The Confession: A Novel

by John Grisham

  There was a pause on the other end as she digested this. "Reverend Schroeder, I have about a thousand questions."

  "And I'm late for soccer practice. Good day, ma'am." Keith hung up and hurriedly left the office.

  ------

  Fordyce--Hitting Hard! ran a one-hour segment during prime time Monday night. The event had been shamelessly advertised throughout the weekend, and Sean Fordyce spoke to the world live from Slone, Texas, where he was still darting around in search of another fire or, hopefully, a dead body or a bomb blast. The first half hour was the Reeva show, with lots of tears and anticipation of the execution. There was footage of Nicole as a little girl dancing in a recital, and more of her bounding on the sideline as she cheered on the Warriors. There was a clip of Donte mauling a running back. And lots of Reeva, with the highlight being the post-execution interview. In light of the obvious, she looked foolish, almost pathetic, and it was obvious Fordyce set her up for the kill. There were close shots of Reeva bawling without restraint, then going mute as she watched the tape of Boyette for the first time. She was visibly shaken when Boyette displayed Nicole's class ring. After that, no more Reeva. In the second half, Fordyce ran a collage of videos and interviews and produced nothing that wasn't already known. The piece was a mess. It was ironic that a mouthpiece so enamored of the death penalty was airing an exclusive about a wrongful execution, but irony was lost on Sean Fordyce. He cared for nothing but ratings.

  Keith and Dana watched it. During his chaotic hours in Slone, and the frenzy to actually get there, he had seen nothing of Nicole's family. He'd read about Reeva online but had not heard her speak. At least the Fordyce piece was good for something. Not having dealt with Reeva, he could easily feel sorry for her.

  There was a phone call he had been delaying for several hours. As Dana prepped the boys for bed, Keith retreated to the bedroom and called Elmo Laird. He apologized for disturbing him at home, but things were changing rapidly and Keith deemed the call important. Elmo said not to worry. After Keith explained in detail the conversation with Eliza Keene, Elmo suggested that perhaps they should worry. "Probably not a good idea" was his first response.

  "But she had the story, Mr. Laird, the facts, the paperwork, the photo. She knew everything. I would've sounded stupid trying to deny things."

  "You're not required to speak to reporters, you know?"

  "I know, but I'm not running from anyone. I did what I did. The truth is on the table."

  "I appreciate that, Pastor, but you hired me to give advice. There would've been a better time and place to tell your story, a setting of our choosing."

  "I'm sorry. I don't understand legalities. Right now, I'm overwhelmed with the law and its endless procedures."

  "Of course, my clients usually are. That's why they hire me."

  "So I screwed up?"

  "Not necessarily. But get ready for all hell to break loose, pardon my language, Pastor. I expect coverage of this. I'm not sure the Drumm story can take any more ink, but your story will certainly be a new wrinkle."

  "I'm confused, Mr. Laird. Help me here. How will the coverage affect my case?"

  "Keith, come on, you really don't have a case. There are no charges pending, and there may never be. I spoke with the district attorney this afternoon, he and I are friends, and while he was captivated with your story, he wasn't gung ho to crank up a prosecution. He didn't rule it out, and again I'm afraid Boyette is the key. He's probably the most famous convict on the loose right now. He was indicted for murder in Missouri today, did you see--"

  "I saw it a couple of hours ago," Keith said.

  "His face is everywhere, so maybe he'll be caught. I doubt if he comes back to Kansas. Let Missouri have him. If he's locked up before he hurts someone, I think the DA here might close the book."

  "And the publicity about my involvement?"

  "We'll see. A lot of people around here will admire you for what you did. I can't see much room to criticize you for trying to save Donte Drumm, especially in light of what we know now. We'll ride it out, but, please, no more interviews."

  "You got it, Mr. Laird."

  CHAPTER 39

  Keith slept, off and on, for four hours, then finally got out of bed and went to the kitchen. He checked CNN, saw nothing new, then opened his laptop and checked in with Houston. On Chron.com there were several stories, with Robbie and his lawsuits getting the lead. There was a photo of him waving some papers on the steps of the Chester County Courthouse. He was quoted at length, with predictable statements about hounding those responsible for the wrongful death of Donte Drumm to their graves. None of the defendants, including the governor, commented.

