The Confession (46 page)

“Not much. A quick court appearance, a small fine of some sort, certainly no time in jail.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” Dana said.

“And after some time, I could probably get your record expunged,” Elmo added.

“But the conviction would be a public record, right?” Keith asked.

“Yes, and that is worrisome. Boyette was front-page news this morning here in Topeka, and I suspect there will be more about him in the coming days. It’s our own little connection to this sensational episode. If a reporter sniffs around, he might stumble across your conviction. It’s a pretty good story, if you think about it. Local minister gives assistance to the real killer, and so on. I can see a big splash in the paper, but no permanent damage. The bigger story will be written if and when he commits another crime. Then the prosecutor will take some heat and might be harder to deal with.”

Keith and Dana exchanged uncertain looks. It was their first visit to a law office together, and hopefully their last. Keith said, “Look, Mr. Laird, I really don’t want this hanging over my head. I’m guilty of doing what I did. If I committed a crime, I’ll take my punishment. Our question is simple: What now?”

“Give me a few hours to talk to the district attorney. If he agrees, then we cut a quick deal and get it over with. With some luck, you’ll slide under the radar.”

“How soon could this happen?”

Another shrug. “This week.”

“And you promise he’s not going to jail?” Dana asked, almost pleading.

“No promises, but it’s very unlikely. Let’s talk first thing in the morning.”

Keith and Dana sat in the car outside Laird’s office and stared at the side of his building. “I can’t believe we’re here, doing this, talking about pleading guilty, worrying about going to jail,” she said.

“Isn’t it great? I love it.”

“You what?”

“I gotta tell you, Dana, other than our honeymoon, this past week has been the greatest week of my life.”

“You’re sick. You’ve spent too much time with Boyette.”

“I sorta miss Travis.”

“Drive, Keith. You’re cracking up.”

———

The governor was officially hard at work grappling with the state’s budget. He was too busy to comment on the Drumm matter; the case was closed as far as he was concerned.

Unofficially, he was locked in his office with Wayne and Barry, all three dazed and hungover, eating ibuprofen, and bitching about what to do next. Reporters were camped outside the building—they’d actually filmed him as he left the Governor’s Mansion that morning at 7:30 with his security detail, something he did five days a week, as if such a movement
were now breaking news. The office was being flooded with calls, faxes, e-mails, letters, people, even packages.

Barry said, “It’s a shit storm, growing worse by the minute. Thirty-one editorials yesterday, coast-to-coast, another seventeen today. At this rate, every newspaper in the country will take a shot. Nonstop yakking on cable, experts popping up by the dozens with advice on what to do next.”

“And what should we do next?” the governor asked.

“Moratoriums, moratoriums. Give up capital punishment, or at least study it to death.”

“Polls?”

“The polls say we screwed up, but it’s too early for something like this. Give it a few days, let the aftershocks die down, then we’ll ease back into the market. I suspect we’ll lose a few points, but my guess is at least 65 percent are still in favor of the needle. Wayne?”

Wayne was buried in his laptop, but not missing a word. “Sixty-nine, still my favorite number.”

“I’ll split it,” the governor said. “Sixty-seven. All in?”

Barry and Wayne gave a quick thumbs-up. The standard polling bet was now in play—each of the three with $100 on the line.

The governor walked to his favorite window for the hundredth time, but saw nothing outside. “I gotta talk to someone. Staying in here and ignoring the press makes me look like I’m hiding.”

“You are so hiding,” Barry said.

“Find me an interview with someone we can trust.”

“There’s always Fox. I talked to Chuck Monahand two hours ago, and he would love to have a chat. He’s harmless and his numbers are way up.”

“Will he give us the questions ahead of time?”

“Of course he will. He’ll do anything.”

“I like it. Wayne?”

Wayne cracked his knuckles with enough force to break them, then said, “Not so fast. What’s the urgency? Sure you’re hunkered down, but give it some time. Let’s think of where we’ll be a week from now.”

“My guess is that we’ll be right here,” Barry said. “With the door locked, pulling our hair out and trying to decide what to do next.”

“But it’s such a big moment,” the governor said. “I hate to let it pass.”

