by John Grisham
The tic, the pause. Robbie leaned forward and glared at him. "Time's up, Mr. Boyette. I want to hear it. Tell me the truth. Did you kill the girl?"
"Yes, just like I've told Keith here. I grabbed her, raped her for two days, then choked her and hid the body."
"Where is the body? Finding the body will stop the execution, I guarantee it. Where is it?"
"In the hills south of Joplin, Missouri. Deep in the hills."
"Joplin, Missouri, is at least five hours from here."
"More than that. Nicole and I drove there."
"So she was alive when you left Texas."
The tic, the pause, finally, "Yes. I killed her in Missouri. Raped her from here to there."
"Is it possible to call the authorities in Joplin and tell them how to find the body?"
Boyette managed to laugh at such foolishness. "You think I'm stupid? Why would I bury her where someone could find her? I'm not even sure I can find her after all these years."
Robbie anticipated this and didn't miss a beat. "Then we need to take your statement, by video, and quickly."
"Okay. I'm ready."
They walked to the conference room, where Carlos was waiting with a camera and a court reporter. Boyette was directed to a chair facing the camera. The court reporter sat to his right, Robbie to his left. Carlos worked the camera. The other members of the firm suddenly materialized--Robbie wanted them as witnesses--and they stood with Keith ten feet away. Boyette looked at them and was suddenly nervous. He felt like a man facing his own, well-attended execution. The court reporter asked him to raise his right hand and swear to tell the truth. He did, and then Robbie began the questioning. Name, place of birth, address, employment, current status as a parolee, and criminal record. He asked if Boyette was giving his statement voluntarily. Nothing had been promised. Was he living in Slone in December 1998? Why? How long?
Robbie's questions were gentle but efficient. Boyette looked squarely at the camera, no flinching or blinking, and seemed to warm to the task. Oddly, the tic went away.
Tell us about Nicole.
Boyette thought for a second and then launched into his narrative. The football games, the fascination with Nicole, the obsession, the stalking, and finally the abduction outside the mall, not a single witness anywhere. On the floor of his truck, he put a gun to her head and threatened to kill her if she made a sound, then he bound her wrists and ankles with duct tape. He taped her mouth. He drove somewhere into the country, he was not sure where, and after he raped her the first time, he almost dumped her in a ditch, injured but not dead, but wanted to rape her again. They left Slone. The cell phone in her handbag kept ringing and ringing so he finally stopped at a bridge over the Red River. He took her cash, credit card, and driver's license, then threw the handbag off the bridge. They drifted through southeastern Oklahoma. Just before sunrise, near Fort Smith, he saw a cheap motel he'd stayed in before, alone. He paid cash for a room and, with a gun to her head, got her inside without being seen. He taped her wrists, ankles, and mouth again and told her to go to sleep. He slept a few hours, not sure if she did. They spent a long day at the motel. He convinced her that if she would cooperate, give him what he wanted, then he would release her. But he already knew the truth. After dark, they moved on, headed north. At daybreak on Sunday, they were south of Joplin, in a heavily wooded, remote area. She begged him, but he killed her anyway. It wasn't easy, she fought hard, scratched him, drew blood. He stuffed her body in a large toolbox and buried it. No one would ever find her. He drove back to Slone and got drunk.
Robbie was taking notes. The court reporter pressed the keys of her stenotype machine. No one else moved. No one seemed to breathe.
Boyette went silent, his story complete. His detached narration and his command of details were chilling. Martha Handler would later write: "Watching Boyette's eyes and face as he talked about his crimes left no doubt that we were in the presence of a ruthless killer. The story that we will never know, and perhaps prefer not to know, is the suffering this poor girl endured throughout the ordeal."
Robbie, calm but also anxious to finish the testimony, pressed on: "Approximately what time on Sunday did you kill her?"
"The sun was barely up. I waited until I could see things, see where I was, and find the best place to hide her."
"And this was Sunday, December 6, 1998?"
"If you say so. Yes."
