The Confession: A Novel

by John Grisham

  "Thank you, Simon, but I don't remember feeling that brave. I just reacted."

  "Right, right. But you must've been terrified. What was it like, Keith? The violence, death row, being with Boyette? Must've been horrible."

  The last thing Keith wanted to do was tell the story, but the Monk looked so eager. "Come on, Simon, you've read the papers," Keith tried to protest. "You know what happened."

  "Keith, humor me. What really happened?"

  So Keith bored himself while humoring the Monk, who added to the narrative every fifteen seconds with a bewildered "Unbelievable" or a clucking "My, my." Once, while he was shaking his head, the crumb was dislodged and fell into his coffee, but the Monk did not notice. In this rendition, Keith chose the chilling phone call from Boyette as the final chapter.

  "My, my."

  Typical of the Monk, they had begun with the unpleasant--the editorial--then switched to the enjoyable--Keith's brave journey south--and suddenly it was back to the real purpose of the meeting. The first two paragraphs of the editorial commended Keith on his courage, but that was just the warm-up. The remainder chastised him for knowingly violating the law, though the editors, like the lawyers, struggled to set forth the exact violation.

  "I assume you're getting top-notch legal advice," the Monk said, obviously anxious to give his version of the necessary advice, if Keith would only ask.

  "I have a good lawyer."

  "And?"

  "Come on, Simon. You understand the nature of confidential relationships."

  The Monk's overloaded spine managed to stiffen. Chastised, he plowed on. "Of course. I didn't mean to pry, but this does have our attention, Keith. There is the suggestion that there could be a criminal investigation, that you could be in hot water, so to speak, and so on. This is hardly private."

  "I'm guilty of something, Simon. I did it, plain and simple. My lawyer thinks that I may one day find it necessary to plead guilty to some vague obstruction of justice charge. No jail. Small fine. Record to be expunged later. There."

  The Monk ate the last of his croissant with one savage bite and chewed on matters for a while. He washed it down with a slug of coffee. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and, when everything was properly cleared, said, "Assume you plead guilty to something, Keith, what would you expect from the church?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "I had two choices, Simon. Play it safe, stay in Kansas, and hope for the best. Or I could do what I did. Imagine for a moment, Simon, if I had done otherwise, if I had known the truth about who killed the girl and I had been too timid to move. They execute the wrong man, they find the body, and for the rest of my life I carry the guilt of not trying to intervene. What would you have done, Simon?"

  "We admire you, Keith, honestly," the Monk replied softly, completely ducking the question. "What concerns us, though, is the prospect of a prosecution, one of our ministers accused of a crime, and in a very public way."

  The Monk often used the word "us" when driving home a point, as if all the important leaders in the Christian world were focused on whatever pressing matter the Monk had on his agenda.

  "And if I plead guilty?" Keith asked.

  "That should be avoided, if at all possible."

  "And if I'm forced to?"

  The Monk shifted his sizable frame, yanked on the sagging lobe of his left ear, then re-clasped his hands, as if ready to pray. "Our synodical policies would require the initiating of a disciplinary procedure. Any criminal conviction would mandate this, Keith, I'm sure you understand. We can't have our ministers going to court with their lawyers, standing before judges, pleading guilty, getting sentenced, with the media stumbling all over themselves. Especially in a case like this. Think about the church, Keith."

  "How would I be punished?"

  "It's all premature, Keith. Let's worry about it later. I just wanted to have the first conversation, that's all."

  "I want to get this straight, Simon. I stand a very good chance of being disciplined, whether suspended, placed on leave, perhaps defrocked, for doing something that you deem admirable and the church is very proud of. Right?"

  "Right, Keith, but let's not jump the gun here. If you can avoid prosecution, the problem is averted."

  "Happily ever after."

  "Something like that. Just keep us in the loop. We prefer to hear the news from you, not the newspaper."

  Keith nodded, his mind already drifting away.

