The Confession, Page 22

  "How'd you meet your wife?"

  "I've told you before, Travis, leave her out of it. You're much too concerned with my wife."

  "She's so cute."

  ------

  On the conference table, Robbie pushed a button for the speakerphone and said, "Talk to me, Fred."

  "We met them; they're behind us now, and they appear to be a genuine minister and one seriously weird sidekick."

  "Describe Boyette."

  "White male, you wouldn't call him handsome. Five ten, 150, shaved scalp with a bad tattoo on the left side of his neck, several more covering his arms. Has the look of a sick puppy who's spent his life locked away. Green shifty eyes that don't blink. I wanted to wash my hand after shaking his. Weak handshake, a dishrag."

  Robbie took a deep breath and then said, "So they're here."

  "They are indeed. We'll be there in a matter of minutes."

  "Hurry up." He turned off the speakerphone and looked at his team scattered around the table, all watching him. "It might be somewhat intimidating for Boyette to walk in here and have ten people staring at him," Robbie said. "Let's pretend like it's business as usual. I'll take him to my office and ask the first questions."

  Their file on Boyette was getting thicker. They had found records of his convictions in four states and a few details of his incarcerations, and they had located the lawyer in Slone who'd represented him briefly after his arrest there. The lawyer vaguely remembered him and had sent over his file. They had an affidavit from the owner of the Rebel Motor Inn, one Inez Gaffney, who had no recollection of Boyette, but did find his name in an old ledger from 1998. They had the building records from the Monsanto warehouse where Boyette allegedly worked in the late fall of that year.

  Carlos tidied up the conference table and they waited.

  ------

  When Keith parked at the train station and opened his door, he heard sirens in the distance. He smelled smoke. He sensed trouble.

  "The First Baptist Church burned last night," Aaron said as they walked up the steps to the old loading platform. "Now there's a fire at a black church over there." He nodded to his left, as if Keith was supposed to know his way around town.

  "They're burning churches?" he asked.

  "Yep."

  Boyette struggled up the steps, leaning on his cane, and then they stepped into the lobby. Fanta pretended to be busy with a word processor, barely looking up.

  "Where's Robbie?" Fred Pryor asked, and she nodded toward the back.

  Robbie met them in the conference room. Awkward introductions were made. Boyette was reluctant to speak or to shake hands. Abruptly, he said to Robbie, "I remember you. I saw you on television after the boy was arrested. You were upset, almost yelling at the camera."

  "That's me. Where were you?"

  "I was here, Mr. Flak, watching it all, couldn't believe they had arrested the wrong guy."

  "That's right, the wrong guy." For someone as high-strung and quick-tempered as Robbie Flak, it was difficult to remain calm. He wanted to slap Boyette, and grab his cane and beat him senseless, and curse him for a long list of transgressions. He wanted to kill him with his bare hands. Instead, he pretended to be cool, detached. Harsh words would not help Donte.

  They left the conference room and walked into Robbie's office. Aaron and Fred Pryor stayed outside, ready for whatever came next. Robbie directed Keith and Boyette to a small table in the corner, and all three sat down. "Would you like some coffee or something to drink?" he asked, almost pleasantly. He stared at Boyette, who stared back without flinching or blinking.

  Keith cleared his throat and said, "Look, Robbie, I hate to ask for favors, but we haven't eaten in a long time. We're starving."

  Robbie picked up the phone, rang Carlos, and ordered a tray of deli sandwiches and water.

  "No sense beating around the bush, Mr. Boyette. Let's hear what you have to say."

  The tic, the pause. Boyette shifted and squirmed, suddenly unable to make eye contact. "Well, the first thing I want to know is if there's any reward money on the table."

  Keith dropped his head and said, "Oh my God."

  "You're not serious, are you?" Robbie asked.

  "I suppose everything is serious right now, Mr. Flak," Boyette said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

  "This is the first mention of reward money," Keith said, completely exasperated.

  "I have needs," Boyette said. "I don't have a dime and no prospects of finding one. Just curious, that's all."

  "That's all?" Robbie repeated. "The execution is less than six hours away, and our chances of stopping it are very slim. Texas is about to execute an innocent man, and I'm sitting here with the real killer, who suddenly wants to get paid for what he's done."

  "Who says I'm the real killer?"

  "You," Keith blurted. "You told me you killed her and you know where the body is buried because you buried it. Stop playing games, Travis."

  "If I recall correctly, her father put up a bunch of dough when they were trying to find her. Something like $200,000. That right, Mr. Flak?"

  "That was nine years ago. If you think you're in line for the reward money, you're badly mistaken." Robbie's words were measured, but an explosion was imminent.

  "Why do you want money?" Keith asked. "According to your own words, you'll be dead in a few months. The tumor, remember?"

  "Thanks for reminding me, Pastor."

  Robbie glared at Boyette with unrestrained hatred. The truth was that Robbie, at that moment, would sign over every asset he could find in exchange for a nice thick affidavit that told the truth and might save his client. There was a long stretch of silence as the three contemplated what to do next. Boyette grimaced and then began rubbing his slick head. He placed both palms on both temples and pressed as hard as possible, as if pressure from the outside world would relieve the pressure from within.

