by John Grisham
"Who's available?"
"The unit in Tyler is getting ready and can be deployed within an hour. Six hundred guardsmen. That should be enough."
"Do it and issue a press release."
Barry darted from the office. Wayne took another sip and with hesitation said, "Gill, should we at least have the conversation about a thirty-day stay? Let things cool off a bit."
"Hell no. We can't back down just because the blacks are upset. If we show weakness now, then they'll get louder next time. If we wait thirty days, then they'll just start this crap again. I'm not blinking. You know me better than that."
"Okay, okay. Just wanted to mention it."
"Don't mention it again."
"You got it."
"Here he is," the governor said and took a step closer to the television.
The crowd roared as the Reverend Jeremiah Mays took the podium. Mays was currently the loudest black radical roaming the country and was quite adept at somehow wedging himself into every conflict or episode where race was an issue. He raised his hands, called for quiet, and launched into a flowery prayer in which he beseeched the Almighty to look down upon the poor misguided souls running the State of Texas, to open their eyes, to grant them wisdom, to touch their hearts so that this grave injustice could be stopped. He asked for the hand of God, for a miracle, for the rescue of their brother Donte Drumm.
When Barry returned, he refilled the shot glasses, his hands visibly shaking. The governor said, "Enough of this nonsense," and hit the mute button. "Gentlemen," he said, "I want to watch it one more time." They had watched "it" together several times, and with each viewing all lingering doubts were erased. They walked to the other side of the office, to another television, and Barry picked up the remote.
Donte Drumm, December 23, 1998. He was facing the camera, a can of Coke and an uneaten doughnut on the table in front of him. No one else could be seen. He was subdued, tired, and frightened. He spoke slowly, in a monotone, his eyes never looking directly into the camera.
Off camera, Detective Drew Kerber said, "You've been read your Miranda rights, correct?"
"Yes."
"And you're giving this statement of your own free will, no threats, no promises of any kind, right?"
"That's right."
"Okay, tell us what happened on Friday night, December 4, nineteen days ago."
Donte leaned forward on his elbows and looked as though he might pass out. He picked a spot on the table, stared at it, spoke to it. "Well, me and Nicole had been sneaking around, having sex, having a good time."
"How long had this been going on?"
"Three or four months. I liked her, she liked me, things were getting serious, and she got scared because she was afraid people would find out. We started to fight some, she wanted to break it off, I didn't want to. I think I was in love with her. Then she wouldn't see me anymore, and this drove me crazy. All I could think about was her, she was so fine. I wanted her more than anything in the world. I was obsessed. I was crazy, couldn't stand to think that somebody else might have her. So that Friday night, I went looking for her. I knew where she liked to hang out. I saw her car at the mall, over on the east side of the mall."
"Excuse me, Donte, but I believe you said earlier that her car was parked on the west side of the mall."
"That's right, the west side. So I waited and waited."
"And you were driving a green Ford van, owned by your parents?"
"That's right. And I guess it was around ten o'clock Friday night, and--"
Kerber said, "Excuse me, Donte, but you said earlier that it was closer to eleven."
"That's right, eleven."
"Go ahead, you were in the green van, looking for Nicole, and you saw her car."
"That's right, I was really wanting to see her, and so we were driving around, looking for her car, and--"
"Excuse me, Donte, but you said 'we' were driving around, you said earlier--"
"Yeah, me and Torrey Pickett were--"
"But you said earlier that you were alone, that you had dropped Torrey off at his mother's house."