“Let it pass,” Wayne said. “You look bad right now, Gov, and there’s no way to fix that. What we need is time, and lots of it. I say we lie low, dodge the bullets, let the press chew on Koffee and the cops and the court of appeals. Let a month go by. It won’t be pleasant, but the clock will not stop.”

“I say we go to Fox,” Barry said.

“And I say we don’t,” Wayne shot back. “I say we cook up a trade mission to China and leave for ten days. Explore foreign markets, more outlets for Texas products, more jobs for our people.”

“I did that three months ago,” Newton said. “I hate Chinese food.”

“You’ll look weak,” Barry said. “Running away smack in the middle of the biggest story since that last hurricane. Bad idea.”

“I agree. I’m not leaving.”

“Then can I go to China?” Wayne asked.

“No. What time is it?” The governor wore a watch, and there were at least three clocks in his office. When that question was asked late in the afternoon, it meant only one thing. Barry stepped to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon.

The governor sat behind his massive desk and took a sip. “When is the next execution?” he asked Wayne. His lawyer punched keys, stared at his laptop, and said, “Sixteen days.”

Barry said, “Oh, boy.”

“Who is it?” Newton asked.

Wayne said, “Drifty Tucker. Male, white, fifty-one years old, Panola County, killed his wife when he caught her in bed with the next-door neighbor. Shot the neighbor too, eight times. Had to reload.”

“Is that a crime?” Barry asked.

“Not in my book,” Newton said. “No claim of innocence?”

“Nope. He claimed insanity, but it looks as if the reloading bit nailed him.”

“Can we get a court somewhere to issue a stay?” Newton asked. “I’d rather not deal with it.”

“I’ll work on it.”

The governor took another sip, shook his head, and mumbled, “Just what we need right now, another execution.”

Wayne suddenly reacted as if he’d been slapped. “Get a load of this. Robbie Flak just filed a lawsuit in state court in Chester County, naming a bunch of defendants; one of them is the Honorable Gill Newton, Governor. Fifty million dollars in damages for the wrongful death of Donté Drumm.”

“He can’t do that,” the governor said.

“He just did. Looks like he e-mailed a copy of it to all defendants, as well as to every newspaper in the state.”

“I’m immune.”

“Of course you are, but you’ve been sued anyway.”

Barry sat down and began scratching his hair. The governor closed his eyes and mumbled to himself. Wayne gawked at his laptop, mouth wide open. A bad day just took a turn for the worse.

K
eith sat in his office at the church, hands locked behind his head, shoeless feet on the desk, eyes gazing at the ceiling, his thoughts still scrambled after all of it. Once or twice in the past few days, his mind had returned to family and church matters, but those pleasant diversions were always ruined when he thought of Travis Boyette loose on the streets. Keith had reminded himself countless times that he did not help Boyette escape—the man was already roaming the streets of Topeka, a convict who’d served his time and was lawfully reentering society. He, Boyette, had made the decision to leave Anchor House and violate his parole before he convinced Keith to become his chauffeur. But Keith was living with a knot in his stomach, a constant nag that assured him he had done something wrong.

To take a break from Boyette, he yanked his feet off the desk and turned to face his computer. The monitor was showing a Web site for the Kansas chapter of AADP, Americans Against the Death Penalty, and Keith decided to join. Using his credit card, he paid the $25 annual fee, now one of three thousand members and as such entitled to the online newsletter, a monthly magazine with all the latest, and other periodic
updates from the staff. The group met once a year in Wichita, details to follow. Outside of the church, it was the first organization he’d ever joined.

Out of curiosity, he looked at the sites of anti-death-penalty groups in Texas, and found plenty. He noticed the names of several groups he’d seen in the news coverage the past two days; the abolitionists down there were making the most of the Drumm execution, and there was no shortage of activity. Execution Watch, Students Against the Death Penalty, Texas Network Moratorium, TALK (Texans Against Legalized Killing), Texans for Alternatives to the Death Penalty. One familiar name was Death Penalty Focus. Keith went to its Web site and was impressed. Membership was only $10. Keith pulled out his credit card and signed up. He was enjoying himself and not thinking about Boyette.

