by John Grisham
"What's your point?"
"My point is you're about to die, and you know when it will happen. Very few people know this. Soldiers in battle may feel like dead men, but there's always a chance they'll survive. I suppose some victims of horrible crimes know they're at the end, but they have such short notice. You, though, have had this date for months. Now the hour is at hand, and it's not a bad time to make amends with God."
"I know the legend of Darrell Clark. His final words were 'Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.' Luke 23, verse 46, the last words of Jesus before he died on the cross, according to Luke anyway. But you're missing something here, Keith. Clark killed three people, execution style, and after they convicted him, he never made a serious claim of innocence. He was guilty. I am not. Clark deserved to be punished, not to be killed, but imprisoned for life. Me, I am innocent."
"True, but death is death, and in the end nothing else matters except your relationship with God."
"So you're trying to convince me that I should go running back to God here at the last minute, and just sort of forget the past nine years."
"You blame God for the past nine years?"
"Yes, I do. This is what happened to me, Keith. I was eighteen years old, a longtime Christian, still active in church, but also doing some things that most kids do, nothing bad, but, hell, when you grow up in a house as strict as mine, you're gonna rebel a little. I was a good student, the football thing was on hold, but I wasn't running drugs and beating people. I stayed off the streets. I was looking forward to college. Then, for some reason I guess I'll never understand, a bolt of lightning hits me square in the forehead. I'm wearing handcuffs. I'm in jail. My picture is on the front page. I'm declared guilty long before the trial. My fate is determined by twelve white people, half of them good, solid Baptists. The prosecutor was a Methodist, the judge was Presbyterian, or at least their names were on church rolls somewhere. They were also screwing each other, but I guess we all have a weakness for flesh. Most of us anyway. Screwing each other, yet pretending to give me a fair trial. The jury was a bunch of rednecks. I remember sitting in the courtroom, looking at their faces as they condemned me to death--hard, unforgiving, Christian faces--and thinking to myself, 'We don't worship the same God.' And we don't. How can God allow His people to kill so often? Answer that, please."
"God's people are often wrong, Donte, but God is never wrong. You can't blame Him."
The fight left him. The weight of the moment returned. Donte leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and hung his head. "I was a faithful servant, Keith, and look what I get."
Robbie walked in from the outside and stood by the visitors' cell. Keith's time was up. "Would you pray with me, Donte?"
"Why? I prayed the first three years I was in prison, and things just got worse. I could've prayed ten times a day, and I would still be sitting right here, talking to you."
"All right, mind if I pray?"
"Go right ahead."
Keith closed his eyes. He found it hard to pray under the circumstances--Donte staring at him, Robbie anxiously waiting, the clock ticking louder and louder. He asked God to give Donte strength and courage, and have mercy on his soul. Amen.
When he finished, he stood and patted Donte on the shoulder, still not believing that he would be dead in less than an hour. Donte said, "Thanks for coming."
"I'm honored to meet you, Donte."
They shook hands again. Then the metal clanged and the doors opened. Keith stepped out, Robbie stepped in. The clock on the wall, indeed the only clock that mattered, gave the time as 5:34.
------
The looming execution of a man claiming innocence did nothing to arouse the national media. The stories had become so commonplace. However, the tit-for-tat angle of the church burnings on the eve of the execution woke up a few producers. The melee at the high school added some fuel. But the possibility of a race riot--now, that was too good to be ignored. Toss in the drama of the National Guard, and by late afternoon Slone was buzzing with brightly painted television vans from Dallas and Houston and other cities, most providing direct feeds to network and cable stations. When word spread that a man claiming to be the real killer wanted to confess on camera, the train station became an instant magnet for the media. With Fred Pryor directing things, or at least attempting to keep some order, Travis Boyette stood on the bottom step of the platform and looked at the reporters and the cameras. Microphones were thrust at him like bayonets. Fred stood at his right side, actually shoving some of the reporters back.
"Quiet!" Fred barked at them. Then he nodded at Travis and said, "Go ahead."
Travis was as stiff as a deer in headlights, but he swallowed hard and plunged in. "My name is Travis Boyette, and I killed Nicole Yarber. Donte Drumm had nothing to do with her murder. I acted alone. I abducted her, raped her repeatedly, then strangled her to death. I disposed of her body, and it's not in the Red River."
"Where is it!"
"It's in Missouri, where I left it."
"Why'd you do it!"
"Because I can't stop myself. I've raped other women, lots of them, sometimes I got caught, sometimes I didn't."
This startled the reporters, and a few seconds elapsed before the next question. "So you are a convicted rapist?"
"Oh yes. I have four or five convictions."
"Are you from Slone?"
"No, but I was living here when I killed Nicole."
"Did you know her?"
------
Dana Schroeder had been parked in front of the television in the den for the past two hours, glued to CNN, waiting for more news from Slone. There had been two reports, brief little snippets about the unrest and the National Guard. She had watched the governor make a fool of himself. The story, though, was gathering momentum. When she saw the face of Travis Boyette, she said out loud, "There he is."
Her husband was at death row consoling the man convicted of the killing, and she was watching the one who had actually committed the crime.
