by John Grisham
"But you had a limp."
"Well, come on, Pastor, if you're using a cane, you need a little limp, don't you think?"
"I wouldn't know, Travis. You got some folks looking for you."
"The story of my life. They'll never find me. Just like they never found Nicole. Have they buried her yet, Pastor?"
"No. Her funeral is Thursday. Donte's is tomorrow."
"I might sneak around and watch Nicole's, whatta you think about that, Pastor?"
Great idea. They would not only catch him but probably beat him. "I think you should, Travis. You're the reason for the funeral. Seems fitting."
"How's that cute little wife of yours, Pastor? Bet you guys are having fun. She's so fine."
"Knock it off, Travis." Keep him on the line. "You thought much about Donte Drumm?"
"Not really. We should've known those people down there wouldn't listen to us."
"They would have, Travis, if you had come forward earlier. If we had found the body first, the execution would not have happened."
"Still blaming me, huh?"
"Who else, Travis? I guess you're still the victim, right?"
"I don't know what I am. Tell you what, though, Pastor. I gotta find a woman, know what I mean?"
"Listen to me, Travis. Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you and bring you back to Topeka. I'll leave right now. We'll do another road trip, just the two of us. I don't care where you are. You'll be locked up here, and then they'll extradite you to Missouri. Do what's right for once, Travis, and nobody else will get hurt. Let's do it, pal."
"I don't like prison, Pastor. I've seen enough to know."
"But you're tired of hurting people, Travis. I know you are. You told me so."
"I guess. I gotta go, Pastor."
"Call me anytime, Travis. I'm not tracing these calls. I just want to talk to you."
The phone line was dead.
An hour later, Detective Lang was at the house, listening to the recording. They had been able to trace the call to the owner of a stolen cell phone in Lincoln, Nebraska.
CHAPTER 40
The memorial service for Donte Drumm was to be held in the sanctuary of the Bethel African Methodist Church, regular capacity of 250. But if folding chairs were wedged into every possible crevice, and the choir loft was packed, and the elders and young men stood two deep along the walls, the capacity might reach 350. When it was announced late Tuesday night that classes would not resume, phone calls were made, plans were changed. The service was moved to the high school gymnasium, capacity of 2,000. The time was set at 1:00 p.m., with Donte's burial to follow immediately thereafter at the Greenwood Cemetery, next to his father.
By noon, there were at least two thousand people inside the gym and more waiting patiently to get in. Donte's casket was placed at one end, under a raised backboard and goal, and it was surrounded by a massive sea of beautiful flower arrangements. On a screen above his casket, his handsome smiling face greeted those who had come to say goodbye. His family sat in the front row, in folding chairs, and as the crowd moved in, they gamely held on, greeting friends, hugging strangers, trying to keep their composure. A choir from his church stood near the flowers, singing and humming soft, comforting spirituals. Miss Daphne Dellmore, a saintly spinster who had once tried quite unsuccessfully to teach Donte Drumm the basics of the piano, accompanied the choir on an old upright Baldwin. To the right of the casket was a small elevated stage with a podium and a microphone, and before it, in rows of folding chairs, the Slone Warriors sat together, every player present, along with their coaches and trainers. They proudly wore their blue home jerseys. Other than the football players, there were a few white faces sprinkled about, but not many.
The media had been put in a box, literally. Under the stern direction of Marvin Drumm, the reporters and their cameras were bunched into a tight pack at the opposite end of the building, under the opposing backboard, and they were sealed off by a row of chairs laced with yellow police tape. Large young black men in dark suits stood next to the tape, watching the reporters, who had been warned not to make a sound. Any violation would lead to expulsion, and quite possibly a broken leg out in the parking lot. The family was sick of reporters, as was most of the town.
Roberta had wisely decided to close the coffin. She did not want the last image of Donte to be that of a lifeless corpse. She understood that a lot of people would be watching, and she preferred a smiling Donte.