  The next story was about the reactions of the various anti-death-penalty groups in the state, and Keith was proud to see ATeXX taking the lead. There were demands for a number of drastic responses--the usual moratorium on executions, investigations of the Slone Police Department, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, the governor's handling of clemency, the trial itself, Paul Koffee and his office, and on and on. Demonstrations were planned for noon Tuesday at the State Capitol in Austin, Sam Houston State University in Huntsville, Texas Southern University, and a dozen other schools.

  The longest-serving member of the Texas Senate was a feisty black attorney from Houston, Rodger Ebbs, and he had a lot to say. He was demanding that the governor call an emergency session of the legislature so that a special inquiry could be initiated to investigate all aspects of the Drumm fiasco. Ebbs was vice chairman of the Senate Finance Committee, and thus had considerable influence over every aspect of the state's budget. He promised to shut down the state government if a special session did not take place. No comment from the governor.

  Drifty Tucker, the next man scheduled to be executed, was suddenly in the news. His date was November 28, a little over two weeks away, and his case, dormant for a decade, was attracting a lot of attention.

  Eliza Keene's article was number four on the list. Keith clicked on it and saw the photo of himself, Robbie, Aaron, and Martha Handler, all looking quite serious as they left the train station for the trip to Huntsville. The headline was "Kansas Minister Witnessed Drumm Execution." She covered the basics of the story and attributed several quotes to Keith. She, too, had witnessed an execution, years earlier, and was intrigued by how someone could be approved as a witness on such short notice. No one from the prison would comment. Evidently, she had contacted the Flak Law Firm for a word or two, but found no one willing to talk. A counselor at Anchor House said that Reverend Schroeder had stopped by at least twice the previous week looking for Boyette. He had signed the register. Boyette's parole officer was mum. About half the article dealt with Keith and Boyette and their mad rush to Texas to stop the execution. There was a smaller photo of Boyette taken when he addressed the reporters the previous Thursday. The second half of the report took a different turn and dwelled on Keith's potential legal problems. Could the minister be prosecuted for knowingly aiding a felon in his flight to violate parole? To get to the bottom of this, Ms. Keene called upon some experts. A law professor at the University of Houston was quoted: "It was an honorable thing to do, but a clear violation of the law. Now that Boyette is at large, I suspect the minister might want to consult with a lawyer."

  Thanks, loudmouth, Keith said to himself. And the violation is anything but clear, according to my lawyer. Perhaps you should do a bit of research before popping off in the press.

  A criminal defense lawyer in Houston said, "There may be a violation, but looking at the whole picture, I think the guy is a hero. I would love to defend him before a jury."

  A jury? Elmo Laird was hoping for a quick, quiet little guilty plea with a slap on the wrist. That's what Keith remembered, anyway. And to cover all angles, Ms. Keene chatted with a former Texas prosecutor who was quoted as saying, "A crime is a crime, regardless of the circumstances. I would cut him no slack. The fact that he's a minister is of no significance."

  The fifth article was a contin
uation of the ferocious investigation into what happened in the governor's office in the waning hours before the execution. So far, the team of journalists had been unable to smoke out anyone from inside the governor's office who would admit to having seen the video of Boyette making his confession. The e-mail was sent from the Flak Law Firm at 3:11 p.m., and Robbie certainly made his server records available. The governor's office did not. Nothing was forthcoming. His close aides, and dozens who were not so close, were marching in step and saying nothing. This would probably change. When the investigations began, and the subpoenas started flying, the finger-pointing would begin.

  At 6:02 a.m., the phone rang. Caller ID showed it as "Unknown." Keith grabbed it before it woke up Dana and the boys. A man with a thick accent, possibly French, said he was looking for Reverend Keith Schroeder.

  "And who are you?"

  "My name is Antoine Didier; I'm with Le Monde, a newspaper in Paris. I would like to speak about the Drumm matter."

