The Confession: A Novel

by John Grisham

  "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 a
nd 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 explained 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 eighteen years old, had never been in serious trouble, and had never been subjected to a prolonged police interrogation.

  He was checked in at the front desk. His cell phone, wallet, and car keys were taken and put in a locked drawer for "security reasons."

  The detectives led him to an interrogation room in the basement of the building. Other officers were around. One, a black policeman in uniform, recognized Donte and said something about football. Once inside the interrogation room, Morrissey offered him something to drink. Donte declined. There was a small rectangular table in the center of the room. Donte sat on one side, both detectives on the other. The room was well lit with no windows. In one corner, a tripod held a video camera, but it was not directed at Donte, as far as he could tell, nor did it appear to be turned on.

  Morrissey produced a sheet of paper and explained that Donte needed to understand his Miranda rights. Donte asked if he was a witness or a suspect. The detective explained their procedures required that all persons interrogated be informed of their rights. No big deal. Just a formality.

  Donte began to feel uncomfortable. He read every word on the paper, and since he had nothing to hide, signed his name, thus waiving his right to remain silent and his right to an attorney. It was a fateful, tragic decision.

  Innocent people are much likelier to waive their rights during an interrogation. They know they are innocent, and they want to cooperate with the police to prove their innocence. Guilty suspects are more inclined not to cooperate. Seasoned criminals laugh at the police and clam up.

  Morrissey took notes, beginning with the time the "suspect" entered the room--5:25 p.m.

  Kerber did most of the talking. The discussion began with a long summary of the football season, the wins, the losses, what went wrong in the play-offs, a coaching change that was the hot rumor. Kerber seemed truly interested in his future and hoped his ankle healed so he could play in college. Donte expressed confidence that this would happen.

  Kerber seemed especially interested in Donte's current weight-lifting program, and asked specific questions about how much he could bench-press, curl, squat, and deadlift.

  There were a lot of questions about him and his family, his academic progress, his work experience, his brief run-in with the law on that marijuana thing when he was sixteen, and after what seemed like an hour, they finally got around to Nicole. The tone changed. The smiles were gone. The questions became more pointed. How long had he known her? How many classes together? Mutual friends? Whom did he date? Who were his girlfriends? Whom did she
date? Did he ever date Nicole? No. Did he ever try to date her? No. Did he want to date her? He wanted to date a lot of girls. White girls? Sure, he wanted to, but he didn't. Never dated a white girl? No. Rumor has it that you and Nicole were seeing each other, trying to keep it quiet. Nope. Never met her privately. Never touched her. But you admit you wanted to date her? I said I wanted to date a lot of girls, white and black, even a couple of Hispanic. So, you love all girls? A lot of them, yes, but not all.

  Kerber asked if Donte had participated in any of the searches for Nicole. Yes, Donte and the entire senior class had spent hours looking for her.

  They talked about Joey Gamble and some of the other boys Nicole had dated through high school. Kerber repeatedly asked if Donte dated her, or was seeing her on the sly. His questions were more like accusations, and Donte began to worry.

  Roberta Drumm served dinner each night at 7:00, and if for some reason Donte wasn't there, he was expected to call. At 7:00 p.m., Donte asked the detectives if he could leave. Just a few more questions, Kerber said. Donte asked if he could call his mother. No, cell phones were not permitted inside the police station.

  After two hours in the room, Kerber finally dropped a bomb. He informed Donte that they had a witness willing to testify that Nicole had confided to her close friends that she was seeing Donte and there was a lot of sex involved. But she had to keep it quiet. Her parents would never approve. Her rich father in Dallas would cut off his support and disinherit her. Her church would be scornful. And so on.

  There was no such witness, but police are permitted to lie at will during an interrogation.

  Donte strongly denied any relationship with Nicole.

  And, Kerber went on with his tale, this witness had told them that Nicole was becoming increasingly worried about the affair. She wanted to end it, but that he, Donte, refused to leave her alone. She thought she was being stalked. She thought Donte had become obsessed with her.