by John Grisham
got their home instead.
After lunch on Thursday, he left his office and drove to the cabin. The town was in a meltdown, it was beginning to feel dangerous, the phone was ringing nonstop, and no one in his office was even attempting to appear productive. He escaped the frenzy and was soon in the peaceful countryside, where he prepared for a party he'd thrown together a week earlier. He iced down the beer, stocked the bar, puttered around the cabin, and waited for his guests. They began arriving before 5:00 p.m.--most had left work early--and everyone needed a drink. They gathered on a deck near the edge of the water--retired lawyers, active lawyers, two assistant prosecutors in Koffee's office, an investigator, and other assorted friends, almost all of whom had some connection to the law.
Drew Kerber and another detective were there. Everyone wanted to talk to Kerber, the cop who broke the case. Without his skillful interrogation of Donte Drumm, there would have been no conviction. He'd found the bloodhounds that picked up Nicole's scent in the green Ford van. He'd deftly manipulated a jailhouse snitch into obtaining yet another confession from their suspect. Good, solid police work. The Drumm case was Kerber's crowning moment, and he intended to savor its final moments.
Not to be outdone, Paul Koffee commanded his share of attention. He would retire in a few years, and in his old age he would have something to brag about. Against a ferocious defense mounted by Robbie Flak and his team, Koffee and his boys had fought on, fought for justice, fought for Nicole. The fact that he had gotten his prized death verdict without a body was even more reason to gloat.
The booze loosened the tension. They howled with laughter at the story of their beloved governor shouting down a black mob and calling Drumm a monster. Things were a bit quieter when Koffee described the petition, filed hardly two hours ago, in which some nut claimed to be the killer. But have no fear, he assured them, the court of appeals had already denied relief. Only one other appeal was in play, a bogus one--"hell, they're all bogus"--but it was as good as dead in the Supreme Court. Koffee happily assured his guests that justice was on the verge of prevailing.
They swapped stories about the church burnings, the cotton gin fire, the growing mob in Civitan Park, and the coming of the cavalry. The National Guard was expected by 6:00 p.m., and there was no shortage of opinions about whether it was actually needed.
Koffee was barbecuing chicken on a grill, breasts and thighs coated with a thick sauce. But the treat of the night, he announced, would be "Drumm sticks." A chorus of laughter echoed across the lake.
------
Huntsville is also the home of Sam Houston State University. The school has an enrollment of sixteen thousand--81 percent white, 12 percent black, 6 percent Hispanic, and 1 percent other.
Late Thursday afternoon, many of the black students were drifting toward the prison, some eight blocks away in central Huntsville. Operation Detour may have failed in its attempt to block roads, but it would not fail in its efforts to raise a little hell. The streets closer to the prison were sealed off by Texas state troopers and Huntsville police. The authorities were expecting trouble, and security around Walls Unit was tight.
The black students gathered three blocks from the prison and began making noise. When Robbie stepped out of the death house to work the phone, he heard in the distance the organized chanting of a thousand voices. "Donte! Donte!" He could see nothing but the exterior walls of the death house and chain-link fencing, but he could tell the crowd was close.
What difference did it make? It was too late for protests and marches. He listened for a second, then called the office. Sammie Thomas answered by blurting, "They wouldn't let us file the Gamble petition. They locked the doors at 5:00 p.m., Robbie, and we got there seven minutes late. They knew we were coming too."
His first impulse was to launch the phone against the nearest brick wall and watch it shatter into a thousand pieces, but he was too stunned to move. She went on, "The Defender Group called the clerk a few minutes before five. They were actually in a car racing to file. Clerk said too bad, said he'd talked to Prudlowe and the office closed at five. Are you there, Robbie?"
"Yes, no. Go on."
"Nothing left but the cert petitions before the Supremes. No word yet."
Robbie was leaning on a chain-link fence, trying to steady himself. A tantrum would not help matters now. He could throw things and curse and maybe file lawsuits tomorrow, but he needed to think. "I don't expect any help from the Supreme Court, do you?" he asked.
"No, not really."
"Well, then, it's almost over."
"Yes, Robbie, that's the feeling around here."
"You know, Sammie, all we needed was twenty-four hours. If Travis Boyette and Joey Gamble had given us twenty-four hours, we could've stopped this damned thing, and there's a very good chance Donte would one day walk out of here. Twenty-four hours."
"Agreed, and speaking of Boyette, he's outside waiting for a TV crew. He called them, not us, though I did give him the number. He wants to talk."
"Let him talk, damn it. As of now, let him tell the world. I don't care. Is Carlos ready with the video blast?"
"I think so."
"Then turn him loose. I want every big newspaper and television station in the state to get the video right now. Let's make as much noise as possible. If we're going down, then let's go down in flames."
"You got it, Boss."
Robbie listened to the distant chants for a moment while staring at his phone. Who could he call? Was there anyone in the world who could help?
