The Confession

  strained voice.

  "It's okay, Travis. We were not asleep."

  "How's your cute little wife?"

  "Fine. Look, Travis, I'm sure you're calling for a reason."

  "Yes, sorry, Pastor. I really want to see the girl again, you know what I mean?"

  Keith held the receiver so Dana could squeeze in with her left ear. He did not want to repeat everything afterward. "I'm not sure what you mean, Travis," he said.

  "The girl, Nicole, my little Nikki. I'm not long for this world, Pastor. I'm still in the hospital, an IV in my arm, all kinds of dope in my blood, and the doctors are telling me that it won't be long. I'm half-dead now, Pastor, and I don't like the thought of kicking the bucket without one last visit with Nikki."

  "She's been dead for nine years."

  "No shit. I was there, remember. It was awful, what I did to her was just awful, and I've apologized before, several times, face-to-face. But I gotta go again, tell her just once more how sorry I am about what happened. You know what I mean, Pastor?"

  "No, Travis, I have no idea what you mean."

  "She's still there, okay? She's where I left her."

  "You said you probably couldn't find her now."

  There was a long pause as Travis seemed to recall this. "I know where she is," he said.

  "Great, Travis. Then go find her. Go dig her up and look at her bones and tell her you're sorry. Then what? You'll feel better about yourself? Meanwhile, an innocent man gets the needle for your crime. I have an idea, Travis. After you tell Nicole you're sorry one last time, why don't you go to Slone and stop by the cemetery, find Donte's grave, and tell him you're sorry too?"

  Dana turned and frowned at her husband. Travis took another pause, and then said, "I don't want that boy to die, Pastor."

  "That's really hard to believe, Travis. You've kept quiet for nine years while he's been accused and persecuted. You've wasted yesterday and today, and if you keep flip-flopping, the time will run out and he'll be dead."

  "I can't stop it."

  "You can try. You can go to Slone and tell the authorities where the body is buried. You can admit the truth, show them the ring, make plenty of noise. I'm sure the reporters and cameras would love you. Who knows, maybe a judge or the governor will take notice. I don't have a lot of experience in these matters, Travis, but it seems to me that they might find it difficult to execute Donte Drumm when you're on television claiming you killed Nicole and you acted alone."

  "I don't have a car."

  "Rent one."

  "I haven't had a driver's license in ten years."

  "Take a bus."

  "I don't have the money for a bus ticket, Pastor."

  "I'll loan you the money. No, I'll give you the money for a one-way bus ticket to Slone."

  "What if I have a seizure on the bus, or black out? Hell, they might kick me off in Podunk, Oklahoma."

  "You're playing games, Travis."

  "You gotta take me, Reverend. Just me and you. If you'll drive me down there, I'll tell the truth about what really happened. I'll take them to the body. We can stop the execution, but you gotta go with me."

  "Why me?"

  "Ain't nobody else around right now, Pastor."

  "I have a better idea. Tomorrow morning, let's go downtown to the prosecutor's office. I have a friend there. You tell him the story. Maybe we can convince him to call the prosecutor in Slone, as well as the police chief and defense lawyer and, I don't know, maybe even a judge somewhere. They'll listen to him a lot quicker than they'll listen to a Lutheran minister who knows nothing about the criminal justice system. We can video your statement, send it immediately to the authorities in Texas, send it to the newspapers too. How about it, Travis? You won't violate parole. I won't get in trouble by helping you."

  Dana was nodding her approval. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Finally, Travis said, "Maybe it'll work, Pastor. Maybe we can stop the execution, but there's no way they're finding her. I have to be there for that."

  "Let's concentrate on stopping it."

  "They're discharging me tomorrow morning at nine."

  "I'll be there, Travis. The prosecutor's office is not far away."

  Five seconds, ten seconds. "I like it, Pastor. Let's do it."

  ------

  At 1:00 a.m., Dana found the bottle of over-the-counter sleeping aids, but an hour later they were still awake. The trip to Texas occupied them. They had discussed it briefly once before, but were so afraid of it they had not pursued the conversation. The idea was ludicrous--Keith in Slone with a serial sex offender of dubious credibility, trying to get someone to listen to a bizarre tale while the town counted down the final hours of Donte Drumm. The unlikely pair would be ridiculed, maybe even shot. And upon his return to Kansas, the Reverend Keith Schroeder could find himself accused of a crime for which there would be no defense. His job and career could hang in the balance. All because of a lowlife like Travis Boyette.

  CHAPTER 12

  Wednesday morning. Six hours after leaving his office just after midnight, Robbie was back in the conference room preparing for another frantic day. The night had not gone well. The drinking session with Fred Pryor and Joey Gamble produced nothing, except an admission by Gamble that Mr. Koffee had indeed called and reminded him of the penalties for perjury. Robbie had listened to the entire session. Pryor, who over the years had become masterful with his recording devices, had used the same pen mike and passed along their conversation through a cell phone. The sound quality was remarkable. Robbie had enjoyed a few drinks along with them, in his office, with Martha Handler sipping bourbon and Carlos, the paralegal, drinking beer and monitoring the speakerphone. They all had enjoyed their booze for almost two hours, Joey and Fred in a fake saloon somewhere outside of Houston, and the Flak Law Firm hard at work at the office in the old train station. After two hours, though, Joey had had enough--even beers--and said he was tired of being pressured. He could not accept the reality that a last-minute affidavit signed by him would repudiate his testimony at trial. He did not want to call himself a liar, though he stopped short of admitting he'd lied.

