John Grisham - The Confession

Boyette was awake and had an IV tube taped to his left hand. He smiled when he saw Keith and offered a limp right hand for a quick shake. “Thanks for coming, Pastor,” he said with a weak, scratchy voice.

“How do you feel, Travis?”

Five seconds passed. He raised his left hand slightly and said, “Some pretty good drugs. I feel better.”

“What happened?” Keith asked, though he thought he knew.

Boyette looked at the window, though he could see nothing but a gray sky. Ten seconds passed. “After you left, Pastor, I got real upset. The headaches hit hard and wouldn’t go away. Then I blacked out, and they brought me here. Said I was shaking and jerking.”

“I’m sorry, Travis.”

“Most of it’s your fault, Pastor. You did it. You got me all stressed-out.”

“I’m very sorry, but please remember that you came to see me, Travis. You wanted my help. You told me about Donté Drumm and Nicole Yarber, two people I’d never heard of. You said what you said. I didn’t initiate our contact.”

“True.” He closed his eyes. His breathing was heavy and labored.

There was a long pause. Keith leaned over, and almost in a whisper said, “Are you there, Travis?”

“Yes.”

“Then listen to me. I have a plan. You want to hear it?”

“Sure.”

“First, we make a video of you telling your story. You admit what you did to Nicole. You explain that Donté had nothing to do with her abduction and death. You tell everything, Travis. And you tell where she’s buried. Give as much detail as possible so that, with some luck, they might be able to find her. We do the video now. Here in the hospital. And once I have it, I’ll zip it down to Texas, to Donté’s lawyers, to the prosecutor, the judge, the police, the appeals courts, the governor, and every newspaper and television station down there so they will know. Everybody will know. I’ll do this electronically so they’ll have it in a matter of minutes. Then, for the second part of my plan, you give me the ring. I’ll photograph it and send the pictures to all the folks I just mentioned, also by Internet. I’ll send the ring by overnight delivery to Donté’s lawyers and they’ll have the physical evidence. What about it, Travis? You can tell your story and never leave this hospital bed.”

The eyes never opened.

“Are you there, Travis?”

A grunt. “Uh-huh.”

“It’ll work, Travis. We can’t waste any more time.”

“It is a waste of time.”

“What is there to lose? Just the life of an innocent man.”

“You called me a liar last night.”

“That’s because you lied.”

“Did you find my arrest record in Slone?”

“We did.”

“So I wasn’t lying.”

“Not about that. And you’re not lying about Donté Drumm.”

“Thank you. I’m going to sleep now.”

“Come on, Travis. It’ll take less than fifteen minutes to make the video. I can even do it now with my cell phone, if you want.”

“You’re hurting my head again, Pastor. I feel a seizure. You need to leave now, and please don’t come back.”

Keith stood straight and took a deep breath. To make sure things were clear, Boyette repeated himself, but much louder. “You need to leave, Pastor. And please don’t come back.”

———

In the rear of Eppie’s, the two settled over large bowls of beef stew. Matthew pulled some notes out of a pocket and spoke with a mouthful. “There’s no code section directly on point, but you would probably be charged with obstruction of justice. Don’t even think about taking that guy to Texas.”

“I just talked to our man. He is—”

“Our man? I didn’t realize I’d been drafted.”

“He’s in the hospital. Had seizures last night. The tumor is quickly killing him. He’s lost his desire to help the cause. He’s a creep, a psychopath, probably crazy before the tumor took over his brain.”

“Why did he come to church?”

“Probably to get out of the halfway house for a few hours. No, I shouldn’t say that. I’ve seen real emotion from this guy, real guilt, and a fleeting desire to do what’s right. Dana found one of his former parole officers in Arkansas. The officer talked a little and said that our man was a member of some white supremacist gang in prison. Donté Drumm, of course, is black, and so I’m questioning how much sympathy is really there.”

“You’re not eating,” Matthew said as he took a bite.

“I’m not hungry. I have another idea.”

“You are not going to Texas. They would probably shoot you down there.”

“Okay, okay. Here’s the idea. What if you call the lawyer for Donté Drumm? I couldn’t get past the receptionist. I’m just a humble servant of the Lord, but you’re a lawyer, a prosecutor, and you speak their language.”

“And what might I say to him?”

“You could say that you have reason to believe that the real killer is here in Topeka.”

Matthew chewed a mouthful and waited. He said, “Is that all? Just like that. This lawyer gets a weird phone call from me. I say what I say, which isn’t much, and that’s supposed to give the lawyer new ammunition to file in court and stop the execution? Am I right here, Keith?”

“I know you can be more persuasive than that.”

“Try this scenario. This creep is your typical pathological liar who’s about to die—poor guy. And he decides to go out with a bang, decides to get one last shot of revenge at a system that’s beaten him up. He learns of this case in Texas, does his research, realizes that the body has never been found, and, presto, he’s got his story. He finds the Web site and becomes fluent in the facts, and now he’s toying with you. Can you imagine the attention this guy would get? But his health won’t cooperate. Leave it alone, Keith. He’s probably a fake.”

“How would he hear about the case?”

“It’s been in the newspapers.”

“How would he find the Web site?”

“You ever hear of Google?”

“He does not have access to computers. He’s been at Lansing for the past six years. Prisoners do not have access to the Internet. You should know that. Can you imagine what would happen if they did? Access, plus all that idle time. No software in the world would be safe. He does not have access to a computer at the halfway house. This guy is forty-four years old, Matthew, and has spent most of his adult life in prison. He’s probably terrified of computers.”

“What about Drumm’s confession? That doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course it does, but according to his Web site—”

“Keith, come on. That Web site is run by his lawyers. Talk about slanted. It’s so one-sided it loses credibility.”

“What about the ring?”

“It’s a high school ring, one of a billion. Not exactly difficult to produce or replicate.”

Keith’s shoulders sagged and slumped and he was suddenly very tired. He lacked the energy to keep arguing.

“You need some sleep, my friend,” Matthew said. “And you need to forget this case.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I think I am. And if the execution happens Thursday, don’t beat yourself up. The odds are heavy that they have the right guy.”

“Spoken like a true prosecutor.”

“Who just happens to be a friend.”

CHAPTER 10

On October 29, 1999, two weeks after he was convicted, Donté Drumm arrived on death row at the Ellis Unit at the prison in Huntsville, a town of thirty-five thousand, about ninety miles north of downtown Houston. He was processed and issued the standard wardrobe of two sets of white shirts and pants, two white jumpsuits, four pairs of boxers, two white T-shirts, one pair of rubber shower shoes, one thin blanket, and one small pillow. He was also given a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a plastic comb, and one roll of toilet paper. He was assigned to a small cell with one concrete bunk, and a stainless steel toilet and sink. He became one of 452 male inmates on death row. There were twenty-two condemned women housed at another prison near Gatesville, Texas.