by John Grisham
"Hello, Warden," Robbie said grimly, grabbing his wallet. "This is Donte's spiritual adviser, the Reverend Keith Schroeder." The warden shook hands cautiously. "Wasn't aware that Drumm had a spiritual adviser."
"Well, he does now."
"Okay. Give me some ID."
They handed Jeter their driver's licenses, and he gave them to a guard behind a counter. "Follow me," he said.
Jeter had been the warden at Walls Unit for eleven years, and every execution belonged to him. It was a duty he assumed but didn't ask for; it was just part of the job. He was noted for his detachment and professionalism. All movements were precise, all details followed without variation. Texas was so efficient in its death work that other states sent over prison officials for consultation. Ben Jeter could show them precisely how it should be done.
He had asked 298 men and 3 women if they had any last words. Fifteen minutes later, he declared them all dead.
"What about the appeals?" he asked, one step ahead of Robbie, two ahead of Keith, who was still in a daze. They were zipping down a hallway, its walls lined with fading black and whites of former wardens and dead governors.
"Doesn't look good," Robbie said. "Couple of balls in the air, but nothing much."
"So you think we'll go at six?"
"I don't know," Robbie said, unwilling to offer much.
"Go at six," Keith said to himself. As if they were catching a flight or waiting for a kickoff.
They stopped at a door and Jeter waved a card. It opened and they stepped outside, walked twenty feet, then entered the death house. Keith's heart was pounding, and he was so dizzy he needed to sit down. Inside, he saw bars, rows of bars in a dimly lit block of cells. There were guards in the way, two men in bad suits, the warden, all looking at the holding cell.
"Donte, your lawyer is here," Jeter announced, as if he were delivering a gift. Donte rose to his feet and smiled. Metal clanged, the door slid open, and Donte took a step. Robbie grabbed him, clutched him, whispered something in his ear. Donte squeezed his lawyer, the first real human contact in almost a decade. Both were crying when they separated.
Next to the holding cell was the visiting cell, a space identical except for a wall of glass behind the bars that allowed privacy as the lawyer met with his client for the last time. The rules allowed one hour of visitation. Most condemned men saved a few minutes for the last prayer with the prison chaplain. The rules stated that the hour of visitation ran from 4:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m., leaving the inmate all alone at the end. Warden Jeter, though a stickler for the rules, knew when to bend them. He also knew that Donte Drumm had been a model prisoner, unlike many, and that meant a lot in his business.
Jeter tapped his watch and said, "It's 4:45, Mr. Flak, you have sixty minutes."
"Thank you."
Donte entered the visiting cell and sat on the edge of the bed. Robbie followed him and sat on a stool. A guard closed the glass door, then rolled the bars in place.
They were alone, knees touching; Robbie put a hand on Donte's shoulder and worked to keep his composure. He had agonized over whether he should bring up Boyette. On the one hand, Donte had probably accepted the inevitable and, with an hour to go, was ready for whatever stood beyond. He certainly seemed to be at peace. Why upset him with a wild new story? On the other hand, Donte might appreciate knowing that the truth would finally be known. His name would be cleared, even though posthumously. The truth, though, was far from certain, and Robbie decided not to mention Boyette.
"Thanks for coming, Robbie," Donte said in a whisper.
"I promised I'd be here until the end. I'm sorry I couldn't stop this, Donte, I'm truly sorry."
"Come on, Robbie, you did the best you could. You're still fighting, aren't you?"
"Oh yes. We have some last-minute appeals still out there, so there's a chance."
"How much of a chance, Robbie?"
"A chance. Joey Gamble has admitted he lied at trial. He got drunk last night in a strip club and admitted everything. We secretly recorded it, and filed a petition this morning. The court turned us down. Then around 3:30 this afternoon, Joey contacted us and said he wants to admit everything."
Donte's only reaction was to slowly shake his head in disbelief.
"We're trying to file another petition, one that includes his sworn affidavit, and it gives us a chance."
They were hunched over, their heads almost touching, speaking in whispers. There was so much to say, and so little. Robbie was bitter at the system, angry to the point of violence, burdened by his lack of success in defending Donte, but most of all he was, at that moment, just sad.
For Donte, the brief stay in the holding cell was confusing. Ahead, not thirty feet away, was a door that led to death, a door he preferred not to open. Behind him was death row and the maddening existence of isolation in a cell he preferred to never see again. He thought he was ready for the door, but he was not. Nor did he wish to ever see Polunsky again.
