by John Grisham
execution of an innocent man, the world will finally know that Donte's confession was bogus, and I'll explain the brutal methods used by Detective Kerber to obtain it. I plan to go into great detail describing the lies used at trial--Joey Gamble's and the jailhouse snitch Kerber and Koffee rounded up and cut a deal with--and I'll describe all the dirty tactics used at trial. I'll probably have the opportunity to remind everyone that Mr. Koffee was sleeping with the judge during the trial, just in case anyone has forgotten. I wish the bloodhound were still alive--what was his name?"
"Yogi," Carlos said.
"How could I forget? I wish ol' Yogi were still alive so I could show him to the world and call him a stupid son of a bitch again. I figure it might be a long press conference. You boys are invited. Questions? Comments?"
Paul Koffee's mouth opened slightly as if words were being formed, but words failed him. Robbie was far from finished. "And just so you boys will know what's coming in the next few days, I'll file at least two lawsuits Monday morning, one here in state court, naming you as defendants, along with the city, county, and half the state. Another one will be filed in federal court, a civil-rights action with a long list of allegations. You will be named in that one also. I might file another one or two, if I can find a cause of action. I plan to contact the Justice Department and request an investigation. For you, Koffee, I plan to file a complaint with the state bar association for ethics violations, not that I expect the state bar to show much of an interest, but you will get chewed up in the process. You might want to start thinking about a resignation. For you, Kerber, early retirement is now a real option. You should be fired, but I doubt the mayor and the city council have the balls to do that. Chief, you were the assistant chief when this investigation got off track. You will be named as a defendant, too. But don't take it personally. I'm suing everybody."
The chief slowly stood up and walked toward the door. "You're leaving, Mr. Radford?" the judge asked, in a tone that left no doubt such an abrupt exit would be frowned upon.
"My job does not require me to sit and listen to pompous assholes like Robbie Flak," the chief replied.
"The meeting is not over," Judge Henry said sternly.
"I'd stay if I were you," the mayor said, and the chief decided to stay. He assumed a position by the door.
Robbie stared at Kerber and Koffee, then said, "So last night you had a little party by the lake to celebrate; now I guess the party is over."
"We always thought Drumm had an accomplice," Koffee managed to blurt out, though his words trailed off under the weight of their own absurdity. Kerber nodded quickly, ready to pounce on any new theory that might save them.
"Good God, Paul," Judge Henry roared in disbelief. Robbie was laughing. The mayor's jaw had dropped in shock.
"Great!" Robbie yelled. "Wonderful, brilliant. Suddenly a new theory, one that has never been mentioned before. One with absolutely no relation to the truth. Let the lying begin! We have a Web site, Koffee, and my sidekick Carlos here is going to keep a tally of the lies. Lies from the two of you, from the governor, the courts, maybe even dear Judge Vivian Grale, if we can find her. You have lied for nine years in order to kill an innocent man, and now that we know the truth, now that your lies will be exposed, you insist on doing precisely what you have always done. Lie! You make me want to puke, Koffee."
"Judge, can we leave now?" Koffee asked.
"Just a moment."
A cell phone rang and Carlos grabbed it. "It's the crime lab, Robbie." Robbie reached over, took the phone. The conversation was brief, and there were no surprises. When it ended, Robbie said, "Positive ID, it's Nicole."
The room was quiet as they thought about the girl. Judge Henry eventually said, "I am concerned about her family, gentlemen. How do we break the news?"
Drew Kerber was perspiring and appeared to be on the brink of an attack of some variety. He was not thinking about Nicole's family. He had a wife, a houseful of kids, lots of debts, and a reputation. Paul Koffee could not even begin to imagine a conversation with Reeva about this little twist to their story. No, he would not do it. He would rather run like a coward than deal with that woman. Admitting they had prosecuted and executed the wrong man was, at that moment, far beyond the limits of his imagination.
There were no volunteers. Robbie said, "Obviously, Judge, I'm not the guy. I have my own little trip to make, over to the Drumm home to deliver the news."
"Mr. Kerber?" the judge asked.
He shook his head no.
