the paper, picked up the phone, and said, “Donté, this is a list of the folks who’ve called or stopped by to ask about you. I promised them I would pass along their thoughts.”

He nodded and tried to smile. Roberta went through the names—neighbors, old friends from down the street, classmates, beloved church members, and a few distant relatives. Donté listened without a word, but seemed to drift away. Roberta went on and on, and with each name she added a brief commentary about the person or an anecdote.

Andrea was next. The touching ritual was followed. She described the burning of the Baptist church, the tension in Slone, the fears that things would get worse. Donté seemed to like that—the thought of his people fighting back.