"That's right, sorry about that. At his mother's house, right. And so I was by myself at the mall and I saw her car and I parked and waited. When she came out, she was alone. We talked for a minute, and she agreed to get in the van. We used the van a few times on dates, when we were sneaking around. And so I drove and we talked. We both got upset. She was determined to break up, and I was determined to stay together. We talked about running away together, to get out of Texas, go to California, where nobody would bother us, you know. But she wouldn't listen to me. She started crying, and that made me start crying. We parked behind Shiloh Church, out on Travis Road, one of our places, and I said I wanted to have sex one last time. At first, she seemed okay with it, and we started making out. Then she pulled away, said stop it, said no, said she wanted to get back because her friends would be looking for her, but I couldn't stop. She started pushing me away, and I got mad, real mad, just all of a sudden I hated her because she was pushing me away, because I couldn't have her. If I was white, then I could have her, but because I'm not, then I'm not good enough, you know. We started fighting, and at some point she realized that I was not going to stop. She didn't resist, but she didn't give in either. When it was over, she got mad, real mad. She slapped me and said I'd raped her. And then, something just happened, I snapped or something, I don't know, but I just went crazy. She was still under me, and I, uh, well ... I hit her, and I hit her again, and I couldn't believe I was hitting that beautiful face, but if I couldn't have her, then nobody else could either. I just went into a rage, like some kinda wild man, and before I realized what I was doing, my hands were around her neck. I just shook her and shook her, and then she was still. Everything was very still. When I came to my senses, I just looked at her, and at some point I realized she wasn't breathing. [Donte took the first sip and only sip from the Coke can.] I started driving around; I had no idea where to go. I kept waiting for her to wake up, but she didn't. I'd call back there, but she wouldn't answer. I guess I panicked. I didn't know what time it was. I drove north, and when I realized the sun was coming up, I panicked again. I saw a sign for the Red River. I was on Route 344, and--"
"Excuse me, Donte, but you said earlier it was Route 244."
"That's right: 244. I drove onto the bridge, it was still dark, no other car lights anywhere, not a sound, and I got her out of the back of the van and tossed her into the river. When I heard her splash, it made me sick. I remember crying all the way back home."
The governor stepped forward and punched the off button. "Boys, that's all I need to see. Let's go." All three straightened their ties, buttoned their cuffs, put on their jackets, and walked out of the office. In the hallway, they were met with a security detail, one beefed up for the occasion. They took the stairs down to the street level and walked quickly to the Capitol. They waited, unseen by the crowd, until the Reverend Jeremiah Mays finished his incendiary remarks. The crowd roared when he signed off, vowing revenge. When their governor suddenly appeared at the podium, the mood changed remarkably. For a moment, those present were confused, but when they heard the words "I'm Gill Newton, governor of the great state of Texas," they drowned him out in an avalanche of boos.
He yelled back, "Thank you for coming here and expressing your First Amendment right to assemble. God bless America." Even louder boos. "Our country is great because we love democracy, the greatest system in the world." Loud boos for democracy. "You've assembled here today because you believe Donte Drumm is innocent. Well, I'm here to tell you he is not. He was convicted in a fair trial. He had a good lawyer. He confessed to the crime." The boos and whistles and angry shouts were now continuous, and Newton was forced to yell into the microphone. "His case has been reviewed by dozens of judges, sitting on five different courts, state and federal, and every ruling against him has been unanimous."
When the roar became too loud to continue, Newton stood and smirked at the crowd, a man wit
h power facing those with none. He nodded, acknowledging their hatred of him. When the noise subsided slightly, he leaned closer to the microphone and, with as much drama as he could muster and knowing full well that what he was about to say would play on every evening and late newscast in Texas, said, "I refuse to grant a reprieve to Donte Drumm. He is a monster. He is a guilty man!"
The crowd roared again and pressed forward. The governor waved and saluted for the cameras and stepped away. He was swarmed by his security team and whisked away to safety. Barry and Wayne followed, neither able to suppress a smile. Their man had just pulled off another beautiful stunt, one that would no doubt win every election from then on.
CHAPTER 24
The last meal, the last walk, the last statement. Donte had never understood the significance of these final details. Why the fascination with what a man consumed just before he died? It wasn't as though the food gave comfort, or strengthened the body, or postponed the inevitable. The food, along with the organs, would soon be flushed out and incinerated. What good did it do? After feeding a man gruel for decades, why pamper him with something he might enjoy just before you kill him?
