by John Grisham
Keith was already in a chair against the wall, drained, fatigued, and wiped out. They looked at him in disbelief. He nodded without a smile.
Robbie took off his jacket and loosened his tie. Bonnie brought a tray of sandwiches and placed it in front of him. Aaron grabbed one, as did Martha. Keith waved them off; he'd lost his appetite. When they were settled in, Robbie began by saying, "He was very brave, but he expected a last-minute miracle. I guess they all do."
Like a third-grade teacher at story time, Robbie led them through the last hour of Donte's life, and when he finished, they were all crying again.
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Rocks began flying, some thrown by teenagers hiding behind groups of other teenagers, and some thrown by persons unseen. They landed on Walter Street, where the police and the guardsmen maintained a casual line of defense. The first injury was to a Slone officer who took a rock in the teeth and went down hard, much to the delight of the crowd. The sight of a cop down inspired more rock throwing, and Civitan Park was finally exploding. A police sergeant made the decision to break up the crowd and with a bullhorn ordered everyone to disperse immediately or face arrest. This provoked an angry response, and the launching of more rocks and debris. The crowd jeered at the police and soldiers, spewing profanities and threats and showing no signs of obeying the order. The police and soldiers, with helmets and shields, formed a wedge, crossed the street, and entered the park. Several students, including Trey Glover, the tailback and initial leader of the protest, walked forward with their hands thrust out, volunteering for arrest. As Trey was being handcuffed, a rock bounced off the helmet of the officer arresting him. The officer yelled and cursed, then forgot about Trey and began chasing the kid who threw the rock. A few of the protesters scattered and ran through the streets, but most fought on, throwing whatever they could find. The dugouts on one of the baseball fields were made of cinder block, perfect for breaking into pieces and hurling at the men and women in uniform. One student wrapped a string of firecrackers around a stick, lit the fuse, and tossed it into the wedge. The explosions caused the cops and soldiers to break ranks and run for cover. The mob roared. From somewhere behind the wedge, a Molotov cocktail dropped from the sky and landed on the roof of an unmarked and unoccupied police car parked at the edge of Walter Street. The flames spread quickly as the gasoline splashed over the vehicle. This created another wave of delirious cheering and yelling from the crowd. A TV van arrived as the action picked up. The reporter, a serious blonde who should've stuck to the weather, scrambled out with a microphone and was met by an angry policeman who demanded that she get back in the van and get the hell out of there. The van, painted white with bold red and yellow lettering, made an easy target, and seconds after it slid to a stop, it was being pelted with rocks and debris. Then a jagged piece of cinder block struck the reporter in the back of the head, opening a wide gash and knocking her unconscious. More cheers, more obscenities. Lots of blood. Her cameraman dragged her to safety as the police called for an ambulance. To add to the fun and frenzy, smoke bombs were tossed at the police and soldiers, and at that point the decision was made to respond with tear gas. The first canisters were fired, and panic swept through the crowd. It began to break up, with people running away, fanning through the neighborhood. On the streets around Civitan Park, men were on their front porches, listening to the chaos not far away, watching for any sign of movement or trouble. With the women and children safe inside, they stood guard with their shotguns and rifles, just waiting for a black face to appear. When Herman Grist of 1485 Benton Street saw three young blacks walking down the middle of the street, he fired two shotgun blasts into the air from his porch and yelled at the kids to get back to their part of town. The kids began running away. The blasts cut through the night, a grave signal that vigilantes had entered the fray. Fortunately, though, Grist did not fire again.
The crowd continued to disperse, a few throwing rocks in retreat. By 9:00 p.m., the park had been secured, and the police and soldiers walked through the debris--empty cans and bottles, fast-food containers, cigarette butts, fireworks wrappers, enough litter for a landfill. The two dugouts were gone, nothing left but metal benches. The concession stand had been broken into, but there was nothing to take. In the wake of the tear gas, several vehicles had been abandoned, including Trey Glover's SUV. Trey and a dozen others were already at the jail. Four had volunteered, the rest had been caught. Several had been taken to the hospital because of the tear gas. Three policemen had been injured, along with the reporter.
