The Confession (44 page)

Dana and Keith were both looking at Matthew, who said, “That’s sort of what I figured.”

“I’m not running from this,” Keith said. “And we can’t live with the threat of an officer knocking on the door. Let’s get it over with.”

Matthew shook his head and said, “Okay, but you’ll need a lawyer.”

“What about you?” Dana asked.

“A defense lawyer, as in criminal defense. Me? I’m now on the other side of the street, and, frankly, I can help more over there.”

“Could Keith possibly go to jail?” she asked.

“Get right to the point, don’t you?” Keith said, with a smile. Dana was not smiling. Her eyes were moist.

Matthew stretched his arms above his head, then leaned forward on his elbows. “Here’s my worst-case scenario. I’m not predicting this; it’s just the worst case. If you admit your role in taking him to Texas, get ready for some coverage. Then, if Boyette rapes another woman, all hell breaks loose. I can see the DA playing hardball with you, but I cannot, under any scenario, see you going to jail. You may have to plead guilty, get probation, pay a small fine, but I doubt it.”

“I’d stand in court, in front of a judge, and plead guilty?”

“That’s what usually happens.”

Keith took Dana’s hand on the table. There was a long moment of reflection, then she said, “What would you do, Matthew?”

“Hire a lawyer, and pray Boyette is either dead or too ill to attack someone.”

———

At noon, the forty-one white members of the Slone High football team met in the parking lot of a small elementary school on the edge of town. There, they quickly boarded a chartered bus and left town. Their equipment was in a rental van behind the bus. An hour later, they arrived at Mount Pleasant, population fifteen thousand. From there, the bus followed a police car to the high school football field. The players dressed quickly and hustled to the field for their pregame routines. It was odd, warming up with no lights and no fans. Security was tight; police cars blocked every possible route to the field. The Lobos of Longview High took the field minutes later. There were no cheerleaders, no band, national anthem, pregame prayer, or public address announcer. As the coin was tossed, the Slone coach looked across the field at the Lobos and wondered how bad the slaughter might be. They had eighty players on a roster that was at least 70 percent black. Slone had not beaten Longview since the days of Donté Drumm, and the Warriors had no chance today.

What was happening in Slone was being felt throughout East Texas, if not far beyond.

Slone won the toss and elected to receive. It really didn’t matter, but the Slone coach wanted to avoid a long kickoff return and a quick seven points. His receiving team took the field, and the Lobos lined up to kick. Ten black kids and a white kicker. At the whistle, the player closest to the ball suddenly stepped forward and grabbed it. It was a move that had never been seen before, and for a second everyone was startled. The ten black members of the kickoff team then yanked off their helmets and laid them on the turf. The referees blew their whistles, the coaches yelled, and for a few seconds there was total confusion. On cue, the other black Longview players walked onto the field dropping their helmets and jerseys as they went. The Slone players on the field backed away in disbelief. The game was over before it began.

The black players formed a tight circle and sat together at midfield, the modern-day version of a sit-in. The officials, four white and two black, huddled briefly and kept their cool. None of the six volunteered
to attempt to get the football. The Longview coach walked to midfield and said, “What the hell is going on here?”

“Game’s over, Coach,” said Number 71, a 330-pound tackle and co-captain.

“We ain’t playing,” said Number 2, the other co-captain.

“Why not?”

“It’s a protest,” said Number 71. “We’re solid with our brothers in Slone.”

The coach kicked the turf and weighed his options. It was clear that this situation was not about to change, not anytime soon. “Well, just so you understand what you are doing here, this means we’ll have to forfeit, which knocks us out of the play-offs, and they’ll probably find some kind of probation for us. That what you guys want?”

All sixty or so said “Yes!” in unison.

The coach threw up his hands, walked off the field, and sat on the bench. The Slone coach called his players off the field. From both sidelines, the white players stared at the black players. Green Lobo jerseys and helmets littered the field. The officials retreated to an end zone and watched; their day was done.

