The Confession: A Novel Page 11

  "You called me a liar last night."

  "That's because you lied."

  "Did you find my arrest record in Slone?"

  "We did."

  "So I wasn't lying."

  "Not about that. And you're not lying about Donte Drumm."

  "Thank you. I'm going to sleep now."

  "Come on, Travis. It'll take less than fifteen minutes to make the video. I can even do it now with my cell phone, if you want."

  "You're hurting my head again, Pastor. I feel a seizure. You need to leave now, and please don't come back."

  Keith stood straight and took a deep breath. To make sure things were clear, Boyette repeated himself, but much louder. "You need to leave, Pastor. And please don't come back."

  ------

  In the rear of Eppie's, the two settled over large bowls of beef stew. Matthew pulled some notes out of a pocket and spoke with a mouthful. "There's no code section directly on point, but you would probably be charged with obstruction of justice. Don't even think about taking that guy to Texas."

  "I just talked to our man. He is--"

  "Our man? I didn't realize I'd been drafted."

  "He's in the hospital. Had seizures last night. The tumor is quickly killing him. He's lost his desire to help the cause. He's a creep, a psychopath, probably crazy before the tumor took over his brain."

  "Why did he come to church?"

  "Probably to get out of the halfway house for a few hours. No, I shouldn't say that. I've seen real emotion from this guy, real guilt, and a fleeting desire to do what's right. Dana found one of his former parole officers in Arkansas. The officer talked a little and said that our man was a member of some white supremacist gang in prison. Donte Drumm, of course, is black, and so I'm questioning how much sympathy is really there."

  "You're not eating," Matthew said as he took a bite.

  "I'm not hungry. I have another idea."

  "You are not going to Texas. They would probably shoot you down there."

  "Okay, okay. Here's the idea. What if you call the lawyer for Donte Drumm? I couldn't get past the receptionist. I'm just a humble servant of the Lord, but you're a lawyer, a prosecutor, and you speak their language."

  "And what might I say to him?"

  "You could say that you have reason to believe that the real killer is here in Topeka."

  Matthew chewed a mouthful and waited. He said, "Is that all? Just like that. This lawyer gets a weird phone call from me. I say what I say, which isn't much, and that's supposed to give the lawyer new ammunition to file in court and stop the execution? Am I right here, Keith?"

  "I know you can be more persuasive than that."

  "Try this scenario. This creep is your typical pathological liar who's about to die--poor guy. And he decides to go out with a bang, decides to get one last shot of revenge at a system that's beaten him up. He learns of this case in Texas, does his research, realizes that the body has never been found, and, presto, he's got his story. He finds the Web site and becomes fluent in the facts, and now he's toying with you. Can you imagine the attention this guy would get? But his health won't cooperate. Leave it alone, Keith. He's probably a fake."

  "How would he hear about the case?"

  "It's been in the newspapers."

  "How would he find the Web site?"

  "You ever hear of Google?"

  "He does not have access to computers. He's been at Lansing for the past six years. Prisoners do not have access to the Internet. You should know that. Can you imagine what would happen if they did? Access, plus all that idle time. No software in the world would be safe. He does not have access to a computer at the halfway house. This guy is forty-four years old, Matthew, and has spent most of his adult life in prison. He's probably terrified of computers."

  "What about Drumm's confession? That doesn't bother you?"

  "Of course it does, but according to his Web site--"

  "Keith, come on. That Web site is run by his lawyers. Talk about slanted. It's so one-sided it loses credibility."

  "What about the ring?"

  "It's a high school ring, one of a billion. Not exactly difficult to produce or replicate."

  Keith's shoulders sagged and slumped and he was suddenly very tired. He lacked the energy to keep arguing.

  "You need some sleep, my friend," Matthew said. "And you need to forget this case."

  "Maybe you're right."

  "I think I am. And if the execution happens Thursday, don't beat yourself up. The odds are heavy that they have the right guy."

  "Spoken like a true prosecutor."

  "Who just happens to be a friend."

