The Confession (36 page)

When the Bubbas stampeded outside and saw flames roaring out of both trucks, they scrambled for their own. A melee ensued, a near demolition derby, as they frantically tried to get away from the fires. Many of them left, evidently no longer thirsty and anxious to get home, lock the doors, get the guns loaded. Every pickup at Big Louie’s had at least one gun under the seat or in the glove box. Many had hunting rifles in the window racks.

It was the wrong crowd to start a fight with. You burn a man’s pickup, and he’s ready for war.

B
y eight o’clock, the drumsticks were gone, too much booze had been consumed, and most of Koffee’s guests were anxious to get home and see how bad things were in town. The television crews were darting around, trying to keep up with the arsonists, and the fires effectively ended the celebration by the lake. Drew Kerber hung around, stalling, waiting for everyone to leave. He opened another beer and said to Paul Koffee, “We need to talk.”

They walked to the edge of the narrow dock, as far away from the cabin as possible, though no one else was there. Koffee also had a bottle of beer. They leaned on the railing and looked at the water below them.

Kerber spat, sipped his beer, and said, “This guy Boyette, does he worry you?”

Koffee appeared to look surprised, or at least attempted to. “No, but he obviously worries you.”

A long, slow pull on the beer, and Kerber said, “I grew up in Denton, and there were some Boyettes in the neighborhood. Ted Boyette was a good friend, finished high school together, then he joined the Army and disappeared. I heard he got into some trouble, but I moved
away, ended up here, and sort of forgot about him. You know how it is with childhood friends, you don’t ever forget them, but you don’t ever see them either. Anyway, in January 1999, and I remember the month because we had Drumm locked up, I was at the station and some of the other guys were laughing about a thug they’d caught in a stolen pickup. They ran his record; guy’s got three convictions for sexual assault. A registered sex offender in three states, and he was only in his mid-thirties. The cops were wondering, what’s the record? Which pervert is registered in the most states? Someone asked his name. Someone else said, ‘T. Boyette.’ I didn’t say a word, but I was curious as to whether it might be the kid from our neighborhood. I checked his file, saw his name was Travis, but I was still curious. A couple of days later, he was led into the courtroom for a quick appearance before the judge. I didn’t want him to see me, because if it had been my old pal, I didn’t want to embarrass him. The courtroom was busy, it was easy to not be noticed. But it wasn’t him. It was Travis Boyette, the same guy who is in town right now. I recognized him the second I saw him on television—same slick head, same tattoo on the left side of his neck. He was here, Paul, in Slone, in jail, at approximately the same time the girl disappeared.”

Koffee thought hard for a few seconds, then said, “Okay, assume he was here. That doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth about killing her.”

“What if he is telling the truth?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Humor me, Paul. What if? What if Boyette is telling the truth? What if Boyette really has the girl’s ring? What if Boyette takes them to the body? What if, Paul? Help me here. You’re the lawyer.”

“I’m not believing this.”

“Can we face charges?”

“For what?”

“How about murder?”

“Are you drunk, Kerber?”

“I’ve had too much.”

“Then sleep here, don’t drive. Why aren’t you in town with every other cop?”

“I’m a detective, not a street cop. And I’d like to keep my job, Paul. Hypothetically, what happens if this Boyette is telling the truth?”

Koffee drained his bottle, then tossed it into the lake. He lit a cigarette, and blew a long trail of smoke. “Nothing happens. We’re immune. I control the grand jury, thus I control who gets prosecuted for what. There’s never been a case of a detective or a prosecutor facing charges for a bad conviction. We are the system, Kerber. We might get sued in a civil court, but that’s a long shot too. Plus, we’re insured by the city. So there, stop worrying. We’re Teflon.”

“Would I get fired?”

“No, because that would harm you and the city in the civil suit. But they’ll probably offer you early retirement. The city will take care of you.”

“So we’ll be okay?”

“Yes, and please stop this, will you?”

Kerber smiled, breathed deeply, and took another long drink. “Just curious,” he said. “That’s all. I’m really not worried.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

They stared at the water for a while, both lost in their thoughts, but both thinking the same thing. Finally, Koffee said, “Boyette was in jail here, and out on parole from another state, right?”