He could vaguely recall the early days on death row and his horror of what he was supposed to eat. He'd been raised by a woman who appreciated and enjoyed the kitchen, and though Roberta relied too heavily on grease and flour, she also grew her own vegetables and was careful with processed ingredients. She loved to use herbs, spices, and peppers, and her chickens and meats were highly seasoned. The first meat Donte was served on death row was allegedly a slice of pork, and completely devoid of taste. He lost his appetite the first week and never regained it.
Now, at the end, he was expected to order a feast and be thankful for this one last favor. As silly as it was, virtually all condemned men gave thought to the final meal. They had so little else to think about. Donte had decided days earlier that he wanted to be served nothing that even remotely resembled dishes his mother once prepared. So he ordered a pepperoni pizza and a glass of root beer. It arrived at 4:00 p.m., rolled into the holding cell on a small tray by two guards. Donte said nothing as they left. He'd been napping off and on throughout the afternoon, waiting on his pizza, waiting on his lawyer. Waiting on a miracle, though by 4:00 p.m. he'd given up.
In the hallway, just beyond the bars, his audience watched without a word. A guard, a prison official, and the chaplain who'd tried twice to talk to him. Twice Donte had rejected the offers of spiritual counseling. He wasn't sure why they watched him so closely, but presumed it was to prevent a suicide. How he might go about killing himself wasn't clear, not in this holding cell. If Donte could have committed suicide, he would have done so months earlier. And now he wished he had. He would already be gone, and his mother could not watch him die.
For a palate neutralized by tasteless white bread, bland applesauce, and an endless stream of "mystery meats," the pizza was surprisingly delicious. He ate it slowly.
Ben Jeter stepped to the bars and asked, "How's the pizza, Donte?"
Donte did not look at the warden. "It's fine," he said softly.
"Need anything?"
He shook his head no. I need a lot of things, pal, not a damned one of which you can provide. And if you could, you wouldn't. Just leave me alone.
"I think your lawyer's on the way."
Donte nodded and picked up another slice.
------
At 4:21, the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in New Orleans denied relief under Donte's claim of mental illness. The Flak Law Firm immediately filed in the U.S. Supreme Court a petition for a writ of certiorari, or cert, as it's known; a request that the Court hear the appeal and consider the merits of the petition. If cert was granted, the execution would be stopped, and time would pass while the dust settled and briefs were filed. If cert was denied, the claim would be dead, and so would the claimant, in all likelihood. There was no other place to appeal.
At the Supreme Court Building in Washington, the "death clerk" received the cert petition electronically and distributed it to the offices of the nine justices.
There was no word on the Boyette petition pending before the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals.
When the King Air landed in Huntsville, Robbie called the office and was informed of the adverse ruling in the Fifth Circuit. Joey Gamble had not yet found his way to the law office of Agnes Tanner in Houston. The governor had denied a reprieve, in spectacular fashion. There were currently no new fires in Slone, but the National Guard was on the way. A depressing phone call, but then Robbie had expected little else.
He, Aaron, Martha, and Keith jumped into a minivan driven by an investigator Robbie had used before, and they raced off. The prison was fifteen minutes away. Keith called Dana and tried to explain what was happening in his life, but the explanation got complicated, and others were listening. She was beyond bewildered and certain that he was doing something stupid. He promised to call back in a few moments. Aaron called the office and talked to Fred Pryor. Boyette was up and moving about, but slowly. He was complaining because he had not talked to any reporters. He expected to tell his side of the story to everyone, and it seemed as if no one wanted to hear him. Robbie was frantically trying to reach Joey Gamble, with no luck. Martha Handler took her usual pages of notes.
