The Confession, Page 24

  "What is it?" Judge Henry asked as he fell into a chair.

  "Just wait." He pointed the remote at a screen on a wall, and Boyette appeared. "This is the man who killed Nicole Yarber. We just taped this."

  The video ran for fourteen minutes. They watched it without a word.

  "Where is he?" Judge Henry asked when the screen went dark.

  "In my office, on the sofa. He has a malignant brain tumor, or so he says, and he's dying. He walked into the office of a Lutheran minister in Topeka, Kansas, Monday morning and spilled his guts. He played some games, but the minister finally got him in a car. They arrived in Slone a couple of hours ago."

  "The minister drove him here?"

  "Yep. Hang on." Robbie opened the door and called Keith over. He introduced him to Judge Henry. "This is the man," Robbie said, patting Keith on the back. "Have a seat. Judge Henry is our circuit court judge. If he had presided over the trial of Donte Drumm, we wouldn't be here right now."

  "A pleasure to meet you," Keith said.

  "Sounds like you're having quite an adventure."

  Keith laughed and said, "I don't know where I am or what I'm doing."

  "Then you've come to the right law firm," Judge Henry said. They shared a laugh, a quick one, and then all humor vanished.

  "What do you think?" Robbie asked Judge Henry.

  The judge scratched his cheek, thought hard for a moment, and then said, "The question is, what will the court of appeals think? You can never tell. They hate these last-minute surprise witnesses who pop up and begin changing facts that are ten years old. Plus, a man who's made a career out of aggravated rape is not likely to be taken seriously. I'd give you a slight chance of getting a stay."

  "That's a lot more than we had two hours ago," Robbie said.

  "When do you file? It's almost two o'clock."

  "Within the hour. Here's my question. Do we tell the press about Mr. Boyette? I'm sending the video to the court and to the governor. I can also give it to the local TV station, or I can send it to every station in Texas. Or, better yet, I can arrange a press conference here or at the courthouse and let the world listen as Boyette tells his story."

  "To what benefit?"

  "Maybe I want the world to know that Texas is about to execute the wrong man. Here's the killer, listen to him."

  "But the world cannot stop the execution. Only the courts or the governor can do that. I'd be careful here, Robbie. There's smoke in the air now, and if people see Boyette on television, claiming responsibility, this place could blow up."

  "It's blowing up anyway."

  "You want a race war?"

  "If they kill Donte, yes. I wouldn't mind a race war. A small one."

  "Come on, Robbie. You're playing with dynamite here. Think strategically, not emotionally. And keep in mind that this guy could be lying. This would not be the first execution where a fraud claimed responsibility. The press can't resist it. The nut gets on television. Everybody looks stupid."

  Robbie was pacing, four steps one way, four steps the other. He was fidgety, frantic, but still thinking clearly. He had great admiration for Judge Henry, and Robbie was smart enough to know he needed advice at that moment.

  The room was quiet. On the other side of the door, the voices were tense, the phones were ringing.

  Judge Henry said, "I assume it's not possible to search for the body."

  Robbie shook his head and deferred to Keith, who said, "Not now. Two days ago, Tuesday I think it was, I'm not sure--I feel as though I've lived with this guy for a year--but anyway, Tuesday I suggested the best way to stop the execution was to find the body. He said that it would be difficult. He buried her nine years ago in a secluded area that is heavily wooded. He also said that he's gone back to visit her several times--I'm not sure what that meant, and I really didn't want to pursue it. Then I lost contact with him. I searched and searched and I was determined to somehow corral him and insist that we notify the authorities, here and in Missouri, if that is in fact where Nicole is buried, but he would not agree. Then we lost contact again. He's a strange guy, very strange. He called me around midnight last night; I was already in bed, sound asleep, and he said he wanted to come here, to tell his story, to stop the execution. I felt as though I had no choice. I've never done anything like this before, I can promise you that. I know it's wrong to help a convict violate his parole, but so be it. Anyway, we left Topeka around 1:00 this morning, and again I suggested that we notify the authorities and at least begin the search for the body. He wanted no part of that."

  "It would not have worked, Keith," Robbie said. "The authorities here are useless. They would laugh at you. They have their man, the case is solved. Almost closed, I guess. Nobody in Missouri would lift a finger because there is no active investigation. You can't just call a sheriff and suggest that he and his boys go out in the woods and start digging somewhere down by the creek. It doesn't work that way."

  "Then who looks for the body?" Keith asked.

  "I guess we do."

  "I'm going home, Robbie. My wife is barking at me. My lawyer friend thinks I'm crazy. I think I'm crazy. I've done my best. Boyette's all yours. I'm sick of the guy."

  "Relax, Keith. I need you right now."