"Don't beat yourself up, Robbie. I'll be all right."
Keith, with permission, stepped outside and tried to breathe. It had snowed Monday morning in Topeka; now it felt like eighty degrees in Texas. He leaned against a fence and stared at the razor wire above him.
He called Dana and told her where he was, what he was doing, what he was thinking. She seemed as astonished as he was.
------
With the Drumm matter out of the way, Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe left his office and hurried to the Rolling Creek Country Club in west-central Austin. He had a 5:00 p.m. tennis match with a major contributor to his last, and next, campaigns. In traffic, his cell phone rang. The clerk of the court informed him that they had received a call from the Defender Group, and that another petition was in the works.
"What time do you have?" Prudlowe demanded.
"Four forty-nine."
"I get so tired of this crap," Prudlowe said. "We close at five, and everybody knows it."
"Yes, sir," the clerk said. The clerk knew quite well that Justice Prudlowe despised the last-minute Hail Marys thrown by desperate defense lawyers. The cases drag on for years with little activity, then with hours to go, the lawyers suddenly shift into high gear.
"Any idea what they're filing?" Prudlowe asked.
"I think it's the same thing they filed this morning--an eyewitness is recanting. They're having trouble with their computers."
"Gee, that's original. We close at five, and at five I want the door locked, and not a minute after. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
At 4:45, Cicely Avis and two paralegals left the Defender Group offices with the petition and Gamble's affidavit. All twelve copies. As they sped through traffic, Cicely called the clerk's office with the heads-up that they were on the way. The clerk informed her that the office would close at five, the usual time, five days a week.
"But we have a petition that includes a sworn affidavit from the only eyewitness at trial," she insisted.
"I think we've already seen that one," the clerk said.
"You have not! This has a sworn statement."
"I just talked to the chief justice. We close at five."
"But we'll be a few minutes late!"
"We close at five."
------
Travis Boyette was sitting by a window in the conference room, cane across his knees, watching the chaos of frantic people yelling at each other. Fred Pryor was close by, also watching.
Unable to make sense of what was happening, Boyette stood and approached the table. "Can anybody tell me what's going on?" he asked.
"Yep, we're losing," Carlos snapped at him.
"What about my statement? Is anybody listening to me?"
"The answer is no. The court was not impressed."
"They think I'm lying?"
"Yes, Travis, they think you're lying. I'm sorry. We believe you, but we don't have a vote."
"I want to talk to the reporters."
"I think they're busy chasing fires."
&nbs
p; Sammie Thomas looked at her laptop, scribbled down something, and handed it to Boyette. "This is the cell phone number of one of our local TV idiots." She pointed to a table near the television. "That is a telephone. Feel free to do whatever you want, Mr. Boyette." Travis shuffled over to the phone, punched the numbers, and waited. He was being watched by Sammie, Carlos, Bonnie, and Fred Pryor.
He held the receiver and stared at the floor. Then he flinched, and said, "Uh, yes, is this Garrett? Okay, look, my name is Travis Boyette, and I'm down at the law office of Robbie Flak. I was involved in the murder of Nicole Yarber, and I'd like to go on the air and make a confession." Pause. The tic. "I want to confess to the murder of the girl. Donte Drumm had nothing to do with it." Pause. The tic. "Yes, I want to say that on the air, and I have a lot more to say as well." The others could almost hear the frantic thrill in Garrett's voice. What a story!
Boyette said, "Okay," and hung up. He looked around the conference room and said, "They'll be here in ten minutes."
Sammie said, "Fred, why don't you take him out front, somewhere near the landing, and find a good spot."
Boyette said, "I can leave if I want to, right? I don't have to stay here?"
"You're a free man as far as I'm concerned," Sammie said. "Do whatever you want. I really don't care."
Boyette and Pryor left the conference room and waited outside the train station.
Carlos took the call from Cicely Avis. She explained that they arrived at the court at 5:07, the doors were locked, the offices closed. She called the clerk's cell phone. The clerk said he was not there, he was in fact driving home.
Donte's final petition would not be filed.
------
According to club records, Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe and his guest played tennis on court 8 for an hour, beginning at 5:00 p.m.
CHAPTER 25
Paul Koffee's cabin was on a small lake ten miles south of Slone. He'd owned it for years and used it as an escape, a hiding place, a fishing hole. He'd also used it as a love nest during his romp with Judge Vivian Grale, an unfortunate episode that led to an ugly divorce that almost led to the loss of the cabin. His ex-wife 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."
"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."