The Confession

by John Grisham

  never met Nicole, but was convinced of Drumm's guilt and afraid to cross Reeva.

  They talked for a few minutes about the protocol on death row, the rules regarding witnesses, the timeline, and so on.

  "Reeva, could we talk about tomorrow?" Koffee asked.

  "Of course we can."

  "Are you still doing the Fordyce thing?"

  "Yes. He's in town now and we'll film at ten in the morning, right here. Why do you ask?"

  "I'm not sure it's such a good idea," Koffee said, and Kerber nodded his agreement.

  "Oh, really. And why not?"

  "He's such an inflammatory character, Reeva. We are very concerned about the aftershocks Thursday night. You know how upset the blacks are."

  "We are expecting trouble, Reeva," Kerber added.

  "If the blacks start trouble, then arrest them," she said.

  "It's exactly the kind of situation Fordyce loves to pounce on. He's an agitator, Reeva. He wants to start trouble so he can get in the middle of it. Helps his ratings."

  "It's all about ratings," Kerber added.

  "Well, well. Aren't we nervous," she chided.

  Sean Fordyce was a New York-based talk-show host who'd found a niche on cable sensationalizing murder cases. His slant was unapologetically from the right side of the street, always in support of the latest execution, or gun rights, or the rounding up of illegal immigrants, a group he loved to attack because they were much easier targets than others with dark skin. It was hardly original programming, but Fordyce struck gold when he began filming the families of victims as they prepared to watch the executions. He became famous when his tech crew managed to successfully hide a tiny camera in the frame of a pair of eyeglasses worn by the father of a young boy who was murdered in Alabama. For the first time, the world saw an execution, and Sean Fordyce owned the footage. He played it and played it and, with each showing, commented on how simple it was, how peaceful and painless and much too easy for such a violent killer.

  He was indicted in Alabama, sued by the dead man's family, and threatened with death and censure, but he survived it. The charges didn't stick--they couldn't nail down a specific crime. The lawsuit was thrown out. Three years after the stunt, he was not only standing but standing at the top of the cable garbage heap. Now he was in Slone, preparing for another episode. Rumor was that he'd paid Reeva $50,000 for the exclusive.

  "Please reconsider, Reeva," Koffee said.

  "No, Paul. The answer is no. I'm doing it for Nicole, for my family, and for the other victims out there. The world needs to see what this monster has done to us."

  "What's the benefit?" Koffee said. Both he and Kerber had ignored phone calls from Fordyce's production team.

  "Maybe the laws can be changed."

  "But the laws are working here, Reeva. Sure, it's taken longer than we wanted, but in the scheme of things nine years is not bad."

  "Oh my God, Paul, I can't believe you just said that. You haven't lived our nightmare for the past nine years."

  "No, I haven't, and I don't pretend to understand what you've been through. But the nightmare won't end Thursday night." And it certainly would not, not if Reeva had anything to do with it.

  "You have no idea, Paul. I can't believe this. The answer is no. No, no, no. I'm doing the interview and the show will run. The world will see what it's like."

  They had not expected to be successful, so they were not surprised. When Reeva Pike made up her mind, the conversation was over. They shifted gears.

  "So be it," Koffee said. "Do you and Wallis feel safe?"

  She smiled, and almost chuckled. "Of course, Paul. We got a houseful of guns and the neighbors are on high alert. Every car that comes down this street is watched through rifle scopes. We are not expecting trouble."

  "There were phone calls at the station today," Kerber said. "The usual anonymous stuff, vague threats about this and that if the boy is executed."

  "I'm sure you guys can deal with it," she said with no concern whatsoever. After waging such a relentless war of her own, Reeva had forgotten how to be afraid.

  "I think we should have a patrol car parked outside for the rest of the week," Kerber said.

  "Do as you wish. It doesn't matter to me. If the blacks start trouble, they won't do it over here. Don't they normally burn their own buildings first?"