The acrid smell of the gas permeated the park. A gray cloud from the smoke bombs hung not far above the ball fields. The place resembled a battlefield without the casualties.
The breakup of the party meant that a thousand or so angry blacks were now moving around Slone with no intention of going home and with no plans to do anything constructive. The use of tear gas infuriated them. They had been raised with the black-and-white videos of the dogs in Selma, the fire hoses in Birmingham, and the tear gas in Watts. That epic struggle was a part of their heritage, their DNA, a glorified chapter in their history, and suddenly here they were, on the streets protesting and fighting and being gassed, just like their ancestors. They had no intention of stopping the fight. If the cops wanted to play dirty, so be it.
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The mayor, Harris Rooney, was monitoring the deteriorating condition of his little city from the police department, which had become the command center. He and the police chief, Joe Radford, had made the decision to scatter the crowd at Civitan Park and break things up, and they both had agreed that tear gas should be used. Reports were now flooding in, by radio and cell phone, that the protesters were roaming in packs, breaking windows, yelling threats at passing motorists, throwing rocks and debris, all manner of hooligan behavior.
At 9:15, he called the Reverend Johnny Canty, pastor of Bethel African Methodist Church. The two had met on Tuesday, when Reverend Canty had pleaded with the mayor to intervene with the governor and support a stay. The mayor had declined. He did not know the governor, had no clout with him whatsoever, and besides, anyone begging for a reprieve was wasting his time with Gill Newton. Canty had warned Mayor Rooney of the potential for unrest if the execution of Donte took place. The mayor had been skeptical.
All skepticism had now been replaced by fear.
Mrs. Canty answered the phone and explained that her husband was not home. He was at the funeral home waiting for the Drumm family to return. She gave the mayor a cell phone number, and Reverend Canty finally answered. "Well, good evening, Mayor," he said softly in his rich preacher's voice. "How are things tonight?"
"Things are pretty exciting right now, Reverend. How are you?"
"I've had better days. We're here at the funeral home, waiting for the family to return with the body, so I'm not doing too well right now. What can I do for you?"
"You were right about the unrest, Reverend. I didn't believe you, and I'm sorry. I should have listened, and I didn't. But things seem to be going from bad to worse. We've had eight fires, I think, a dozen arrests, half a dozen injuries, and there's no reason to believe those numbers will not go up. The crowd at Civitan Park has been dispersed, but the crowd at Washington Park is growing by the minute. I wouldn't be surprised if someone doesn't get killed very soon."
"There's already been a killing, Mayor. I'm waiting on the body."
"I'm sorry."
"What's the purpose of this call, Mayor?"
"You are a well-regarded leader in your community. You are the Drumms' pastor. I ask you to go to Washington Park and appeal for calm. They will listen to you. This violence and unrest serves no purpose."
"I have one question for you, Mayor. Did your police use tear gas on those kids in Civitan Park? I heard that rumor only minutes ago."
"Well, yes. It was considered necessary."
"No, it wasn't necessary, and it was a monumental mistake. By gassing our children, the police made a bad situation worse. Don't expect me to
go rushing in to repair your damage. Good night."
The line was dead.
------
Robbie, with Aaron Rey on one side and Fred Pryor on the other, stood before the mikes and cameras and answered questions. He explained that Travis Boyette was still in the building and did not wish to speak to anyone. One reporter asked if he could go inside and interview Boyette. Only if you want to get arrested and perhaps shot was Robbie's sharp reply. Stay away from the building. They asked about Donte's last meal, visit, statement, and so on. Who were the witnesses? Any contact with the victim's family? Useless questions, in Robbie's opinion, but then the whole world seemed worthless at that point.
After twenty minutes, he thanked them. They thanked him. He asked them to leave and not come back. In the event Boyette changed his mind and wanted to talk, Robbie would give him a phone and a number.
Keith watched the press conference from a dark spot on the platform, outside the office but under its veranda. He was on the phone with Dana, recounting the events of the day, trying to stay awake, when she suddenly said that Robbie Flak was on the screen. She was watching the cable news and there he was, live from Slone, Texas.
"I'm about fifty feet behind him, in the shadows," Keith said, voice lower.