  ------

  Classes resumed without incident Thursday morning at the high school. When the students arrived, they were greeted by the football team, again wearing their home jerseys. The coaches and cheerleaders were there too, at the main entrance, smiling and shaking hands and trying to set a mood of reconciliation. Inside, in the lobby, Roberta, Cedric, Marvin, and Andrea chatted with the students and teachers.

  ------

  Nicole Yarber was buried in a private ceremony at 4:00 on Thursday afternoon, almost exactly one week after the execution of Donte Drumm. There was no formal funeral or memorial service; Reeva simply wasn't up to it. She was advised by two close friends that a large, showy service would not be well attended, unless reporters were allowed. Besides, the First Baptist Church had no sanctuary, and the thought of borrowing one from a rival denomination was not appealing.

  A strong police presence kept the cameras far away. Reeva was sick of those people. For the first time in nine years, she ran from publicity. She and Wallis invited close to a hundred family members and friends, and virtually all showed up. There were a few prominent no-shows. Nicole's father was excluded because he had not bothered to witness the execution, though, as Reeva was forced to admit to herself in hindsight, she wished that she had not witnessed it either. Things had become quite complicated in Reeva's world, and not inviting Cliff Yarber seemed appropriate at that moment. She would regret it later. She would not regret excluding Drew Kerber and Paul Koffee, two men she now loathed. They had misled her, betrayed her, and wounded her so deeply that she would never recover.

  As the architects of the wrongful conviction, Kerber and Koffee had a list of victims that was growing steadily. Reeva and her family had been added.

  Brother Ronnie, who was as weary of Reeva as he was of the media, presided with a subdued dignity that fitted the occasion. He spoke and read scripture, and as he did so, he noticed the perplexed and stunned faces of those in attendance. All were white, and all had been convinced beyond any doubt that the remains in the bronze coffin before them had been swept away by the Red River years earlier. If any had ever felt the slightest sympathy for Donte Drumm and his family, they had kept it from their pastor. They had relished the thought of retribution and execution, as had he. Brother Ronnie was trying to make peace with God and find forgiveness. He wondered how many of those present were doing the same. However, he did not wish to offend anyone, especially Reeva, so his message was on the lighter side. He had never known Nicole, but he managed to recount her life with stories shared by her friends. He assured everyone that Nicole had been with her Father in heaven all these years. In heaven, there is no sorrow, so she was oblivious to the suffering of the loved ones she left behind.

  A hymn, a solo, another reading of scripture, and the service ended in less than an hour. Nicole Yarber finally received a proper burial.

  ------

  Paul Koffee waited until after dark to slip into his office. He typed a terse letter of resignation and e-mailed it to Judge Henry, with a copy to the clerk of the court. He typed a slightly longer explanation to his staff and e-mailed it without bothering to check for typos. He hurriedly dumped the contents of his center desk drawer into a box, then grabbed whatever valuables he could carry. An hour later, he walked out of his office for the last time.

  His car was packed and he was headed west, a long road trip with Alaska as the likely destination. He had no itinerary, no real plans, no desire to return to Slone in the near future. Ideally, he would never return, but with Flak bre
athing fire down his neck he knew that was not possible. He would be dragged back for all manner of abuse--an arduous deposition that would go on for days, a likely date with a disciplinary committee from the state bar, perhaps a punishing ordeal with federal investigators. His future would not be pretty. He was fairly certain he would not face the prospect of jail, but he also knew he could not survive financially and professionally.

  Paul Koffee was ruined, and he knew it.

  CHAPTER 42

  Every store in the mall closed at 9:00 p.m., and by 9:15 Lilly Reed had turned off the registers, punched the time clock, engaged the alarm system, and locked both doors of the ladies' boutique where she worked as an assistant manager. She left the mall through a service door and walked quickly to her car, a VW Beetle, which was parked in an area designated for employees. She was in a hurry, her boyfriend was waiting at a sports bar half a mile away. As she was opening the door to her car, she felt something move behind her and heard a footstep. Then a strange male voice said, "Hey, Lilly." In a split second, Lilly knew she was in trouble. She turned, got a glimpse of the black handgun, saw a face she would never forget, and tried to scream. With astonishing speed, he slapped a hand over her mouth, said, "Get in the car," and shoved her inside. He slammed the driver's door, slapped her hard across the face, then stuck the gun barrel in her left ear. "Not a sound," he hissed. "And get your head down." Almost too horrified to move, she did as she was told. He started the engine.

