The Confession: A Novel

by John Grisham

  "It's okay, honey."

  "Please don't tell anyone."

  "Never. You can trust your mother, you know."

  They sat up and moved to the edges of their beds, holding hands, foreheads touching. Andrea said, "You wanna cry or you wanna pray?"

  "We can pray later, but we can't cry later."

  "Right. Let's have us a good cry."

  ------

  The predawn traffic picked up as they approached Oklahoma City. Boyette's forehead was pressed against the passenger's window, his mouth open in a pathetic drool. His nap was entering its second hour, and Keith was happy with the solitude. He'd stopped back near the state line for a cup of carryout coffee, a dreadful machine brew that he would normally pour into a ditch. But what it lacked in flavor it more than made up for in caffeine, and Keith was buzzing right along, his head spinning, his speedometer exactly eight miles per hour over the limit.

  Boyette had requested a beer at the last stop. Keith declined and bought him a bottle of water. He found a bluegrass station out of Edmond and listened to it at low volume. At 5:30, he called Dana, but she had little to say. South of Oklahoma City, Boyette jerked from his slumber and said, "Guess I dozed off."

  "You did indeed."

  "Pastor, these pills I take really work on the bladder. Can we do a quick pit stop?"

  "Sure," Keith said. What else could he say? He kept one eye on the clock. They would leave the expressway somewhere north of Denton, Texas, and head east on two-lane roads. Keith had no idea how long that would take. His best guess was arriving in Slone between noon and 1:00 p.m. The pit stops, of course, were not helping their progress.

  They stopped in Norman and bought more coffee and water. Boyette managed to blaze through two cigarettes, sucking and blowing rapidly as if it might be his last smoke, while Keith quickly refueled. Fifteen minutes later, they were back on I-35, racing south through the flat country of Oklahoma.

  As a man of God, Keith felt compelled to at least explore the subject of faith. He began, somewhat tentatively, "You've talked about your childhood, Travis, and we don't need to go back there. Just curious, though, if you were ever exposed to a church or to a preacher when you were a kid?"

  The tic was back. So was the contemplation. "No," he said, and for a moment that seemed to be all. Then, "I never knew my mother to go to church. She didn't have much of a family. I think they were ashamed of her, so they kept away. Darrell certainly didn't do the church thing. Uncle Chett needed a good dose of religion, but I'm sure he's in hell right now."

  Keith saw an opening. "So you believe in hell?"

  "I suppose. I believe we all go somewhere after we die, and I can't imagine you and me going to the same place. Can you, Pastor? I mean, look, I've spent most of my life in prison, and, trust me, there's a species of mankind that's subhuman. These people were born mean. They're vicious, soulless, crazy men who cannot be helped. When they die, they gotta go to some bad place."

  The irony was almost comical. A confessed murderer and serial rapist condemning violent men.

  "Was there a Bible in the house?" Keith asked, trying to stay away from the subject of heinous crimes.

  "Never saw one. Never saw much in the way of books. I was raised on porn, Pastor, fed to me by Uncle Chett and kept under Darrell's bed. That's the extent of my childhood reading."

  "Do you believe in God?"

  "Look, Pastor, I'm not talking about God and Jesus and salvation and all that. I heard it all the time in prison. Lots of guys get really turned on when they're locked away and start thumping the Bible. I guess some are serious, but it also sounds good at the parole hearings. I just never bought into it."

  "Are you prepared for death, Travis?"

  A pause. "Look, Pastor, I'm forty-four years old, and my life has been one massive train wreck. I'm tired of living in prison. I'm tired of living with the guilt of what I've done. I'm tired of hearing the pitiful voices of the people I hurt. I'm tired of a lot of shit, Pastor, okay? Sorry for the language. I'm tired of being some degenerate who lives on the edges of society. I'm just so sick of it all. I'm proud of my tumor, okay? Hard to believe, but when it's not cracking my skull, I kinda like the damned thing. It tells me what's ahead. My days are numbered, and that doesn't bother me. I won't hurt anybody else. No one will miss me, Pastor. If I didn't have the tumor, I'd get a bottle of pills and a bottle of vodka and float away forever. Still might do that."