------
Joey Gamble was in a bar, the first one he'd seen when he left the office of Agnes Tanner. He was drunk but still aware of what was happening. There were two televisions hanging from the ceiling at opposite ends of the bar, one was on SportsCenter, the other on CNN. When Joey saw the story from Slone, he walked closer to the television. He listened to Boyette as he talked about killing Nicole. "You son of a bitch," Joey mumbled, and the bartender gave him a quizzical look.
But then he felt good about himself. He had finally told the truth, and now the real killer had come forward. Donte would be spared. He ordered another beer.
------
Judge Elias Henry was sitting with his wife in the den of their home, not far from Civitan Park. The doors were locked; his hunting rifles were loaded and ready. A police car drove by every ten minutes. A helicopter watched from above. The air was thick with the smell of smoke--smoke from the fireworks party at the park, and smoke from the destroyed buildings. The mob could be heard. Its nonstop drumming and booming rap and screeching chants had only intensified throughout the afternoon. Judge and Mrs. Henry had discussed leaving for the night. They had a son in Tyler, an hour away, and he had encouraged them to flee, if only for a few hours. But they decided to stay, primarily because the neighbors were staying and there was strength in numbers. The judge had chatted with the chief of police, who somewhat nervously assured him that things were under control.
The television was on, another breaking story from Slone. The judge grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, then there was the man he'd seen in the video, not three hours earlier. Travis Boyette was talking, giving details, staring at a bunch of microphones.
"Did you know the girl?" a reporter asked.
"I'd never met her, but I had followed her. I knew who she was, knew she was a cheerleader. I picked her out."
"How did you abduct her?"
"I found her car, parked next to it, waited until she came out of the mall. I used a
gun, she didn't argue. I've done this before."
"Have you been convicted in Texas before?"
"No. Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas. You can check the records. I'm telling the truth here, and the truth is that I did the crime. Not Donte Drumm."
"Why are you coming forward now, and not a year ago?"
"I should have, but I figured the courts down here would finally realize they had the wrong guy. I just got out of prison in Kansas, and a few days ago I saw in the paper where they were getting ready to execute Drumm. Surprised me. So here I am."
"Right now, only the governor can stop the execution. What would you say to him?"
"I'd say you're about to kill an innocent man. You give me twenty-four hours, and I'll show you the body of Nicole Yarber. Just twenty-four hours, Mr. Governor."
Judge Henry scratched his chin with his knuckles and said, "A bad night just got worse."
------
Barry and Wayne were in the governor's office watching Boyette on CNN. Their governor was down the hall being interviewed for the fifth or sixth time since his courageous handling of the angry mob. "We'd better go get him," Wayne said.
"Yep. I'll go; you keep an eye on this."
Five minutes later, the governor was watching a rerun of Boyette. "He's obviously a crackpot," Newton said after a few seconds. "Where's the bourbon?"
Three glasses were filled, and the bourbon was sipped as they listened to Boyette talk about the body.
"How did you kill Nicole?" Strangled her with her belt, black leather with a round silver buckle, still around her neck. Boyette reached under his shirt and pulled out a ring. He thrust it at the cameras. "This is Nicole's. I've worn it since the night I took her, has her initials and everything."
"How did you dispose of the body?"
"Let's just say it's underground."
"How far from here?"
"I don't know, five or six hours. Again, if the governor would give us twenty-four hours, we can find it. That'll prove I'm right."
"Who is this guy?" the governor asked.
"A serial rapist, rap sheet a mile long."
"It's amazing how they always manage to pop up right before the execution," Newton said. "Probably getting money from Flak."
All three managed a nervous laugh.
------
The laughter at the lake was interrupted when a guest walked past a TV inside and saw what was happening. The party quickly moved indoors, and thirty people huddled around the small screen. No one spoke; no one seemed to breathe as Boyette went on and on, perfectly willing to answer any question with a blunt response.
"Ya'll ever hear of this guy, Paul?" asked one of the retired lawyers.
Paul shook his head no.
"He's at Flak's office, the train station."
"Robbie's up to his old tricks."
Not a smile, not a grin, not a forced chuckle. When Boyette produced her ring, and freely displayed it for the cameras, fear swept through the cabin, and Paul Koffee found his way to a chair.
------
The breaking news was not heard by everyone. At the prison, Reeva and her gang were gathered in a small office where they waited for the van ride to the death chamber. Not far away, the family of Donte waited too. For the next hour, the two groups of witnesses would be in close proximity to each other, but carefully separated. At 5:40, the family of the victim was loaded in a white unmarked prison van and driven to the death house, a ride that lasted less than ten minutes. Once there, they were led through an unmarked door into a small square room twelve feet long and twelve feet wide. There were no chairs, no benches. The walls were blank, unmarked. Before them was a closed curtain, and they had been told that on the other side of the curtain was the actual death chamber. At 5:45, the Drumm family made the same trip and entered their witness room through another door. The witness rooms were side by side. A loud cough in one could be heard in the other.
They waited.