At twenty minutes after one, the gym was completely packed. The doors were closed. The choir stopped and the Reverend Johnny Canty stepped to the podium. "We are here to celebrate a life," he said, "not to mourn a death." It sounded good, and there were a lot of "Amens," but the mood was far from celebratory. The air was heavy with sadness, but not the sadness that comes from loss. This was a sadness born of anger and injustice.
The first prayer was offered by the Reverend Wilbur Woods, the white pastor of the First United Methodist Church of Slone. Cedric Drumm had called him with the invitation, which he readily accepted. He gave a lovely prayer, one that dwelled on love and forgiveness and, most important, justice. The oppressed shall not remain the oppressed. Those responsible for injustice must one day face justice themselves. Reverend Woods's voice was soft but strong, and his words calmed the crowd. The sight of a white pastor standing on the stage with his eyes closed, his arms uplifted, his soul bared for all to see, soothed a lot of raw feelings, if only for the moment.
Donte had never discussed his funeral. Therefore, his mother chose the music, the speakers, and the order of the service, and it would reflect the strong Christian faith of her family. Donte claimed to have given up his faith, but his mother had never believed it.
The choir sang "Just a Closer Walk with Thee," and the tears flowed. There were breakdowns, loud emotional bursts followed by sobbing and wailing. When things settled down, two eulogies followed. The first was by one of Donte's teammates, a young man who was now a doctor in Dallas. The second was by Robbie Flak. When Robbie walked to the podium, the crowd instantly stood and began a restrained applause. This was a church service; clapping and cheering were frowned on, but some things cannot be helped. Robbie stood for a long time on the stage, nodding at the crowd, wiping tears, acknowledging the admiration, wishing he didn't have to be there.
For a man who'd spent the past few days raging at the world and suing anyone who crossed his path, his comments were remarkably tame. He had never understood the love-and-forgiveness routine; retaliation was what drove him. But he sensed that, at least for this moment, he should tone down his pugilistic instincts and just try to be nice. It was difficult. He talked about Donte in prison, their many visits, and even managed to get a laugh when recounting Donte's description of the food on death row. He read from two of Donte's letters, and again found humor. He closed by describing his last few moments with Donte. He said, "Donte's last wish was that one day, when the truth was known, when Nicole's killer was identified, one day when he was exonerated and his name was forever cleared, his family and friends would meet at his grave in the cemetery, throw a party, and tell the world that Donte Drumm is an innocent man. Donte, we are planning the party!"
Cedric's fourteen-year-old son, Emmitt, read a letter from the family, a long, gut-wrenching farewell to Donte, and did so with a composure that was startling. There was another hymn, then Reverend Canty preached for an hour.
------
Keith and Dana watched the funeral live on cable from her mother's home in Lawrence, Kansas, the town of her youth. Dana's father was deceased, and her mother was a retired professor of accounting at the University of Kansas. After dropping the boys off at school, Keith and Dana decided to hit the road, to take a day trip and get out of town. Reporters were dropping by the church. The phones were ringing. The photo of him, Robbie, Martha, and Aaron was on the front page of the Topeka paper that morning, and Keith was weary of the attention, and the questions. Plus, Boyette was out there fantasizing about his wife, and Keith
just wanted her close.
Billie, his mother-in-law, offered to fix lunch, and the offer was immediately accepted. As they watched the funeral, Billie kept saying, "I can't believe you were there, Keith."
"Neither can I. Neither can I." It was so far away and so long ago, yet Keith could close his eyes and smell the disinfectant used to clean the holding cell where Donte waited, and he could hear the gasps as the curtains flew open and the family saw him on the gurney, tubes already in his veins.
As he watched the funeral, his eyes moistened when he saw Robbie so warmly received, and he wept when Donte's nephew said good-bye. For the first time since leaving Texas, Keith had the urge to go back.