  Both men shrugged. They'd had no experience with riots. Slone had an unremarkable history with race relations. What little they knew had been learned from the television news. Yes, it did seem as if the riots were confined to the ghettos.

  They talked about this for a few minutes, then it was time to leave. They hugged again at the front door and promised to see each other after the execution. What a great moment it would be. The end of the ordeal. Justice at last.

  ------

  Robbie Flak parked at the curb in front of the Drumm home and braced himself for another meeting.

  "How many times have you been here?" his passenger asked.

  "I don't know. Dozens and dozens." He opened the door, climbed out, and she did the same.

  Her name was Martha Handler. She was an investigative journalist, a freelancer who worked for no one but was paid occasionally by the big magazines. She had first visited Slone two years earlier when the Paul Koffee scandal broke and after that had developed a fascination with the Drumm case. She and Robbie had spent hours together, professionally, and things might have degenerated from there, but for the fact that Robbie was committed to his current live-in, a woman twenty years his junior. Martha no longer believed in commitment and gave mixed signals as to whether the door was open or not. There was sexual tension between the two, as if they were both fighting the urge to say yes. So far, they had been successful.

  At first, she claimed to be writing a book about the Drumm case. Then it was a lengthy article for Vanity Fair. Then it was one for the New Yorker. Then it was a screenplay for a movie to be produced by one of her ex-husbands in L.A. In Robbie's opinion, she was a passable writer, with a brilliant recall of the facts, but a disaster with organization and planning. Whatever the final product, he had complete veto power, and if her project ever earned a dime, he and the Drumm family would get a share. After two years with her, he was not counting on any payoff. He liked her, though. She was wickedly funny, irreverent, a total zealot to the cause, and she had developed a fierce hatred for almost every person she'd met in Texas. Plus, she could guzzle bourbon and play poker far past midnight.

  The small living room was crowded. Roberta Drumm sat on the piano bench, her usual position. Two of her brothers stood by the door to the kitchen. Her son Cedric, Donte's oldest brother, was on the sofa holding a toddler who was asleep. Her daughter, Andrea, Donte's younger sister, had one chair. Her preacher, Reverend Canty, had another. Robbie and Martha sat close to each other in flimsy, shaky chairs brought in from the kitchen. Martha had been there many times, and had even cooked for Roberta when she had the flu.

  After the usual hellos and hugs and instant coffee, Robbie began talking. "Nothing happened today, which is not good news. First thing tomorrow, the parole board will issue its decision. They don't meet, they just circulate the case and everybody votes. We don't expect a recommendation for clemency. That rarely happens. We expect a denial, which we will then appeal to the governor's office and ask for a reprieve. The governor has the right to grant one thirty-day reprieve. It's unlikely we'll get one, but we have to pray for a miracle." Robbie Flak was not a man of prayer, but in the staunch Bible Belt of East Texas, he could certainly talk the talk. And he was in a room full of people who prayed around the clock, Martha Handler being the exception.

  "On the positive side, we made contact today with Joey Gamble, found him outside of Houston, a place called Mission Bend. Our investigator had lunch with him, confronted him with the truth, impressed upon him the urgency of the situation, and so on. He is following the case and knows what's at stake. We invited him to sign an affidavit recanting the lies he told at trial,
and he declined. However, we won't give up. He was not decisive. He seemed to waver, to be troubled by what's happening to Donte."

  "What if he signs the affidavit and tells the truth?" Cedric asked.

  "Well, we suddenly have some ammunition, a bullet or two, something to take to court and make some noise. The problem, though, is that when liars start recanting their testimony, everybody gets real suspicious, especially judges hearing appeals. When does the lying stop? Is he lying now, or was he lying then? It's a long shot, frankly, but right now everything is a long shot." Robbie had always been blunt, especially when dealing with the families of his criminal clients. And at this stage in Donte's case, it made little sense to raise hopes.