  CHAPTER 10

  On October 29, 1999, two weeks after he was convicted, Donte Drumm arrived on death row at the Ellis Unit at the prison in Huntsville, a town of thirty-five thousand, about ninety miles north of downtown Houston. He was processed and issued the standard wardrobe of two sets of white shirts and pants, two white jumpsuits, four pairs of boxers, two white T-shirts, one pair of rubber shower shoes, one thin blanket, and one small pillow. He was also given a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a plastic comb, and one roll of toilet paper. He was assigned to a small cell with one concrete bunk, and a stainless steel toilet and sink. He became one of 452 male inmates on death row. There were twenty-two condemned women housed at another prison near Gatesville, Texas.

  Because he had no record of bad behavior in prison, he was classified as a Level I. As such, he was allowed a few extra privileges. He could work up to four hours a day in the garment factory on death row. He could spend his exercise time in a yard with a few other inmates. He could shower once a day, alone without supervision. He could participate in religious services, craft workshops, and educational programs. He could receive a maximum of $75 a month from the outside. He could purchase a television, a radio, writing supplies, and some food from the commissary. And he was allowed visitors twice a week. Those who violated the rules were demoted to Level II, where the privileges were curtailed. The bad boys were reduced to Level III, where all goodies were taken away.

  Though he had been in a county jail for almost a year, the shock of death row was overwhelming. The noise was relentless--loud radios and televisions, the constant banter of the other inmates, the shouts from the guards, the whistling and gurgling from the old plumbing pipes, and the banging of the cell doors being opened and closed. In one letter to his mother, he wrote: "The racket never stops. Never. I try to ignore it, and for an hour or so I can, but then someone will scream or start singing badly and a guard will yell and everybody will laugh. This goes on at all hours. The radios and televisions are turned off at ten at night, and that's when the loudmouths start their foolishness. Living like an animal in a cage is bad enough, but the noise is driving me crazy."

  But he soon learned that he could endure the confinement and the rituals. He wasn't sure, though, if he could live without his family and friends. He missed his brothers and sister and father, but the thought of being permanently separated from his mother was enough to make him weep. He cried for hours, always with his face down, in the dark, and very quietly.

  Death row is a nightmare for serial killers and ax murderers. For an innocent man, it's a life of mental torture that the human spirit is not equipped to survive.

  His sentence of death took on a new meaning on November 16 when Desmond Jennings was executed for killing two people during a bad drug deal. The following day, John Lamb was executed for the murder of a traveling salesman, the day after Lamb had been paroled from prison. The next day, November 18, Jose Gutierrez was executed for an armed robbery and murder he committed with his brother. The brother had been executed five years earlier. Jennings had been on death row for four years, Lamb sixteen, Gutierrez ten. A guard told Donte that the average stay on death row before execution was ten years, which, he said proudly, was the shortest in the nation. Once again, Texas was number one. "But don't worry," the guard said. "It's the longest ten years of your life, and, of course, the
last." Ha, ha.

  Three weeks later, on December 8, David Long was executed for the hatchet slayings of three women in a Dallas suburb. During his trial, Long told the jury he would kill again if not given the death penalty. The jury obliged. On December 9, James Beathard was executed for another triple homicide. Five days later, Robert Atworth was executed, after only three years on death row. The following day, Sammie Felder was executed after a twenty-three-year wait.

  After Felder's death Donte wrote a letter to Robbie Flak in which he said, "Hey, man, these dudes are serious around here. Seven killings in four weeks. Sammie was number 199 since they got the green light a few years back. He's also number 35 for this year, and they've got 50 scheduled for next year. You got to do something, man."

  Living conditions went from bad to worse. Administrators within the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) were in the process of moving death row from Huntsville to the Polunsky Unit near the town of Livingston, forty miles away. Though no official reason was given, the move came after an unsuccessful escape attempt by five condemned prisoners. Four were captured within the prison. The fifth one was found floating in a river, cause of death unknown. Not long thereafter, the decision was made to tighten security and move the men to Polunsky. After four months in Huntsville, Donte was shackled and put on a bus with twenty others.