  "For what?"

  "Just hang around, okay? Boyette trusts you. Besides, when was the last time you had front-row seats at a race riot?"

  "Not funny."

  "Sit on the video, Robbie," Judge Henry said. "Show it to the court and to the governor, but don't make it public."

  "I can control the video, but I cannot control Mr. Boyette. If he wants to talk to the press, I can't stop him. God knows he's not my client."

  ------

  By 2:30 Thursday afternoon, every church in Slone, black and white, was being guarded by preachers, deacons, and Sunday school teachers, all men, all heavily armed and visible. They sat on the front steps and chatted anxiously, shotguns across their knees. They sat under shade trees near the streets, waving at the passing cars, many of which honked in solidarity. They patrolled the rear doors and back property, smoking, chewing, watching for any movement. There would be no more church burnings in Slone.

  The cotton gin had been abandoned two decades earlier when a newer one replaced it east of town. It was an eyesore, a badly decaying old building, and under normal circumstances a good fire would have been welcomed. The 911 call was recorded at 2:44. A teenager driving by saw heavy smoke and called on her cell phone. The beleaguered firemen rushed to the old gin, and by the time they arrived, the flames were roaring through the roof. Since it was an empty, abandoned building, and not a great loss anyway, they took their time.

  The black smoke boiled into the sky. The mayor could see it from his second-story office, near the courthouse, and after consulting with the chief of police, he called the governor's office. The situation in Slone was not likely to improve. The citizens were in danger. They needed the National Guard.

  CHAPTER 23

  The petition was finished just before 3:00 p.m., and with Boyette's affidavit included, it ran for thirty pages. Boyette swore in writing that he was telling the truth, and Sammie Thomas e-mailed the petition to the Defender Group's office in Austin. The staff there was waiting. It was printed, copied twelve times, and handed off to Cicely Avis, who sprinted from the office, hopped in her car, and raced across town to the offices of the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. The petition was filed at 3:35.

  "What's this?" the clerk asked, holding a disc.

  "It's a video of a confession by the real murderer," Cicely replied.

  "Interesting. I assume you want the judges to see this fairly soon."

  "Right now, please."

  "I'll get it done."

  They chatted for a second, and Cicely left the office. The clerk immediately delivered the petition to the offices of the nine judges. In the chief justice's office, he spoke to the law clerk and said, "You might want to watch the video first. Some guy just confessed to the murder."

>   "And where is this guy?" asked the clerk.

  "He's in Donte Drumm's lawyer's office in Slone, according to the Defender Group lawyer."

  "So Robbie Flak's found him a new witness?"

  "Looks like it."

  As Cicely Avis left the TCCA offices, she detoured two blocks and drove past the State Capitol. The "Rally for Donte" was drawing a nice crowd on the south lawn. Police were everywhere. A permit had been issued, and the First Amendment appeared to be working.

  The crowd, almost all black, was streaming in. The permit was valid for three hours, from 3:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., the moment of execution, but it was obvious things were behind schedule--in Austin, but certainly not in Huntsville.

  ------

  The governor was in a meeting, an important one, one that had nothing to do with Donte Drumm. At 3:11, the video was received by an assistant who handled the requests for reprieves, and she watched all fourteen minutes of it before she could decide what to do next. While she found Boyette somewhat believable and chilling, she was skeptical because of his background and the timing of his sudden desire to come clean. She went to find Wayne Wallcott, the governor's lawyer and close friend, and described the video.

  Wallcott listened closely, then shut the door of his office and told her to sit down. "Who has seen this video?" he asked.

  "Only me," the assistant answered. "It was e-mailed from Mr. Flak's office, with a pass code. I watched it immediately and here I am."

  "And it's a full confession?"

  "Oh yes, with lots of details."

  "And you believe this guy?"

  "I didn't say that. I said he seems to know what he's talking about. He's a serial rapist, and he was in Slone when the girl disappeared. It's a full confession."

  "Does he mention Drumm?"

  "Why don't you just watch the video?"

  "I didn't ask for any suggestions, did I?" Wallcott snapped. "Just answer my questions."

  "Sorry." The assistant took a breath. She was suddenly nervous and uneasy. Wallcott was listening, but he was also scheming. "He mentioned Drumm only to say that he's never met him and he had nothing to do with the crime."

  "He's obviously lying. I'm not bothering the governor with this, and I want you to keep the video to yourself. I don't have the time to look at it. Neither does the governor. You understand?"

  She did not, but she nodded anyway.

  Wallcott narrowed his eyes and frowned. "You do understand, don't you?" he asked gravely. "This video stays in your computer."

  "Yes, sir."