"Mr. Koffee?"
He shook his head no.
"Very well. I will call her mother myself and break the news."
"How late can you wait, Judge?" the mayor asked. "If this hits the streets tonight, then God help us."
"Who is in the loop, Robbie?" the judge asked.
"My office, the seven of us in this room, the authorities in Missouri. We also took a TV crew with us, but they won't air anything until I say so. It's a small world right now."
"I'll wait two hours," Judge Henry said. "This meeting is adjourned."
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Roberta Drumm was at home with Andrea and a few friends. The kitchen table and counters were covered with food--casseroles, platters of fried chicken, cakes, and pies, enough food to feed a hundred. Robbie had forgotten to eat dinner, so he snacked as he and Martha waited for the friends to leave. Roberta was thoroughly drained. After a day receiving guests at the funeral home, and crying with most of them, she was emotionally and physically spent.
And so Robbie made things much worse by delivering the news. He had no choice. He began with the journey to Missouri and finished with the meeting in Judge Henry's office. He and Martha helped Andrea put Roberta in bed. She was conscious, but barely. Knowing that Donte was about to be exonerated, and before he was buried, was simply too much.
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The sirens were quiet until ten minutes after 11:00 p.m. Three quick 911 calls got them started. The first reported a fire in a shopping center north of town. Evidently, someone tossed a Molotov cocktail through the front window of a clothing store, and a passing motorist saw flames. The second call, anonymous, reported a burning school bus parked behind the junior high. And the third, and most ominous, was from a fire alarm system at a feed store. Its owner was Wallis Pike, Reeva's husband. The police and guardsmen, already on high alert, stepped up their patrols and surveillance, and for the third straight night Slone endured the sirens and the smoke.
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Long after the boys were asleep, Keith and Dana sat in the dark den and sipped wine from coffee cups. As Keith told his story, the details poured out, and he remembered facts and sounds and smells for the first time. The little things surprised him--the sound of Boyette heaving in the grass beside the interstate, the lethargy of the state trooper as he went about the task of writing the speeding ticket, the stacks of paperwork on the long table in Robbie's conference room, the looks of fear on the faces of his staff, the antiseptic smell of the holding room in the death house, the ringing in Keith's ears as he watched Donte die, the lurching of the airplane as they flew over Texas, and on and on. Dana peppered him with questions, random and insightful. She was as intrigued by the adventure as Keith, and at times incredulous.
When the bottle was empty, Keith stretched out on the sofa and fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER 34
With Judge Henry's approval, the press conference was held in the main courtroom of the Chester County Courthouse, on Main Street in downtown Slone. Robbie had planned to hold it in his office, but when it became apparent that a mob would attend, he changed his mind. He wanted to make sure every possible reporter could be accommodated, but he didn't want a bunch of curious strangers poking around his train station.
At 9:15 a.m., Robbie stepped to the podium in front of Judge Henry's bench and surveyed the throng. Cameras clicked and tape recorders were turned on to catch every word. He wore a dark three-piece suit, his finest, and though exhausted, he was also wired
. He wasted little time getting to the point. "Good morning and thanks for coming," he said. "The skeletal remains of Nicole Yarber were found yesterday morning in a remote section of Newton County, Missouri, just south of the city of Joplin. I was there, along with members of my staff, accompanying a man named Travis Boyette. Boyette led us to the site where he buried Nicole almost nine years ago, two days after he abducted her here in Slone. Using dental records, the crime lab in Joplin made a positive identification last night. The crime lab is working around the clock to examine her remains, and their work should be completed in a couple of days." He paused, took a sip of water, and scanned the crowd. Not a sound. "I'm in no hurry, folks. I plan to go into considerable detail, then I will answer all the questions you have." He nodded at Carlos, who was seated nearby with his laptop. On a large screen next to the podium, a photo of the grave site appeared. Robbie began a methodical description of what they had found, illustrated by one photo after another. Pursuant to an agreement with the authorities in Missouri, he did not show the skeletal remains. The site was being treated as a crime scene. He did use the photos of Nicole's driver's license, credit card, and the belt Boyette used to strangle her. He talked about Boyette and gave a brief explanation of his disappearance. There was not yet a warrant for his arrest, so Boyette wasn't a wanted man.
