The Confession: A Novel Page 14

  Betts did a masterful job of raising emotions and tensions. When he finally wound down, he changed course and asked the crowd to behave, to stay off the streets tonight and tomorrow night. "We gain nothing by violence," he pleaded. When he finished, he introduced the Reverend Johnny Canty, pastor of the Bethel African Methodist Church, where the Drumm family had worshipped for over twenty years. Reverend Canty began with a message from the family. They were thankful for the support. They remained strong in their faith and were praying for a miracle. Roberta Drumm was doing as well as could be expected. Her plans were to travel to death row tomorrow and be there until the end. Reverend Canty then asked for quiet and began a long eloquent prayer that started with a plea for compassion for the family of Nicole Yarber, a family that had endured the nightmare of the death of an innocent child. Just like the Drumm family. He thanked the Almighty for the gift of life and the promise of eternity for all people. He thanked God for His laws, the most basic and most important being the Ten Commandments, which included the prohibition "Thou shalt not kill." He prayed for those "other Christians" out there who take the same Bible and twist it and use it as a weapon to kill others. "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do."

  Canty had worked on his prayer for a long time, and he delivered it slowly, with perfect timing, and without notes. The crowd hummed and swayed and offered hearty "Amens" as he plodded along, no end in sight. It was far more a speech than a prayer, and Canty savored the moment. After praying for justice, he prayed for peace, not the peace that avoids violence, but the peace yet to be found in a society in which young black men are incarcerated in record numbers, in which they are executed far more often than those of other races, in which crimes committed by blacks are deemed more grievous than the same crimes committed by whites. He prayed for mercy, for forgiveness, for strength. Like most ministers, Canty went on too long and was losing his audience when he suddenly found it again. He began praying for Donte, "our persecuted brother," a young man snatched from his family nine years ago and thrown into a "hellhole" from which no man escaped alive. Nine years without his family and friends, nine years locked away like a caged animal. Nine years serving the time for a crime committed by someone else.

  ------

  From the window of a small law library on the third floor, Judge Elias Henry watched and listened. The crowd was under control as the reverend prayed, yet it was the restlessness that frightened the judge.

  Slone had known little racial discord over the decades, and the judge took most of the credit for this, but only when talking to himself. Fifty years earlier, when he'd been a young lawyer struggling to pay his bills, he'd taken a part-time job reporting and writing editorials for the Slone Daily News, then a prosperous weekly that was read by all. Now it was a struggling daily with a lower readership. In the early 1960s, the newspaper was one of the few in East Texas that recognized the fact that a sizable portion of the population was black. Elias Henry wrote occasional stories about black sports teams and black history, and though this was not well received, it was not openly condemned. His editorials, though, managed to rile up the whites. He explained in layman's terms the true meaning of Brown v. Board of Education and criticized the segregated schools in Slone and Chester County. The newspaper, through the growing influence of Elias and the declining health of its owner, took bold stands in favor of voting rights for blacks, as well as fair pay and fair housing. His arguments were persuasive, his reasoning was sound, and most of those who read his opinions realized he was far smarter than they were. He bought the paper in 1966 and owned it for ten years. He also became a skilled lawyer and politician and a leader in the community. A lot of white folks disagreed with Elias, but few challenged him publicly. When the schools were finally desegregated, at the end of a federal gun barrel, white resistance in Slone had been softened after years of crafty manipulation by Elias Henry.

  After he was elected judge, he sold the paper and assumed a loftier position. From there, he quietly but firmly controlled a judicial system that was known to be tough on those who were violent, strict on those who needed guidance, and compassionate to those who needed another chance. His defeat by Vivian Grale led to a nervous breakdown.

  The conviction of Donte Drumm would not have happened on his watch. He would have known about the arrest not long after it occurred. He would have examined the confession and the circumstances surrounding it, and he would have called in Paul Koffee for an unofficial meeting, just the two of them with the door locked, to inform the DA that his case was rotten. The confession was hopelessly unconstitutional. It would not get to the jury. Keep looking, Koffee, because you have yet to find your killer.

  Judge Henry looked at the throng packed tightly around the front of the courthouse. Not a white face anywhere, except for the reporters. It was an angry black crowd. The whites were hiding, and not sympathetic. His town was split, something he thought he would never see.

  "God help us," he mumbled to himself.

  ------

  The next speaker was Palomar Reed, a senior at the high school and vice president of the student body. He began with the obligatory condemnation of the death sentence and launched into a windy and technical diatribe against capital punishment, with heavy emphasis on the Texas version of it. The crowd stayed with him, though he lacked the drama of the more experienced speakers. Palomar, though, soon proved to have an incredible knack for the dramatic. Looking at a sheet of paper, he began calling the names of the black players on the Slone High School football team. One by one, they hurried to the podium and formed a line along the top step. Each wore the royal blue home jersey of the Slone Warriors. When all twenty-eight were packed shoulder to shoulder, Palomar made a shocking announcement: "These players stand here united with their brother Donte Drumm. A Slone Warrior. An African warrior. If the people of this city, county, and state succeed in their illegal and unconstitutional efforts to kill Donte Drumm tomorrow night, these warriors will not play in Friday's game against Longview."

