The Confession (37 page)

At 9:15, he called the Reverend Johnny Canty, pastor of Bethel African Methodist Church. The two had met on Tuesday, when Reverend Canty had pleaded with the mayor to intervene with the governor and support a stay. The mayor had declined. He did not know the governor, had no clout with him whatsoever, and besides, anyone begging for a reprieve was wasting his time with Gill Newton. Canty had warned Mayor Rooney of the potential for unrest if the execution of Donté took place. The mayor had been skeptical.

All skepticism had now been replaced by fear.

Mrs. Canty answered the phone and explained that her husband was not home. He was at the funeral home waiting for the Drumm family to return. She gave the mayor a cell phone number, and Reverend Canty finally answered. “Well, good evening, Mayor,” he said softly in his rich preacher’s voice. “How are things tonight?”

“Things are pretty exciting right now, Reverend. How are you?”

“I’ve had better days. We’re here at the funeral home, waiting for the family to return with the body, so I’m not doing too well right now. What can I do for you?”

“You were right about the unrest, Reverend. I didn’t believe you,
and I’m sorry. I should have listened, and I didn’t. But things seem to be going from bad to worse. We’ve had eight fires, I think, a dozen arrests, half a dozen injuries, and there’s no reason to believe those numbers will not go up. The crowd at Civitan Park has been dispersed, but the crowd at Washington Park is growing by the minute. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone doesn’t get killed very soon.”

“There’s already been a killing, Mayor. I’m waiting on the body.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s the purpose of this call, Mayor?”

“You are a well-regarded leader in your community. You are the Drumms’ pastor. I ask you to go to Washington Park and appeal for calm. They will listen to you. This violence and unrest serves no purpose.”

“I have one question for you, Mayor. Did your police use tear gas on those kids in Civitan Park? I heard that rumor only minutes ago.”

“Well, yes. It was considered necessary.”

“No, it wasn’t necessary, and it was a monumental mistake. By gassing our children, the police made a bad situation worse. Don’t expect me to go rushing in to repair your damage. Good night.”

The line was dead.

———

Robbie, with Aaron Rey on one side and Fred Pryor on the other, stood before the mikes and cameras and answered questions. He explained that Travis Boyette was still in the building and did not wish to speak to anyone. One reporter asked if he could go inside and interview Boyette. Only if you want to get arrested and perhaps shot was Robbie’s sharp reply. Stay away from the building. They asked about Donté’s last meal, visit, statement, and so on. Who were the witnesses? Any contact with the victim’s family? Useless questions, in Robbie’s opinion, but then the whole world seemed worthless at that point.

After twenty minutes, he thanked them. They thanked him. He asked them to leave and not come back. In the event Boyette changed his mind and wanted to talk, Robbie would give him a phone and a number.

Keith watched the press conference from a dark spot on the platform, outside the office but under its veranda. He was on the phone with Dana, recounting the events of the day, trying to stay awake, when she suddenly said that Robbie Flak was on the screen. She was watching the cable news and there he was, live from Slone, Texas.

“I’m about fifty feet behind him, in the shadows,” Keith said, voice lower.

“He looks tired,” she said. “Tired and maybe a bit crazy.”

“Both. The fatigue comes and goes, but I suspect he’s always a little crazy.”

“He looks like a wild man.”

“Certified, but there’s a sweet man under the surface.”

“Where’s Boyette?”

“He’s in a room, inside the building, with a television and some food. He prefers not to come out, and that’s a good thing. These people knew Donté and loved him. Boyette has no friends around here.”

“A few minutes ago they showed the fires and talked to the mayor. He seemed a bit jumpy. Are you safe, Keith?”

“Sure. I can hear sirens in the distance, but nothing close.”

“Please be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re a wreck, I can tell. Get some sleep. When are you coming home?”

“I plan to leave here in the morning.”

“What about Boyette? Is he coming back?”

“We have not had that conversation.”