  Roberta sat stoically with her hands wedged under her legs. She was fifty-six years old, but looked much older. Since the death of her husband, Riley, five years earlier, she had stopped coloring her hair and stopped eating. She was gray and gaunt and said little, but then she never had said much. Riley had been the big talker, the boaster, the bruiser, with Roberta in the role as the fixer who eased behind her husband and patched up the rifts he created. In the past few days, she had slowly accepted reality, and seemed overwhelmed by it. Neither she nor Riley, nor any member of the family, had ever questioned Donte's innocence. He had once tried to maim ballcarriers and quarterbacks, and he could adequately defend himself when necessary on the playground or in the streets. But Donte was really a pushover, a sensitive kid who would never harm an innocent person.

  "Martha and I are going to Polunsky tomorrow to see Donte," Robbie was saying. "I can take any mail you might have for him."

  "I have a meeting with the mayor at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow," Reverend Canty announced. "I'll be joined by several other pastors. We intend to convey our concerns about what might happen in Slone if Donte is executed."

  "It'll be ugly," said an uncle.

  "You got that right," Cedric added. "Folks on this side are fired up."

  "The execution is still set for 6:00 p.m. on Thursday, right?" asked Andrea.

  "Yes," Robbie said.

  "Well, when will you know for sure that it'll be carried out?" she asked.

  "These things usually go down to the wire, primarily because the lawyers fight to the last minute."

  Andrea looked uneasily at Cedric, then said, "Well, I'll just tell you, Robbie, a lot of people on this side of town plan to get outta here when it happens. There's gonna be trouble, and I understand why. But once it starts, things might get out of control."

  "The whole town better look out," Cedric said.

  "That's what we'll tell the mayor," Canty said. "He'd better do something."

  "All he can do is react," Robbie said. "He has nothing to do with the execution."

  "Can't he call the governor?"

  "Sure, but don't assume the mayor is against the execution. If he got through to the governor, he'd probably lobby against a reprieve. The mayor is a good old Texas boy. He loves the death penalty."

  No one in the room was fond of the mayor, or the governor for that matter. Robbie moved the discussion away from the prospect of violence. There were important details to be discussed. "According to the rules from the Department of Corrections, the last family visit will take place at 8:00 a.m. on Thursday morning, at the Polunsky Unit, before Donte is transferred to Huntsville." Robbie continued, "I know you'll be anxious to see him, and he's desperate to see you. But don't be surprised when you get there. It will be just like a regular visit. He'll be on one side of a sheet of Plexiglas, you'll have to stay on the other. You talk by phone. It's ridiculous, but then this is Texas."

  "No hugs, no kisses?" Andrea said.

  "No. They have their rules."

  Roberta began crying, quiet sniffles with big tears. "I can't hug my baby," she said. One of her brothers handed her a tissue and patted her shoulder. After a minute or so, she pulled herself together and said, "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be sorry, Roberta," Robbie said. "You're the mother, and your son is about to be executed for something he didn't do. You have the right to cry. Me, I'd be bawling and screaming and shooting at people. Still might do it."

  Andrea asked, "What about the execution itself? Who's supposed to be there?"

  "The witness room is divided by a wall to separate the victim's family from the inmate's family. All witnesses stand. There are no seats. They get five slots, you get five slots. The rest are given to the lawyers, prison officials, members of the press, and a few others. I'll be there. Roberta, I know you plan to be a witness, but Donte is adamant that he doesn't want you there. Your name is on his list, but he doesn't want you to watch."

  "I'm sorry, Robbie," she said, wiping her nose. "We've had this discussion. I was there when he was born and I'll be there when he dies. He may not know it, but he'll need me. I will be a witness."

  Robbie wasn't about to argue. He promised to return the following evening.

  CHAPTER 7

  Long after the boys were asleep, Keith and Dana Schroeder were in the kitchen of their modest, church-owned parsonage in central Topeka. They sat directly across from each other, each with a laptop, notepads, and decaf coffee. The table was littered with materials found on the Internet and printed in the church office. Dinner had been quick, macaroni and cheese, because the boys had homework and the parents were preoccupied.

