The Confession (29 page)

“It would not have worked, Keith,” Robbie said. “The authorities here are useless. They would laugh at you. They have their man, the case is solved. Almost closed, I guess. Nobody in Missouri would lift a finger because there is no active investigation. You can’t just call a sheriff and suggest that he and his boys go out in the woods and start digging somewhere down by the creek. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Then who looks for the body?” Keith asked.

“I guess we do.”

“I’m going home, Robbie. My wife is barking at me. My lawyer friend thinks I’m crazy. I think I’m crazy. I’ve done my best. Boyette’s all yours. I’m sick of the guy.”

“Relax, Keith. I need you right now.”

“For what?”

“Just hang around, okay? Boyette trusts you. Besides, when was the last time you had front-row seats at a race riot?”

“Not funny.”

“Sit on the video, Robbie,” Judge Henry said. “Show it to the court and to the governor, but don’t make it public.”

“I can control the video, but I cannot control Mr. Boyette. If he wants to talk to the press, I can’t stop him. God knows he’s not my client.”

———

By 2:30 Thursday afternoon, every church in Slone, black and white, was being guarded by preachers, deacons, and Sunday school teachers, all men, all heavily armed and visible. They sat on the front steps and chatted anxiously, shotguns across their knees. They sat under shade trees near the streets, waving at the passing cars, many of which honked in solidarity. They patrolled the rear doors and back property, smoking, chewing, watching for any movement. There would be no more church burnings in Slone.

The cotton gin had been abandoned two decades earlier when a newer one replaced it east of town. It was an eyesore, a badly decaying old building, and under normal circumstances a good fire would have been welcomed. The 911 call was recorded at 2:44. A teenager driving by saw heavy smoke and called on her cell phone. The beleaguered firemen rushed to the old gin, and by the time they arrived, the flames were roaring through the roof. Since it was an empty, abandoned building, and not a great loss anyway, they took their time.

The black smoke boiled into the sky. The mayor could see it from his second-story office, near the courthouse, and after consulting with the chief of police, he called the governor’s office. The situation in Slone was not likely to improve. The citizens were in danger. They needed the National Guard.

T
he petition was finished just before 3:00 p.m., and with Boyette’s affidavit included, it ran for thirty pages. Boyette swore in writing that he was telling the truth, and Sammie Thomas e-mailed the petition to the Defender Group’s office in Austin. The staff there was waiting. It was printed, copied twelve times, and handed off to Cicely Avis, who sprinted from the office, hopped in her car, and raced across town to the offices of the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. The petition was filed at 3:35.

“What’s this?” the clerk asked, holding a disc.

“It’s a video of a confession by the real murderer,” Cicely replied.

“Interesting. I assume you want the judges to see this fairly soon.”

“Right now, please.”

“I’ll get it done.”

They chatted for a second, and Cicely left the office. The clerk immediately delivered the petition to the offices of the nine judges. In the chief justice’s office, he spoke to the law clerk and said, “You might want to watch the video first. Some guy just confessed to the murder.”

“And where is this guy?” asked the clerk.

“He’s in Donté Drumm’s lawyer’s office in Slone, according to the Defender Group lawyer.”

“So Robbie Flak’s found him a new witness?”

“Looks like it.”

As Cicely Avis left the TCCA offices, she detoured two blocks and drove past the State Capitol. The “Rally for Donté” was drawing a nice crowd on the south lawn. Police were everywhere. A permit had been issued, and the First Amendment appeared to be working.

The crowd, almost all black, was streaming in. The permit was valid for three hours, from 3:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., the moment of execution, but it was obvious things were behind schedule—in Austin, but certainly not in Huntsville.

———

The governor was in a meeting, an important one, one that had nothing to do with Donté Drumm. At 3:11, the video was received by an assistant who handled the requests for reprieves, and she watched all fourteen minutes of it before she could decide what to do next. While she found Boyette somewhat believable and chilling, she was skeptical because of his background and the timing of his sudden desire to come clean. She went to find Wayne Wallcott, the governor’s lawyer and close friend, and described the video.

Wallcott listened closely, then shut the door of his office and told her to sit down. “Who has seen this video?” he asked.

“Only me,” the assistant answered. “It was e-mailed from Mr. Flak’s office, with a pass code. I watched it immediately and here I am.”