It was obvious that Robbie was relishing the moment. His performance was being broadcast live. His audience was captive, spellbound, and hungry for every detail. He could not be interrupted or challenged on any point. It was his press conference, and he was finally getting the last word. The moment was a lawyer's dream.
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There would be several points during the morning when Robbie belabored a topic, beginning with his heartfelt ramblings about Donte Drumm. The audience, though, refused to be bored. He eventually got around to the crime, and this prompted a photo of Nicole, a very pretty, wholesome high school girl.
Reeva was watching. Phone calls had roused her. They had been up all night dealing with the fire at the feed store, a fire that was contained quickly and could've been much worse. It was certainly arson, a criminal act obviously carried out by black thugs seeking revenge against the family of Nicole Yarber. Wallis was still there, and Reeva was alone.
She cried when she saw her daughter's face, displayed by a man she loathed. She cried and she seethed and she ached. Reeva was confused, tormented, thoroughly bewildered. The phone call last night from Judge Henry had spiked her blood pressure and sent her to the emergency room. Add the fire, and Reeva was practically delirious.
She had asked Judge Henry many questions--Nicole's grave? Skeletal remains? Her clothing and driver's license, belt and credit card, and all the way up in Missouri? She had not been dumped in the Red River near Rush Point? And worst of all--Drumm was not the killer?
"It's true, Mrs. Pike," the judge said patiently. "It's all true. I'm sorry. I know that it is a shock."
A shock? Reeva couldn't believe it and for hours refused to believe it. She'd slept little, ate nothing, and was still grasping for answers when she turned on the television and there was Flak, the peacock, live on CNN talking about her daughter.
There were reporters outside, in the driveway, but the house was locked, the curtains drawn, the blinds down, and one of Wallis's cousins was on the front porch with a 12-gauge shotgun. Reeva was fed up with the media. She had no comment. Sean Fordyce was holed up in a motel south of town fuming because she would not chat with him on camera. He had made a fool of her already. He reminded her of their agreement, of the signed contract, to which she responded, "Just sue me, Fordyce."
Watching Robbie Flak, Reeva, for the first time, allowed herself to think the unthinkable. Was Drumm innocent? Had she spent the last nine years hating the wrong person? Had she watched the wrong man die?
And what about the funeral? Now that her baby had been found, she would need to be properly buried. But the church was gone. Where would they have the funeral? Reeva wiped her face with a wet cloth and mumbled to herself.
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Eventually, Robbie moved on to the confession. Here he picked up steam and was consumed by a controlled rage. It was very effective. The courtroom was silent. Carlos projected a photo of Detective Drew Kerber, and Robbie announced with great drama, "And here is the principal architect of the wrongful conviction."
Drew Kerber was watching, at the office. He had spent a horrible night at home. After leaving Judge Henry's, he had gone for a long drive and tried to imagine a happier ending to this nightmare. None appeared. Around midnight, he sat down with his wife at the kitchen table and bared his soul: the grave, the bones, the ID, the unmentionable idea that "evidently" they had nailed the wrong guy; Flak and his lawsuits and his threats of vigilante-style suing that would follow Kerber to his grave and the high probability of future unemployment, legal bills, and judgments. Kerber unloaded a mountain of grief upon his poor wife, but he did not tell the whole truth. Detective Kerber had never admitted, and he never would, that he had bullied Donte into confessing.
As a chief detective with sixteen years of experience, he earned $56,000 a year. He had three teenagers and a nine-year-old, a mortgage, two car payments, an IRA with around ten grand, and a savings account with $800. If fired, or retired, he might be entitled to a small pension, but he could not survive financially. And his days as a police officer would be over.
"Drew Kerber is a rogue cop with a history of obtaining fake confessions," Robbie said loudly, and Kerber flinched. He was at his desk, in a small locked office, all alone. He had instructed his wife to keep the TVs off in the house, as if they could somehow hide this story from his kids. He cursed Flak, then watched with horror as the slimeball explained to the world exactly how he, Kerber, had obtained the confession.