  Enrico Munez had been napping on and off for half an hour as he waited for his wife to finish her shift at a family restaurant in the mall's food court. He was parked between two other cars in a row of empty vehicles. He was still half-asleep, and he was sitting low in the seat when he saw the attack. The man seemed to appear from nowhere and knew what he was doing. He displayed the gun, but didn't wave it around. He overwhelmed the girl, who was too stunned to react. As soon as the Beetle lurched forward, with the attacker at the wheel, Enrico reacted instinctively. He started the engine of his pickup truck, lunged into reverse, backed up, then sped forward. He caught the Beetle as it was turning at the end of the row and, understanding the gravity of the situation, did not hesitate to crash into it. He managed to avoid the passenger door, where the girl was, and plowed into the right front tire. Immediately upon impact, Enrico thought about the pistol and realized he had left his at home. He reached under his seat, grabbed a sawed-off baseball bat he kept just in case, jumped across the top of the Beetle, and as the man was getting out, Enrico slammed the bat into the back of his shiny slick head. He would later tell his friends it was like smashing a melon.

  The man was flailing on the asphalt, and Enrico hit him again for good measure. The pistol was only a toy, but it looked authentic. Lilly was hysterical. The entire episode lasted less than a minute, but she was already bracing herself for a nightmare. She scrambled out of her car and began running. The commotion attracted others. Mall security arrived in minutes, then the police and an ambulance. Enrico relinquished his prisoner, who was still on the ground, and began telling what happened.

  The attacker had no wallet, no identification, nothing in his pockets but $230 in cash. He refused to give his name. At the hospital, X-rays revealed a hairline crack of the skull, thanks to Enrico, and a brain tumor the size of an egg. He was treated and placed in a secured room. Investigators collected fingerprint samples, and detectives attempted to interrogate him. He was wounded and drugged and gave them nothing. Several policemen and detectives were in and out of the room, and one finally made the connection. "I think it's that Boyette character," he whispered, and suddenly everyone else thought so too. But the man denied it. Two hours later, the fingerprints were matched and his identity was confirmed.

  ------

  Ten hours earlier, on the other side of the world, two Black Hawk helicopters collided over the desert near Fallujah in central Iraq, killing nineteen members of a Texas National Guard unit. The tragedy was just what Governor Newton needed. With Barry and Wayne in near-euphoric agreement, they decided the governor should dash off to Iraq and show real leadership in the war on terror. The trip would also push him onto a larger stage and provide great footage for future use. And, most important, it would get his ass out of Texas.

  His staff worked frantically to rearrange schedules, get military clearance, make sure the press was properly alerted, and sweat the rest of the details for the trip. Early Friday morning, the governor, Wayne, and Barry met for a briefing.

  "They caught Boyette last night," Wayne said, looking at his laptop. "He jumped a girl outside a mall in Overland Park, Kansas. No sexual assault. He's in custody."

  "He was in Kansas?" the governor asked.

  "Yep. Bright boy."

  The governor shook his head in disbelief. "Fifty states, and he stays in Kansas. A moron. What's the latest from Slone?"

  Barry said, "Guard's all gone. DA resigned last night. All bodies buried. Streets are quiet, no fires. Classes resumed yesterday without incident and the football team plays on the road tonight, against Lufkin. Go, Warriors."

  The governor picked up a report. Barry was burning up his laptop. All three were haggard and spent, testy and slightly hungover. They gulped coffee, chewed their nails, and never thought they would be so excited about a trip to Iraq.

  "We have an execution in twelve days, gentlemen," the governor said. "What's the plan?"

