The Confession: A Novel

by John Grisham

  The post-execution interview was the most dramatic segment of his show. Catch 'em just minutes after they've watched the bastard die and they might say anything. He snapped at a technician, cursed a cameraman, yelled that he was ready to go. A final dusting of powder on his forehead, then an instant change of demeanor as he looked at the camera, smiled, and became a man of great compassion. With tape running, he explained where he was, gave the time, the hour, the gravity of the moment, then he walked to Reeva and said, "Reeva, it's over. Tell us what you saw."

  Reeva, a Kleenex in each hand--she'd gone through a box since lunch--dabbed her eyes and said, "I saw him, for the first time in eight years, I saw the man who killed my baby. I looked him in the eyes, but he would not look at me." Her voice was strong, no breakdown yet.

  "What did he say?"

  "He said he was sorry, and I appreciate that."

  Fordyce leaned in closer, frowning. "Did he say he was sorry for killing Nicole?"

  "Something like that," she said, but Wallis shook his head and glanced at his wife.

  "You disagree, Mr. Pike?"

  "He said he was sorry for what happened, not sorry for anything he did," Wallis grunted.

  "Are you sure?" Reeva fired back at her husband.

  "I'm sure."

  "That's not what I heard."

  "Tell us about the execution, the dying," Fordyce pleaded.

  Reeva, still pissed at Wallis, shook her head and wiped her nose with a Kleenex. "It was much too easy. He just went to sleep. When they opened the curtains, he was already on the little bed in there, all strapped down, looking very much at peace. He made his last statement, then he closed his eyes. We couldn't tell anything, nothing, no sign that the drugs had been administered, nothing. He just went to sleep."

  "And you were thinking about Nicole and how horrible her death must have been?"

  "Oh, God, yes, exactly, my poor baby. She suffered greatly. Just terrible ..." Her voice choked and the camera zoomed even closer.

  "Did you want him to suffer?" Fordyce asked, prodding, prompting.

  She nodded vigorously, her eyes closed. Fordyce asked Wallis, "What changes now, Mr. Pike? What does this mean for your family?"

  Wallis thought for a second, and while he was thinking, Reeva blurted, "It means a lot, knowing he's dead, knowing he's been punished. I think I'll sleep better at night."

  "Did he claim to be innocent?"

  "Oh yes," Reeva said, the tears gone for the moment. "Same old stuff we've been hearing for years. 'I'm an innocent man!' Well, now he's a dead man, that's all I can say."

  "Have you ever thought that he might be innocent, that someone else might have killed Nicole?"

  "No, not for a minute. The monster confessed."

  Fordyce pulled back a little. "Have you heard of a man named Travis Boyette?"

  A blank face. "Who?"

  "Travis Boyette. At 5:30 this afternoon, he went on television in Slone and claimed to be the killer."

  "Nonsense."

  "Here's the tape," Fordyce said, pointing to a twenty-inch screen off to the right. On cue, the video of Travis Boyette appeared. The volume was high; the rest of the set was perfectly still. As he talked, Reeva watched closely, frowning, almost smirking, then shaking her head no. An idiot, a fraud. She knew who the killer was. But when Boyette pulled out the class ring, shoved it at the cameras, and said he had kept it for nine years, Reeva's face turned pale, her jaw dropped, her shoulders slumped.

  Sean Fordyce may have been a noisy proponent of the death penalty, but like most cable screamers he never let ideology get in the way of a sensational story. The possibility that the wrong man had just been executed would undoubtedly strike a blow against capital punishment, but Fordyce couldn't have cared less. He was smack in the middle of the hour's hottest story--number two on CNN's home page--and he planned to make the most of it.

  And he saw nothing wrong with ambushing his own guest. He'd done it before, and he would do it again if it produced great drama.

  Boyette vanished from the screen.

  "Did you see the ring, Reeva?" Fordyce boomed.

  Reeva looked as though she'd seen a ghost. Then she collected herself and remembered that everything was being filmed. "Yes," she managed to say.

  "And is it Nicole's?"

  "Oh, there's no way to tell. Who is this guy and where did he come from?"