"So sunrise would be around 6:30 a.m.?"
"That sounds about right."
"And you returned to Slone and went where?"
"I went to my room at the Rebel Motor Inn, after I'd bought a case of beer with the cash I took from Nicole."
"You got drunk at the Rebel Motor Inn?"
"Yes."
"How long did you live in Slone after the murder?"
"I don't know, maybe a month and a half. I was arrested here in January, you got the records. After I got outta jail, I took off."
"After you killed her, when did you hear that Donte Drumm had been arrested?"
"Don't know exactly. I saw it on television. I saw you yelling at the cameras."
"What did you think when he was arrested?"
Boyette shook his head and said, "I thought, what a bunch of idiots. That kid had nothing to do with it. They got the wrong guy."
It was a perfect place to end. Robbie said, "That's all." Carlos reached for the camera.
Robbie asked the court reporter, "How long before we have a transcript?"
"Ten minutes."
"Good. Hurry." Robbie huddled with the rest of his firm at the conference table and everyone talked at once. Boyette was forgotten for a moment, though Fred Pryor kept an eye on him. Boyette asked for water, and Pryor handed him a bottle. Keith stepped outside to call Dana and Matthew Burns and to get some fresh air. But the air wasn't refreshing; it was heavy with smoke and tension.
There was a loud thud, followed by a shriek, as Boyette fell out of his chair and hit the floor. He grabbed his head, pulled his knees to his chest, and began shaking as the seizure consumed him. Fred Pryor and Aaron Rey knelt over him, uncertain what to do. Robbie and the others crowded around, staring in horror at a fit so violent that the ancient wooden floor seemed to shake. They actually felt sorry for the man. Keith heard the commotion and joined the crowd.
"He needs a doctor," Sammie Thomas said.
"He has meds, doesn't he, Keith?" Robbie asked in a hushed tone.
"Yes."
"Have you seen this before?"
Boyette was still thrashing about, groaning pitifully. Surely the man was dying. Fred Pryor was patting him softly on the arm.
"Yes," Keith said. "About four hours ago, somewhere in Oklahoma. He vomited forever and then passed out."
"Should we take him to the hospital? I mean, look, Keith, could he be dying right now?"
"I don't know, I'm not a doctor. What else do you need from him?"
"We must have his signature on his affidavit, signed under oath." Robbie stepped back and motioned for Keith to join him. They spoke softly. Robbie continued, "And then there's the matter of finding the body. Even with his affidavit, there's no guarantee the court will stop the execution. The governor will not. Either way, we have to find the body, and soon."
Keith said, "Let's put him on the sofa in your office, turn off the lights. I'll give him a pill. Maybe he's not dying."
"Good idea."
It was 1:20 p.m.
CHAPTER 22
Donte's first helicopter ride was intended to be his last. Courtesy of the Texas Department of Public Safety, he was moving through the air at ninety miles per hour, three thousand feet above the rolling hills, and he could see nothing below. He was wedged between two guards, thick young men scowling out the windows as if Operation Detour might have a surface-to-air missile or two in its arsenal. Up front were the two pilots, grim-faced boys thrilled with the excitement of their mission. The rocky, noisy ride made Donte nauseous, so he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against hard pl
astic, and tried to think of something pleasant. He could not.
He practiced his last statement, mouthing the words, though with the racket in the helicopter he could have barked them out and no one would have noticed. He thought of other inmates--some friends, some enemies, almost all guilty, but a few who claimed innocence--and how they faced their deaths.
The ride lasted twenty minutes, and when the helicopter landed at the old rodeo grounds inside Huntsville prison, a small army awaited the prisoner. Donte, laden with chains and shackles, was practically carried by his guards to a van. Minutes later, the van pulled into an alley lined with chain-link fencing covered by a thick windscreen and topped with glistening razor wire. Donte was escorted from the van, through a gate, along a short sidewalk to a small, flat, redbrick building where Texas does its killing.