  So much for a penetrating discussion on the subject of faith. Ten miles passed before Keith said, "What would you like to talk about, Travis?"

  "Nothing. I just want to sit here and look at the road and think about nothing."

  "Sounds good to me. You hungry?"

  "No, thanks."

  ------

  Robbie left the house at 5:00 a.m. and drove a circuitous route to the office. He kept his window down so he could smell the smoke. The fire had long since been extinguished, but the odor of freshly charred wood hung like a thick cloud over Slone. There was no wind. Downtown, anxious cops were blocking streets and diverting traffic away from the First Baptist Church. Robbie got just a glimpse of its smoking ruins, illuminated by the flashing lights of fire and rescue vehicles. He took the backstreets, and when he parked at the old train station and got out of his car, the smell was still pungent and fresh. All of Slone would be awakened and greeted with the ominous vapor of a suspicious fire. And the obvious question would be, will there be more?

  His staff drifted in, all sleep deprived and anxious to see if the day would take a dramatic turn away from the direction it was headed. They gathered in the main conference room, around the long table still cluttered with the debris of the night before. Carlos gathered empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, while Samantha Thomas served coffee and bagels. Robbie, trying to appear upbeat, replayed for the gang his conversation with Fred Pryor about the surreptitious recording from the strip club. Pryor himself had not yet arrived.

  The phone started ringing. No one wanted to answer it. The receptionist was not in yet. "Somebody punch 'Do Not Disturb,' " Robbie barked, and the phone stopped ringing.

  Aaron Rey walked from room to room, looking out the windows. The television was on, but muted.

  Bonnie entered the conference room and said, "Robbie, I just checked the phone messages for the past six hours. Nothing important. Just a couple of death threats, and a couple of rednecks happy the big day is finally here."

  "No call from the governor?" Robbie asked.

  "Not yet."

  "What a surprise. I'm sure he lost sleep like the rest of us."

  ------

  Keith would eventually frame the speeding ticket, and because of it he would always know exactly what he was doing at 5:50 a.m. on Thursday, November 8, 2007. The location wasn't clear, because there was no town in sight. Just a long, empty stretch of I-35, somewhere north of Ardmore, Oklahoma.

  The trooper was hiding in some trees in the median, and as soon as Keith saw him and glanced at his speedometer, he knew he was in trouble. He hit his brakes, slowed considerably, and waited a few seconds. When the blue lights appeared, Boyette said, "Oh, shit."

  "Watch your language." Keith was braking hard and hurrying to the shoulder.

  "My language is the least of your problems. What're you gonna tell him?"

  "That I'm sorry."

  "What if he asks what we're doing?"

  "We're driving down the highway, maybe a bit too fast, but we're okay."

  "I think I'll tell him I'm jumping parole and you're my getaway driver."

  "Knock it off, Travis."

  The truth was that Travis looked exactly like the sort of character who would be jumping parole, right out of central casting. Keith stopped the car, turned off the ignition, straightened his clerical collar and made sure it was as visible as possible, and said, "Don't say a word, Travis. Let me do the talking."

  As they waited for a very deliberate and purposeful state trooper, Keith managed to amuse himself by admitting that he w
as sitting beside the road, engaged in not one but two criminal activities, and that for some inconceivable reason he'd chosen as his partner in crime a serial rapist and murderer. He glanced at Travis and said, "Can you cover up that tattoo?" It was on the left side of his neck, a swirling creation that only a deviant might understand and wear with pride.

  "What if he likes tattoos?" Travis said, without making a move for his shirt collar.

  The trooper approached carefully, with a long flashlight, and when things appeared safe, he said gruffly, "Good morning."

  "Morning," Keith said, glancing up. He handed over his license, registration, and insurance card.

  "You a priest?" It was more of an accusation. Keith doubted there were many Catholics in southern Oklahoma.