Minutes passed as reality set in. Then from the Longview sideline, Number 35, a white backup fullback, stepped onto the field, removed his helmet and jersey, and took a seat on the forty-yard line, near his black teammates. One by one the other players followed, until only the coaches were left on the sideline.

The Slone coach wasn’t sure what to do. He was thinking that perhaps he had just been handed a victory, snatched by a miracle from certain defeat. He was about to tell his players to leave the field when Number 88, Denny Weeks, the starting tight end and the son of a Slone police officer, stepped onto the field, dropped his helmet, and pulled off his jersey. He sat on the field with the Longview players, one of whom reached over and shook his hand. One by one the Warriors followed, until all forty-one had left the sideline.

———

At 3:00 p.m., the governor’s office issued a statement for the press. Drafted by Barry Ringfield and rewritten by Wayne Wallcott and the governor himself, its final version read:

———

The train station finally closed Saturday afternoon. Aaron Rey placed two armed guards on the landing, with orders to threaten anyone who came near. The Flak firm gathered at Robbie’s house for an impromptu party. Everyone was there, along with spouses. DeDe hired a caterer who specialized in barbecue, and the rich smell of ribs on the grill wafted over the patio. Fred Pryor manned the bar and the drinks flowed. Everyone lounged in the pool house and tried to relax. The Longhorns were playing football and the television drew some interest. Robbie tried to prohibit any discussion of the Drumm case, but the conversation drifted there anyway. They couldn’t help themselves. They were exhausted, drained, and defeated, but managed to unwind. The booze helped a lot.

The Longview game was making the rounds, and they tipped a glass in honor of the sit-in.

Fred Pryor, while bartending, monitored the police chatter on his radio. The streets of Slone were remarkably calm, which they attributed to Roberta Drumm’s emotional plea. They had also heard that Roberta, Marvin, Cedric, and Andrea had gone to Washington Park and pleaded with the people to go home, to stop the violence.

Though Robbie had ordered all cell phones turned off, the call came through anyway. Carlos received it and relayed the news to a
hushed audience. The authorities in Joplin had expedited their examination and had some interesting news. On Nicole’s underwear, they had found a significant semen sample. DNA testing matched it to Travis Boyette. His DNA sample was in the Missouri data bank due to a previous conviction there.

There was reason to celebrate, and reason to weep. With emotions torn both ways, they decided to have another drink.

S
unday. What had been probable on Thursday, even likelier on Friday, and virtually certain on Saturday became the numbing truth during the night, so that on Sunday morning the country awoke to the sensational reality that an innocent man had been executed. Led by the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
, the big dailies railed and ranted, and all reached the same conclusion—it’s time to stop the killing. The story was page one in both papers, and in dozens of others from Boston to San Francisco. Lengthy articles gave the history of the case, and the characters were well advertised, with Robbie Flak getting as much attention as Donté. Screeching editorials called for a moratorium on executions. There were countless guest columns by legal experts, defense lawyers, death-penalty abolitionists, professors, activists, ministers, even a couple of men on death row, and the same conclusion was reached: now that we have unassailable evidence of a wrongful execution, the only fair and sensible course is to stop them forever, or, if that can’t be done, at least stop them until the death penalty system can be studied and overhauled.

In Texas, the
Houston Chronicle
, a paper that had gradually grown
weary of the death penalty but had stopped short of calling for its abolition, covered its front page with an unrestrained summary of the case. It was a condensed version of Robbie’s press conference, with large photographs of Donté, Nicole, and Robbie on page one, and a dozen more on page five. The stories, all six of them, hit hard at the mistakes and peeled skin off Drew Kerber, Paul Koffee, and Judge Vivian Grale. The identities of the villains were clear; blame was inescapable. One reporter was on the trail of the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, and it was obvious that there would be no place for the court to hide. Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe was unavailable for comment, as were the other eight justices. The clerk of the court, Mr. Emerson Pugh, refused comment. However, Cicely Avis, the Defender Group lawyer who tried to enter Pugh’s office at 5:07 Thursday afternoon, had plenty to say. The details were emerging, with more stories sure to come. Another
Chronicle
reporter was stalking the governor and his staff, all evidently in full retreat.