  The crowd exhaled in one massive cheer that rattled the windows of the courthouse. Palomar looked at the players, and on cue all twenty-eight reached for their shirttails and quickly yanked off the jerseys. They threw them at their feet. Under the jerseys, each player wore an identical white T-shirt with the unmistakable image of Donte's face. Under it, in bold lettering, was the word "INNOCENT." The players puffed their chests and pumped their fists, and the crowd drowned them in adoration.

  "We will boycott classes tomorrow!" Palomar yelled into the microphone. "And Friday, too!

  "And there will be no football game on Friday night!"

  ------

  The rally was being broadcast live on the local channel, and most of the white folks in Slone were glued to their televisions. In banks and schools and homes and offices, the same muted utterances were heard:

  "They can't do that, can they?"

  "Of course they can. How do you stop them?"

  "They've gone too far."

  "No, we've gone too far."

  "So, you think he's innocent?"

  "I'm not sure. No one's sure. That's the problem. There's just too much doubt."

  "He confessed."

  "They never found the body."

  "Why can't they just stop things for a few days, you know, a reprieve or something like that?"

  "Why?"

  "Wait till after football season."

  "I'd prefer not to have a riot."

  "If they riot, then they'll be prosecuted."

  "Don't bet on it."

  "This place is going to explode."

  "Kick 'em off the team."

  "Who do they think they are, calling the game off?"

  "We got forty white boys who can play."

  "Damn right we do."

  "Coach oughtta kick 'em off the team."

  "And they oughtta arrest 'em if they skip school."

  "Brilliant. That'll throw gas on the fire."

  At the high school, the fo
otball coach watched the protest in the principal's office. The coach was white, the principal black. They stared at the television and said nothing.

  At the police department, three blocks down Main Street from the courthouse, Chief of Police Joe Radford watched the television with his assistant chief. The department had four dozen uniformed officers on the payroll, and at that moment thirty were watching nervously from the fringes of the rally.

  "Will the execution take place?" the assistant chief asked.

  "Far as I know," Radford answered. "I talked to Paul Koffee an hour ago, and he thinks it's a go."

  "We might need some help."

  "Naw. They'll throw a few rocks, but it'll blow over."

  Paul Koffee watched the show alone at his desk with a sandwich and chips. His office was two blocks behind the courthouse, and he could hear the crowd when it roared. For him, such demonstrations were necessary evils in a country that valued the Bill of Rights. Folks could gather lawfully, with permission of course, and express their feelings. The same laws that protected this right also governed the orderly flow of justice. His job was to prosecute criminals and put the guilty ones away. And when a crime was grave enough, the laws of his state directed him to extract revenge and seek the death penalty. This he had done in the Drumm case. He had no regrets, no doubts, not the slightest uneasiness about his decisions, his tactics at trial, or the guilt of Drumm. His work had been ratified by seasoned appellate judges on numerous occasions. Dozens of these learned jurists had reviewed every word of the Drumm trial and affirmed his conviction. Koffee was at peace with himself. He regretted his involvement with Judge Vivian Grale, and the pain and embarrassment it had caused, but he had never doubted that her rulings were right.

  He missed her. Their romance had cracked under the strain of all the negative attention it created. She ran away and refused any contact. His career as a prosecutor would soon be over, and he hated to admit that he would leave office under a cloud. The Drumm execution, though, would be his high-water mark, his vindication, a shining moment that the people of Slone, or at least the white ones, would appreciate.

  Tomorrow would be his finest day.

  ------

  The Flak Law Firm watched the rally on the wide-screen television in the main conference room, and when it was finally over, Robbie retreated to his office with half a sandwich and a diet cola. The receptionist had carefully arranged a dozen phone message slips on the center of his desk. The ones from Topeka caught his attention. Something rang a bell. Ignoring the food, he picked up the phone and punched in the number for a cell phone of the Reverend Keith Schroeder.

  "Keith Schroeder please," he said when someone answered "Hello."

  "Speaking."

  "This is Robbie Flak, attorney in Slone, Texas. I have your message, and I think I saw an e-mail a few hours ago."

  "Yes, thank you, Mr. Flak."

  "It's Robbie."

  "Okay, Robbie. It's Keith on this end."

  "Fine, Keith. Where's the body?"

  "In Missouri."

  "I have no time to waste, Keith, and something tells me this call is a complete waste of time."

  "Maybe it is, but give me five minutes."

  "Talk fast."

  Keith ran through the facts--his encounters with an unnamed parolee, his search into his background, the man's criminal record, his dire medical condition, everything he could cram into five uninterrupted minutes.

  "Obviously, you're not worried about breaching confidentiality here," Robbie said.

  "I'm troubled by it, but the stakes are too high. And I haven't told you his name."

  "Where is he now?"

  "He spent last night in a hospital, checked himself out this morning, and I haven't heard from him since. He'd due back at the halfway house at 6:00 p.m. sharp. I'll be there to see him."

  "And he has four felony convictions for sex offenses?"

  "At least."