  "I'm a Lutheran minister," he said with a warm smile. The perfect picture of peace and civility.

  "Lutheran?" the trooper grunted, as if that might be worse than a Catholic.

  "Yes, sir."

  He shined his light on the license. "Well, Reverend Schroeder, you were doing eighty-five miles an hour."

  "Yes, sir. Sorry about that."

  "Limit out here is seventy-five. What's the hurry?"

  "No real hurry. Just wasn't paying attention."

  "Where you headed?"

  Keith wanted to fire back, "Why, sir, is that any of your business?" But he quickly said, "Dallas."

  "Got a boy in Dallas," the trooper said, as if that fact were somehow relevant. He walked back to his car, got inside, slammed the door, and began his paperwork. His blue lights sparkled through the fading darkness.

  When the adrenaline settled down and Keith got bored with the waiting, he decided to make use of the time. He called Matthew Burns, who appeared to be holding his cell phone. Keith explained where he was and what was happening to him at the moment and had trouble convincing Matthew that it was nothing but a routine speeding ticket. They managed to work through Matthew's overreaction and agreed to start calling Robbie Flak's office immediately.

  The trooper eventually returned. Keith signed his ticket, retrieved his documents, apologized again, and after twenty-eight minutes they were back on the road. Boyette's presence was never acknowledged.

  CHAPTER 18

  At one point in his blurred past, Donte knew the precise number of days he'd spent in cell number 22F, death row, at the Polunsky Unit. Most inmates kept such a tally. But he'd lost count, for the same reason he'd lost interest in reading, writing, exercising, eating, brushing his teeth, shaving, showering, trying to communicate with other inmates, and obeying the guards. He could sleep and dream and use the toilet when necessary; beyond that, he was unable or unwilling to try much else.

  "This is the big day, Donte," the guard said when he slid the breakfast tray into the cell. Pancakes and applesauce again. "How you doin'?"

  "Okay," Donte mumbled. They spoke through a narrow slit in the metal door.

  The guard was Mouse, a tiny black guy, one of the nicer ones. Mouse moved on, leaving Donte to stare at the food. He did not touch it. An hour later, Mouse was back. "Come on, Donte, you gotta eat."

  "Not hungry."

  "How 'bout your last meal? You thought about that? You gotta place your order in a few hours."

  "What's good?" Donte asked.

  "I'm not sure anything's good as a last meal, but they tell me most of the guys eat like a horse. Steak, potatoes, catfish, shrimp, pizza, anything you want."

  "How 'bout cold noodles and boiled leather, same as any other day?"

  "Whatever you want, Donte." Mouse leaned a few inches closer, lowered his voice, and said, "Donte, I'll be thinking about you, you hear?"

  "Thanks, Mouse."

  "I'll miss you, Donte. You're a good guy."

  Donte was amused at the thought that someone on death row would miss him. He did not respond and Mouse moved on.

  Donte sat on the edge of his bunk for a long time and stared at a cardboard box they'd delivered yesterday. In it, he'd neatly packed his possessions--a dozen paperbacks, none of which he'd read in years, two writing tablets, envelopes, a dictionary, a Bible, a 2007 calendar, a zippered bag in which he kept his money, $18.40, two tins of sardines and a package of stale saltines from the canteen, and a radio that picked up only a Christian station from Livingston and a country one from Huntsville. He took a writing tablet and a pencil and began to calculate. It took some time, but he finally arrived at a total he believed to be fairly accurate.

  Seven years, seven months, and three days, in cell number 22F--2,771 days. Before that, he'd spent about four months at the old death row at Ellis. He'd been arrested on December 22, 1998, and he'd been locked up since.

  Almost nine years behind bars. It was an eternity, but not an impressive number. Four doors down, Oliver Tyree, age sixty-four, was in his thirty-first year on death row with no execution date on the calendar. There were several twenty-year veterans. It was changing, though. The newer arrivals faced a different set of rules. There were tougher deadlines for their appeals. For those convicted after 1990, the average wait before execution was ten years. Shortest in the nation.