  "I'm sorry, I have no comment." Keith hung up and waited for it to ring again. It did, he grabbed it, gave an abrupt "No comment, sir," then hung up again. There were four phones in the house, and he hurried through and punched "Do Not Disturb" on all of them. In the bedroom, Dana was coming to life. "Who is calling?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  "The French."

  "The who?"

  "Get up. It might be a long day."

  ------

  Lazarus Flint was the first black park ranger in East Texas. For over thirty years, he had supervised the maintenance of Rush Point along the Red River, and for the past nine years he and his two staff members had patiently cared for the sacred ground upon which the family and friends of Nicole Yarber made their treks and conducted their vigils. He had watched them for years. They showed up every now and then, and they would sit at the point near the makeshift cross. They would sit and cry and burn candles, all the while gazing into the river in the distance, as if the river had taken her away. As if they knew for certain that was her final resting place. And once a year, on the anniversary of her disappearance, her mother made her annual pilgrimage to Rush Point, always with cameras around her, always wailing and carrying on. They burned more candles, packed flowers around the cross, brought mementos and crude artwork and signs with messages. They would stay until dark, and always left with a prayer at the cross.

  Lazarus was from Slone, and he had never believed Donte was guilty. One of his nephews was sent away for a burglary he had nothing to do with, and Lazarus, like most blacks in Slone, had never trusted the police. They got the wrong man, he'd said many times from a distance as he watched Nicole's family and friends carry on.

  Early Tuesday, long before anyone arrived at Rush Point, Lazarus parked his pickup truck near the shrine and slowly, methodically began dismantling the junk. He yanked the cross from the ground--there had been several crosses over the years, each larger than the last. He lifted the wax-covered block of granite upon which they stuck the candles. There were four photos of Nicole, two laminated and two framed in glass. A very pretty girl, Lazarus thought as he placed the photos in his truck. A terrible death, but then so was Donte's. He gathered tiny porcelain figures of cheerleaders, clay tablets with printed messages, bronze works with no discernible meanings, baffling works of oil on canvas, and bunches of wilted flowers.

  It was a load of trash, in his opinion.

  What a waste, Lazarus said to himself as he drove away. Wasted effort, time, tears, emotions, hatred, hope, prayers. The girl had been more than five hours away, buried in the hills of Missouri by someone else. She had never been near Rush Point.

  ------

  Paul Koffee entered the chambers of Judge Henry on Tuesday at 12:15. Though it was lunchtime, there was no food in sight. Judge Henry stayed behind his desk, and Koffee sat in a deep leather chair, one he knew well.

  Koffee had not left his cabin since Friday night. On Monday, he had not called his office, and his staff knew nothing of his whereabouts. His two court appearances, both in front of Judge Henry, had been postponed. He looked gaunt, tired, pale, with even deeper circles under his eyes. His customary prosecutor's swagger had vanished.

  "How are you doing these days, Paul?" the judge began pleasantly.

  "I've been better."

  "I'm sure you have. Are you and your staff still working on the theory that Drumm and Boyette were in cahoots?"

  "We're giving that some thought," Koffee said while staring out a window to his left. Eye contact was difficult for Koffee, but not for Judge Henry.

  "Perhaps I can help here, Paul. You and I, and the rest of the world at this moment, know full well that such a ridiculous theory is nothing but a sick, lame, desperate attempt to save your ass. Paul, listen to me, your ass cannot be saved. Nothing can save you. And if you trot out this co-defendant theory, you will be laughed out of town. Worse, it will only create more tension. It's not going to fly, Paul. Don't pursue it. Don't file anything, because if you do, I'll dismiss it immediately. Forget about it, Paul. Forget about everything in your office right now."

  "Are you telling me to quit?"

  "Yes. Immediately. Your career will end in disgrace; get it over with, Paul. Until you step down, the blacks will be in the streets."

  "Suppose I don't want to resign?"

  "I can't make you, but I can make you wish you had. I'm your judge, Paul, I rule on every motion in every case. I preside over every trial. As long as you are the district attorney, your office gets nothing out of me. Don't even file a motion, because I won't consider it. Don't indict anyone; I'll quash the indictments. Don't ask for a trial, because I'm busy that week. Nothing, Paul, nothing. You and your staff will be able to do nothing."