Inside, he squinted and tried to focus on his new surroundings. There were eight cells to his right, each emptying onto a short hallway. On a table, there were several Bibles, including one in Spanish. A dozen guards milled about, some chatting about the weather as if the weather were important at that moment. Donte was positioned in front of a camera and photographed. The handcuffs were removed, and a technician informed him they would now fingerprint him.
"Why?" Donte asked.
"Routine," came the response. He took a finger and rolled it on the ink pad.
"I don't understand why you need to fingerprint a man before you kill him."
The technician did not respond.
"I get it," Donte said. "You wanna make sure you got the right man, right?"
The technician rolled another finger.
"Well, you got the wrong man this time; I can assure you of that."
When the fingerprinting was over, he was led to the holding cell, one of the eight. The other seven were not used. Donte sat on the edge of the bunk. He noticed how shiny the floors were, how clean the sheets were, how pleasant the temperature. On the other side of the bars, in the hallway, were several prison officials. One stepped to the bars and said, "Donte, I'm Ben Jeter, the warden here at Huntsville."
Donte nodded but did not stand. He stared at the floor.
"Our chaplain is Tommy Powell. He's here and he'll stay here all afternoon."
Without looking up, Donte said, "Don't need a chaplain."
"It's your call. Now listen to me because I want to tell you how things happen around here."
"I think I know what happens."
"Well, I'll tell you anyway."
------
After a round of speeches, each more strident than the one before, the rally lost some steam. A large mob of blacks packed around the front of the courthouse, and even spilled onto Main Street, which had been closed. When no one else took up the bullhorn, the drum corps came to life, and the crowd followed the music down Main Street, heading west, chanting, waving banners, singing "We Shall Overcome." Trey Glover assumed his role as parade master and maneuvered his SUV in front of the drummers. The rap blasted the downtown shops and cafes where the owners, clerks, and customers stood in the windows and doors. Why were the blacks so upset? The boy confessed. He killed Nicole; he said he did it. An eye for an eye.
There was no trouble, but the town seemed ready to erupt.
When Trey and the drummers came to Sisk Avenue, they turned right, not left. A left turn would have routed the march to the south, the general direction of where it started. A turn to the right meant they were headed into the white section. Still, no one had thrown anything. No threats had been made. A few police cars followed well behind, while others shadowed the march from parallel streets. Two blocks north of Main and they were in the older residential section. The noise brought people to their porches, and what they saw sent them back inside, to their gun cabinets. They also went to their phones to call the mayor and the police chief. Surely, this was disturbing the peace. What are these folks so upset about? The boy confessed. Do something.
Civitan Park was a complex of youth baseball and softball fields on Sisk, five blocks north of Main, and Trey Glover decided they had walked far enough. The drums were put aside, and the march came to an end. It was now a gathering, a volatile mix of youth, anger, and a sense of having nothing better to do for the afternoon and evening. A police captain estimated the crowd at twelve hundred, almost all under the age of thirty. Most of the older blacks had fallen aside and returned home. Cell phones confirmed details, and cars full of more young blacks headed for Civitan Park.
Across town, another crowd of angry blacks watched as the fire crews saved what was left of the Mount Sinai Church of God in Christ. Because of the quick 911 call, and the quick response, the damage was not as extensive as that inflicted on the First Baptist Church, but the sanctuary was fairly gutted. The flames had been extinguished, but the smoke still poured from the windows. With no wind, it too lingered over the town and added another layer of tension.
------
Reeva's departure for Huntsville was properly recorded. She invited some family and friends over for another gut-wrenching performance, and everybody had a good cry for the cameras. Sean Fordyce was on a jet at that moment, zipping in from Florida, and they would hook up in Huntsville for the pre-execution interview.
With Wallis, her other two children, and Brother Ronnie, there were five in her party, and for a three-hour drive that might be uncomfortable. So Reeva had prevailed upon her pastor to borrow one of the church vans, and even suggested that he do the driving. Brother Ronnie was exhausted, and emotionally spent as well, but he was in no position to argue with Reeva, not at that moment, not on "the most important day of her life." They loaded up and pulled away, Brother Ronnie behind the wheel of a ten-passenger van with "First Baptist Church of Slone, Texas" painted boldly on both sides. Everyone waved at the friends and well-wishers. Everyone waved at the camera.