  Wayne replied proudly, "Got it all worked out. I've had drinks with a senior law clerk at the court of appeals. Obviously, they'd prefer to postpone the next one for a while. I told him we are in no hurry either. Word is being routed to the lawyer for Drifty Tucker that he should file something, anything, just dream up some wild claim for relief and get it filed, preferably before 5:00 p.m. The court will show unusual interest in Mr. Tucker's case and issue an order, no opinion attached, but will stay the execution until some undetermined point in the future. They'll bury Tucker's case. One day he'll probably read our obituaries."

  "I like it," the governor said, smiling. "And when is the next one?"

  "Not until July, eight months away."

  "Eight months. Wow."

  "Yep. We got lucky."

  The governor looked at Barry and said, "How are things this morning?"

  "Here, or national?" Barry asked.

  "Both."

  "Here, the big story is, of course, the Black Hawks in Iraq, but Drumm is still front-page news. They buried the girl yesterday, front page on a dozen papers. More editorials, everybody wants a moratorium. The death-penalty folks are insane. They are expecting twenty-five thousand at a rally here on Sunday."

  "Where?"

  "At the Capitol, across the street. It'll be a zoo."

  "And we'll be in lovely Fallujah," the governor said.

  "I can't wait," Wayne said.

  Barry continued: "On the national front, it's more of the same. Rants by the left, not much on the right. The governors of Ohio and Pennsylvania are talking openly about moratoriums until the death penalty can be studied some more."

  "That's about right," Newton mumbled.

  "A lot of noise from the abolitionists, but it's all beginning to sound the same. There's so much overkill that the screaming is becoming monotonous."

  "What about the polls?"

  Barry stood and stretched his legs. "I talked to Wilson early this morning. We've lost ten points on the issue, with 61 percent of the registered voters in Texas still in favor. Looks like I win the bet, boys. Pay up. The surprising numbers are on the issue of a moratorium. Sixty-one percent want the death penalty, but almost 50 percent favor a hiatus of some sort."

  "That'll go down," Wayne said with authority. "Let the shock wear off. Wait till there's another home invasion with an innocent family murdered, and folks will forget about Drumm. They'll forget about a moratorium and remember why they favor the death penalty."

  The governor stood and walked to his favorite window. There were protesters on the street below, holding signs and parading back an
d forth along the sidewalk. They were everywhere, it seemed. Outside the Governor's Mansion, on every lawn of the Capitol, and in front of the entrance to the court of appeals with signs that screamed, "WE CLOSE AT FIVE. GO TO HELL." From aging hippies to Students Against the Death Penalty, they crossed all ethnic and social lines. He loathed them; they were not his people.

  "Gentlemen, I've made a decision," Newton said gravely. "I'm not in favor of a moratorium, and I'm not calling a special session of the legislature to deal with it. To do so would create a spectacle. We have enough facing us already. We don't need the legislature creating another circus."

  "We need to inform the media," Barry said.

  "Prepare a statement. Release it after we take off for Iraq."

  ------

  Friday afternoon, Keith went to Elmo Laird's office for a short meeting. Dana was busy hauling kids and couldn't be there, not that she really wanted to be. With Boyette in custody, Keith was willing to let go of her, and she needed a few hours away from her husband.

  Boyette's final assault and subsequent arrest were being widely covered, and Keith was taking some shots. Lilly's father was quoted as saying, "Some of the blame lies with that Lutheran minister in Topeka," and that angle to the story had gained momentum. In light of Boyette's record, Lilly Reed's family was relieved that the assault had gone no further, but still angry that such a career rapist was free and able to traumatize their daughter. The early reports slanted the story to read as though Keith had busted Boyette out of prison and fled with him to Texas.

  Elmo explained that he had talked to the DA, and while there were still no immediate plans to prosecute Keith, the situation was fluid. No decisions had been made. The DA was getting calls from reporters and taking some heat.

  "What's your best guess?" Keith asked.

  "Same plan, Keith. I'll keep chatting with the DA, and if he moves forward, we will work out a plea agreement, a fine, but no jail."