------
At 4:30, Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe convened the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, by teleconference, to consider the Boyette petition in the case of Donte Drumm. The court had not been impressed with Boyette. The general feeling was that he was a publicity seeker with serious credibility issues. After a brief discussion, he called the roll. The vote was unanimous; not a single judge voted to grant relief to Donte Drumm. The clerk of the court e-mailed the decision to the attorney general's office, the lawyers fighting Donte's appeals; to Wayne Wallcott, the governor's lawyer; and to the law office of Robbie Flak.
The van was almost at the prison when Robbie got the call from Carlos. Though he'd been reminding himself throughout the afternoon that relief was unlikely, he still took it hard. "Sons of bitches!" he snapped. "Didn't believe Boyette. Denied, denied, denied, all nine of them. Sons of bitches."
"What happens next?" Keith asked.
"We run to the U.S. Supreme Court. Let 'em see Boyette. Pray for a miracle. We're running out of options."
"Did they give a reason?" Martha asked.
"Nope, they don't have to. The problem is that we want desperately to believe Boyette, and they, the chosen nine, have no interest in believing him. Believing Boyette would upset the system. Excuse me. I gotta call Agnes Tanner. Gamble's probably in a strip club getting plastered while a lap dancer works him over."
------
There were no strippers, no stops or detours, just a couple of wrong turns. Joey walked into the law office of Agnes Tanner at 4:40, and she was waiting at the door. Ms. Tanner was a hard-nosed divorce lawyer who, when bored, occasionally volunteered for a capital murder defense. She knew Robbie well, though they had not spoken in over a year.
She was holding the affidavit and, after a tense "Nice to meet you," led Joey to a small meeting room. She wanted to ask him where he had been, why it took so long, whether he was drunk, if he realized they were out of time, and why he lied nine years ago and had sat on his fat ass ever since. She wanted to grill him for an hour, but there was no time; plus, he was moody and unpredictable, according to Robbie.
"You can read this, or I'll tell you what it says," she said, waving the affidavit.
Joey sat in a chair, buried his face in his hands, and said, "Just tell me."
"It gives your name, address, all that crap. It says you testified at the trial of Donte Drumm on such and such date in October 1999; that you gave crucial testimony on behalf of the prosecution, and in your testimony you told the jury that on the night of Nicole's disappearance, at about the same time, you saw a green Ford van driving suspiciously through the parking lot where her car was parked, and that the driver appeared to be a black male,
and that the van was very similar to the one owned by Donte Drumm. There are a lot more details, but we don't have time for details. Are you with me, Joey?"
"Yes." His eyes were covered, and he appeared to be crying.
"You now recant that testimony and swear that it was not true. You're saying that you lied at trial. Got that, Joey?"
He nodded his head in the affirmative.
"And it goes on to say that you made the anonymous phone call to Detective Drew Kerber in which you informed him that Donte Drumm was the killer. Again, lots of details, but I'll spare you. I think you understand all this, Joey, don't you?"
He uncovered his face, wiped tears, and said, "I've lived with this for a long time."
"Then fix it, Joey." She slapped the affidavit on the table and thrust a pen at him. "Page five, bottom right. Quickly."
He signed the affidavit, and after it was notarized, it was scanned and e-mailed to the Defender Group office in Austin. Agnes Tanner waited for a confirmation, but it bounced back. She called a lawyer at the Defender Group--it had not been received. There had been some problems with their Internet server. Agnes sent it again, and again it was not received. She barked at a clerk who began faxing the five pages.
Joey, suddenly neglected, left the office without being noticed. He at least expected someone to say thanks.
------
The prison in Huntsville is called the Walls Unit. It's the oldest prison in Texas, built the old way with tall, thick brick walls, thus the name. Its storied history includes the incarcerations of once-famous outlaws and gunslingers. Its death chamber has been used to execute more men and women than any other state. The Walls Unit is proud of its history. A block of the oldest cells has been preserved and presents a step back in time. Tours can be arranged.
Robbie had been there twice before, always hurried and burdened and disinterested in the history of the Walls Unit. When he and Keith walked in the front door, they were met by Ben Jeter, who managed a smile. "Hello, Mr. Flak," he said.