  "He's a serial rapist with a rap sheet a mile long, that's who he is."

  "Well, there. Who can believe him?"

  "So you don't, Reeva?"

  "Of course not." But the tears were gone, as was the spunk. Reeva appeared confused, disoriented, and very tired. As Fordyce moved in for another question, she said, "Sean, it's been a long day. We're going home."

  "Yes, sure, Reeva, just one more question. Now that you've seen an execution, do you think they should be televised?"

  Reeva yanked the mike off her jacket and bounced to her feet. "Come on, Wallis. I'm tired."

  The interview was over. Reeva, Wallis, and their two children walked out of the motel with Brother Ronnie behind them. They piled into the church van and headed for Slone.

  ------

  At the airport, Keith called Dana with the latest update on his little road trip. He was free-falling now, with no idea where he was going and not sure where he'd been. When he explained, gently, that he had just witnessed the execution, she was speechless. So was he. The conversation was brief. She asked if he was okay, and he replied that he definitely was not.

  The King Air lifted off at 7:05 and was soon in heavy clouds. The plane dipped and lurched, much like an old truck on a bumpy road. "Moderate turbulence" the pilot had called it as they boarded. With the noise of the engines, the sense of being tossed about, and the mind-bending blur of images from the past two hours, Keith found it easy to close his eyes and withdraw into his own little cocoon.

  Robbie was withdrawn too. He sat forward, elbows on knees, chin in hand, eyes closed, deep in thought and painful memories. Martha Handler wanted to talk, to take notes, to capture the moment fully, but there was no one to interview. Aaron Rey stared nervously out the window, as if waiting for a wing to break off.

  At five thousand feet, the ride smoothed somewhat and the cabin noise died down. Robbie reclined in his seat and smiled at Martha. "What were his last words?" she asked.

  "He loves his momma and he's an innocent man."

  "Is that all?"

  "That's enough. There's a Web site for the Texas death row, an official one, and they post all of the last statements. Donte's will be up by noon tomorrow. It was beautiful. He called 'em by name, the bad guys--Kerber, Koffee, Judge Grale, the governor. Beautiful, just beautiful."

  "So he went down fighting?"

  "He was not able to fight, but he did not give an inch."

  ------

  The car was an old Buick owned by an old widow, Ms. Nadine Snyderwine, and it was parked beside her modest home on a concrete pad, under a willow oak. She drove it three times a week, max, and with her failing eyesight she knew her driving days were numbered. Ms. Snyderwine had never worked outside the home, never met a lot of people, and certainly never provoked anyone. Her car was chosen because it was accessible and, more important, because it was parked on a quiet, dark street in a very white part of town. The Buick was unlocked, not that a lock would have mattered. The driver's door was opened, a Molotov cocktail was lit and tossed inside, and the arsonists disappeared into the night without a trace. A neighbor saw flames, and the 911 call was recorded at 7:28.

  If there was a chance that the old Buick's wiring shorted, that the car somehow ignited on its own, such thoughts were dashed when the second 911 call came at 7:36. Another car was on fire, a Volvo wagon parked on a street halfway between the courthouse and Civitan Park. Fire trucks screamed back and forth across town, with police escorts clearing the way. The sirens were applauded by the mob at the park, a mob that was growing larger as the night grew later. But aside from underage dri
nking and possession of pot, no crimes were being committed. Yet. Perhaps disturbing the peace, but given the tension of the moment, the police were not inclined to enter the park and break up the fun. The crowd was in a belligerent mood, fueled by the news of Donte's death, the statements of Travis Boyette, the angry rap blasting from car stereos, and some drugs and alcohol.

  The police watched and pondered their options. They huddled with the National Guardsmen and plotted strategy. The wrong move could provoke a response that was unpredictable, primarily because the crowd had no real leader at that point and had no idea where the night would lead it. Every half hour or so, some clown lit a string of firecrackers, and for a split second the policemen and guardsmen froze and strained to tell if the noise was gunfire. So far, only firecrackers.