"He looks tired," she said. "Tired and maybe a bit crazy."
"Both. The fatigue comes and goes, but I suspect he's always a little crazy."
"He looks like a wild man."
"Certified, but there's a sweet man under the surface."
"Where's Boyette?"
"He's in a room, inside the building, with a television and some food. He prefers not to come out, and that's a good thing. These people knew Donte and loved him. Boyette has no friends around here."
"A few minutes ago they showed the fires and talked to the mayor. He seemed a bit jumpy. Are you safe, Keith?"
"Sure. I can hear sirens in the distance, but nothing close."
"Please be careful."
"Don't worry. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're a wreck, I can tell. Get some sleep. When are you coming home?"
"I plan to leave here in the morning."
"What about Boyette? Is he coming back?"
"We have not had that conversation."
CHAPTER 29
Slone had three funeral homes, two for the whites (upper and lower) and one for the blacks. Integration had been achieved in some important areas of life--schools, politics, employment, and commercial activity. But in other areas, integration would never occur because neither race really wanted it. Sunday worship was segregated, by choice. A few blacks attended the larger white churches in town, and they were welcome. Even fewer whites could be found in black churches, where they were treated like everyone else. But the vast majority stuck with their own kind, and bigotry had little to do with it. It was more a matter of tradition and preference. The whites preferred an orderly, more subdued ritual on Sunday morning. Opening prayer at 11:00 a.m., followed by some beautiful music, then a nice crisp sermon, out by noon and certainly no later than 12:10 because by then they were starving. In the black churches, time was not as important. The spirit flowed more freely and made for a more spontaneous style of worship. The crack of noon was never heard. Lunch was often on the grounds, whenever, with no one in a hurry to leave.
And dying was so different. There was never a hurry to bury a black person, while the whites usually wanted it done within three days max. The black funeral home was busier, with more visitors, longer wakes, longer good-byes. Lamb & Son had been providing dignified service in its part of town for decades. When its hearse arrived a few minutes after 10:00 p.m., there was a solemn crowd waiting on the lawn in front of the small chapel. The mourners were silent, with heads down, faces somber. They watched as Hubert and Alvin opened the rear door of the hearse, then gave directions to the pallbearers--eight friends of Donte's, most of whom had once played football for the Slone Warriors. They carried the casket a few feet, following Hubert Lamb, then disappeared through a side door. The funeral home was closed and would not open until the following morning when Donte was properly prepared and ready to be viewed.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The air was thick, tense, heavy with smoke and fear. Those who were not making trouble were certainly expecting it.
A car pulled into the parking lot and parked next to the hearse. Roberta Drumm, with Marvin, Cedric, and Andrea, got out and moved slowly to the front entrance, where they greeted their friends. There were hugs and whispers and tears. The family eventually went inside, but the friends did not leave. Another car turned in and parked near the hearse. It was Robbie, with Aaron Rey, and they slipped past the crowd and entered through the side door. In the front parlor, Robbie met the family. They sat together and embraced and cried as if they had not seen each other in months. Only a few hours earlier they had watched Donte die, but that time and place were so distant now.
During the drive back from Huntsville, the Drumm family had listened to the radio and talked on cell phones. They quizzed Robbie about this Boyette character, and Robbie gave all the details he had. They knew things were grim in Slone, and expected to get worse, and Roberta repeatedly said she wanted the violence to stop. It's not within your power, Robbie assured her. It's out of control.
Hubert Lamb entered the parlor and said, "Roberta, Donte is ready."
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She entered the prep room alone, closed the door behind her, and locked it. Her beautiful boy was lying on a narrow table, one covered in white sheets for the moment. He was dressed in the same clothes they had killed him in--cheap white shirt, worn khakis, bargain shoes--courtesy of the State of Texas. She gently placed her hands on his cheeks and kissed him on the face--the forehead, the lips, the nose, the chin--she kissed him and kissed him as her tears dropped like rain. She had not touched him in eight years, the last embrace a quick, stolen hug as they led him out of the courtroom the day they sentenced him to die, and as she wept now, she remembered the unspeakable agony of watching him hauled away, the leg chains rattling, the fat deputies crowding around him as if he just might kill someone else, the hard, smug faces of the prosecutors, the jurors, and the judge, proud of their work.
