The Confession (42 page)

Robbie stared at Koffee and Kerber as he delivered his narrative, but they were unable to maintain eye contact. Koffee was pinching the bridge of his nose, while Kerber picked his cuticles. There were three identical black binders in the center of the table, and Robbie gently slid them over, one each for Koffee, Kerber, and Radford. Robbie continued, “In these, you each have a complete set of the photos, along with a few other goodies—Boyette’s arrest record here in Slone, which proves he was here at the time of the murder. In fact, you boys actually had him in jail at the same time Donté Drumm was locked up. There is also a copy of his extensive criminal record and history of incarcerations. His affidavit is included, but you don’t really need to read it. It’s a detailed account of the abduction, sexual assaults, murder, and burial; the same story you have no doubt seen a dozen times now on television. There’s also an affidavit signed yesterday by Joey Gamble in which he says he lied at the trial. Any questions?”

Silence.

He continued, “I have chosen to proceed in this manner out of respect for Nicole’s family. I doubt if any of you have the backbone to meet with Reeva tonight and tell her the truth, but at least you have that option. It would be a shame for her to hear it secondhand. Someone needs to tell her tonight. Comments? Anything?”

Silence.

The mayor cleared his throat and asked, softly, “When will this go public?”

“I have asked the authorities in Missouri to sit on it until tomorrow. At nine in the morning, I’m holding a press conference.”

“God, Robbie, is that really necessary?” the mayor blurted.

“It’s Mr. Flak to you, Mr. Mayor, and, yes, it is quite necessary. The truth must be told. It’s been buried for nine years by the police and the prosecutor, so, yes, it is time to tell the truth. The lies will finally be exposed. After nine years and the execution of an innocent man, the world will finally know that Donté’s confession was bogus, and I’ll explain the brutal methods used by Detective Kerber to obtain it. I plan to go into great detail describing the lies used at trial—Joey Gamble’s and the jailhouse snitch Kerber and Koffee rounded up and cut a deal with—and I’ll describe all the dirty tactics used at trial. I’ll probably have the opportunity to remind everyone that Mr. Koffee was sleeping with the judge during the trial, just in case anyone has forgotten. I wish the bloodhound were still alive—what was his name?”

“Yogi,” Carlos said.

“How could I forget? I wish ol’ Yogi were still alive so I could show him to the world and call him a stupid son of a bitch again. I figure it might be a long press conference. You boys are invited. Questions? Comments?”

Paul Koffee’s mouth opened slightly as if words were being formed, but words failed him. Robbie was far from finished. “And just so you boys will know what’s coming in the next few days, I’ll file at least two lawsuits Monday morning, one here in state court, naming you as defendants, along with the city, county, and half the state. Another one will be filed in federal court, a civil-rights action with a long list of allegations. You will be named in that one also. I might file another one or two, if I can find a cause of action. I plan to contact the Justice Department and request an investigation. For you, Koffee, I plan to file a complaint with the state bar association for ethics violations, not that I expect the state bar to show much of an interest, but you will get chewed up in the process. You might want to start thinking about a resignation.
For you, Kerber, early retirement is now a real option. You should be fired, but I doubt the mayor and the city council have the balls to do that. Chief, you were the assistant chief when this investigation got off track. You will be named as a defendant, too. But don’t take it personally. I’m suing everybody.”

The chief slowly stood up and walked toward the door. “You’re leaving, Mr. Radford?” the judge asked, in a tone that left no doubt such an abrupt exit would be frowned upon.

“My job does not require me to sit and listen to pompous assholes like Robbie Flak,” the chief replied.

“The meeting is not over,” Judge Henry said sternly.

“I’d stay if I were you,” the mayor said, and the chief decided to stay. He assumed a position by the door.

Robbie stared at Kerber and Koffee, then said, “So last night you had a little party by the lake to celebrate; now I guess the party is over.”

“We always thought Drumm had an accomplice,” Koffee managed to blurt out, though his words trailed off under the weight of their own absurdity. Kerber nodded quickly, ready to pounce on any new theory that might save them.

“Good God, Paul,” Judge Henry roared in disbelief. Robbie was laughing. The mayor’s jaw had dropped in shock.