  The third call was recorded at 7:40, and it was the most ominous so far. In fact, when the police chief got the details, he thought about leaving town himself. At Big Louie's honky-tonk west of town, the gravel parking lot was packed as usual for a Thursday night, the unofficial beginning of the weekend. To kick things off, Louie offered a variety of drink specials, all involving reduced prices, and the Bubbas responded with enthusiasm. Of the vehicles parked outside the cheap metal building, virtually all were pickup trucks, an even split between Ford and Chevrolet. The arsonists picked one of each, broke the windows, tossed the cocktails, and disappeared into the darkness. A latecomer, in a pickup, thought he saw a "coupla black boys" running away, crouching low, very suspicious. But he wasn't close and didn't see their faces. In fact, he wasn't even sure they were black.

  When the Bubbas stampeded outside and saw flames roaring out of both trucks, they scrambled for their own. A melee ensued, a near demolition derby, as they frantically tried to get away from the fires. Many of them left, evidently no longer thirsty and anxious to get home, lock the doors, get the guns loaded. Every pickup at Big Louie's had at least one gun under the seat or in the glove box. Many had hunting rifles in the window racks.

  It was the wrong crowd to start a fight with. You burn a man's pickup, and he's ready for war.

  CHAPTER 28

  By eight o'clock, the drumsticks were gone, too much booze had been consumed, and most of Koffee's guests were anxious to get home and see how bad things were in town. The television crews were darting around, trying to keep up with the arsonists, and the fires effectively ended the celebration by the lake. Drew Kerber hung around, stalling, waiting for everyone to leave. He opened another beer and said to Paul Koffee, "We need to talk."

  They walked to the edge of the narrow dock, as far away from the cabin as possible, though no one else was there. Koffee also had a bottle of beer. They leaned on the railing and looked at the water below them.

  Kerber spat, sipped his beer, and said, "This guy Boyette, does he worry you?"

  Koffee appeared to look surprised, or at least attempted to. "No, but he obviously worries you."

  A long, slow pull on the beer, and Kerber said, "I grew up in Denton, and there were some Boyettes in the neighborhood. Ted Boyette was a good friend, finished high school together, then he joined the Army and disappeared. I heard he got into some trouble, but I moved away, ended up here, and sort of forgot about him. You know how it is with childhood friends, you don't ever forget them, but you don't ever see them either. Anyway, in January 1999, and I remember the month because we had Drumm locked up, I was at the station and some of the other guys were laughing about a thug they'd caught in a stolen pickup. They ran his record; guy's got three convictions for sexual assault. A registered sex offender in three states, and he was only in his mid-thirties. The cops were wondering, what's the record? Which pervert is registered in the most states? Someone asked his name. Someone else said, 'T. Boyette.' I didn't say a word, but I was curious as to whether it might be the kid from our neighborhood. I checked his file, saw his name was Travis, but I was still curious. A couple of days later, he was led into the courtroom for a quick appearance before the judge. I didn't want him to see me, because if it had been my old pal, I didn't want to embarrass him. The courtroom was busy, it was easy to not be noticed. But it wasn't him. It was Travis Boyette, the same guy who is in town right now. I recognized him the second I saw him on television--same slick head, same tattoo on the left side of his neck. He was here, Paul, in Slone, in jail, at approximately the same time the girl disappeared."

  Koffee thought hard for a few seconds, then said, "Okay, assume he was here. That doesn't mean he's telling the truth about killing her."

  "What if he is telling the truth?"

  "You can't be serious."

  "Humor me, Paul. What if? What if Boyette is telling the truth? What if Boyette really has the girl's ring? What if Boyette takes them to the body? What if, Paul? Help me here. You're the lawyer."

  "I'm not believing this."

  "Can we face charges?"

  "For what?"

  "How about murder?"

  "Are you drunk, Kerber?"

  "I've had too much."

  "Then sleep here, don't drive. Why aren't you in town with every other cop?"

  "I'm a detective, not a street cop. And I'd like to keep my job, Paul. Hypothetically, what happens if this Boyette is telling the truth?"