  "Are you having a seizure?" Keith asked, but there was no response.

  "He has these seizures," Keith said to Robbie, as if an explanation would help matters. "Caffeine helps."

  Robbie jumped to his feet and left the room. Outside his office, he told Aaron and Pryor, "The son of a bitch wants money." He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a pot of stale coffee, found two paper cups, and returned to his office. He poured a cup for Boyette, who was bent double at the waist, elbows on knees, cradling his head, and moaning. "Here's some coffee."

  Silence.

  Finally, Boyette said, "I'm going to be sick. I need to lie down."

  "Take the sofa," Robbie said, pointing to it across the room. Boyette struggled to his feet and with Keith's help made it to the sofa, where he wrapped his arms around his head and pulled his knees to his chest. "Can you turn off the lights?" Boyette said. "I'll be okay in a minute."

  "We don't have time for this!" Robbie said, ready to scream.

  "Please, just a minute," Boyette said pathetically as his body vibrated and he gasped for air. Keith and Robbie left the office and stepped into the conference room. A crowd soon gathered, and Robbie introduced Keith to the rest of the gang. The food arrived and they ate quickly.

  CHAPTER 21

  They came for Donte at noon. Not a minute before, not a minute after. Everything precise and well rehearsed. There was a knock on the metal door behind him. Three loud raps. He was talking to Cedric, but when he knew it was time, he asked for his mother. Roberta was standing behind Cedric, with Andrea and Marvin at her sides, all four squeezed into the small room, all four crying now with no effort to hold back the tears. They had watched the clock for four hours, and there was nothing left to say. Cedric exchanged places with Roberta, who took the phone and placed her palm on the Plexiglas. Donte did the same from the other side. His three siblings embraced behind his mother, all four huddled together, touching, with Andrea in the middle and on the verge of collapse.

  "I love you, Momma," Donte said. "And I'm so sorry this is happening."

  "I love you too, baby, and you don't have to say you're sorry. You di
d nothing wrong."

  Donte wiped his cheeks with a sleeve. "I always wished I could've gotten outta here before Daddy died. I wanted him to see me as a free man. I wanted him to know that I did nothing wrong."

  "He knew that, Donte. Your daddy never doubted you. When he died, he knew you were innocent." She wiped her face with a tissue. "I've never doubted you either, baby."

  "I know. I guess I'll be seeing Daddy pretty soon."

  Roberta nodded, but could not respond. The door behind him opened, and a large male guard appeared. Donte hung up the phone, stood, and placed both palms flat on the Plexiglas. His family did the same. One final embrace, and then he was gone.

  With his hands cuffed again, Donte was led from the visitors' wing, through a series of clicking metal doors, out of the building, over a lawn crisscrossed with sidewalks, and into a wing where he was taken back to his cell for the last time. Everything, now, was for the last time, and as Donte sat on his bunk and stared at his box of assets, he almost convinced himself that it would be a relief to get away.

  His family was given a few minutes to collect themselves. As Ruth was leading them out of the room, she gave them a hug. She said she was sorry, and they thanked her for her kindness. Just as they were walking through a metal door, she said, "You folks headed to Huntsville?"

  Yes, of course, they were.

  "Might want to get on over there. Rumor is there might be trouble on the roads."

  They nodded but were not sure how to respond. They walked through security at the front building, got their driver's licenses and purses, and walked out of Polunsky for the last time.

  ------

  The "trouble on the roads" mentioned by Ruth was a clandestine Facebook conspiracy inspired by two black students at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville. The code name was Detour, and the plan was so simple and so brilliant that it attracted dozens of volunteers.

  In 2000, soon after Donte arrived on death row, the inmates were moved from Huntsville to Polunsky. The inmates were moved; the death chamber was not. For seven years and two hundred executions, it had been necessary to haul the condemned men from Polunsky to Huntsville. Elaborate movements were planned and used, but after a few dozen transfers, with no ambushes, no heroic efforts to rescue the condemned, without a hitch of any kind, the authorities realized that no one was watching. No one really cared. The elaborate plans were discarded, and the same route was used with every transfer. They left the prison at 1:00 p.m., turned left on 350, turned left again on 190, a four-lane road with plenty of traffic, and an hour later the trip was over.

  Inmates were placed in the rear of an unmarked passenger van, surrounded by enough muscle and weaponry to protect the president, and escorted, for good measure, by an identical van filled with another squad of bored guards hoping for a little excitement.

  The last execution had been on September 25, when Michael Richard was injected. Ten students, all members of Operation Detour, used five vehicles and plenty of cell phones to track the movements of the two white vans from Polunsky to Huntsville. The students were not detected. No one suspected them. No one was looking for them. By early November, their plan was complete, and their operatives were itching for trouble.