Kerber's life was over. He might handle the ending by himself.
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Robbie moved on to the trial. He introduced more characters--Paul Koffee and Judge Vivian Grale. Photos, please. On the large screen, Carlos projected them side by side, as if still attached, and Robbie assailed them for their relationship. He mocked the "brilliant decision to move the trial all the way to Paris, Texas, forty-nine miles from here." He drove home the point that he tried valiantly to keep the confession away from the jury, while Koffee fought just as hard to keep it in evidence. Judge Grale sided with the prosecution and "her lover, the Honorable Paul Koffee."
Paul Koffee was watching, and seething. He was at the cabin by the lake, very much alone, watching the local station's "exclusive live coverage" of the Robbie Flak show, when he saw his face next to Vivian's. Flak was railing against the jury, as white as a Klan rally because Paul Koffee had systematically used his jury strikes to eliminate blacks, and, of course, his girlfriend up on the bench went along with it. "Texas-style justice," Robbie lamented, over and over.
He eventually moved away from the more tawdry aspects of the judge-prosecutor relationship and found his rhythm railing against the lack of evidence. Grale's face disappeared from the screen, and Koffee's was enlarged. No physical evidence, no dead body, only a trumped-up confession, a jailhouse snitch, a bloodhound, and a lying witness named Joey Gamble. Meanwhile, Travis Boyette was free, certainly not worried about getting caught, not by these clowns.
Koffee had tried all night to conjure up a revised theory that would somehow link Donte Drumm and Travis Boyette, but fiction failed him. He felt lousy. His head ached from too much vodka, and his heart pounded as he tried to breathe under the crushing weight of a ruined career. He was finished, and that troubled him much more than the notion that he had helped kill an innocent young man.
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When he finished with the jailhouse snitch and the bloodhound, Robbie attacked Joey Gamble and his fraudulent testimony. With perfect timing, Carlos flashed up Gamble's affidavit, the one signed in Houston on Thursday, an hour before the execution. Highlighted were Joey's statements admitting he lied at trial and admitting he was the first to suggest that
Donte Drumm was the killer.
Joey Gamble was watching. He was at his mother's house in Slone. His father was away; his mother needed him. He had told her the truth, and the truth had not been well received. Now he was shocked to see and hear his transgressions broadcast in such a startling way. He had assumed that when he came clean, he would be subjected to some level of embarrassment, but nothing like this.
"Joey Gamble lied repeatedly," Flak announced at full throttle, and Joey almost reached for the remote. "And now he admits it!" Joey's mother was upstairs in her bedroom, too upset to be around him. "You helped kill that boy," she had said more than once, not that Joey needed reminding.
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Robbie continued, "Moving on from the incompetent investigation, the travesty of a trial, and the wrongful conviction, I would like to now discuss the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. This court heard Donte's first appeal in February 2001. The body of Nicole Yarber was still missing. The court noted that there was no physical evidence in the trial. The court seemed slightly bothered by the lies of the jailhouse snitch. It nibbled at the edges of Donte's confession but refused to criticize Judge Grale for allowing the jury to hear it. It commented on the use of the bloodhound testimony, saying perhaps it wasn't the 'best evidence' to use in such a serious trial. But all in all, the court saw nothing wrong. The vote was nine to affirm the conviction, zero to overturn it."
Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe was watching. A frantic call from his law clerk had alerted him to the press conference, and he was with his wife in their small apartment in Austin, glued to CNN. If Texas had indeed executed an innocent man, he knew his court was in for an avalanche of scorching criticism. Mr. Flak seemed prepared to lead the attack.
"Last Thursday," Robbie was saying, "at exactly 3:35 p.m., lawyers for Donte Drumm filed a petition for relief, and we included a video that we had just taken of Travis Boyette confessing to the rape and murder. This was two and a half hours before the execution. I assume the court considered this matter and was not impressed with the video, or the affidavit, because an hour later the court denied relief and refused to stop the execution. Again, the vote was nine to zero." On cue, Carlos flashed up the