  Koffee drained his bottle, then tossed it into the lake. He lit a cigarette, and blew a long trail of smoke. "Nothing happens. We're immune. I control the grand jury, thus I control who gets prosecuted for what. There's never been a case of a detective or a prosecutor facing charges for a bad conviction. We are the system, Kerber. We might get sued in a civil court, but that's a long shot too. Plus, we're insured by the city. So there, stop worrying. We're Teflon."

  "Would I get fired?"

  "No, because that would harm you and the city in the civil suit. But they'll probably offer you early retirement. The city will take care of you."

  "So we'll be okay?"

  "Yes, and please stop this, will you?"

  Kerber smiled, breathed deeply, and took another long drink. "Just curious," he said. "That's all. I'm really not worried."

  "Could've fooled me."

  They stared at the water for a while, both lost in their thoughts, but both thinking the same thing. Finally, Koffee said, "Boyette was in jail here, and out on parole from another state, right?"

  "Right. I think it was Oklahoma, maybe Arkansas."

  "Then how did he get away?"

  "I don't remember everything, but I'll check the file in the morning. Seems as though he posted bond, then disappeared. I had nothing to do with the case, and as soon as I realized it was a different Boyette, I forgot about him. Until today."

  Another gap in the conversation, then Koffee said, "Just relax, Kerber. You built a good case, he got a fair trial, and his guilt was affirmed by all the courts. What else can we expect? The system worked. Hell, Drew, the boy confessed."

  "Of course he did. I've often wondered, though, what would've happened without the confession."

  "You're not worried about the confession, are you?"

  "Oh, no. I played it by the book."

  "Forget about it, Drew. Look, it's over, really over. It's too late to second-guess anything we did. The boy is on the way home in a box."

  ------

  The Slone airport was closed. The pilot activated the landing lights by radio signal from his controls, and the approach and touchdown were smooth. They taxied to the small terminal, and as soon as the props came to rest, they hurried off the plane. Robbie thanked the pilot and promised to call him later. The pilot passed along his condolences. By the time they were in the van, Aaron had spoken with Carlos and had a full report. "Fires all over town," he said. "They're burning cars. Carlos says there are three television crews in the parking lot at the office. They want to talk to you, Robbie, and they want to see more of Boyette."

  "Why don't they burn the TV vans?" Robbie asked.

  "Are you gonna talk to them?"

  "I don't know. Make 'em wait. What's Boyette doing?"

&nb
sp; "Watching television. Carlos says he's pissed off because no one listened to him, and he's refusing to say anything else to the reporters."

  "If I attack him with a baseball bat, will you please keep me from killing him?"

  "No," Aaron said.

  As they entered the city limits, all four strained to see signs of the unrest. Aaron kept to the backstreets, away from downtown, and minutes later they arrived at the train station. All the lights were on. The parking lot was full, and there were indeed three TV vans waiting. By the time Robbie got out, the reporters were waiting for him. He politely asked them where they were from and what they wanted. One crew was from Slone, one from a station in Dallas, and one from Tyler. There were several newspaper reporters, including one from Houston. Robbie offered them a deal--if he organized a small press conference, outside, on the platform, and answered their questions, would they then leave and not come back? He reminded them that they were on his property and they could be asked to leave at any time. They accepted his deal; everything was pleasant.

  "What about Travis Boyette?" a reporter asked.

  Robbie said, "I'm not in charge of Mr. Boyette. I understand he's still inside and doesn't wish to say anything else. I'll speak with him, see what he wants to do."

  "Thank you, Mr. Flak."

  "I'll be back in thirty minutes," he said, and climbed the steps. Keith, Aaron, and Martha followed. Emotions hit hard when they walked into the conference room and saw Carlos, Bonnie, Sammie Thomas, Kristi Hinze, Fanta, and Fred Pryor. There were hugs and condolences and tears.

  "Where's Boyette?" Robbie asked.

  Fred Pryor pointed to the closed door of a small office.

  "Good, keep him there. Let's gather around the conference table. I'd like to describe what it was like, while it's fresh. Reverend Schroeder might want to help, because he was there. He spent time with Donte and watched him die."