S
lone had three funeral homes, two for the whites (upper and lower) and one for the blacks. Integration had been achieved in some important areas of life—schools, politics, employment, and commercial activity. But in other areas, integration would never occur because neither race really wanted it. Sunday worship was segregated, by choice. A few blacks attended the larger white churches in town, and they were welcome. Even fewer whites could be found in black churches, where they were treated like everyone else. But the vast majority stuck with their own kind, and bigotry had little to do with it. It was more a matter of tradition and preference. The whites preferred an orderly, more subdued ritual on Sunday morning. Opening prayer at 11:00 a.m., followed by some beautiful music, then a nice crisp sermon, out by noon and certainly no later than 12:10 because by then they were starving. In the black churches, time was not as important. The spirit flowed more freely and made for a more spontaneous style of worship. The crack of noon was never heard. Lunch was often on the grounds, whenever, with no one in a hurry to leave.

And dying was so different. There was never a hurry to bury a black person, while the whites usually wanted it done within three days max. The black funeral home was busier, with more visitors, longer wakes, longer good-byes. Lamb & Son had been providing dignified service in its part of town for decades. When its hearse arrived a few minutes after 10:00 p.m., there was a solemn crowd waiting on the lawn in front of the small chapel. The mourners were silent, with heads down, faces somber. They watched as Hubert and Alvin opened the rear door of the hearse, then gave directions to the pallbearers—eight friends of Donté’s, most of whom had once played football for the Slone Warriors. They carried the casket a few feet, following Hubert Lamb, then disappeared through a side door. The funeral home was closed and would not open until the following morning when Donté was properly prepared and ready to be viewed.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The air was thick, tense, heavy with smoke and fear. Those who were not making trouble were certainly expecting it.

A car pulled into the parking lot and parked next to the hearse. Roberta Drumm, with Marvin, Cedric, and Andrea, got out and moved slowly to the front entrance, where they greeted their friends. There were hugs and whispers and tears. The family eventually went inside, but the friends did not leave. Another car turned in and parked near the hearse. It was Robbie, with Aaron Rey, and they slipped past the crowd and entered through the side door. In the front parlor, Robbie met the family. They sat together and embraced and cried as if they had not seen each other in months. Only a few hours earlier they had watched Donté die, but that time and place were so distant now.

During the drive back from Huntsville, the Drumm family had listened to the radio and talked on cell phones. They quizzed Robbie about this Boyette character, and Robbie gave all the details he had. They knew things were grim in Slone, and expected to get worse, and Roberta repeatedly said she wanted the violence to stop. It’s not within your power, Robbie assured her. It’s out of control.

Hubert Lamb entered the parlor and said, “Roberta, Donté is ready.”

———

She entered the prep room alone, closed the door behind her, and locked it. Her beautiful boy was lying on a narrow table, one covered in white sheets for the moment. He was dressed in the same clothes they had killed him in—cheap white shirt, worn khakis, bargain shoes—courtesy of the State of Texas. She gently placed her hands on his cheeks and kissed him on the face—the forehead, the lips, the nose, the chin—she kissed him and kissed him as her tears dropped like rain. She had not touched him in eight years, the last embrace a quick, stolen hug as they led him out of the courtroom the day they sentenced him to die, and as she wept now, she remembered the unspeakable agony of watching him hauled away, the leg chains rattling, the fat deputies crowding around him as if he just might kill someone else, the hard, smug faces of the prosecutors, the jurors, and the judge, proud of their work.

“I love you, Momma,” he called over his shoulder, then they shoved him through a door and he was gone.

His skin wasn’t cold, nor was it warm. She touched the small scar under his chin, a small consolation prize from a neighborhood rock fight he’d lost when he was eight years old. Other rock fights followed. He had been a tough kid, made tougher by his older brother Cedric, who teased him constantly. A tough kid, but a sweet boy. She touched the lobe of his right ear, the tiny hole barely visible. He bought an earring when he was fifteen, a small fake diamond, and wore it when he was out with his friends. He hid it from his father, though. Riley would have chastised him.

Her beautiful boy, lying there so peaceful, and so healthy. Dead but not diseased. Dead but not injured. Dead but not maimed. She examined his arms and could find no trace of the needle pricks used for the injections. There was no evidence of the killing, nothing external. He seemed to be resting and waiting for the next drug to be administered,
one that would gently wake him and allow him to go home with his mother.