------
Donte was laid to rest on the side of a long, sloping hill in Greenwood Cemetery, where most of the blacks were buried in Slone. The afternoon had become overcast and chilly, and as his pallbearers strained to carry him the last fifty yards, a drum corps led the casket, step-by-step, its steady, perfect rhythm echoing through the damp air. The family followed the casket until it was carefully placed on top of the grave, then settled into velvet-covered chairs inches from the fresh dirt. The mourners gathered tightly around the purple funeral tent. Reverend Canty said a few words, read some scripture, then gave the final farewell to their fallen brother. Donte was lowered into the ground next to his father.
An hour passed and the crowd drifted away. Roberta and the family remained behind, under the tent, staring at the lowered casket and the dirt scattered on top of it. Robbie stayed with them, the only non-family member to do so.
------
At 7:00 p.m. on Wednesday, the Slone City Council met in an executive session to discuss the future of Detective Drew Kerber, who was made aware of the meeting but not invited. The door was locked; only the six councilmen, the mayor, the city attorney, and a clerk were present. The lone black councilman, Mr. Varner, began by demanding that Kerber be fired immediately and that the city unanimously adopt a resolution condemning itself for its handling of the Donte Drumm affair. It became readily apparent that nothing would be unanimous. With some difficulty, the council decided to postpone, if briefly, the passing of any resolutions. They would take these delicate matters one step at a time.
The city attorney cautioned against the immediate firing of Kerber. As everyone knew, Mr. Flak had filed a mammoth lawsuit against the city, and the firing of Kerber would be tantamount to an admission of liability.
"Can we offer him early retirement?"
"He's only been here sixteen years. Doesn't qualify."
"We can't keep him on the police force."
"Can we transfer him to Parks & Rec for a year or two?"
"That ignores what he did in the Drumm case."
"Yes, it does. He needs to be fired."
"And so I take it that we, the city, plan to contest the allegations of the lawsuit. Are we seriously going to claim we have no liability?"
"That's the initial position of our insurance lawyers."
"Then fire them and let's find some lawyers with good sense."
"The thing for us to do is to admit our police were wrong and settle this case. The sooner, the better."
"Why are you so sure our police were wrong?"
"Do you read newspapers? Do you own a television?"
"I don't think it's that clear."
"That's because you've never seen the obvious."
"I resent that."
"Resent all you want. If you think we should defend the city against the Drumm family, then you're incompetent and you should resign."
"I may resign anyway."
"Great, and take Drew Kerber with you."
"Kerber has a long record of bad behavior. He should've never been hired, and he should've been fired years ago. It's the city's fault he's still around, and I'm sure this will come out in court, right?"
"Oh yes."
"Court? Is anyone here in favor of going to court in this case? If so, then you need an IQ test."
The debate raged out of control for two hours. At times, all six seemed to be talking at once. There were threats, insults, lots of name-calling and flip-flopping, and no consensus, though it was generally felt that the city should do whatever possible to avoid a trial.
They finally voted--three to terminate Kerber, three to wait and see. As the tiebreaker, the mayor voted to get rid of him. Detectives Jim Morrissey and Nick Needham had taken part in the marathon interrogation that produced the fateful confession, but both had left Slone and moved on to police departments in bigger cities. Chief Joe Radford had been the assistant chief nine years earlier and, as such, had almost no involvement in the Yarber investigation. A motion was made to fire him too, and it failed for lack of a second.
Mr. Varner then raised the issue of the tear-gas assault in Civitan Park the previous Thursday night, and demanded that the city condemn its use. After another hour of hot debate, they decided to postpone further discussion.
------
The streets were clear and quiet late Wednesday night. After a week of gathering, protesting, partying, and in some cases breaking laws, the demonstrators, protesters, guerrillas, fighters--whatever they called themselves--were tired. They could burn the entire town and disrupt life for a year, but Donte would remain peacefully at rest in Greenwood Cemetery. A few gathered in Washington Park to drink beer and listen to music, but even they had lost interest in throwing rocks and cursing the police.