  At the new place, he was assigned to a cell that measured six feet by ten feet. There were no windows. The door was solid metal, with a small square opening so the guards could look in. Below it was a narrow slot for a food tray. The cell was enclosed, no bars to look through, no way to see another human. It was a cramped bunker of concrete and steel.

  The people who ran the prison decided that a twenty-three-hour-a-day lockup was the proper way to control the prisoners and prevent escape and violence. Virtually all forms of inmate contact were eliminated. No work programs, religious services, group recreation, nothing that would allow human interaction. Televisions were banned. For one hour each day, Donte was led to a "day room," a small, enclosed, indoor space not much larger than his cell. There, alone and watched by a guard, he was supposed to enjoy whatever recreation he could fabricate in his mind. Twice a week, weather permitting, he was taken outside to a small, semi-grassy area known as the "dog kennel." For an hour, he could look at the sky.

  Remarkably, he soon found himself longing for the nonstop noise he had so despised at Huntsville.

  After a month in Polunsky, in a letter to Robbie Flak, he wrote: "For twenty-three hours a day, I'm locked in this closet. The only time I speak to another person is when the guards bring food, or what they call food around here. So all I see is guards, not the kinds of people I'd choose. I'm surrounded by murderers, real murderers, and I'd rather talk to them than talk to the guards. Everything in here is designed to make life as bad as possible. Take mealtime. They feed us breakfast at three in the morning. Why? Nobody knows, and nobody asks. They wake us up to feed us crap that most dogs would run from. Lunch is at three in the afternoon. Supper is at ten at night. Cold eggs and white bread for breakfast, sometimes applesauce and pancakes. Peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. Sometimes baloney, bad baloney. Rubber chicken and instant mashed potatoes for supper. Some judge somewhere said that we're entitled to twenty-two hundred calories a day--I'm sure you know this--and if they figure they're a little short, they just pile on some more white bread. It's always stale. Yesterday for lunch I got five slices of white bread, cold pork and beans, and a chunk of moldy cheddar cheese. Can we sue over the food? Probably already been done. But I can take the food. I can take the searches at all hours. I think I can handle anything, Robbie, but I'm not sure about the solitary confinement. Please do something."

  He became even more depressed and despondent, and was sleeping twelve hours a day. To fight boredom, he replayed every football game of his high school career. He pretended to be a radio announcer, calling the action, adding the color, always with the great Donte Drumm as the star. He rattled off the names of his teammates, everyone but Joey Gamble, and gave fictitious names to his opponents. Twelve games for his sophomore season, thirteen for his junior, and whereas Marshall had beaten Slone both years in the play-offs, Donte would have none of it in prison. The Slone Warriors won those games, and advanced until they slaughtered Odessa Permian in the championship game, in Cowboys Stadium, in front of seventy-five thousand fans. Donte was the Most Valuable Player. Mr. Texas Football for both years, something that had never been done before.

  After the games, after he'd signed off his broadcasts, Donte wrote letters. His goal each day was to write at least five. He read his Bible for hours and memorized verses of scripture. When Robbie filed another thick brief in another court, Donte read every word. And to prove it, he wrote long, grateful letters to his lawyer.

  But after a year in isolation, he began to fear that he was losing his memory. The scores of his old games slipped away. Names of teammates were forgotten. He couldn't rattle off the twenty-seven books of the New Testament. He was lethargic and couldn't shake his depression. His mind was disintegrating. He was sleeping sixteen hours a day and eating half the food they brought him.

  On March 14, 2001, two events almost pushed him over the edge. The first was a letter from his mother. It was three pages long, in the handwriting that he treasured, and after he read the first page, he quit. He could not finish reading a letter. He wanted to and he knew that he should, but his eyes would not focus and his mind would not process her words. Two hours later, he received the news that the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals had affirmed his conviction. He wept for a long time, then stretched out on his bunk and stared at the ceiling in a semi-catatonic fog. He didn't move for hours. He refused lunch.