The largest and oldest group in Texas was ATeXX, an acronym for Abolish Texas Executions. It not only published extensively on the subject of capital punishment but also pushed its policies on the legislature, built support groups for the men and women on death row, raised money to defend those charged with capital crimes, networked with dozens of other groups around the country, and, most impressively, at least in Keith’s opinion, reached out to both families—those of the victims and those of the condemned. ATeXX had fifteen thousand members and an annual budget of $2 million and offered membership to anyone willing to pay $25. Keith was in the mood, and moments later he joined his third group.

Sixty dollars later, he felt like a certified abolitionist.

His intercom beeped and broke the silence. Charlotte Junger announced, “There’s a reporter on the phone. I think you should talk to her.”

“Where’s she from?”

“Houston, and she’s not going away.”

“Thanks.” He answered the phone. “This is the Reverend Keith Schroeder.”

“Reverend Schroeder, my name is Eliza Keene. I’m with the
Houston
Chronicle
.” Her voice was soft, her words unhurried, her accent similar to the twang Keith had heard in Slone. “I have some questions about Travis Boyette.”

His life flashed before his eyes. Headlines, controversy, handcuffs, jail.

Keith froze long enough to convince Ms. Keene that she was on the right trail. “Sure,” he said. What was he supposed to say? He would not lie and deny knowing Boyette. For a split second, he thought about refusing to talk to her, but that would set off alarms.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” she asked pleasantly.

Yes. No. He had no idea. “Well, no,” he said.

“Good. It helps me keep things accurate. Just a second.” A pause. “Now the recorder is on.”

“Okay,” Keith said, but only because it seemed as though something was needed on his end. He decided to stall as he tried to gather his thoughts. “Say, uh, Ms. Keene, I don’t spend a lot of time talking to reporters. Is there some way I can verify that you are indeed a reporter for the
Houston Chronicle
?”

“Is your computer on?”

“It is.”

“Then I’m sending you my bio right now. I’m also sending a photo taken outside the law office of Robbie Flak. It was last Thursday as Mr. Flak and his team were leaving. There are four people in the photo, one wearing a dark jacket and a white collar. I’ll bet that’s you.”

Keith opened the e-mail, checked the attachment. It was him. He scanned her bio but knew it wasn’t necessary.

“Nice-looking guy,” Keith said.

“We thought so. That you?”

“Yep.”

“Did you witness the execution of Donté Drumm?” she asked, and Keith’s mouth went dry. He grunted, cleared his throat, and said, “Why do you think I witnessed the execution?”

“We have obtained the records from the prison. You’re listed as a
witness for the inmate. Plus, one of the men standing behind you during the execution was a reporter, not for us, but for another paper. He did not get your name. I found it.”

What would Elmo Laird advise him to do at this point? Stop talking, perhaps. He wasn’t sure, but he was impressed. If she had the prison records and a photo, then what else had she found? His curiosity took over. “Then I guess I witnessed the execution,” he said.

“Why would a Lutheran minister from Topeka witness an execution in Texas?” she asked. It was the same question Keith had posed to himself at least a thousand times.

Keith forced a chuckle and said, “It’s a long story.”

“A friend of Donté Drumm’s?”

“No.”

“Travis Boyette was staying at a halfway house in Topeka, then he pops up in Slone, Texas. Any idea how he got there?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you drive a maroon Subaru, Kansas plates, registration LLZ787?”

“I’m assuming you have a copy of my registration.”

“I do, and one of our reporters noticed the car in Slone. Not many Kansans stop over in Slone. Any chance Boyette hitched a ride with you?”

Another chuckle, this one for real. “All right, Ms. Keene, what do you want from me?”

“I want the story, Reverend Schroeder, all of it.”

“That would take hours, and I’m not willing to spend the time, not right now.”

“When did you first meet Travis Boyette?”

“One week ago today, last Monday.”

“And at that time, did he admit to the murder of Nicole Yarber?”

Surely, all confidentiality was gone. Boyette had broadcast his admissions to the world; there weren’t too many secrets left. Some things, though, should be kept private. Keith wasn’t obliged to answer the question, or any others for that matter. He was not afraid of the truth; in
fact, he was determined not to hide it. If his tracks were this easy to follow, other reporters would be calling soon. Let’s get it over with.