“Right. I think it was Oklahoma, maybe Arkansas.”

“Then how did he get away?”

“I don’t remember everything, but I’ll check the file in the morning. Seems as though he posted bond, then disappeared. I had nothing to do with the case, and as soon as I realized it was a different Boyette, I forgot about him. Until today.”

Another gap in the conversation, then Koffee said, “Just relax, Kerber. You built a good case, he got a fair trial, and his guilt was affirmed by all the courts. What else can we expect? The system worked. Hell, Drew, the boy confessed.”

“Of course he did. I’ve often wondered, though, what would’ve happened without the confession.”

“You’re not worried about the confession, are you?”

“Oh, no. I played it by the book.”

“Forget about it, Drew. Look, it’s over, really over. It’s too late to second-guess anything we did. The boy is on the way home in a box.”

———

The Slone airport was closed. The pilot activated the landing lights by radio signal from his controls, and the approach and touchdown were smooth. They taxied to the small terminal, and as soon as the props came to rest, they hurried off the plane. Robbie thanked the pilot and promised to call him later. The pilot passed along his condolences. By the time they were in the van, Aaron had spoken with Carlos and had a full report. “Fires all over town,” he said. “They’re burning cars. Carlos says there are three television crews in the parking lot at the office. They want to talk to you, Robbie, and they want to see more of Boyette.”

“Why don’t they burn the TV vans?” Robbie asked.

“Are you gonna talk to them?”

“I don’t know. Make ’em wait. What’s Boyette doing?”

“Watching television. Carlos says he’s pissed off because no one listened to him, and he’s refusing to say anything else to the reporters.”

“If I attack him with a baseball bat, will you please keep me from killing him?”

“No,” Aaron said.

As they entered the city limits, all four strained to see signs of the unrest. Aaron kept to the backstreets, away from downtown, and minutes later they arrived at the train station. All the lights were on. The parking lot was full, and there were indeed three TV vans waiting. By the time Robbie got out, the reporters were waiting for him. He politely asked them where they were from and what they wanted. One crew was from Slone, one from a station in Dallas, and one from Tyler. There were several newspaper reporters, including one from Houston. Robbie offered them a deal—if he organized a small press conference, outside, on the platform, and answered their questions, would they then leave and not come back? He reminded them that they were on his
property and they could be asked to leave at any time. They accepted his deal; everything was pleasant.

“What about Travis Boyette?” a reporter asked.

Robbie said, “I’m not in charge of Mr. Boyette. I understand he’s still inside and doesn’t wish to say anything else. I’ll speak with him, see what he wants to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Flak.”

“I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” he said, and climbed the steps. Keith, Aaron, and Martha followed. Emotions hit hard when they walked into the conference room and saw Carlos, Bonnie, Sammie Thomas, Kristi Hinze, Fanta, and Fred Pryor. There were hugs and condolences and tears.

“Where’s Boyette?” Robbie asked.

Fred Pryor pointed to the closed door of a small office.

“Good, keep him there. Let’s gather around the conference table. I’d like to describe what it was like, while it’s fresh. Reverend Schroeder might want to help, because he was there. He spent time with Donté and watched him die.”

Keith was already in a chair against the wall, drained, fatigued, and wiped out. They looked at him in disbelief. He nodded without a smile.

Robbie took off his jacket and loosened his tie. Bonnie brought a tray of sandwiches and placed it in front of him. Aaron grabbed one, as did Martha. Keith waved them off; he’d lost his appetite. When they were settled in, Robbie began by saying, “He was very brave, but he expected a last-minute miracle. I guess they all do.”

Like a third-grade teacher at story time, Robbie led them through the last hour of Donté’s life, and when he finished, they were all crying again.

