The Confession (8 page)

And two was all he would get. Because of a scandal, Koffee was leaving office. He’d promised the public that he would not seek reelection in two years. His wife of twenty-two years had left him in a rather swift and noisy exit. The Drumm execution would be a final moment of glory.

His sidekick was Drew Kerber, who, after his exemplary work in the Drumm case, had been promoted to chief detective, Slone PD, a position he still proudly held. Kerber was pushing forty-six, ten years younger than the prosecutor, and though they often worked closely together, they ran in different social circles. Kerber was a cop. Koffee was a lawyer. The lines were clear in Slone, as in most small southern towns.

At various times, each had promised Donté Drumm that he would be there when he “got the needle.” Kerber did so first, during the brutal interrogation that produced the confession. Kerber, when he wasn’t jabbing the kid in the chest and calling him every name in the book, promised him over and over that he would get the needle, and that he, Detective Kerber, would be there to witness it.

For Koffee, the conversation had been much briefer. During a break in the trial, while Robbie Flak was not around, Koffee had arranged a quick and secret meeting with Donté Drumm under a stairwell just outside the courtroom. He offered a deal—plead guilty and take life, no parole. Otherwise, you’ll get death. Donté declined and again said he was innocent, at which Koffee cursed him and assured him he would watch him die. Moments later, Koffee denied the encounter when Flak verbally assaulted him.

The two men had lived with the Yarber case for nine years, and for various reasons they had often seen the need to “go see Reeva.” It was not always a pleasant visit, not always something they looked forward to, but she was such an important part of the case that she could never be neglected.

Reeva Pike was Nicole’s mother, a stout, boisterous woman who had embraced victimhood with an enthusiasm that often bordered on the ridiculous. Her involvement in the case was long, colorful, and often contentious. Now that the story was entering its final act, many in Slone wondered what she would do with herself when it was over.

Reeva had badgered Kerber and the police for two weeks as they frantically searched for Nicole. She had wailed for the cameras and publicly berated all elected officials, from her city alderman to the governor, because they had not found her daughter. After the arrest and alleged confession of Donté Drumm, she made herself readily available for lengthy interviews in which she showed no patience with the presumption of innocence and demanded the death penalty, and the sooner the better. For many years, she had taught the Ladies’ Bible Class at the First Baptist Church and, armed with scripture, could practically preach on the subject of God’s approval of state-sponsored retribution. She repeatedly referred to Donté as “that boy,” which riled up the blacks in Slone. She had other names for him too, with “monster” and “cold-blooded killer” being two favorites. During the trial, she sat with her husband, Wallis, and their two children in the front row directly behind the prosecution, with other relatives and friends wedged closely around them. Two armed deputies were always close by, separating Reeva and her
clan from the family and supporters of Donté Drumm. Tense words were exchanged during recesses. Violence could have erupted at any moment. When the jury announced its death sentence, Reeva jumped to her feet and said, “Praise be to God!” The judge called her down immediately and threatened to remove her. As Donté was led away in handcuffs, she could not restrain herself. She screamed, “You murdered my baby! I’ll be there when you take your last breath!”

On the first anniversary of Nicole’s disappearance, and presumably her death, Reeva organized an elaborate vigil at Rush Point on the Red River, near the sandbar where the gym card and student ID were found. Someone built a white cross and stuck it in the ground. Flowers and large photos of Nikki were packed around it. Their preacher led a memorial service and thanked God for the “just and true verdict” that had just been handed down by the jury. Candles were burned, hymns were sung, prayers were offered. The vigil became an annual event on that date, and Reeva was always there, often with a news crew in tow.

She joined a victims group and was soon attending conferences and giving speeches. She compiled a long list of complaints with the judicial system, the primary one being that of the “endless, painful delays,” and she became adept at pleasing a crowd with her new theories. She wrote vicious letters to Robbie Flak and even tried writing to Donté Drumm.

Reeva created a Web site, WeMissYouNikki.com, and loaded it with a thousand photos of the girl. She blogged incessantly about her daughter and the case, often pecking away throughout the night. Twice, Robbie Flak threatened to sue her for libelous material she published, but he knew it was wiser to leave her alone. She hounded Nikki’s friends to post their favorite memories and stories, and held grudges against the kids who lost interest.