  Koffee was breathing through his mouth, frowning at the judge, trying to digest what he'd just heard. "That's pretty severe, Judge."

  "If that's what it takes to get you out of office."

  "I could file a complaint."

  Judge Henry laughed. "I'm eighty-one years old and retiring. I don't care."

  Koffee slowly got to his feet and walked to a window. He spoke with his back to the judge. "I don't care either, Elias, to be honest. I just want to get outta here, take a break, run away. I'm only fifty-six, still young enough to do something else." A long pause as Koffee rubbed a pane of glass with a finger. "God, I can't believe this, Judge. How did this happen?"

  "Everybody got careless. Bad police work. When there's no evidence, the easiest way to solve a crime is to get a confession."

  Koffee turned around and took a few steps to the edge of the desk. His eyes were moist, his hands trembled. "I can't lie, Judge. I feel rotten."

  "I understand. I'm sure I would too, under the circumstances."

  Koffee stared at his feet for a long time. Finally, he said, "I'll quit, Elias, if that's what it takes. I guess that means a special election."

  "Eventually, but I have a suggestion. When you resign, put Grimshaw in charge, he's the best of your assistants. Call in the grand jury and indict Boyette for the crime. The faster, the better. It's a wonderfully symbolic act--we, the judicial system, in effect admit our mistake, and we are now trying to rectify it by prosecuting the real killer. Our admission will do much to soothe feelings in Slone."

  Koffee nodded and shook the judge's hand.

  ------

  Keith's office at St. Mark's received numerous calls throughout the day. Charlotte Junger fielded them all, explaining that the reverend was unavailable for comment. Keith finally arrived, late in the afternoon. He had been hiding at the hospital all day, visiting the sick, far away from phones and nosy reporters.

  At his request, Charlotte had kept a log of all callers, and Keith studied it in his office, door locked, phone unplugged. The reporters were from everywhere, from San Diego to Boston, Miami to Portland. Six of the thirty-nine were from European papers, eleven from Texas. One reporter said he was from Chile, though Charlotte wasn't sure because of the accent. Three members of St. Mark's had called to c
omplain. They did not like the fact that their pastor was accused of violating the law; indeed, he seemed to be admitting it. Two members called to express their admiration and support. The story, though, had not yet made it to the Topeka morning paper. That would happen the next day, and Keith expected the same photo to be splashed all over his hometown.

  Luke, the six-year-old, had a soccer game under the lights, and since it was Tuesday, the Schroeder family ate at their favorite pizza place. The boys were in bed by 9:30, Keith and Dana by 10:00. They debated whether to keep the phones silent, but in the end agreed to remove the "Do Not Disturb" hold and hope for the best. If one reporter called, they would silence the phones. At 11:12, the phone rang. Keith, still awake, grabbed it and said, "Hello."

  "Pastor, Pastor, how are we?" It was Travis Boyette. In anticipation of this unlikely event, Keith had rigged a small recorder to his phone. He pushed "Record" and said, "Hello, Travis," and Dana came to life. She scrambled out of bed, flipped on a light switch, grabbed her cell phone, and began punching the number of a Detective Lang, a man they had met with twice.

  "What are you doing these days?" Keith asked. Just a couple of old friends. Lang had told him to keep Boyette on the line as long as possible.

  "Moving around, can't stay in one place too long." His tongue was thick, his words slow.

  "Still in Missouri?"

  "Naw, I left Missouri before you did, Pastor. I'm here and there."

  "You forgot your cane, Travis. Left it on the bed. Why did you do that?"

  "Don't need it, never did. I exaggerated a little bit, Pastor, please forgive me. I got a tumor, but it's been with me for a long time. Meningioma, not a glioblastoma. Grade one. Benign little fella. It acts up every now and then, but I doubt if it will kill me. The cane was a weapon, Pastor, something I used for self-defense. You live with a bunch of thugs in a halfway house, and you just never know when you might need a weapon." Country music was in the background; he was probably in a seedy lounge.