  At 12:50 p.m., a guard, a black one sympathetic to Donte, tipped off a member of Detour. The two white vans were being loaded; the transfer had begun. At 1:00 p.m., the vans left the prison for a service road near the maximum security unit. They turned onto Route 350 and headed for Livingston. There was little traffic. Two miles from the prison, the traffic increased, became heavy, then stopped completely. Ahead of the vans, a car had stalled in the right lane. Oddly, one had stalled in the left lane, and another on the shoulder. The three cars blocked any passage. Their drivers were out checking under their hoods. Then, behind the three cars, there were three more, all stalled in a neat line across the road. The vans did not move, and seemed to be in no hurry. Behind them, in the right lane, another car came to a stop. Its driver, a young black woman, popped the hood, got out, feigned exasperation because her Nissan had quit on her. A Volkswagen Beetle pulled beside her in the left lane, suffered a mechanical failure on cue, and the hood went up. More vehicles materialized from nowhere and bunched together behind the first wave, thoroughly blocking the road, its shoulders, and all exits and entrances to it. Within five minutes, a traffic jam of at least twenty vehicles had occurred. The white vans were surrounded by disabled cars and SUVs, all with their hoods up, the drivers loitering about, talking, laughing, chatting on cell phones. Several of the male students went from car to car, disabling each by pulling the wires to the distributor caps.

  The state and local police arrived in minutes, dozens of marked cars with sirens screaming. They were followed by a brigade of tow trucks, all of which had been rounded up in Livingston on short notice. Operation Detour had briefed its volunteers well. Each driver was adamant that his or her car had quit, and under Texas law this was not a crime. Citations would certainly be written for blocking traffic, but Detour had found a lawyer who would fight those in court. Officers did not have the right to take keys and check the engines for themselves. And if they tried, the engines were dead. The students had been told to resist searches of their vehicles; to peacefully resist any attempts at being arrested; to threaten legal action in the face of an arrest; and, if arrested, consider it an honor, a badge of courage in the fight against injustice. Detour had other lawyers who would handle their cases. The students relished the thought of being locked up, an act of defiance in their minds. Something they could talk about for years.

  As the police cars and wreckers parked haphazardly near the traffic jam, and as the first troopers were approaching the students, the second phase of the plan fell beautifully into place. Another wave of students in cars turned onto Route 350 from Livingston and were soon approaching the melee. They parked three abreast and three deep behind the tow trucks. All hoods popped open, more roadside breakdowns. Since the tow truck drivers were expected to react with anger and maybe violence to being penned in, the second wave of drivers remained in their cars with the windows up and doors locked. Most cars were full of students, and many were healthy young men who could take care of themselves. They wouldn't mind a fight. They were angry to begin with.

  A tow truck driver approached the first car parked behind him, realized it was full of blacks, and began swearing and making threats. A state trooper yelled at him and told him to shut up. The trooper was Sergeant Inman, and he took charge of a truly unique situation, one that included, so far, eight police cars, seven tow trucks, at least thirty "disabled" vehicles, and two prison vans, one of which was transporting a man to his death. To make matters worse, the locals who routinely used Route 350 were backing up, unaware they had chosen the wrong time to get from one place to another. The road was hopelessly clogged.

  Inman was a cool professional, and he knew something the students didn't. As he walked through the jam, headed for the vans, he nodded politely at the students, smiled, asked if they were having a nice day. At the vans, security details for Donte unloaded, thick men in blue SWAT-style uniforms with automatic weapons. Most of the students made their way close to the vans. One seemed to lead the pack. Inman approached him, extended a hand, and politely said, "I'm Sergeant Inman. May I ask your name?"

  "Quincy Mooney." He reluctantly shook Inman's hand.

  "Mr. Mooney, I'm sorry about your car breaking down."

  "Don't mention it."

  Inman looked around, smiled at the other students. "All these folks friends of yours?"

  "I've never seen 'em before."

  Inman smiled. "Look, Mr. Mooney, we need to get these cars off the road. Traffic is backing up. Everything is blocked."

  "Guess we need to call some mechanics."

  "No, we're just gonna tow 'em, Quincy. Unless, of course, ya'll would like to save a hundred bucks and drive away. If you chose to do so, then we wouldn't be forced to write a bunch of tickets. That's another hundred bucks a
car."

  "So, it's against the law for your car to break down?"

  "No, sir, it's not. But you and I both know why you're here. The judge will know too."

  "I know why I'm here. Why are you here?"

  "I'm doing my job, Quincy. Traffic control and keeping the peace." Inman nodded his head and said, "Come with me." Quincy followed him to the first van. Its double side doors were open. Inman looked inside, then invited Quincy to do the same. The van was empty. They walked to the second van. Both looked inside. It, too, was empty. The security guards were snickering. The whirling thump-thump of a helicopter could be heard.

  "Where's Donte Drumm?" Quincy asked, stunned.

  "He ain't here, is he?" Inman asked with a smirk. Quincy stared at the darkened windows of the empty van. They walked back to the front of the first one. Inman looked to the sky, in the direction of Polunsky. Everyone waited and waited, and seconds later a helicopter roared directly over them.

  Inman pointed at it and said, "There goes Donte."

  Quincy's jaw dropped, his shoulders slumped. Word spread