Reactions varied around the state. Newspapers known to be generally moderate in their politics—those in Austin and San Antonio—called for outright abolition of the death penalty. The Dallas paper was on record calling for a moratorium. Newspapers that were firmly on the right went light on the editorials but could not resist full-blown coverage of the events in Slone.

On television, the Sunday morning talk shows all found room for the story, though the presidential campaign was still the main topic. On cable, Donté Drumm had been the lead story since Robbie’s press conference twenty-four hours earlier, and it showed no signs of slipping to number two. At least one of the subplots had been deemed important enough to have its own title: “The Hunt for Travis Boyette” could be seen every thirty minutes. On the Internet, the story was all the rage, showing five times more hits than anything else. Anti-death-penalty bloggers railed with uncontrolled fury.

As tragic as it was, the story was a huge gift for those on the left. On the right, things were predictably quiet. Those who supported the death penalty were not likely to change, not overnight anyway, but there seemed to be a general feeling that it was a good time to say nothing.
The hard-right cable shows and AM radio commentators simply ignored the story.

———

In Slone, Sunday was still a day of worship. At the Bethel African Methodist Church, a crowd much larger than normal gathered for the 8:00 a.m. call to worship, to be followed by Sunday school, a men’s prayer breakfast, choir practice, Bible lessons, coffee and doughnuts, and eventually the worship hour, which would go on far longer than sixty minutes. Some were there in hopes of seeing one of the Drumms, preferably Roberta, and maybe offering a quiet word of condolence. But the Drumm family needed rest and stayed at home. Some were there because they needed to talk, to hear the gossip, to lend support or to receive it.

Whatever the motive, the sanctuary was overflowing when the Reverend Johnny Canty stepped to the pulpit and warmly welcomed the crowd. It didn’t take long to get to the issue of Donté Drumm. It would’ve been easy to stir up his people, to throw gas on the fire, to hit all the open targets, but Reverend Canty was not inclined to do so. He talked about Roberta and her grace under pressure, her agony in watching her son die, her strength, her love for her children. He talked about the urge for revenge, and how Jesus turned the other cheek. He prayed for patience and tolerance and the wisdom of good men to deal with what had happened. He talked about Martin Luther King and his courage in bringing about change by eschewing violence. It’s man’s nature to strike back, but the second blow leads to the third, and the fourth. He thanked his flock for laying down their arms and getting off the streets.

Remarkably, it had been a quiet night in Slone. Canty reminded his people that Donté Drumm’s name was now famous; it was a symbol that would bring about change. “Let us not smear it with more blood, more violence.”

After a thirty-minute warm-up, the worshippers fanned out through the church to pursue the usual Sunday morning activities.

A mile away, members of the First Baptist Church began arriving for a unique worship experience. The rubble of their sanctuary was still lined with yellow police tape, still a crime scene under active investigation. In a parking lot, a large white tent had been erected. Beneath it were rows of folding chairs and tables covered with food. The dress was casual, the mood generally upbeat. After a quick breakfast they sang hymns, old-time gospel tunes with a beat and lyrics they knew by heart. The chairman of the deacons spoke about the fire and, more important, about the new church they would build. They had insurance, they had faith, they would borrow, if necessary, but a beautiful new sanctuary would rise from the ashes, all to the glory of the Lord.

Reeva was not in attendance. She had not come out of the house. Frankly, she was hardly missed. Her friends felt her pain, now that her daughter had been found, but with Reeva the pain had been relentless for nine years. Her friends could not help but remember the vigils by the Red River, the marathon prayer sessions, the endless tirades in the press, the enthusiastic embrace of victimhood, all in an effort to extract revenge on that “monster” Donté Drumm. Now that they had executed the wrong monster, and with Reeva happily watching him die, few of her fellow church members wanted to face her. Fortunately, she did not want to face them.