  During his early years in 22F, Donte waited and waited for news from the courts. They moved at a snail's pace, it seemed. Then it was all over, no more petitions to file, no more judges and justices for Robbie to attack. Looking back now, the appeals seemed to have flown by. He stretched out on his bed and tried to sleep.

  You count the days and watch the years go by. You tell yourself, and you believe it, that you'd rather just die. You'd rather stare death boldly in the face and say you're ready because whatever is waiting on the other side has to be better than growing old in a six-by-ten cage with no one to talk to. You consider yourself half-dead at best. Please take the other half.

  You've watched dozens leave and not return, and you accept the fact that one day they'll come for you. You're nothing but a rat in their lab, a disposable body to be used as proof that their experiment is working. An eye for an eye, each killing must be avenged. You kill enough and you're convinced that killing is good.

  You count the days, and then there are none left. You ask yourself on your last morning if you are really ready. You search for courage, but the bravery is fading.

  When it's over, no one really wants to die.

  ------

  It was a big day for Reeva too, and to show the world she was suffering, she invited Fordyce--Hitting Hard! back into her home for breakfast. In her most stylish pantsuit, she cooked bacon and eggs and sat around the table with Wallis and their two children, Chad and Marie, both in their late teens. None of the four needed a heavy breakfast. They should've skipped the meal completely. But the cameras were rolling, and as the family ate, they prattled on about the fire that destroyed their beloved church, a fire that was still smoldering. They were stunned, angry. They were certain it was arson, but managed to restrain themselves and not make allegations against anyone--on camera. Off camera, they just knew the fire had been started by black thugs. Reeva had been a member of the church for over forty years. She had married both husbands there. Chad, Marie, and Nicole had been baptized there. Wallis was a deacon. It was a tragedy. Gradually, they got around to more important matters. They all agreed that it was a sad day, a sad occasion. Sad, but so necessary. For almost nine years they had waited for this day, for justice to finally arrive for their family, and yes, for all of Slone as well.

  Sean Fordyce was still tied up with a complicated execution in Florida, but he had made his plans well-known. He would arrive, by private jet, at the Huntsville airport later in the afternoon for a quick interview with Reeva before she witnessed the execution. Of course, he would be there when it was over.

  Without the host, the breakfast footage went on and on. Off camera, an assistant producer prompted the family with such gems as, "Do you think lethal injection is too humane?" Reeva certainly did. Wallis just grunted. Chad chewed his bacon. Marie, a chatterbox like her mother, said, between bites, that Drumm should suffer int
ense physical pain as he was dying, just like Nicole.

  "Do you think executions should be made public?" Mixed reactions around the table.

  "The condemned man is allowed a last statement. If you could speak to him, what would you say?" Reeva, chewing, burst into tears and covered her eyes. "Why, oh, why?" she wailed. "Why did you take my baby?"

  "Sean will love this," the assistant producer whispered to the cameraman. Both were suppressing smiles.

  Reeva pulled herself together, and the family plowed through breakfast. At one point, she barked at her husband, who'd said almost nothing, "Wallis! What are you thinking?" Wallis shrugged as if he hadn't been thinking at all.

  Coincidentally, Brother Ronnie dropped by just as the meal was wrapping up. He'd been up all night watching his church burn, and he needed sleep. But Reeva and her family also needed him. They quizzed him about the fire. He appeared sufficiently burdened. They moved to the rear of the home, to Reeva's room, where they sat and huddled around a coffee table. They held hands, and Brother Ronnie led them in prayer. With an effort at drama, and with the camera two feet from his head, he pleaded for strength and courage for the family to endure what was ahead on this difficult day. He thanked the Lord for justice. He prayed for their church and its members.

  He did not mention Donte Drumm or his family.

  ------

  After a dozen trips to voice mail, a real person finally answered. "Flak Law Firm," she said quickly.

  "Robbie Flak, please," Keith said as he perked up. Boyette turned and looked at him.