“Great!” Robbie yelled. “Wonderful, brilliant. Suddenly a new theory, one that has never been mentioned before. One with absolutely no relation to the truth. Let the lying begin! We have a Web site, Koffee, and my sidekick Carlos here is going to keep a tally of the lies. Lies from the two of you, from the governor, the courts, maybe even dear Judge Vivian Grale, if we can find her. You have lied for nine years in order to kill an innocent man, and now that we know the truth, now that your lies will be exposed, you insist on doing precisely what you have always done. Lie! You make me want to puke, Koffee.”

“Judge, can we leave now?” Koffee asked.

“Just a moment.”

A cell phone rang and Carlos grabbed it. “It’s the crime lab, Robbie.” Robbie reached over, took the phone. The conversation was brief,
and there were no surprises. When it ended, Robbie said, “Positive ID, it’s Nicole.”

The room was quiet as they thought about the girl. Judge Henry eventually said, “I am concerned about her family, gentlemen. How do we break the news?”

Drew Kerber was perspiring and appeared to be on the brink of an attack of some variety. He was not thinking about Nicole’s family. He had a wife, a houseful of kids, lots of debts, and a reputation. Paul Koffee could not even begin to imagine a conversation with Reeva about this little twist to their story. No, he would not do it. He would rather run like a coward than deal with that woman. Admitting they had prosecuted and executed the wrong man was, at that moment, far beyond the limits of his imagination.

There were no volunteers. Robbie said, “Obviously, Judge, I’m not the guy. I have my own little trip to make, over to the Drumm home to deliver the news.”

“Mr. Kerber?” the judge asked.

He shook his head no.

“Mr. Koffee?”

He shook his head no.

“Very well. I will call her mother myself and break the news.”

“How late can you wait, Judge?” the mayor asked. “If this hits the streets tonight, then God help us.”

“Who is in the loop, Robbie?” the judge asked.

“My office, the seven of us in this room, the authorities in Missouri. We also took a TV crew with us, but they won’t air anything until I say so. It’s a small world right now.”

“I’ll wait two hours,” Judge Henry said. “This meeting is adjourned.”

———

Roberta Drumm was at home with Andrea and a few friends. The kitchen table and counters were covered with food—casseroles, platters
of fried chicken, cakes, and pies, enough food to feed a hundred. Robbie had forgotten to eat dinner, so he snacked as he and Martha waited for the friends to leave. Roberta was thoroughly drained. After a day receiving guests at the funeral home, and crying with most of them, she was emotionally and physically spent.

And so Robbie made things much worse by delivering the news. He had no choice. He began with the journey to Missouri and finished with the meeting in Judge Henry’s office. He and Martha helped Andrea put Roberta in bed. She was conscious, but barely. Knowing that Donté was about to be exonerated, and before he was buried, was simply too much.

———

The sirens were quiet until ten minutes after 11:00 p.m. Three quick 911 calls got them started. The first reported a fire in a shopping center north of town. Evidently, someone tossed a Molotov cocktail through the front window of a clothing store, and a passing motorist saw flames. The second call, anonymous, reported a burning school bus parked behind the junior high. And the third, and most ominous, was from a fire alarm system at a feed store. Its owner was Wallis Pike, Reeva’s husband. The police and guardsmen, already on high alert, stepped up their patrols and surveillance, and for the third straight night Slone endured the sirens and the smoke.

———

Long after the boys were asleep, Keith and Dana sat in the dark den and sipped wine from coffee cups. As Keith told his story, the details poured out, and he remembered facts and sounds and smells for the first time. The little things surprised him—the sound of Boyette heaving in the grass beside the interstate, the lethargy of the state trooper as he went about the task of writing the speeding ticket, the stacks of paperwork on the long table in Robbie’s conference room, the looks of fear on the faces of his staff, the antiseptic smell of the holding room in the
death house, the ringing in Keith’s ears as he watched Donté die, the lurching of the airplane as they flew over Texas, and on and on. Dana peppered him with questions, random and insightful. She was as intrigued by the adventure as Keith, and at times incredulous.

When the bottle was empty, Keith stretched out on the sofa and fell into a deep sleep.