  "Donte should not have confessed," he said several times, as if uttering a false confession were grounds enough for a death sentence.

  But Pryor would shadow him throughout Wednesday and Thursday, if necessary. He believed there was still a slight chance, one that increased as the hours went by.

  At 7:00 a.m., the firm gathered in the conference room for the daily briefing. All were present, all bleary-eyed and fatigued and ready for the final push. Dr. Kristi Hinze had worked through the night and finished her report. She summarized it briefly while everyone ate pastries and gulped coffee. The report was forty-five pages long, more than the court would want to read, but maybe enough to get someone's attention. Her findings surprised no one, at least no one within the Flak Law Firm. She described her examination of Donte Drumm. She had reviewed his medical and psychological history while in prison. She had read 260 letters he had written over the eight years he'd been on death row. He was schizophrenic, psychotic, delusional, and depressed and did not understand what was happening to him. She went on to condemn solitary confinement as a means of incarceration and again labeled it as a cruel form of torture.

  Robbie instructed Sammie Thomas to file their petition for relief with Dr. Hinze's report attached in full to the firm's co-counsel in Austin. Throughout the appellate process, all eight years of it, Robbie's firm had been assisted by the Texas Capital Defender Group, commonly referred to as the Defender Group, a nonprofit that represented about 25 percent of the inmates on death row. The Defender Group did nothing but capital appeals, and did so with great expertise and diligence. Sammie would send the petition and report electronically, and at 9:00 a.m. the Defender Group would file hard copies with the Court of Criminal Appeals.

  With an execution looming, the court was on alert and prepared to quickly address the last-minute filings. If they were denied, which they usually were, Robbie and t
he Defender Group could then run to federal court and fight their way up the mountain, hoping for a miracle at some point.

  He discussed these strategies and made certain everyone knew what was to be done. Carlos would be in charge of the Drumm family the following day, though he would remain in Slone. He was to make sure they arrived at Polunsky on time for their final visit. Robbie would be there to make the final walk with his client and to witness the execution. Sammie Thomas and the other associate would remain at the office and coordinate the filings with the Defender Group. Bonnie, the paralegal, would stay in touch with the offices of the governor and the attorney general.

  The request for a reprieve had been filed with the governor's office, and its denial was being awaited. The Kristi Hinze petition was ready to go. Unless and until Joey Gamble had a change of heart, there was no new evidence to make a fuss about. As the meeting dragged on, it became evident that there was little of substance left to do. The conversation waned. The frenzy was beginning to subside. Everyone was suddenly tired. The waiting had begun.

  ------

  When Vivian Grale was elected to the bench in 1994, her campaign had been about high moral standards, putting the laws of God first, putting criminals in prison for even longer periods of time, and, of course, more efficient use of the death chamber down at Huntsville. She won by thirty votes. She defeated a wise and experienced judge by the name of Elias Henry, and she did so by cherry-picking several criminal cases in which Judge Henry had dared to show compassion for the accused. She splashed these around in ads that made him look like a coddler of pedophiles.

  After her affair with Paul Koffee was exposed, after her divorce, and after she resigned and left Slone in disgrace, the voters repented and returned to Judge Henry. He was reelected without opposition. He was now eighty-one years old and in declining health. There were rumors that he might not be able to finish his term.

  Judge Henry had been a close friend of Robbie's father, who died in 2001. Because of this friendship, he was one of the few judges in East Texas whose blood pressure did not spike when Robbie Flak walked into the courtroom. Elias Henry was about the only judge Robbie trusted. At Judge Henry's invitation, Robbie agreed to meet in his chambers at 9:00 a.m. Wednesday morning. The purpose of the meeting was not discussed on the phone.

  "This case bothers me a great deal," Judge Henry said after a few pleasantries were out of the way. They were alone, in an old office that had changed little in the forty years Robbie had visited it. The courtroom was next door and empty.

  "As well it should." They both had unopened bottles of water in front of them on a worktable. The judge, as always, wore a dark suit with an orange tie. He was having a good day, his eyes fierce and intense. There were no smiles.

  "I've read the transcript, Robbie," he said. "I started last week and I've read it all, and most of the appellate briefs as well. Taking a view from the bench, I can't believe Judge Grale allowed that confession into evidence. It was coerced and blatantly unconstitutional."