  As soon as she left, Wallcott practically jogged to the office of Barry Ringfield, the governor's chief spokesman and closest friend. The office suite was crawling with staff and interns, so they took a stroll down the hall.

  After a few minutes of discussing their options, they agreed that the governor would not see the video. If Boyette was lying, then the video would be irrelevant and the right man was executed. But if Boyette was telling the truth, which they strongly doubted, and the wrong man was executed, the fallout could be messy. The only way to protect Governor Gill Newton was for one of them, or perhaps the assistant, to take the fall by admitting they sat on, or maybe even lost, the video. Gill Newton had never granted a reprieve in a death case, and with the thrilling attention being stirred up by the Drumm case, he was not about to back down now. Even if he watched the video, and even if he believed Boyette, he would not retreat.

  Wayne and Barry walked to the governor's office. They were expected there promptly at 4:00 p.m., two hours before the execution, and they would not tell the governor about the video.

  ------

  At 3:30 p.m., the Flak Law Firm gathered once again around the main conference table. All were present and accounted for, including Keith, who, though fighting the worst fatigue of his life, was finding it hard to believe he had somehow acquired a ticket to this circus. He and Judge Henry sat away from the table, against a wall. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor read newspapers on the other side of the room. Travis Boyette was still alive, still resting in the dark on Robbie's sofa.

  It was past time for Robbie to leave for Huntsville, and the strain was showing. But he couldn't leave yet. The Boyette petition had energized the team and given them hope.

  Robbie worked from a checklist. Yellow legal pad, as always. Sammie Thomas and Bonnie would track the Boyette petition before the court of appeals, and also continue to press the governor's office on the reprieve. Gill Newton had yet to grant or deny, and he usually waited until the last moment. He loved the drama and attention. Carlos would track the insanity petition, which was still with the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. If denied there, they would appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. Fred Pryor would remain at the office and tend to Boyette. No one knew what to do with Boyette, but he didn't appear to be leaving. As always, Aaron Rey would accompany Robbie to Huntsville. Martha Handler would also go, to observe and record. Robbie barked orders, answered questions, refereed conflicts, and then suddenly looked at the reverend and asked, "Keith, can you go with us to Huntsville?"

  For a few seconds, the reverend couldn't speak. "Why, Robbie?" he managed to ask.

  "Donte might need you."

  Keith's mouth fell open and no words came out. The room was quiet, all eyes on Keith. Robbie pressed on: "He was raised in a church, Keith, but he now takes a dim view of religion. His jury had five Baptists, two Pentecostals, one Church of Christ, and I guess the others were lost. Over the past few years, he's come to believe that white Christians are the reason he's on death row. He wants no part of their God, and I don't expect him to change his views anytime soon. Still, at the very end, he might appreciate someone to pray with."

  What Keith wanted was a nice bed in a clean motel and twelve hours of sleep. But, as a man of God, he couldn't say no. He nodded slowly and said, "Sure."

  "Good. We'll leave in five minutes."

  Keith closed his eyes and rubbed his temples and said to himself, "Lord, what am I doing here? Help me."

  Fred Pryor suddenly jumped from his chair. He held his cell phone at arm's length, as if it were white-hot, and said loudly, "Oh, boy! It's Joey Gamble. He wants to sign the affidavit and recant his testimony."

  "Is he on the phone?" Robbie said.

  "No. It's a text message. Should I call him?"

  "Of course!" Robbie snapped. Pryor stepped to the center of the table and pressed the keys on the speakerphone. No one moved as the phone rang and rang. Finally, a timid "Hello."

  "Joey, Fred Pryor here, in Slone, just got your message, what the hell's going on?"

  "Uh, I wanna help, Mr. Pryor. I'm really upset by all this."

  "You think you're upset, what about Donte? He's got two and a half hours to live, and now you finally wake up and want to help."

  "I'm so confused," Joey said.

  Robbie leaned forward and took charge. "Joey, this is Robbie Flak. Remember?"

  "Of course."

  "Where are you?"

  "Mission Bend, in my apartment."

  "Are you willing to sign an affidavit admitting that you lied at Donte's trial?"

  With no hesitation, Joey said, "Yes."

  Robbie closed his eyes and dropped his head. Around the table, there were silent fist pumps, quick prayers of thanks, and a lot of tired smiles.

  "All right, here's the plan. There's a lawyer in Houston by the name of Agnes Tanner. Her office is downtown on Clay Street. Do you know the city?"

  "I guess."

  "Can you find an office downtown?"

  "I don't know. I'm not sure I should drive."

  "Are you drunk?"

  "Not drunk, but I've been drinking." Robbie instinctively glanced at his watch. Not yet 4:00 p.m. and the boy was already thick tongued.