“And it’s a full confession?”

“Oh yes, with lots of details.”

“And you believe this guy?”

“I didn’t say that. I said he seems to know what he’s talking about. He’s a serial rapist, and he was in Slone when the girl disappeared. It’s a full confession.”

“Does he mention Drumm?”

“Why don’t you just watch the video?”

“I didn’t ask for any suggestions, did I?” Wallcott snapped. “Just answer my questions.”

“Sorry.” The assistant took a breath. She was suddenly nervous and uneasy. Wallcott was listening, but he was also scheming. “He mentioned Drumm only to say that he’s never met him and he had nothing to do with the crime.”

“He’s obviously lying. I’m not bothering the governor with this, and I want you to keep the video to yourself. I don’t have the time to look at it. Neither does the governor. You understand?”

She did not, but she nodded anyway.

Wallcott narrowed his eyes and frowned. “You do understand, don’t you?” he asked gravely. “This video stays in your computer.”

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as she left, Wallcott practically jogged to the office of Barry Ringfield, the governor’s chief spokesman and closest friend. The office suite was crawling with staff and interns, so they took a stroll down the hall.

After a few minutes of discussing their options, they agreed that the governor would not see the video. If Boyette was lying, then the video would be irrelevant and the right man was executed. But if Boyette was telling the truth, which they strongly doubted, and the wrong man was executed, the fallout could be messy. The only way to protect Governor Gill Newton was for one of them, or perhaps the assistant, to take the fall by admitting they sat on, or maybe even lost, the video. Gill Newton had never granted a reprieve in a death case, and with the thrilling attention being stirred up by the Drumm case, he was not about to back down now. Even if he watched the video, and even if he believed Boyette, he would not retreat.

Wayne and Barry walked to the governor’s office. They were expected there promptly at 4:00 p.m., two hours before the execution, and they would not tell the governor about the video.

———

At 3:30 p.m., the Flak Law Firm gathered once again around the main conference table. All were present and accounted for, including Keith, who, though fighting the worst fatigue of his life, was finding it hard to believe he had somehow acquired a ticket to this circus. He and Judge Henry sat away from the table, against a wall. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor read newspapers on the other side of the room. Travis Boyette was still alive, still resting in the dark on Robbie’s sofa.

It was past time for Robbie to leave for Huntsville, and the strain was showing. But he couldn’t leave yet. The Boyette petition had energized the team and given them hope.

Robbie worked from a checklist. Yellow legal pad, as always. Sammie Thomas and Bonnie would track the Boyette petition before the court of appeals, and also continue to press the governor’s office on the reprieve. Gill Newton had yet to grant or deny, and he usually waited until the last moment. He loved the drama and attention. Carlos would track the insanity petition, which was still with the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. If denied there, they would appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. Fred Pryor would remain at the office and tend to Boyette. No one knew what to do with Boyette, but he didn’t appear to be leaving. As always, Aaron Rey would accompany Robbie to Huntsville. Martha Handler would also go, to observe and record. Robbie barked orders, answered questions, refereed conflicts, and then suddenly looked at the reverend and asked, “Keith, can you go with us to Huntsville?”

For a few seconds, the reverend couldn’t speak. “Why, Robbie?” he managed to ask.

“Donté might need you.”

Keith’s mouth fell open and no words came out. The room was quiet, all eyes on Keith. Robbie pressed on: “He was raised in a church, Keith, but he now takes a dim view of religion. His jury had five Baptists, two Pentecostals, one Church of Christ, and I guess the others were lost. Over the past few years, he’s come to believe that white Christians are the reason he’s on death row. He wants no part of their God, and I don’t expect him to change his views anytime soon. Still, at the very end, he might appreciate someone to pray with.”

What Keith wanted was a nice bed in a clean motel and twelve hours of sleep. But, as a man of God, he couldn’t say no. He nodded slowly and said, “Sure.”

“Good. We’ll leave in five minutes.”

Keith closed his eyes and rubbed his temples and said to himself, “Lord, what am I doing here? Help me.”

Fred Pryor suddenly jumped from his chair. He held his cell phone at arm’s length, as if it were white-hot, and said loudly, “Oh, boy! It’s Joey Gamble. He wants to sign the affidavit and recant his testimony.”