  "It was, Judge, and it is. I won't defend her, but she had little choice. There was no other credible evidence. If she tossed the confession, then Koffee had nowhere to go. No conviction, no defendant, no suspect, no dead body. Donte would have walked out of jail, which would have been front-page news. As you well know, Judge Grale had to face the voters, and judges don't get reelected in East Texas if they keep the law above politics."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Once he knew the confession would go to the jury, Koffee was able to piece together other evidence. He stomped and strutted and convinced the jury that Donte was the killer. He pointed fingers at him, and then he cried at the very mention of Nicole's name. Quite a performance. What's the old saying, Judge? 'If you don't have the facts, yell'--and he did a lot of yelling. The jury was more than willing to believe him. He won."

  "You fought like hell, Robbie."

  "Should've fought harder."

  "And you're convinced he's innocent? No doubt in your mind?"

  "Why are we having this discussion, Judge? It seems rather moot at this point."

  "Because I'm going to call the governor and ask for a reprieve. Maybe he'll listen, I don't know. I wasn't the trial judge. I was, as we know, retired at the time. But I have a cousin in Texarkana who gave the governor a ton of money. It's a long shot, but what's there to lose? What's wrong with delaying things another thirty days?"

  "Nothing. You're having doubts about his guilt, Judge?"

  "Serious doubts. I would not have admitted the confession. I would have thrown the snitch in jail for lying. I would have excluded that clown with his bloodhounds. And the boy, what's his name--"

  "Joey Gamble."

  "Right, the white boyfriend. His testimony would probably go to the jury, but it was too inconsistent to carry weight. You said it best in one of your briefs, Robbie. This conviction is based on a bogus confession, a dog named Yogi, a lying snitch who later recanted, and a jilted lover bent on revenge. We can't convict people with garbage such as this. Judge Grale was biased--I guess we know why. Paul Koffee was blinded by his own tunnel vision and the fear he might be wrong. It's a terrible case, Robbie."

  "Thank you, Judge. I've lived it for nine years."

  "And it's dangerous. I met with two black lawyers yesterday, good guys, you know them. They're angry with the system, but they're also afraid of the backlash. They expect trouble if Drumm is executed."

  "That's what I hear."

  "What can be done, Robbie? Is there a way to stop this? I'm not a death-penalty lawyer, and I don't know where your appeals are right now."

  "The tank is almost empty, Judge. We're filing an insanity petition now."

  "And your chances?"

  "Slim. Donte has no record of mental illness until now. We're alleging that eight years on death row have driven him insane. As you know, the appeals courts usually frown on theories that are hatched at the last minute."

  "Is the boy crazy?"

  "He has severe problems, but I suspect he knows what's happening."

  "So you're not optimistic."

  "I'm a criminal defense lawyer, Judge. Optimism is not in my DNA."

  Judge Henry finally unscrewed the cap off the plastic bottle of water and took a sip. His eyes never left Robbie. "Very well, I'll call the governor," he said, as if his phone call would save the day. It would not. The governor was getting lots of calls right now. Robbie and his team were generating plenty.

  "Thanks, Judge, but don't expect much. This governor has never stopped an execution. In fact, he wants to speed them up. He has his eye on a Senate seat, and he counts votes before he chooses what to eat for breakfast. He's a two-faced, cutthroat, dirt-dumb, chickenshit, slimy little bastard with a bright future in politics."

  "So you didn't vote for him?"

  "I did not. But please give him a call."

  "I will. I'm meeting with Paul Koffee in half an hour to discuss this with him. I don't want him to be surprised. I'll also chat with the fellow over at the newspaper. I want to be on record in opposition to this execution."

  "Thanks, Judge, but why now? We could've had this conversation a year ago, or five. It's awfully late to get involved."

  "A year ago, few people were thinking about Donte Drumm. There was no execution looming. There was a chance he would find relief in a federal court. Maybe a reversal, a new trial. I don't know, Robbie. Maybe I should've been more involved, but this is not my case. I was busy with my own matters."

  "I understand, Judge."

  They shook hands and offered their farewells. Robbie took the back stairs so he wouldn't bump into some lawyer or clerk who wanted to chat. As he hurried along the empty corridor, he tried to think of another elected official in Slone or in Chester County who had voiced support for Donte Drumm. One came to mind, the only black city councilman in Slone.

  For nine years, he had fought a long and lonely battle. And he was about to lose. A phone call from the cousin of a big donor would nev
er be enough to stop an execution in Texas. The machinery was well-oiled and efficient. It was in motion, and there was no way to stop it.

  On the front lawn of the courthouse, city workers were assembling a makeshift podium. A few policemen loitered about, chatting nervously as they watched the first church bus unload. A dozen or so black folks got off and made their way across the lawn and past the war memorials. They found their spot, unfolded chairs, and began to wait. The rally, or protest, or whatever it was to be called, was scheduled for noon.

  Robbie had been asked to speak, but declined. He couldn't think of anything to say that would not be inflammatory, and he did not want to be accused of inciting the crowd. There would be enough troublemakers.

  According to Carlos, who was charged with monitoring the Web site, the comments, and the blogs, the traffic was increasing dramatically. Protests were being planned for Thursday in Austin, Huntsville, and Slone and on the campuses of at least two of the