Reeva was crying before they reached the outskirts of town.
------
After fifteen minutes in the quiet darkness of Robbie's office, Boyette rallied. He stayed on the sofa, his mind numb from pain, his feet and hands still wobbly. When Keith peeked through the door, Boyette said, "I'm here, Pastor. Still alive."
Keith walked closer and asked, "How you doing, Travis?"
"Much better, Pastor."
"Can I get something for you?"
"Some coffee. It seems to help ease the pain."
Keith left and closed the door. He found Robbie and reported that Boyette was still alive. At the moment, the court reporter was transcribing Boyette's statement. Sammie Thomas and both paralegals, Carlos and Bonnie, were frantically putting together a filing that was already known as "the Boyette petition."
Judge Elias Henry walked into the office, past the receptionist, and into the conference room. "Over here," Robbie said, and led the judge into a small library. He closed the door, picked up a remote, and said, "You gotta see this."
"What is it?" Judge Henry asked as he fell into a chair.
"Just wait." He pointed the remote at a screen on a wall, and Boyette appeared. "This is the man who killed Nicole Yarber. We just taped this."
The video ran for fourteen minutes. They watched it without a word.
"Where is he?" Judge Henry asked when the screen went dark.
"In my office, on the sofa. He has a malignant brain tumor, or so he says, and he's dying. He walked into the office of a Lutheran minister in Topeka, Kansas, Monday morning and spilled his guts. He played some games, but the minister finally got him in a car. They arrived in Slone a couple of hours ago."
"The minister drove him here?"
"Yep. Hang on." Robbie opened the door and called Keith over. He introduced him to Judge Henry. "This is the man," Robbie said, patting Keith on the back. "Have a seat. Judge Henry is our circuit court judge. If he had presided over the trial of Donte Drumm, we wouldn't be here right now."
"A pleasure to meet you," Keith said.
"Sounds like you're having quite an adventure."
Keith laughed and sai
d, "I don't know where I am or what I'm doing."
"Then you've come to the right law firm," Judge Henry said. They shared a laugh, a quick one, and then all humor vanished.
"What do you think?" Robbie asked Judge Henry.
The judge scratched his cheek, thought hard for a moment, and then said, "The question is, what will the court of appeals think? You can never tell. They hate these last-minute surprise witnesses who pop up and begin changing facts that are ten years old. Plus, a man who's made a career out of aggravated rape is not likely to be taken seriously. I'd give you a slight chance of getting a stay."
"That's a lot more than we had two hours ago," Robbie said.
"When do you file? It's almost two o'clock."
"Within the hour. Here's my question. Do we tell the press about Mr. Boyette? I'm sending the video to the court and to the governor. I can also give it to the local TV station, or I can send it to every station in Texas. Or, better yet, I can arrange a press conference here or at the courthouse and let the world listen as Boyette tells his story."
"To what benefit?"
"Maybe I want the world to know that Texas is about to execute the wrong man. Here's the killer, listen to him."
"But the world cannot stop the execution. Only the courts or the governor can do that. I'd be careful here, Robbie. There's smoke in the air now, and if people see Boyette on television, claiming responsibility, this place could blow up."
"It's blowing up anyway."
"You want a race war?"
"If they kill Donte, yes. I wouldn't mind a race war. A small one."
"Come on, Robbie. You're playing with dynamite here. Think strategically, not emotionally. And keep in mind that this guy could be lying. This would not be the first execution where a fraud claimed responsibility. The press can't resist it. The nut gets on television. Everybody looks stupid."
Robbie was pacing, four steps one way, four steps the other. He was fidgety, frantic, but still thinking clearly. He had great admiration for Judge Henry, and Robbie was smart enough to know he needed advice at that moment.