At midnight, the orders were given, and the National Guardsmen made a quick and silent exit from Slone.
CHAPTER 41
The summons from the bishop came by e-mail early Thursday morning, and was confirmed by a brief phone conversation in which nothing of substance was discussed. By 9:00 a.m., Keith and Dana were once again on the road, this time headed southwest on Interstate 35 to Wichita. As he drove, Keith recalled the same journey only a week earlier, same car, same radio station, but with a very different passenger. He had finally convinced Dana that Boyette was crazy enough to stalk her. The man had been arrested innumerable times, so he wasn't the craftiest criminal on the prowl. Until he was caught, Keith would not let his wife out of his sight.
Keith was ignoring the office and the church. Dana's nonprofit work and jam-packed daily planners had been placed aside. Only the family mattered at the moment. If they had the flexibility, and the money, Keith and Dana would have loaded up the boys and taken a long trip. She was concerned about her husband. He had witnessed a uniquely disturbing event, a tragedy that would haunt him forever, and though he'd been thoroughly unable to stop it or intervene in any manner, he was nonetheless burdened by it. He had told her several times how dirty he felt when the execution was over, how he wanted to go somewhere and take a shower, to cleanse himself of the perspiration and grime and fatigue and complicity. He wasn't sleeping and he wasn't eating, and around the boys he worked hard to carry on the usual banter and games, but it was forced. Keith was detached, and as the days passed, she was beginning to realize that he was not snapping out of it. He seemed to have forgotten about the church. He had not mentioned a sermon or anything related to the upcoming Sunday. There was a pile of phone messages on his desk, all waiting to be returned. He'd corralled their assistant minister into presiding over the Wednesday night dinner, blaming it on a migraine. He'd never had a migraine, never faked being ill, and never asked someone to pinch-hit in any situation. When he wasn't reading about the Drumm case, or researching the death penalty, he was watching cable news, some of the same segments over and over. Something was brewing.
------
The bishop was a man named Simon Priester, a huge round ball of an old man who was married to the church and had absolutely nothing else to do but micromanage those under him. Though only in his early fifties, he looked and acted much older, with no hair except matching white patches above the ears, and a grotesque abdomen that bulged out and hung grossly over the hips. There had never been a wife to scold him about his weight, or make sure his socks matc
hed, or do something about the stains on his shirt. He spoke in soft slow words, hands usually clasped in front of him, as if waiting for every word to come from above. Behind his back, he was known as the Monk, usually in an affectionate tone, though often otherwise. Twice a year, on the second Sunday in March and the third Sunday in September, the Monk insisted on preaching at St. Mark's in Topeka. He was a crowd killer. The few who came to hear him were the hardiest of the flock, but even they had to be cajoled into attending by Keith, Dana, and the staff. Because of the slim crowds, the Monk was overly concerned about the health of St. Mark's. If you only knew, thought Keith, who couldn't imagine larger crowds at other churches on the Monk's tour.
The meeting was not urgent, though the initial e-mail began with "Dear Keith: I am deeply concerned ..." Simon had suggested a possible lunch, his favorite pastime, sometime the following week, but Keith had little else to do. In truth, a quick trip to Wichita gave him an excuse to leave town and spend the day with Dana.
"I'm sure you've seen this," Simon said after they were properly arranged at a small table with coffee and frozen croissants. It was a copy of an editorial in the morning edition of the Topeka paper, something Keith had read three times before sunrise.
"I have," Keith said. With the Monk, it was always safer to use as few words as possible. He was brilliant in taking the loose ones, piecing them together, and tying them around your neck.
Hands clasped, after a bite of croissant that had not been fully consumed because a large crumb was stuck on his lower lip, the Monk said, "Don't get me wrong here, Keith, we are quite proud of you. What courage. You threw caution to the wind and raced off to a war zone to save a man's life. Dazzling, actually."