“Is he on the phone?” Robbie said.

“No. It’s a text message. Should I call him?”

“Of course!” Robbie snapped. Pryor stepped to the center of the table and pressed the keys on the speakerphone. No one moved as the phone rang and rang. Finally, a timid “Hello.”

“Joey, Fred Pryor here, in Slone, just got your message, what the hell’s going on?”

“Uh, I wanna help, Mr. Pryor. I’m really upset by all this.”

“You think you’re upset, what about Donté? He’s got two and a half hours to live, and now you finally wake up and want to help.”

“I’m so confused,” Joey said.

Robbie leaned forward and took charge. “Joey, this is Robbie Flak. Remember?”

“Of course.”

“Where are you?”

“Mission Bend, in my apartment.”

“Are you willing to sign an affidavit admitting that you lied at Donté’s trial?”

With no hesitation, Joey said, “Yes.”

Robbie closed his eyes and dropped his head. Around the table, there were silent fist pumps, quick prayers of thanks, and a lot of tired smiles.

“All right, here’s the plan. There’s a lawyer in Houston by the name of Agnes Tanner. Her office is downtown on Clay Street. Do you know the city?”

“I guess.”

“Can you find an office downtown?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I should drive.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Not drunk, but I’ve been drinking.” Robbie instinctively glanced at his watch. Not yet 4:00 p.m. and the boy was already thick tongued.

“Joey, call a cab. I’ll reimburse you later. It’s crucial that you get to Tanner’s office as quickly as possible. We’ll e-mail an affidavit, you sign it, and we’ll get it filed in Austin. Can you do this, Joey?”

“I’ll try.”

“It’s the least you can do, Joey. Right now Donté is in the holding cell in Huntsville, thirty feet from the little room where they kill people, and your lies helped put him there.”

“I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked.

“The office is at 118 Clay Street, you got that, Joey?”

“I think so.”

“Get there, Joey. The paperwork will be waiting for you. Every minute is crucial, Joey, do you understand?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Call us back in ten minutes.”

“You got it.”

After the call ended, Robbie barked orders and everyone scrambled. As he headed for the door, he said, “Let’s go, Keith.” They jumped in the van, with Martha Handler racing to keep up with them, and Aaron Rey sped away. Robbie called Agnes Tanner in Houston and urgently confirmed the details.

Keith leaned forward and looked at Aaron in the rearview mirror. “Someone said it’s a three-hour drive to Huntsville.”

“It is,” Aaron replied. “But we’re not driving.”

The Slone Municipal Airport was two miles east of town. It had one runway, west to east, four small hangars, the usual collection of old Cessnas in a row on the deck, and a square metal building for the terminal. They parked, ran through the tiny lobby area, nodded at a deckhand behind the desk, and stepped onto the tarmac, where a shiny twin-engine King Air was waiting. It was owned by a wealthy lawyer
friend of Robbie’s who was an avid pilot. He got them on board, locked the door, made them fasten their seat belts, then strapped himself in and began flipping switches.

Keith had not talked to his wife in several hours, and things were happening so fast he wasn’t sure where to begin. Dana answered during the first beep, as if she’d been staring at her cell phone. The engines started, and the cabin was suddenly loud and shaking. “Where are you?” she asked.

“In an airplane, leaving Slone, flying to Huntsville to meet Donté Drumm.”

“I can barely hear you. Whose airplane?”

“A friend of Robbie Flak’s. Look, Dana, I can’t hear you either. I’ll call you when we land in Huntsville.”

“Please be careful, Keith.”

“Love you.”

Keith was facing the front of the plane, his knees almost touching Martha Handler’s. He watched the pilot run through the checklist as they taxied away to the runway. Robbie, Martha, and Aaron were all on the phone, and Keith wondered how they could carry on a conversation amid the racket. At the end of the runway, the King Air did a 180 and pointed west. The pilot revved the engines, the plane shook harder and harder as if it might explode, then the pilot yelled, “Hold on,” and released the brakes. They jerked forward, and all four passengers closed their eyes. Within seconds, they were in the air. The landing gear folded with a thud, but Keith had no idea what he was hearing. In the blur of the moment, he realized that he had never before flown in a small airplane.