His legs were straight; his arms were by his sides. Hubert Lamb said the stiffening would begin soon, so she had to get busy. From her purse, she removed a tissue to wipe her cheeks and a pair of scissors to cut away the prison garb. She could have unbuttoned the shirt, but instead she cut it down the front, then along the sleeves, removing it piece by piece and dropping the scraps on the floor. Tears still ran down her cheeks, but she was humming now, an old gospel song, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.” She paused to rub his flat stomach and his soft chest and shoulders, and she marveled at how much he’d shrunk in prison. The fierce athlete was gone, replaced by the broken prisoner. He had died slowly in prison.

She unbuckled the cheap canvas belt, and for good measure cut it in half and dropped it on the pile. Tomorrow, when she was alone, she planned to burn the prison scraps in her backyard, in a private ceremony that only she would attend. She unlaced the dreadful shoes, removed them, and pulled off the white cotton socks. She touched the scars along his left ankle, permanent reminders of the injury that ended his football career. She cut the khakis, carefully up the inseams and delicately through the crotch. Of her three boys, Cedric had been the dresser, the clotheshorse who would work two part-time jobs so he could buy better labels. Donté preferred jeans and pullovers and looked good in anything. Anything but the jumpsuits they wore in prison. She clipped away, dropping the pieces of khaki onto the pile. She paused occasionally to wipe her cheeks with the back of a hand, but she had to hurry. The body was stiffening. She stepped to a sink and turned on the faucet.

The boxer shorts were white and oversized. She snipped away like a seamstress and removed them. The pile was complete. He was naked, leaving the world the same way he had entered it. She poured liquid soap into the sink, splashed the water, adjusted the temperature, then turned off the faucet. She dipped a cloth and began bathing her son. She rubbed his legs, then dried them quickly with a small towel. She washed
his genitals, and wondered how many grandchildren he would have fathered. He loved the girls, and they loved him. She gently washed his chest and arms, neck and face, drying him as she went.

When the bath was finished, she moved to the last and most difficult part of her preparation. Before the family left for Huntsville, Cedric stopped by the funeral home with a new suit Roberta had purchased and altered. It was hanging on a wall, along with a new white shirt and a handsome gold tie. She assumed the shirt and coat would be the most difficult, the pants and shoes the easiest to finesse. And she was right. His arms would not bend now, and she carefully threaded the shirt over his right arm, then gently maneuvered Donté onto his left side. She brought the shirt around, laid him back down, wiggled it over his left arm, and quickly buttoned it. She did the same with the coat, a dark gray wool blend, and when she wrapped it around him, she paused for a second to kiss the side of his face. His legs were stiff. She methodically inched upward a pair of black cotton boxers, size large and too big. She should have bought mediums. The pants took a while. She tugged gently from side to side, straining to lift Donté at his midsection for a moment to complete the task. When the pants were in place at the waist, she tucked in the shirttail, zipped the pants, then fished a belt through the loops and buckled it. His feet were stiff, his ankles wouldn’t bend, and the socks were more of a challenge than she had expected. The shoes were the black leather lace-ups Donté had worn to church as a teenager.

The shoes had been taken from his closet, one he’d shared with Marvin when they were boys. Donté had assumed full ownership when his brother got married, and for nine years now it had remained virtually untouched. Roberta cleaned it, dusted the clothing, killed the insects, arranged things just so. Hours earlier when she had removed the shoes, she had stood in the closet door for a long time, wondering, what now?

For years after he was sent away, she lived with the fervent belief that Donté would one day be freed. One glorious day their nightmare would end and he would come home. He would sleep in his bed, eat his mother’s cooking, nap on the sofa, and need the things in his closet.
One day a judge or a lawyer or someone toiling in the impenetrable maze of the judicial system would discover the truth. The phone call from heaven would arrive and they would celebrate. But the appeals ran their course, no miracles occurred, the years dragged on, and her hope and the hopes of many others slowly faded. The shirts and jeans and sweaters and shoes in his closet would never be used again, and she wondered what to do with them.