W
ith Judge Henry’s approval, the press conference was held in the main courtroom of the Chester County Courthouse, on Main Street in downtown Slone. Robbie had planned to hold it in his office, but when it became apparent that a mob would attend, he changed his mind. He wanted to make sure every possible reporter could be accommodated, but he didn’t want a bunch of curious strangers poking around his train station.

At 9:15 a.m., Robbie stepped to the podium in front of Judge Henry’s bench and surveyed the throng. Cameras clicked and tape recorders were turned on to catch every word. He wore a dark three-piece suit, his finest, and though exhausted, he was also wired. He wasted little time getting to the point. “Good morning and thanks for coming,” he said. “The skeletal remains of Nicole Yarber were found yesterday morning in a remote section of Newton County, Missouri, just south of the city of Joplin. I was there, along with members of my staff, accompanying a man named Travis Boyette. Boyette led us to the site where he buried Nicole almost nine years ago, two days after he abducted her here in Slone. Using dental records, the crime lab in
Joplin made a positive identification last night. The crime lab is working around the clock to examine her remains, and their work should be completed in a couple of days.” He paused, took a sip of water, and scanned the crowd. Not a sound. “I’m in no hurry, folks. I plan to go into considerable detail, then I will answer all the questions you have.” He nodded at Carlos, who was seated nearby with his laptop. On a large screen next to the podium, a photo of the grave site appeared. Robbie began a methodical description of what they had found, illustrated by one photo after another. Pursuant to an agreement with the authorities in Missouri, he did not show the skeletal remains. The site was being treated as a crime scene. He did use the photos of Nicole’s driver’s license, credit card, and the belt Boyette used to strangle her. He talked about Boyette and gave a brief explanation of his disappearance. There was not yet a warrant for his arrest, so Boyette wasn’t a wanted man.

It was obvious that Robbie was relishing the moment. His performance was being broadcast live. His audience was captive, spellbound, and hungry for every detail. He could not be interrupted or challenged on any point. It was his press conference, and he was finally getting the last word. The moment was a lawyer’s dream.

———

There would be several points during the morning when Robbie belabored a topic, beginning with his heartfelt ramblings about Donté Drumm. The audience, though, refused to be bored. He eventually got around to the crime, and this prompted a photo of Nicole, a very pretty, wholesome high school girl.

Reeva was watching. Phone calls had roused her. They had been up all night dealing with the fire at the feed store, a fire that was contained quickly and could’ve been much worse. It was certainly arson, a criminal act obviously carried out by black thugs seeking revenge against the family of Nicole Yarber. Wallis was still there, and Reeva was alone.

She cried when she saw her daughter’s face, displayed by a man she loathed. She cried and she seethed and she ached. Reeva was confused,
tormented, thoroughly bewildered. The phone call last night from Judge Henry had spiked her blood pressure and sent her to the emergency room. Add the fire, and Reeva was practically delirious.

She had asked Judge Henry many questions—Nicole’s grave? Skeletal remains? Her clothing and driver’s license, belt and credit card, and all the way up in Missouri? She had not been dumped in the Red River near Rush Point? And worst of all—Drumm was not the killer?

“It’s true, Mrs. Pike,” the judge said patiently. “It’s all true. I’m sorry. I know that it is a shock.”

A shock? Reeva couldn’t believe it and for hours refused to believe it. She’d slept little, ate nothing, and was still grasping for answers when she turned on the television and there was Flak, the peacock, live on CNN talking about her daughter.

There were reporters outside, in the driveway, but the house was locked, the curtains drawn, the blinds down, and one of Wallis’s cousins was on the front porch with a 12-gauge shotgun. Reeva was fed up with the media. She had no comment. Sean Fordyce was holed up in a motel south of town fuming because she would not chat with him on camera. He had made a fool of her already. He reminded her of their agreement, of the signed contract, to which she responded, “Just sue me, Fordyce.”

Watching Robbie Flak, Reeva, for the first time, allowed herself to think the unthinkable. Was Drumm innocent? Had she spent the last nine years hating the wrong person? Had she watched the wrong man die?

And what about the funeral? Now that her baby had been found, she would need to be properly buried. But the church was gone. Where would they have the funeral? Reeva wiped her face with a wet cloth and mumbled to herself.