  "Pastor, this man has zero credibility. I can't do anything with this. There's nothing here. You gotta understand, Keith, that these executions always attract the nutcases. We had two fruitcakes show up last week. One claimed to know where Nicole is living now, she's a stripper by the way, and the other claimed to have killed her in a satanic ritual. Location of the body unknown. The first wanted some money, the second wanted out of prison in Arizona. The courts despise these last-minute fantasies."

  "He says the body is buried in the hills south of Joplin, Missouri. That's where he grew up."

  "How soon can he find the body?"

  "I can't answer that."

  "Come on, Keith. Give me something I can use."

  "He has her class ring. I've seen it, held it, and examined it. SHS 1999, with her initials ANY. Blue stone, size about six."

  "This is good, Keith. I like it. But where is the ring right now?"

  "I assume it's around his neck."

  "And you don't know where he is?"

  "Uh, correct, at this moment, I don't know where he is."

  "Who is Matthew Burns?"

  "A friend of mine, a prosecutor."

  "Look, Keith, I appreciate your concern. You've called twice, e-mailed once, got one of your friends to call. Thank you very much. I'm a very busy man right now, so please leave me alone." Robbie picked up his sandwich as he put down the phone.

  CHAPTER 14

  Gill Newton had been the governor of Texas for five years, and though polls showed an enviable level of approval among the electorate, the polls were dwarfed by his own estimation of his popularity. He was from Laredo, far down in South Texas, where he'd been raised on a ranch that had been owned by his grandfather, who'd once been a sheriff. Gill had scratched his way through college and law school, and when no firm would hire him, he became an assistant prosecutor in El Paso. At the age of twenty-nine, he was elected district attorney in the first of many successful campaigns. He had never lost one. By the age of forty, he'd sent five men to death row. As governor, he'd watched two of them die, explaining that it was his duty since he'd prosecuted them. Though records were sketchy, it was widely believed that Newton was the only sitting governor of Texas to witness an execution. This was certainly true for the modern era. In interviews, he claimed that watching the men die had given him a sense of closure. "I remember the victims," he said. "I kept thinking about the victims. These were horrible crimes."

  Newton seldom passed on a chance to be interviewed.

  Brash, loud, vulgar (in private), he was wildly popular because of his antigovernment rhetoric, his unwavering beliefs, his outrageous comments that he never apologized for, and his love of Texas and its history of fierce independence. The vast majority of voters also shared his fondness for the death penalty.

  With his second and final term secured, Newton was already gazing across the borders of Texas and contemplating a larger stage, something bigger. He was needed.

  Late Wednesday afternoon he met with his two closest advisers, two old friends from law school who had helped with every major decision and most of the minor ones as well. Wayne Wallcott was the lawyer, or chief counsel, as his letterhead proclaimed, and Barry Ringfield was the mouthpiece, or director of communications. On a routine day in Austin, the three met in the governor's office at precisely 5:15 p.m. They took off their coats, dismissed the secretaries, locked the door, and at 5:30 p.m. poured the bourbon. Then they got down to business.

  "This Drumm thing could get messy tomorrow," Barry was saying. "Blacks are pissed, and they got demonstrations scheduled all over the state tomorrow."

  "Where?" the governor asked.

  "Well, here, for starters. On the south lawn of the Capitol. Rumor has it that the Right Reverend Jeremiah Mays is flying in on his fancy jet to get the natives good and agitated."

  "I love it," the governor said.

  "The request for a reprieve has been filed and is on record," Wayne said, looking at some paperwork. He took a sip. The bourbon, Knob Creek, was poured each time into a heavy crystal Waterford gl
ass with the state's seal on it.

  "Definitely more interest in this one," Barry said. "Lots of calls, letters, e-mails."

  "Who's calling?" Newton asked.

  "The usual chorus. The Pope. President of France. Two members of the Dutch parliament. Prime minister of Kenya, Jimmy Carter, Amnesty International, that loudmouth from California who runs the Black Caucus in Washington. Lots of folks."

  "Anybody important?"

  "Not really. The circuit judge in Chester County, Elias Henry, has called twice and sent an e-mail. He's in favor of a reprieve, says he has grave doubts about the jury's verdict. Most of the noise from Slone, though, is gung ho in favor of the execution. They think the boy's guilty. The mayor called and expressed some concerns about trouble in Slone tomorrow night, says he might be calling for help."

  "The National Guard?" Newton asked.

  "I suppose so."

  "I love it."

  All three took a sip. The governor looked at Barry, who was not only his mouthpiece but also his most trusted, and most devious, adviser. "You got a plan?"

  Barry always had a plan. "Sure, but it's a work in progress. I like the demonstration tomorrow, hopefully with Reverend Jeremiah stoking the fires. Big crowd. Tons of Africans. A real tense situation. And you take the podium, stare down the crowd, talk about the orderly flow of justice in this state, the usual spiel, then, right out there on the steps, with cameras rolling and the crowd booing and hissing and maybe throwing rocks at you, right then and there, you deny the request for a reprieve. The crowd erupts, you make your escape. It'll take some balls, but it's priceless."