Her behavior was often bizarre. Periodically, she took long drives downriver in search of her daughter. She was often seen standing on bridges, gazing at the water, lost in another world. The Red River bisects Shreveport, Louisiana, 120 miles south and east of Slone. Reeva became fixated on Shreveport. She found a hotel downtown with a view of the river, and this became her refuge. She spent many nights and
days there, roaming the city, loitering around shopping malls, cinemas, and any of the other places where teenagers liked to gather. She knew it was irrational. She knew it was inconceivable that Nikki could have survived and was alive and hiding from her. Nonetheless, she kept driving to Shreveport and watching the faces. She couldn’t quit. She had to do something.

Several times, Reeva dashed off to other states where teenage girls went missing. She was the expert with wisdom to share. “You can survive this” was her motto, her effort to soothe and comfort the families, though many back home wondered how well she was surviving.

Now, as the final countdown was under way, she was in a frenzy with the details of the execution. The reporters were back, and she had plenty to say. After nine long and bitter years, justice was finally at hand.

Early Monday evening, Paul Koffee and Drew Kerber decided it was time to go see Reeva.

———

She met them at the front door with a smile, even quick hugs. They never knew which Reeva they would find. She could be charming, and she could be frightening. But with Donté’s death so close, she was gracious and vibrant. They walked through the comfortable suburban split-level to a large room behind the garage, an add-on that had become Reeva’s war room over the years. Half was an office with filing cabinets, the other half a shrine to her daughter. There were large framed color blowups, portraits done posthumously by admirers, trophies, ribbons, plaques, and an award from the eighth-grade science fair. Most of Nikki’s life could be traced through the displays.

Wallis, her second husband and Nicole’s stepfather, was not at home. He had been seen less and less over the years, and it was rumored that he simply couldn’t take much more of his wife’s constant mourning and griping. She served them iced tea as they sat around a coffee table. After a few pleasantries, the conversation moved to the execution.

“You have five slots in the witness room,” Koffee said. “Who gets them?”

“Wallis and I, of course. Chad and Marie are undecided, but will probably be there.” She threw out the names of Nicole’s half brother and half sister as if they couldn’t decide to go to the game or not. “The last place will probably be Brother Ronnie. He doesn’t want to watch an execution, but he feels the need to be there for us.”

Brother Ronnie was the current pastor of the First Baptist Church. He’d been in Slone for about three years, had obviously never met Nicole, but was convinced of Drumm’s guilt and afraid to cross Reeva.

They talked for a few minutes about the protocol on death row, the rules regarding witnesses, the timeline, and so on.

“Reeva, could we talk about tomorrow?” Koffee asked.

“Of course we can.”

“Are you still doing the Fordyce thing?”

“Yes. He’s in town now and we’ll film at ten in the morning, right here. Why do you ask?”

“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,” Koffee said, and Kerber nodded his agreement.

“Oh, really. And why not?”

“He’s such an inflammatory character, Reeva. We are very concerned about the aftershocks Thursday night. You know how upset the blacks are.”

“We are expecting trouble, Reeva,” Kerber added.

“If the blacks start trouble, then arrest them,” she said.

“It’s exactly the kind of situation Fordyce loves to pounce on. He’s an agitator, Reeva. He wants to start trouble so he can get in the middle of it. Helps his ratings.”

“It’s all about ratings,” Kerber added.

“Well, well. Aren’t we nervous,” she chided.

Sean Fordyce was a New York–based talk-show host who’d found a niche on cable sensationalizing murder cases. His slant was unapologetically from the right side of the street, always in support of the latest execution, or gun rights, or the rounding up of illegal immigrants, a group he loved to attack because they were much easier targets than others with dark skin. It was hardly original programming, but Fordyce struck
gold when he began filming the families of victims as they prepared to watch the executions. He became famous when his tech crew managed to successfully hide a tiny camera in the frame of a pair of eyeglasses worn by the father of a young boy who was murdered in Alabama. For the first time, the world saw an execution, and Sean Fordyce owned the footage. He played it and played it and, with each showing, commented on how simple it was, how peaceful and painless and much too easy for such a violent killer.