------
Keith flinched when the metal bars closed behind him. This was not his first prison visit, but it was the first time he'd been locked in a cell. His breathing was labored and his colon was in knots, but he had prayed for strength. It was a very short prayer: God, please give me courage and wisdom. Then please get me out of here.
Donte did not rise when Keith entered the visitors' cell, but he did smile and offer a hand. Keith shook it, a soft, passive handshake. "I'm Keith Schroeder," he said as he sat on the stool, his back to the wall, his shoes inches from Donte's.
"Robbie said you were a good guy," Donte said. He seemed to concentrate on Keith's collar, as if to confirm that he was in fact a minister.
Keith's voice froze as he thought about what to say. A grave "How are you doing?" seemed ludicrous. What do you say to a young man who will die in less than an hour, whose death is certain, and could be avoided?
You talk about death. "Robbie tells me you didn't want to talk to the prison chaplain," Keith said.
"He works for the system. The system has persecuted me for nine years, and it will soon get what it wants. So I concede nothing to the system."
Makes perfect sense, Keith thought. Donte was sitting straighter, his arms folded across his chest, as though he would welcome a good debate about religion, faith, God, heaven, hell, or anything else Keith wanted to discuss.
"You're not from Texas, are you?" Donte asked.
"Kansas."
"The accent. Do you believe the state has the right to kill people?"
"No."
"Do you think Jesus would approve of the killing of inmates for retribution?"
"Of course not."
"Does 'Thou shalt not kill' apply to everybody, or did Moses forget the exemption for state governments?"
"The government is owned by the people. The commandment applies to everyone."
Donte smiled and relaxed a little. "Okay, you pass. We can talk. What's on your mind?"
Keith breathed a little easier, pleased to have survived the entrance exam. He half expected to meet a young man without all of his mental assets, and he was wrong. Robbie's noisy claim that Donte had been driven insane by death row seemed misguided.
Keith plunged ahead. "Robbie tells me you were raised in a church, baptized at an early age, had a strong faith, raised by parents who were devout Christians."
"All true. I was close to God, Mr. Schroeder, until God abandoned me."
&n
bsp; "Please call me Keith. I read a story about a man who once sat right here, in this cell, his name was Darrell Clark, young man from West Texas, Midland, I think. He'd killed some people in a drug war, got convicted and sent to death row, at the old unit at Ellis. While he was on death row, someone gave him a Bible, and someone else shared a Christian testimony. Clark became a Christian and grew very close to the Lord. His appeals ran out, and his execution date was set. He embraced the end. He looked forward to death because he knew the exact moment when he would enter the kingdom of heaven. I can't think of another story quite like Darrell Clark's."
"What's your point?"
"My point is you're about to die, and you know when it will happen. Very few people know this. Soldiers in battle may feel like dead men, but there's always a chance they'll survive. I suppose some victims of horrible crimes know they're at the end, but they have such short notice. You, though, have had this date for months. Now the hour is at hand, and it's not a bad time to make amends with God."
"I know the legend of Darrell Clark. His final words were 'Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.' Luke 23, verse 46, the last words of Jesus before he died on the cross, according to Luke anyway. But you're missing something here, Keith. Clark killed three people, execution style, and after they convicted him, he never made a serious claim of innocence. He was guilty. I am not. Clark deserved to be punished, not to be killed, but imprisoned for life. Me, I am innocent."
"True, but death is death, and in the end nothing else matters except your relationship with God."
"So you're trying to convince me that I should go running back to God here at the last minute, and just sort of forget the past nine years."
"You blame God for the past nine years?"
"Yes, I do. This is what happened to me, Keith. I was eighteen years old, a longtime Christian, still active in church, but also doing some things that most kids do, nothing bad, but, hell, when you grow up in a house as strict as mine, you're gonna rebel a little. I was a good student, the football thing was on hold, but I wasn't running drugs and beating people. I stayed off the streets. I was looking forward to college. Then, for some reason I guess I'll never understand, a bolt of lightning hits me square in the forehead. I'm wearing handcuffs. I'm in jail. My picture is on the front page. I'm declared guilty long before the trial. My fate is determined by twelve white people, half of them good, solid Baptists. The prosecutor was a Methodist, the judge was Presbyterian, or at least their names were on church rolls somewhere. They were also screwing each other, but I guess we all have a weakness for flesh. Most of us anyway. Screwing each other, yet pretending to give me a fair trial. The jury was a bunch of rednecks. I remember sitting in the courtroom, looking at their faces as they condemned me to death--hard, unforgiving, Christian faces--and thinking to myself, 'We don't worship the same God.' And we don't. How can God allow His people to kill so often? Answer that, please."
"God's people are often wrong, Donte, but God is never wrong. You can't blame Him."