CHAPTER 26
At 5:40, the U.S. Supreme Court, by a vote of 5-4, refused to hear Donte's insanity petition. Ten minutes later, the Court, again 5-4, denied cert on the Boyette petition. Robbie took the calls outside the holding cell. He closed his phone, walked inside to Warden Jeter, and whispered, "It's over. No more appeals."
Jeter nodded grimly and said, "You got two minutes."
"Thanks." Robbie reentered the holding cell and broke the news to Donte. There was nothing else to do, the fight was over. Donte closed his eyes and breathed deeply as the reality set in. Until that moment there had always been hope, however distant, however remote and unlikely.
Then he swallowed hard, managed a smile, and inched closer to Robbie. Their knees were touching, their heads just inches apart. "Say, Robbie, you think they'll ever catch the dude who killed Nicole?"
Again, Robbie wanted to tell him about Boyette, but that story was far from over. The truth was anything but certain. "I don't know, Donte, I can't predict. Why?"
"Here's what you gotta do, Robbie. If they never find the guy, then folks will always believe it was me. But if they find him, then you gotta promise me you'll clear my name. Will you promise me, Robbie? I don't care how long it takes, but you gotta clear my name."
"I'll do that, Donte."
"I got this vision that one day my momma and my brothers and sister will stand beside my grave and celebrate because I'm an innocent man. Won't that be great, Robbie?"
"I'll be there too, Donte."
"Throw a big party, right there in the cemetery. Invite all my friends, raise all sorts of hell, let the world know that Donte is innocent. Will you do that, Robbie?"
"You have my word."
"That'll be great."
Robbie slowly took both of Donte's hands and squeezed them in his. "I gotta go, big man. I don't know what to say, except that it's been an honor being your lawyer. I have believed you from the very beginning, and I believe you even more today. I've always known you are innocent, and I hate the sons of bitches who are making this happen. I'll keep fighting, Donte. I promise."
Their foreheads touched. Donte said, "Thank you, Robbie, for everything. I'll be all right."
"I'll never forget you."
"Take care of my momma, okay, Robbie?"
"You know I will."
They stood and embraced, a long painful hug that neither wanted to end. Ben Jeter was by the door, waiting. Robbie finally left the holding cell and walked to the end of the short hallway where Keith sat in a folding chair, praying fervently. Robbie sat down beside him and began weeping.
Ben Jeter asked Donte for the last time if he wanted to see the chaplain. He did not. The hallway began to fill with uniformed guards, large healthy boys with stern faces and thick arms. The beef had arrived, just in case the inmate had second thoughts about going peacefully to the death chamber. There was a flurry of activity, and the place was filled with people.
Jeter approached Robbie and said, "Let's go." Robbie slowly got to his feet and took a step before he stopped and looked down at Keith. "Come on, Keith," he said.
Keith looked up blankly, not sure where he was, certain that his little nightmare would end soon and he'd wake up in bed with Dana. "What?"
Robbie grabbed an arm and yanked hard. "Come on. It's time to witness the execution."
"But--"
"The warden gave his approval." Another hard pull. "You're the spiritual adviser to the condemned man, thus, you qualify as a witness."
"I don't think so, Robbie. No, look, I'll just wait--"
Several of the guards were amused by the altercation. Keith was aware of their smirks, but didn't care.
"Come on," Robbie said, now dragging the minister. "Do it for Donte. Hell, do it for me. You live in Kansas, a death-penalty state. Come watch a little democracy in action."
Keith was moving, and everything was a blur. They walked by the columns of guards, past the holding cell where Donte, eyes down, was being handcuffed again, to a narrow unmarked door Keith had not noticed
before. It opened and closed behind them. They were in a small boxlike room with dim lights. Robbie finally turned loose of him, then walked over and hugged the Drumm family. "No more appeals," he said softly. "There's nothing left to do."
------
It would be the longest ten minutes in Gill Newton's lengthy career in public service. From 5:50 until 6:00 p.m., he vacillated as never before. On one side, literally on one side of his office, Wayne pushed harder and harder for a thirty-day reprieve. He argued that the execution could be delayed for thirty days, and thirty days only, while the dust settled and the claims of this Boyette clown could be investigated. If he was telling the truth, and the body could be found, then the governor would be a hero. If he turned out to be a flake, as they strongly suspected, then Drumm would live another thirty days and then get the needle. There was no long-term harm, politically. The only permanent damage would occur if they ignored Boyette, executed Drumm, then found the body exactly where Boyette took them. That would be fatal, and not just for Drumm.
The mood was so tense that they were ignoring the bourbon.
On the other side, Barry argued that any form of retreat would be nothing but a show of weakness, especially in light of the governor's performance before the mob less than three hours earlier. Executions, especially high-profile ones, attract all sorts of attention seekers, and this guy Boyette was a perfect example. He was obviously looking for the spotlight, his fifteen minutes onstage, and to allow him to derail a proper execution was wrong from a judicial point of view, and even more so from a political one. Drumm confessed to the murder, Barry said over and over. Don't let some serial pervert cloud the truth. It was a fair trial! The appeals courts, all of them, had affirmed the conviction!