He was indicted in Alabama, sued by the dead man’s family, and threatened with death and censure, but he survived it. The charges didn’t stick—they couldn’t nail down a specific crime. The lawsuit was thrown out. Three years after the stunt, he was not only standing but standing at the top of the cable garbage heap. Now he was in Slone, preparing for another episode. Rumor was that he’d paid Reeva $50,000 for the exclusive.

“Please reconsider, Reeva,” Koffee said.

“No, Paul. The answer is no. I’m doing it for Nicole, for my family, and for the other victims out there. The world needs to see what this monster has done to us.”

“What’s the benefit?” Koffee said. Both he and Kerber had ignored phone calls from Fordyce’s production team.

“Maybe the laws can be changed.”

“But the laws are working here, Reeva. Sure, it’s taken longer than we wanted, but in the scheme of things nine years is not bad.”

“Oh my God, Paul, I can’t believe you just said that. You haven’t lived our nightmare for the past nine years.”

“No, I haven’t, and I don’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through. But the nightmare won’t end Thursday night.” And it certainly would not, not if Reeva had anything to do with it.

“You have no idea, Paul. I can’t believe this. The answer is no. No, no, no. I’m doing the interview and the show will run. The world will see what it’s like.”

They had not expected to be successful, so they were not surprised.
When Reeva Pike made up her mind, the conversation was over. They shifted gears.

“So be it,” Koffee said. “Do you and Wallis feel safe?”

She smiled, and almost chuckled. “Of course, Paul. We got a houseful of guns and the neighbors are on high alert. Every car that comes down this street is watched through rifle scopes. We are not expecting trouble.”

“There were phone calls at the station today,” Kerber said. “The usual anonymous stuff, vague threats about this and that if the boy is executed.”

“I’m sure you guys can deal with it,” she said with no concern whatsoever. After waging such a relentless war of her own, Reeva had forgotten how to be afraid.

“I think we should have a patrol car parked outside for the rest of the week,” Kerber said.

“Do as you wish. It doesn’t matter to me. If the blacks start trouble, they won’t do it over here. Don’t they normally burn their own buildings first?”

Both men shrugged. They’d had no experience with riots. Slone had an unremarkable history with race relations. What little they knew had been learned from the television news. Yes, it did seem as if the riots were confined to the ghettos.

They talked about this for a few minutes, then it was time to leave. They hugged again at the front door and promised to see each other after the execution. What a great moment it would be. The end of the ordeal. Justice at last.

———

Robbie Flak parked at the curb in front of the Drumm home and braced himself for another meeting.

“How many times have you been here?” his passenger asked.

“I don’t know. Dozens and dozens.” He opened the door, climbed out, and she did the same.

Her name was Martha Handler. She was an investigative journalist, a freelancer who worked for no one but was paid occasionally by the big magazines. She had first visited Slone two years earlier when the Paul Koffee scandal broke and after that had developed a fascination with the Drumm case. She and Robbie had spent hours together, professionally, and things might have degenerated from there, but for the fact that Robbie was committed to his current live-in, a woman twenty years his junior. Martha no longer believed in commitment and gave mixed signals as to whether the door was open or not. There was sexual tension between the two, as if they were both fighting the urge to say yes. So far, they had been successful.

At first, she claimed to be writing a book about the Drumm case. Then it was a lengthy article for
Vanity Fair
. Then it was one for the
New Yorker
. Then it was a screenplay for a movie to be produced by one of her ex-husbands in L.A. In Robbie’s opinion, she was a passable writer, with a brilliant recall of the facts, but a disaster with organization and planning. Whatever the final product, he had complete veto power, and if her project ever earned a dime, he and the Drumm family would get a share. After two years with her, he was not counting on any payoff. He liked her, though. She was wickedly funny, irreverent, a total zealot to the cause, and she had developed a fierce hatred for almost every person she’d met in Texas. Plus, she could guzzle bourbon and play poker far past midnight.