The fight left him. The weight of the moment returned. Donte leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and hung his head. "I was a faithful servant, Keith, and look what I get."
Robbie walked in from the outside and stood by the visitors' cell. Keith's time was up. "Would you pray with me, Donte?"
"Why? I prayed the first three years I was in prison, and things just got worse. I could've prayed ten times a day, and I would still be sitting right here, talking to you."
"All right, mind if I pray?"
"Go right ahead."
Keith closed his eyes. He found it hard to pray under the circumstances--Donte staring at him, Robbie anxiously waiting, the clock ticking louder and louder. He asked God to give Donte strength and courage, and have mercy on his soul. Amen.
When he finished, he stood and patted Donte on the shoulder, still not believing that he would be dead in less than an hour. Donte said, "Thanks for coming."
"I'm honored to meet you, Donte."
They shook hands again. Then the metal clanged and the doors opened. Keith stepped out, Robbie stepped in. The clock on the wall, indeed the only clock that mattered, gave the time as 5:34.
------
The looming execution of a man claiming innocence did nothing to arouse the national media. The stories had become so commonplace. However, the tit-for-tat angle of the church burnings on the eve of the execution woke up a few producers. The melee at the high school added some fuel. But the possibility of a race riot--now, that was too good to be ignored. Toss in the drama of the National Guard, and by late afternoon Slone was buzzing with brightly painted television vans from Dallas and Houston and other cities, most providing direct feeds to network and cable stations. When word spread that a man claiming to be the real killer wanted to confess on camera, the train station became an instant magnet for the media. With Fred Pryor directing things, or at least attempting to keep some order, Travis Boyette stood on the bottom step of the platform and looked at the reporters and the cameras. Microphones were thrust at him like bayonets. Fred stood at his right side, actually shoving some of the reporters back.
"Quiet!" Fred barked at them. Then he nodded at Travis and said, "Go ahead."
Travis was as stiff as a deer in headlights, but he swallowed hard and plunged in. "My name is Travis Boyette, and I killed Nicole Yarber. Donte Drumm had nothing to do with her murder. I acted alone. I abducted her, raped her repeatedly, then strangled her to death. I disposed of her body, and it's not in the Red River."
"Where is it!"
"It's in Missouri, where I left it."
"Why'd you do it!"
"Because I can't stop myself. I've raped other women, lots of them, sometimes I got caught, sometimes I didn't."
This startled the reporters, and a few seconds elapsed before the next question. "So you are a convicted rapist?"
"Oh yes. I have four or five convictions."
"Are you from Slone?"
"No, but I was living here when I killed Nicole."
"Did you know her?"
------
Dana Schroeder had been parked in front of the television in the den for the past two hours, glued to CNN, waiting for more news from Slone. There had been two reports, brief little snippets about the unrest and the National Guard. She had watched the governor make a fool of himself. The story, though, was gathering momentum. When she saw the face of Travis Boyette, she said out loud, "There he is."
Her husband was at death row consoling the man convicted of the killing, and she was watching the one who had actually committed the crime.
------
Joey Gamble was in a bar, the first one he'd seen when he left the office of Agnes Tanner. He was drunk but still aware of what was happening. There were two televisions hanging from the ceiling at opposite ends of the bar, one was on SportsCenter, the other on CNN. When Joey saw the story from Slone, he walked closer to the television. He listened to Boyette as he talked about killing Nicole. "You son of a bitch," Joey mumbled, and the bartender gave him a quizzical look.
But then he felt good about himself. He had finally told the truth, and now the real killer had come forward. Donte would be spared. He ordered another beer.
------
Judge Elias Henry was sitting with his wife in the den of their home, not far from Civitan Park. The doors were locked; his hunting rifles were loaded and ready. A police car drove by every ten minutes. A helicopter watched from above. The air was thick with the smell of smoke--smoke from the fireworks party at the park, and smoke from the destroyed buildings. The mob could be heard. Its nonstop drumming and booming rap and screeching chants had only intensified throughout the afternoon. Judge and Mrs. Henry had discussed leaving for the night. They had a son in Tyler, an hour away, and he had encouraged them to flee, if only for a few hours. But they decided to stay, primarily because the neighbors were staying and there was strength in numbers. The judge had chatted with the chief of police, who somewhat nervously assu
red him that things were under control.
The television was on, another breaking story from Slone. The judge grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, then there was the man he'd seen in the video, not three hours earlier. Travis Boyette was talking, giving details, staring at a bunch of microphones.
"Did you know the girl?" a reporter asked.
"I'd never met her, but I had followed her. I knew who she was, knew she was a cheerleader. I picked her out."
"How did you abduct her?"
"I found her car, parked next to it, waited until she came out of the mall. I used a gun, she didn't argue. I've done this before."
"Have you been convicted in Texas before?"
"No. Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas. You can check the records. I'm telling the truth here, and the truth is that I did