The Confession (48 page)

“Are you telling me to quit?”

“Yes. Immediately. Your career will end in disgrace; get it over with, Paul. Until you step down, the blacks will be in the streets.”

“Suppose I don’t want to resign?”

“I can’t make you, but I can make you wish you had. I’m your judge, Paul, I rule on every motion in every case. I preside over every trial. As long as you are the district attorney, your office gets nothing out of me. Don’t even file a motion, because I won’t consider it. Don’t indict anyone; I’ll quash the indictments. Don’t ask for a trial, because I’m busy that week. Nothing, Paul, nothing. You and your staff will be able to do nothing.”

Koffee was breathing through his mouth, frowning at the judge, trying to digest what he’d just heard. “That’s pretty severe, Judge.”

“If that’s what it takes to get you out of office.”

“I could file a complaint.”

Judge Henry laughed. “I’m eighty-one years old and retiring. I don’t care.”

Koffee slowly got to his feet and walked to a window. He spoke with his back to the judge. “I don’t care either, Elias, to be honest. I just want to get outta here, take a break, run away. I’m only fifty-six, still young enough to do something else.” A long pause as Koffee rubbed a pane of glass with a finger. “God, I can’t believe this, Judge. How did this happen?”

“Everybody got careless. Bad police work. When there’s no evidence, the easiest way to solve a crime is to get a confession.”

Koffee turned around and took a few steps to the edge of the desk. His eyes were moist, his hands trembled. “I can’t lie, Judge. I feel rotten.”

“I understand. I’m sure I would too, under the circumstances.”

Koffee stared at his feet for a long time. Finally, he said, “I’ll quit, Elias, if that’s what it takes. I guess that means a special election.”

“Eventually, but I have a suggestion. When you resign, put Grimshaw
in charge, he’s the best of your assistants. Call in the grand jury and indict Boyette for the crime. The faster, the better. It’s a wonderfully symbolic act—we, the judicial system, in effect admit our mistake, and we are now trying to rectify it by prosecuting the real killer. Our admission will do much to soothe feelings in Slone.”

Koffee nodded and shook the judge’s hand.

———

Keith’s office at St. Mark’s received numerous calls throughout the day. Charlotte Junger fielded them all, explaining that the reverend was unavailable for comment. Keith finally arrived, late in the afternoon. He had been hiding at the hospital all day, visiting the sick, far away from phones and nosy reporters.

At his request, Charlotte had kept a log of all callers, and Keith studied it in his office, door locked, phone unplugged. The reporters were from everywhere, from San Diego to Boston, Miami to Portland. Six of the thirty-nine were from European papers, eleven from Texas. One reporter said he was from Chile, though Charlotte wasn’t sure because of the accent. Three members of St. Mark’s had called to complain. They did not like the fact that their pastor was accused of violating the law; indeed, he seemed to be admitting it. Two members called to express their admiration and support. The story, though, had not yet made it to the Topeka morning paper. That would happen the next day, and Keith expected the same photo to be splashed all over his hometown.

Luke, the six-year-old, had a soccer game under the lights, and since it was Tuesday, the Schroeder family ate at their favorite pizza place. The boys were in bed by 9:30, Keith and Dana by 10:00. They debated whether to keep the phones silent, but in the end agreed to remove the “Do Not Disturb” hold and hope for the best. If one reporter called, they would silence the phones. At 11:12, the phone rang. Keith, still awake, grabbed it and said, “Hello.”

“Pastor, Pastor, how are we?” It was Travis Boyette. In anticipation of this unlikely event, Keith had rigged a small recorder to his phone. He pushed “Record” and said, “Hello, Travis,” and Dana came to life.
She scrambled out of bed, flipped on a light switch, grabbed her cell phone, and began punching the number of a Detective Lang, a man they had met with twice.

“What are you doing these days?” Keith asked. Just a couple of old friends. Lang had told him to keep Boyette on the line as long as possible.

“Moving around, can’t stay in one place too long.” His tongue was thick, his words slow.

“Still in Missouri?”

“Naw, I left Missouri before you did, Pastor. I’m here and there.”

“You forgot your cane, Travis. Left it on the bed. Why did you do that?”