  In the last game of his junior year, in the play-offs against Marshall, his left hand had been stepped on by a three-hundred-pound offensive tackle. Three fingers were crushed and broken. The pain was instant and so intense that he almost passed out. A trainer taped the fingers together, and on the next series Donte was back in the game. For almost the entire second half, he played like a wild man. The pain made him crazy. Between plays, he stood stoically and watched the offensive huddle, never once shaking his hand, never touching it, in no way acknowledging the pain that made his eyes water. From somewhere, he found the iron will and the incredible toughness to finish the game.

  Though he'd forgotten that score too, he vowed to reach down again, reach into the depths of his gut and the subconscious layers of a brain that was failing him, and find the will to stop his slide into insanity. He managed to pull himself off the bed. He fell to the floor and did twenty push-ups. Then he did sit-ups until his abdomen ached. He ran in place until he could no longer lift his feet. Squats, leg lifts, more pushups and sit-ups. When he was covered in sweat, he sat down and made a schedule. At five each morning, he would begin a precise series of exercises and work nonstop for sixty minutes. At 6:30 a.m., he would write two letters. At 7:00 a.m., he would memorize a new verse of scripture. And so on. His goal was a thousand push-ups and sit-ups a day. He would write ten letters, and not just to his family and close friends. He would find some new pen pals. He would read at least one book a day. He would cut his sleep in half. He would begin a journal.

  These goals were printed neatly, labeled "The Routine," and stuck to the wall beside his metal mirror. Donte found the enthusiasm to stick to his regimen. He attacked it each morning. After a month, he was doing twelve hundred push-ups and sit-ups a day, and the hard muscles felt good. The exercise brought the blood back to his brain. The reading and writing opened new worlds. A young girl in New Zealand wrote him a letter, and he shot one right back. Her name was Millie. She was fifteen years old, and her parents approved the correspondence, but they monitored his letters. When she sent a small photo of herself, Donte fell in love. He was soon doing two thousand push-ups and sit-ups, spurred on by the dream of one day meeting Millie. His journal was filled with graphic, erotic scenes of the couple as they traveled the world. She
wrote him once a month, and for every letter she mailed, she got at least three in return.

  Roberta Drumm made the decision not to tell Donte his father was dying of heart disease. And when, during one of her many routine visits, she told him his father was dead, Donte's fragile world began to crack again. The knowledge that his father had died before he could walk out of prison fully exonerated proved too much. He allowed himself to break his rigid routine. He skipped a day, then a second. He couldn't stop crying and trembling.

  Then Millie dropped him. Her letters arrived around the fifteenth of each month, every month for over two years, plus cards for his birthday and Christmas. For a reason Donte would never know, they stopped. He sent her letter after letter and received nothing in return. He accused the prison guards of tampering with his mail and even convinced Robbie to make some threats. Gradually, though, he accepted the fact that she was gone. He fell into a dark and long depression, with no interest in The Routine. He began a hunger strike, didn't eat for ten days, but gave it up when no one seemed to care. He went weeks with no exercise, no reading, no journal entries, and letters only to his mother and Robbie. Before long, he'd forgotten the old football scores again and could only recall a few of the more famous scripture verses. He would stare at the ceiling for hours, mumbling over and over, "Jesus, I'm losing my mind."

  ------

  The Visitors' Room at Polunsky is a large, open area with plenty of tables and chairs and vending machines along the walls. In the center, there is a long row of booths, all divided by glass. The inmates sit on one side, their visitors on the other, and all conversations are by phone. Behind the inmates, guards are always looming, watching. To one side, there are three booths used for attorney visits. They, too, are divided by glass, and all consultations are by phone.

  In the early years, Donte was thrilled at the sight of Robbie Flak sitting at the narrow counter on the other side of the glass. Robbie was his lawyer, his friend, his fierce defender, and Robbie was the man who would right this incredible wrong. Robbie was fighting hard and loud and threatening hellfire for those who were mistreating his client. So many of the condemned had bad lawyers on the outside or no lawyers at all. Their appeals had run, the system was finished with them. No one out there was advocating on their behalf. But Donte had Mr. Robbie Flak, and he knew at some moment in each day his lawyer was thinking about him and scheming a new way to get him out.