  Checking online sources, Dana had been unable to confirm Boyette's claim that he had been arrested and jailed in Slone in January 1999. The town's old court records were not available. The bar directory listed 131 lawyers in Slone. She picked ten at random, called them, said she was with the parole office in Kansas and was checking the background of a Mr. Travis Boyette. Did you ever represent a man by that name? No. Then sorry to disturb you. She did not have the time to call every lawyer, and it seemed futile anyway. She planned to call the city court clerk's office first thing Tuesday morning.

  After holding Nicole's class ring, Keith had little doubt that Boyette was telling the truth. What if the ring had been stolen before she disappeared? Dana asked. And fenced at a pawnshop? What if? It seemed unlikely Boyette would purchase such a ring from a pawnshop, didn't it? Back and forth they went for hours, each questioning every idea the other had.

  Much of the material scattered around the table came from two Web sites, WeMissYouNikki.com and FreeDonteDrumm.com. Donte's Web site was maintained by the law offices of Mr. Robbie Flak and was far more extensive, active, and professionally done. Nikki's Web site was run by her mother. Neither made the slightest effort at neutrality.

  From Donte's, under the tab for Case History, Keith scrolled down to the heart of the prosecution's case, The Confession. The narrative began by explaining that it was based on two very different accounts of what happened. The interrogation, which took place over a period of fifteen hours and twelve minutes, proceeded with few interruptions. Donte was allowed to use the restroom three times, and was twice escorted down the hall to another room for polygraph exams. Otherwise, he never left the room, which had the in-house nickname "The Choir Room." Sooner or later, the cops liked to say, the suspects start singing.

  The first version was based on the official police report. This consisted of notes taken throughout the interrogation by Detective Jim Morrissey. During one three-hour stretch, while Morrissey took a nap on a cot in the locker room, the notes were taken by a Detective Nick Needham. The notes were typed into a neat fourteen-page report, which Detectives Kerber, Morrissey, and Needham swore to be the truth, and nothing but. Not a single word in the report suggests the use of threats, lies, promises, trickery, intimidation, physical abuse, or violations of constitutional rights. Indeed, all of the above were denied repeatedly in court by the detectives.

  The second version contrasted sharply with the first. The day after his arrest, while Donte was alone in a jail cell, charged with kidnapping, aggravated rape, and capital murder, and while he was slowly recuperating from the psychological trauma of the interrogation, he recanted his confession. He exp
lained to his lawyer, Robbie Flak, what had happened. Under Flak's direction, Donte began writing his account of the interrogation. When it was finished two days later, it was typed by one of Mr. Flak's legal secretaries. Donte's version was forty-three pages long.

  Thus, a summary of the two accounts, with some analysis thrown in.

  THE CONFESSION

  On December 22, 1998, eighteen days after the disappearance of Nicole Yarber, Detectives Drew Kerber and Jim Morrissey of the Slone Police Department drove to the South Side Health Club looking for Donte. The club is frequented by the more serious athletes in the area. Donte worked out there almost every afternoon, after school. He lifted weights and was rehabbing his ankle. He was in superb physical condition and was planning to enroll at Sam Houston State University next summer, then try out for the football team as a walk-on.

  At approximately 5:00 p.m., as Donte was leaving the club alone, he was approached by Kerber and Morrissey, who introduced themselves in a friendly manner and asked Donte if he would talk to them about Nicole Yarber. Donte agreed, and Kerber suggested they meet at the police station, where they could relax and be more comfortable. Donte was nervous about this, but he also wanted to cooperate fully. He knew Nicole--he'd helped search for her--but knew nothing about her disappearance, and thought that the meeting at the station would take just a few minutes. He drove himself, in the family's well-used green Ford van, to the police station and parked in a visitor's slot. As he walked into the station, he had no idea that he was taking his last steps as a free man. He was