———

Rocks began flying, some thrown by teenagers hiding behind groups of other teenagers, and some thrown by persons unseen. They landed on Walter Street, where the police and the guardsmen maintained a
casual line of defense. The first injury was to a Slone officer who took a rock in the teeth and went down hard, much to the delight of the crowd. The sight of a cop down inspired more rock throwing, and Civitan Park was finally exploding. A police sergeant made the decision to break up the crowd and with a bullhorn ordered everyone to disperse immediately or face arrest. This provoked an angry response, and the launching of more rocks and debris. The crowd jeered at the police and soldiers, spewing profanities and threats and showing no signs of obeying the order. The police and soldiers, with helmets and shields, formed a wedge, crossed the street, and entered the park. Several students, including Trey Glover, the tailback and initial leader of the protest, walked forward with their hands thrust out, volunteering for arrest. As Trey was being handcuffed, a rock bounced off the helmet of the officer arresting him. The officer yelled and cursed, then forgot about Trey and began chasing the kid who threw the rock. A few of the protesters scattered and ran through the streets, but most fought on, throwing whatever they could find. The dugouts on one of the baseball fields were made of cinder block, perfect for breaking into pieces and hurling at the men and women in uniform. One student wrapped a string of firecrackers around a stick, lit the fuse, and tossed it into the wedge. The explosions caused the cops and soldiers to break ranks and run for cover. The mob roared. From somewhere behind the wedge, a Molotov cocktail dropped from the sky and landed on the roof of an unmarked and unoccupied police car parked at the edge of Walter Street. The flames spread quickly as the gasoline splashed over the vehicle. This created another wave of delirious cheering and yelling from the crowd. A TV van arrived as the action picked up. The reporter, a serious blonde who should’ve stuck to the weather, scrambled out with a microphone and was met by an angry policeman who demanded that she get back in the van and get the hell out of there. The van, painted white with bold red and yellow lettering, made an easy target, and seconds after it slid to a stop, it was being pelted with rocks and debris. Then a jagged piece of cinder block struck the reporter in the back of the head, opening a wide gash and knocking her unconscious. More cheers, more obscenities.
Lots of blood. Her cameraman dragged her to safety as the police called for an ambulance. To add to the fun and frenzy, smoke bombs were tossed at the police and soldiers, and at that point the decision was made to respond with tear gas. The first canisters were fired, and panic swept through the crowd. It began to break up, with people running away, fanning through the neighborhood. On the streets around Civitan Park, men were on their front porches, listening to the chaos not far away, watching for any sign of movement or trouble. With the women and children safe inside, they stood guard with their shotguns and rifles, just waiting for a black face to appear. When Herman Grist of 1485 Benton Street saw three young blacks walking down the middle of the street, he fired two shotgun blasts into the air from his porch and yelled at the kids to get back to their part of town. The kids began running away. The blasts cut through the night, a grave signal that vigilantes had entered the fray. Fortunately, though, Grist did not fire again.

The crowd continued to disperse, a few throwing rocks in retreat. By 9:00 p.m., the park had been secured, and the police and soldiers walked through the debris—empty cans and bottles, fast-food containers, cigarette butts, fireworks wrappers, enough litter for a landfill. The two dugouts were gone, nothing left but metal benches. The concession stand had been broken into, but there was nothing to take. In the wake of the tear gas, several vehicles had been abandoned, including Trey Glover’s SUV. Trey and a dozen others were already at the jail. Four had volunteered, the rest had been caught. Several had been taken to the hospital because of the tear gas. Three policemen had been injured, along with the reporter.

The acrid smell of the gas permeated the park. A gray cloud from the smoke bombs hung not far above the ball fields. The place resembled a battlefield without the casualties.

The breakup of the party meant that a thousand or so angry blacks were now moving around Slone with no intention of going home and with no plans to do anything constructive. The use of tear gas infuriated them. They had been raised with the black-and-white videos of the dogs in Selma, the fire hoses in Birmingham, and the tear gas in Watts.
That epic struggle was a part of their heritage, their DNA, a glorified chapter in their history, and suddenly here they were, on the streets protesting and fighting and being gassed, just like their ancestors. They had no intention of stopping the fight. If the cops wanted to play dirty, so be it.

———

The mayor, Harris Rooney, was monitoring the deteriorating condition of his little city from the police department, which had become the command center. He and the police chief, Joe Radford, had made the decision to scatter the crowd at Civitan Park and break things up, and they both had agreed that tear gas should be used. Reports were now flooding in, by radio and cell phone, that the protesters were roaming in packs, breaking windows, yelling threats at passing motorists, throwing rocks and debris, all manner of hooligan behavior.