“Don’t need it, never did. I exaggerated a little bit, Pastor, please forgive me. I got a tumor, but it’s been with me for a long time. Meningioma, not a glioblastoma. Grade one. Benign little fella. It acts up every now and then, but I doubt if it will kill me. The cane was a weapon, Pastor, something I used for self-defense. You live with a bunch of thugs in a halfway house, and you just never know when you might need a weapon.” Country music was in the background; he was probably in a seedy lounge.

“But you had a limp.”

“Well, come on, Pastor, if you’re using a cane, you need a little limp, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know, Travis. You got some folks looking for you.”

“The story of my life. They’ll never find me. Just like they never found Nicole. Have they buried her yet, Pastor?”

“No. Her funeral is Thursday. Donté’s is tomorrow.”

“I might sneak around and watch Nicole’s, whatta you think about that, Pastor?”

Great idea. They would not only catch him but probably beat him. “I think you should, Travis. You’re the reason for the funeral. Seems fitting.”

“How’s that cute little wife of yours, Pastor? Bet you guys are having fun. She’s so fine.”

“Knock it off, Travis.” Keep him on the line. “You thought much about Donté Drumm?”

“Not really. We should’ve known those people down there wouldn’t listen to us.”

“They would have, Travis, if you had come forward earlier. If we had found the body first, the execution would not have happened.”

“Still blaming me, huh?”

“Who else, Travis? I guess you’re still the victim, right?”

“I don’t know what I am. Tell you what, though, Pastor. I gotta find a woman, know what I mean?”

“Listen to me, Travis. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you and bring you back to Topeka. I’ll leave right now. We’ll do another road trip, just the two of us. I don’t care where you are. You’ll be locked up here, and then they’ll extradite you to Missouri. Do what’s right for once, Travis, and nobody else will get hurt. Let’s do it, pal.”

“I don’t like prison, Pastor. I’ve seen enough to know.”

“But you’re tired of hurting people, Travis. I know you are. You told me so.”

“I guess. I gotta go, Pastor.”

“Call me anytime, Travis. I’m not tracing these calls. I just want to talk to you.”

The phone line was dead.

An hour later, Detective Lang was at the house, listening to the recording. They had been able to trace the call to the owner of a stolen cell phone in Lincoln, Nebraska.

T
he memorial service for Donté Drumm was to be held in the sanctuary of the Bethel African Methodist Church, regular capacity of 250. But if folding chairs were wedged into every possible crevice, and the choir loft was packed, and the elders and young men stood two deep along the walls, the capacity might reach 350. When it was announced late Tuesday night that classes would not resume, phone calls were made, plans were changed. The service was moved to the high school gymnasium, capacity of 2,000. The time was set at 1:00 p.m., with Donté’s burial to follow immediately thereafter at the Greenwood Cemetery, next to his father.

By noon, there were at least two thousand people inside the gym and more waiting patiently to get in. Donté’s casket was placed at one end, under a raised backboard and goal, and it was surrounded by a massive sea of beautiful flower arrangements. On a screen above his casket, his handsome smiling face greeted those who had come to say goodbye. His family sat in the front row, in folding chairs, and as the crowd moved in, they gamely held on, greeting friends, hugging strangers, trying to keep their composure. A choir from his church stood near the
flowers, singing and humming soft, comforting spirituals. Miss Daphne Dellmore, a saintly spinster who had once tried quite unsuccessfully to teach Donté Drumm the basics of the piano, accompanied the choir on an old upright Baldwin. To the right of the casket was a small elevated stage with a podium and a microphone, and before it, in rows of folding chairs, the Slone Warriors sat together, every player present, along with their coaches and trainers. They proudly wore their blue home jerseys. Other than the football players, there were a few white faces sprinkled about, but not many.

The media had been put in a box, literally. Under the stern direction of Marvin Drumm, the reporters and their cameras were bunched into a tight pack at the opposite end of the building, under the opposing backboard, and they were sealed off by a row of chairs laced with yellow police tape. Large young black men in dark suits stood next to the tape, watching the reporters, who had been warned not to make a sound. Any violation would lead to expulsion, and quite possibly a broken leg out in the parking lot. The family was sick of reporters, as was most of the town.

Roberta had wisely decided to close the coffin. She did not want the last image of Donté to be that of a lifeless corpse. She understood that a lot of people would be watching, and she preferred a smiling Donté.