"I love you, Momma," he called over his shoulder, then they shoved him through a door and he was gone.
His skin wasn't cold, nor was it warm. She touched the small scar under his chin, a small consolation prize from a neighborhood rock fight he'd lost when he was eight years old. Other rock fights followed. He had been a tough kid, made tougher by his older brother Cedric, who teased him constantly. A tough kid, but a sweet boy. She touched the lobe of his right ear, the tiny hole barely visible. He bought an earring when he was fifteen, a small fake diamond, and wore it when he was out with his friends. He hid it from his father, though. Riley would have chastised him.
Her beautiful boy, lying there so peaceful, and so healthy. Dead but not diseased. Dead but not injured. Dead but not maimed. She examined his arms and could find no trace of the needle pricks used for the injections. There was no evidence of the killing, nothing external. He seemed to be resting and waiting for the next drug to be administered, one that would gently wake him and allow him to go home with his mother.
His legs were straight; his arms were by his sides. Hubert Lamb said the stiffening would begin soon, so she had to get busy. From her purse, she removed a tissue to wipe her cheeks and a pair of scissors to cut away the prison garb. She could have unbuttoned the shirt, but instead she cut it down the front, then along the sleeves, removing it piece by piece and dropping the scraps on the floor. Tears still ran down her cheeks, but she was humming now, an old gospel song, "Take My Hand, Precious Lord." She paused to rub his flat stomach and his soft chest and shoulders, and she marveled at how much he'd shrunk in prison. The fierce athlete was gone, replaced by the broken prisoner. He had died slowly in prison.
She unbuckled the cheap canvas belt, and for good measure cut it in half and dropped it on the pile.
Tomorrow, when she was alone, she planned to burn the prison scraps in her backyard, in a private ceremony that only she would attend. She unlaced the dreadful shoes, removed them, and pulled off the white cotton socks. She touched the scars along his left ankle, permanent reminders of the injury that ended his football career. She cut the khakis, carefully up the inseams and delicately through the crotch. Of her three boys, Cedric had been the dresser, the clotheshorse who would work two part-time jobs so he could buy better labels. Donte preferred jeans and pullovers and looked good in anything. Anything but the jumpsuits they wore in prison. She clipped away, dropping the pieces of khaki onto the pile. She paused occasionally to wipe her cheeks with the back of a hand, but she had to hurry. The body was stiffening. She stepped to a sink and turned on the faucet.
The boxer shorts were white and oversized. She snipped away like a seamstress and removed them. The pile was complete. He was naked, leaving the world the same way he had entered it. She poured liquid soap into the sink, splashed the water, adjusted the temperature, then turned off the faucet. She dipped a cloth and began bathing her son. She rubbed his legs, then dried them quickly with a small towel. She washed his genitals, and wondered how many grandchildren he would have fathered. He loved the girls, and they loved him. She gently washed his chest and arms, neck and face, drying him as she went.
When the bath was finished, she moved to the last and most difficult part of her preparation. Before the family left for Huntsville, Cedric stopped by the funeral home with a new suit Roberta had purchased and altered. It was hanging on a wall, along with a new white shirt and a handsome gold tie. She assumed the shirt and coat would be the most difficult, the pants and shoes the easiest to finesse. And she was right. His arms would not bend now, and she carefully threaded the shirt over his right arm, then gently maneuvered Donte onto his left side. She brought the shirt around, laid him back down, wiggled it over his left arm, and quickly buttoned it. She did the same with the coat, a dark gray wool blend, and when she wrapped it around him, she paused for a second to kiss the side of his face. His legs were stiff. She methodically inched upward a pair of black cotton boxers, size large and too big. She should have bought mediums. The pants took a while. She tugged gently from side to side, straining to lift Donte at his midsection for a moment to complete the task. When the pants were in place at the waist, she tucked in the shirttail, zipped the pants, then fished a belt through the loops and buckled it. His feet were stiff, his ankles wouldn't bend, and the socks were more of a challenge than she had expected. The shoes were the black leather lace-ups Donte had worn to church as a teenager.