The Confession (38 page)

Roberta told herself to worry about it later.

She laced his shoes, adjusted his socks, pulled down the cuffs of his pants. Now that he was dressed, she could relax. Cedric had tied the necktie into a perfect knot, and she looped it over Donté’s head and managed to fit it under his collar. She tightened the knot and fiddled with the tie until it was perfect. She adjusted here and there, flattened a few wrinkles in the pants, then she took a step back and admired her work. What a handsome young man. Gray suit, white shirt, gold tie; she had chosen well.

She leaned over and kissed him again. Get up Donté and let’s go to church. You’ll find a wife there and have ten children. Hurry now, there’s so much you’ve missed. Please. Let’s go show you off in your fine new outfit. Hurry now.

She was aware of the grislier aspects of death, the embalming and fluids and such, and she knew that in a few hours Mr. Lamb and his son would be warming the body, removing the clothes, and going about their unspeakable tasks. That’s why she wanted these few precious moments with her son, while he was still whole and intact.

Tomorrow she would plan the funeral and tend to the other details. She would be strong and brave. Now, though, she wanted to be alone with her child, to grieve and ache and cry without restraint, as any mother would.

B
efore sunrise Friday, a short caravan of vehicles departed the town and traveled east. The lead vehicle was Robbie’s customized van, with Aaron Rey at the wheel and Carlos riding shotgun. Robbie sat in his favorite chair, sipped coffee, glanced through the newspapers, and generally ignored Martha Handler, who was gulping coffee and scribbling notes and trying to wake up. Behind them was the Subaru, with Keith driving and Boyette gripping his cane and staring into the darkness. Behind the Subaru was a three-quarter-ton pickup truck with Fred Pryor at the wheel. His passengers were two private security guards who had worked off and on during the past few days to protect Robbie’s law office and his home. The truck was Fred’s, and it carried shovels, flashlights, and other equipment. Behind the truck was another van, white and unmarked, owned by the TV station in Slone and driven by a news director named Bryan Day, nicknamed Hairspray Day for obvious reasons. With Day was a cameraman called Buck.

The four vehicles had gathered in the long driveway of Robbie’s home at 5:00 a.m. and managed to weave through side streets and back roads for a stealthy and successful getaway. The office had received
enough phone calls and e-mails to convince Robbie that certain people were curious about where he might be headed on Friday.

He’d slept five hours, and it took a pill to achieve that. He was beyond the point of exhaustion, but there was so much left to do. After leaving Lamb & Son, and briefly seeing the body, he took his entourage home, where DeDe managed to produce enough food to feed everyone. Keith and Boyette slept on sofas in the basement while a maid washed and ironed their clothes.

Everyone was exhausted, but no one had trouble jumping out of bed.

Carlos was on his cell phone, listening more than talking, and when the conversation was over, he announced, “That was my man at the radio station. Forty or so arrests, two dozen injuries, but no fatalities, which is a miracle. They have sealed off most of downtown, and things have settled down for the moment. Lots of fires, too many to count. Fire trucks here from Paris, Tyler, other places. At least three police cars have been hit with Molotov cocktails, which has become the weapon of choice. They torched the press box at the football field and it’s still burning. Most of the fires are in empty buildings. No homes, yet. Rumor is that the governor is sending in more guardsmen. Nothing confirmed, though.”

“And what happens if we find the body?” Martha asked.

Robbie shook his head and thought for a second. “Then last night was child’s play.”

They had debated the various combinations and arrangements for the trip. To make sure Boyette didn’t vanish, Robbie wanted him secured in his van under the watchful eye of Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor. But he just couldn’t stomach the thought of being confined in a small place for several hours with the creep. Keith was adamant that he was driving his Subaru, primarily because he was determined to be in Topeka by late Friday afternoon, with or without Boyette. Like Robbie, he had no desire to sit near Boyette, but since he had done it once, he assured Robbie that he could do it again.

Fred Pryor had suggested they toss Boyette in the rear seat of the club cab of his truck and keep guns on him. Among Robbie’s team,
there was a yearning for retribution, and if Boyette did indeed lead them to the body, Fred Pryor and Aaron Rey could easily be convinced to take him somewhere behind the trees and put him out of his misery. Keith sensed this, and they respected his presence. There would be no violence.

The inclusion of Bryan Day had been complicated. Robbie trusted no reporter, period. However, if they found what they were looking for, it would need to be properly recorded, and by someone outside his circle. Of course Day had been eager to tag along, but he had been forced to agree to a list of firm conditions that basically prevented him from reporting anything until so directed by Robbie Flak. If he tried, he and Buck the cameraman would in all likelihood be either beaten or shot, or both. Day and Buck understood that the stakes were high and the rules would be followed. Because Day was the station’s news director, he was able to slip away without leaving clues at the office.

“Can we talk?” Martha asked. They had been on the road for half an hour, and there were hints of orange in the sky ahead of them.

“No,” Robbie said.

“It’s been almost twelve hours since he died. What are you thinking?”

“I’m fried, Martha. My brain is not working. There are no thoughts.”

“What did you think when you saw his body?”

“It’s a sick world when we kill people because we assume we have the right to kill them. I thought he looked great, this handsome young man lying there asleep, no visible injuries, no signs of a struggle. Put down like an old dog by bigots and idiots too lazy and too stupid to realize what they’re doing. You know what I’m really thinking about, Martha?”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll tell you. I’m thinking about Vermont, cool summers, no humidity, no executions. A civilized place. A cabin on a lake. I can learn to shovel snow. If I sell everything and close my firm, maybe I can net a million. I’ll retire to Vermont and write a book.”

“About what?”