At twenty minutes after one, the gym was completely packed. The doors were closed. The choir stopped and the Reverend Johnny Canty stepped to the podium. “We are here to celebrate a life,” he said, “not to mourn a death.” It sounded good, and there were a lot of “Amens,” but the mood was far from celebratory. The air was heavy with sadness, but not the sadness that comes from loss. This was a sadness born of anger and injustice.

The first prayer was offered by the Reverend Wilbur Woods, the white pastor of the First United Methodist Church of Slone. Cedric Drumm had called him with the invitation, which he readily accepted. He gave a lovely prayer, one that dwelled on love and forgiveness and, most important, justice. The oppressed shall not remain the
oppressed. Those responsible for injustice must one day face justice themselves. Reverend Woods’s voice was soft but strong, and his words calmed the crowd. The sight of a white pastor standing on the stage with his eyes closed, his arms uplifted, his soul bared for all to see, soothed a lot of raw feelings, if only for the moment.

Donté had never discussed his funeral. Therefore, his mother chose the music, the speakers, and the order of the service, and it would reflect the strong Christian faith of her family. Donté claimed to have given up his faith, but his mother had never believed it.

The choir sang “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” and the tears flowed. There were breakdowns, loud emotional bursts followed by sobbing and wailing. When things settled down, two eulogies followed. The first was by one of Donté’s teammates, a young man who was now a doctor in Dallas. The second was by Robbie Flak. When Robbie walked to the podium, the crowd instantly stood and began a restrained applause. This was a church service; clapping and cheering were frowned on, but some things cannot be helped. Robbie stood for a long time on the stage, nodding at the crowd, wiping tears, acknowledging the admiration, wishing he didn’t have to be there.

For a man who’d spent the past few days raging at the world and suing anyone who crossed his path, his comments were remarkably tame. He had never understood the love-and-forgiveness routine; retaliation was what drove him. But he sensed that, at least for this moment, he should tone down his pugilistic instincts and just try to be nice. It was difficult. He talked about Donté in prison, their many visits, and even managed to get a laugh when recounting Donté’s description of the food on death row. He read from two of Donté’s letters, and again found humor. He closed by describing his last few moments with Donté. He said, “Donté’s last wish was that one day, when the truth was known, when Nicole’s killer was identified, one day when he was exonerated and his name was forever cleared, his family and friends would meet at his grave in the cemetery, throw a party, and tell the world that Donté Drumm is an innocent man. Donté, we are planning the party!”

Cedric’s fourteen-year-old son, Emmitt, read a letter from the family,
a long, gut-wrenching farewell to Donté, and did so with a composure that was startling. There was another hymn, then Reverend Canty preached for an hour.

———

Keith and Dana watched the funeral live on cable from her mother’s home in Lawrence, Kansas, the town of her youth. Dana’s father was deceased, and her mother was a retired professor of accounting at the University of Kansas. After dropping the boys off at school, Keith and Dana decided to hit the road, to take a day trip and get out of town. Reporters were dropping by the church. The phones were ringing. The photo of him, Robbie, Martha, and Aaron was on the front page of the Topeka paper that morning, and Keith was weary of the attention, and the questions. Plus, Boyette was out there fantasizing about his wife, and Keith just wanted her close.

Billie, his mother-in-law, offered to fix lunch, and the offer was immediately accepted. As they watched the funeral, Billie kept saying, “I can’t believe you were there, Keith.”

“Neither can I. Neither can I.” It was so far away and so long ago, yet Keith could close his eyes and smell the disinfectant used to clean the holding cell where Donté waited, and he could hear the gasps as the curtains flew open and the family saw him on the gurney, tubes already in his veins.

As he watched the funeral, his eyes moistened when he saw Robbie so warmly received, and he wept when Donté’s nephew said good-bye. For the first time since leaving Texas, Keith had the urge to go back.

———

Donté was laid to rest on the side of a long, sloping hill in Greenwood Cemetery, where most of the blacks were buried in Slone. The afternoon had become overcast and chilly, and as his pallbearers strained to carry him the last fifty yards, a drum corps led the casket, step-by-step, its steady, perfect rhythm echoing through the damp air. The family followed the casket until it was carefully placed on top of the grave,
then settled into velvet-covered chairs inches from the fresh dirt. The mourners gathered tightly around the purple funeral tent. Reverend Canty said a few words, read some scripture, then gave the final farewell to their fallen brother. Donté was lowered into the ground next to his father.