John Grisham - The Confession

“No. Sounds about right.”

“Tell Joey the statute of limitations has run on perjury. Koffee can’t touch him.”

“You got it.”

The speakerphone was switched off. A platter of pastries hit the table and attracted a crowd. Robbie’s two associates, both women, were reviewing a request for a reprieve from the governor. Martha Handler sat at one end of the table, lost in the world of trial transcripts. Aaron Rey, with his jacket off and both pistols visible and strapped to his shirt, sipped coffee from a paper cup as he scanned the morning newspaper. Bonnie, a paralegal, worked at a laptop.

“Let’s assume Gamble comes through,” Robbie said to his senior associate, a prim lady of undetermined age. Robbie had sued her first plastic surgeon twenty years earlier when a face-lift produced a result that was less than desirable. But she had not given up on the corrective work; she had simply changed surgeons. Her name was Samantha Thomas, or Sammie, and when she wasn’t working on Robbie’s cases, she was suing doctors for malpractice and employers for age and race discrimination. “Get the petition ready, just in case,” he said.

“I’m almost finished with it,” Sammie said.

The receptionist, Fanta, a tall, slender black woman who had starred in basketball at Slone High and would have graduated, under different circumstances, with both Nicole Yarber and Donté Drumm, entered the room with a handful of phone messages. “A reporter from the Washington Post called and wants to talk,” she said to Robbie, who immediately focused on her legs.

“Is it someone we know?”

“Never seen the name before.”

“Then ignore.”

“A reporter from the Houston Chronicle left a message at 10:30 last night.”

“It’s not Spinney is it?”

“It is.”

“Tell him to go to hell.”

“I don’t use that language.”

“Then ignore.”

“Greta has called three times.”

“Is she still in Germany?”

“Yes, she can’t afford a plane ticket. She wants to know if she and Donté can get married through the Internet?”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I said no, it’s not possible.”

“Did you explain that Donté has become one of the most eligible bachelors in the world? That he’s had at least five marriage proposals in the past week, all from Europe? All kinds of women, young, old, fat, skinny, the only trait they share is that they are ugly? And stupid? Did you explain that Donté is rather particular about whom he marries and so he’s taking his time?”

“I didn’t talk to her. She left a voice mail.”

“Good. Ignore.”

“The last one is from a minister from a Lutheran church in Topeka, Kansas. Called ten minutes ago. Said he might have information about who killed Nicole, but is not sure what to do about it.”

“Great, another nut. How many of those did we have last week?”

“I’ve lost count.”

“Ignore. It’s amazing how many fruitcakes show up at the last minute.”

She placed the messages amid the pile of debris in front of Robbie and left the room. Robbie watched every step of her exit, but did not gawk as usual.

Martha Handler said, “I don’t mind calling the fruitcakes.”

“You’re just looking for material,” Robbie shot back. “It’s a waste of valuable time.”

“Morning news,” Carlos, the paralegal, said loudly and reached for the remote control. He aimed it at a wide-screen television hanging in a corner, and the chatter stopped. The reporter was standing in front of the Chester County Courthouse, as if something dramatic might happen there at any minute. He gushed:

“City officials are mum on their plans to deal with potential unrest here in Slone in the wake of the scheduled execution of Donté Drumm. Drumm, as you know, was convicted in 1999 of the aggravated rape and murder of Nicole Yarber and, pending a last-minute stay or reprieve, will be executed at the prison in Huntsville at 6:00 Thursday evening. Drumm has maintained his innocence, and many here in Slone do not believe he is guilty. From the beginning, the case has had racial overtones, and to say the town is divided is quite an understatement. I’m here with Police Chief Joe Radford.”

The camera pulled back to reveal the rotund figure of the chief, in uniform.

“Chief, what can we expect if the execution is carried out?”

“Well, I guess we can expect justice to be served.”

“Do you anticipate trouble?”

“Not at all. Folks have got to understand that the judicial system works and that the verdict of the jury must be carried out.”

“So, you don’t foresee any problems Thursday night?”

“No, but we’ll be out in full force. We’ll be ready.”

“Thanks for your time.”

The camera zoomed in, cutting out the chief.

“Organizers are planning a protest tomorrow at noon, right here in front of the courthouse. Sources confirmed that a permit for a rally has been issued by city hall. More on that later.”

The reporter signed off and the paralegal pushed the mute button. No comment from Robbie, and everybody went back to work.

———

The Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles has seven members, all appointed by the governor. An inmate desiring clemency must petition the board for relief. A petition may be as simple as a one-page request, or as thorough as a voluminous filing with exhibits, affidavits, and letters from around the world. The one filed by Robbie Flak on behalf of Donté Drumm was one of the most exhaustive in the board’s history. Clemency is rarely granted. If denied, an appeal can be made to the governor, who cannot grant clemency on his own initiative but is allowed to issue one thirty-day reprieve. On those rare occasions when the board grants clemency, the governor has the right to overrule it and the state proceeds with the execution.

For a condemned prisoner facing death, the board usually makes its decision two days before the execution. The board doesn’t actually meet to take a vote, but instead circulates a ballot by fax. Death by Fax, as it is known.

For Donté Drumm, news of his Death by Fax came at 8:15 on Tuesday morning. Robbie read the decision aloud to his team. No one was remotely surprised. They had lost so many rounds by now that a victory was not something they expected.

“So, let’s ask the governor for a reprieve,” Robbie said with a smile. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear from us again.” Of the truckload of motions and petitions and requests that his firm had filed in the last month, and would continue to churn out until his client was dead, a request for a reprieve from the governor of Texas was undoubtedly the biggest waste of paper. Twice in the past year the governor had ignored clemency approvals from his parole board and allowed the executions. He loved the death penalty, especially when seeking votes. One of his campaigns featured the slogan “Tough Texas Justice” and included his promise to “empty death row.” And he was not talking about early parole.

“Let’s go see Donté,” Robbie announced.

———

The drive from Slone to the Polunsky Unit near Livingston, Texas, was a hard three-hour grind on two-lane roads. Robbie had made it a hundred times. A few years earlier, when he had three clients on death row—Donté, Lamar Billups, and a man named Cole Taylor—he grew weary of speeding tickets and rural drivers and near misses because he was on the phone. He bought a van, a long, heavy one with plenty of room, and he took it to a high-end custom shop in Fort Worth where they installed phones, televisions, and every gadget on the market, along with plush carpet, fine leather captain’s chairs that both swiveled and reclined, a sofa in the rear, if Robbie needed a nap, and a bar in case he became thirsty. Aaron Rey was named the designated driver. Bonnie, the other paralegal, usually sat in the front passenger’s seat, ready to jump when Mr. Flak barked. The trips became much more productive as Robbie worked the phone and laptop or read briefs on the way to Polunsky and back, traveling comfortably in the portable office.