“I have no idea.”

“No one believes that, Robbie. You’ll never leave. You might take some time off, catch your breath, but before long you’ll find another case and get mad and file a lawsuit, or ten. You’ll be doing that until you’re eighty, and they’ll carry you out of the station on a stretcher.”

“I’ll never see eighty. I’m fifty-two now and I feel like a geezer.”

“You’ll be suing people when you’re eighty.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. I know where your heart is.”

“Right now my heart is broken, and I’m ready to quit. A half-ass lawyer could’ve saved Donté.”

“And what could this half-ass lawyer have done differently?”

Robbie showed her both palms and said, “Not now, Martha. Please.”

In the car behind them, the first words were spoken when Boyette said, “Did you really watch the execution?”

Keith took a sip of coffee and waited awhile. “Yes, I did. It wasn’t planned; it just happened at the last second. I didn’t want to watch it.”

“Do you wish you hadn’t?”

“That’s a very good question, Travis.”

“Thank you.”

“On the one hand, I wish I had not watched a man die, especially a man who claimed to be innocent.”

“He is innocent, or was.”

“I tried to pray with him, but he refused. He said he doesn’t believe in God, though he once did. As a minister, it’s very difficult to be with someone who is facing death and does not believe in God or Christ or heaven. I’ve stood at hospital beds and watched my members die, and it’s always comforting to know that their souls are bound for a glorious hereafter. Not so with Donté.”

“Nor with me.”

“On the other hand, I saw something in the death chamber that should be seen by everyone. Why hide what we are doing?”

“So you would watch another one?”

“I didn’t say that, Travis.” It was a question Keith could not answer.
He was struggling with his first execution; he couldn’t imagine the next one. Just hours earlier, seconds before he’d finally fallen asleep, the image of Donté strapped to the deathbed came into focus, and Keith ran through it again in slow motion. He remembered staring at Donté’s chest as it lifted slightly, then fell. Lifted, then fell. Up and down, barely noticeable. And then it stopped. He had just watched a man exhale for the final time. Keith knew the image would never go away.

The sky was lighter to the east. They crossed into Oklahoma.

Boyette said, “I guess that’s my last trip to Texas.”

Keith could not think of a response.

———

The governor’s helicopter touched down at 9:00 a.m. Since the media had received plenty of advance notice and were waiting anxiously, there was considerable debate among the governor and Barry and Wayne about the details of the landing. En route, they finally settled on the parking lot next to the football field. The media were informed and scrambled to Slone High School for this late-breaking development. The press box was badly damaged, charred, and smoldering. Firemen were still on the scene, cleaning up. When Gill Newton emerged from his chopper, he was met by state police, colonels from the Guard, and a few carefully selected and weary firefighters. He shook their hands warmly as if they were Marines returning from combat. Barry and Wayne were quick to survey the surroundings, and they organized the press conference so that the backdrop would be the football field and, most important, the burned-out press box. The governor was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, no tie, and a Windbreaker—a real working man.

With a troubled face but an enthusiastic spirit, he faced the cameras and reporters. He condemned the violence and unrest. He promised to protect the citizens of Slone. He announced he was calling in more guardsmen and would mobilize the entire Texas National Guard, if need be. He talked about justice, Texas style. He engaged in a bit of race-baiting by calling on black leaders to rein in the hooligans. He said
nothing of the sort about white troublemakers. He ranted and raved, and when he was finished, he ducked away from the microphones without taking questions. Neither he nor Barry and Wayne wanted to deal with the Boyette matter.

For an hour he buzzed around Slone in a patrol car, stopping to drink coffee with soldiers and policemen, and to chat with citizens, and to survey, with a grim and pained face, the ruins of the First Baptist Church, and all the while the cameras were rolling, recording it all for the glory of the moment, but also for future campaigns.

———

After five hours, the caravan finally stopped at a country store north of Neosho, Missouri, twenty miles south of Joplin. After a restroom break and more coffee, they headed north, now with the Subaru in the lead and the other vehicles close behind.

Boyette was visibly nervous, the tic more active, his fingers thumping the cane. “We’re getting close to the turnoff,” he said. “It’s to the left.” They were on Highway 59, a busy two-lane road in Newton County. They turned left at the bottom of a hill, next to a gas station. “This looks right,” Travis kept saying, obviously anxious about where he was taking them. They were on a county road with bridges over small creeks, sharp curves, steep hills. Most of the homes were trailers with an occasional square redbrick from the 1950s.

“This looks right,” Boyette said.

“And you lived around here, Travis?”

“Yep, right up here.” He nodded, and when he did so, he began rubbing his temples. Please, Keith thought, not another seizure. Not at this moment. They stopped at an intersection in the middle of a small settlement. “Keep going straight,” Boyette said. Past a shopping center with a grocery, hair salon, video rental. The parking lot was gravel. “This looks right,” he said again.

Keith had questions, but he said little. Was Nicole still alive, Travis, when you drove through here? Or had you already taken her life? What were you thinking, Travis, when you drove through here nine years
ago with that poor girl bound and gagged and bruised, traumatized after a long weekend of sexual assault?

They turned to the left, onto another road that was paved but narrower, and drove a mile before they passed a dwelling. “Old man Deweese had a store up here,” Travis said. “I’ll bet it’s gone now. He was ninety years old when I was a kid.” They stopped at a stop sign in front of Deweese’s Country Market.

“I robbed that place once,” Travis said. “Couldn’t have been more than ten. Crawled through a window. Hated the old bastard. Keep going straight.”

Keith did as he was told and said nothing.

“This was gravel last time I was here,” Boyette said, as if recalling a pleasant boyhood memory.