John Grisham - The Confession

“It’s okay, honey.”

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Never. You can trust your mother, you know.”

They sat up and moved to the edges of their beds, holding hands, foreheads touching. Andrea said, “You wanna cry or you wanna pray?”

“We can pray later, but we can’t cry later.”

“Right. Let’s have us a good cry.”

———

The predawn traffic picked up as they approached Oklahoma City. Boyette’s forehead was pressed against the passenger’s window, his mouth open in a pathetic drool. His nap was entering its second hour, and Keith was happy with the solitude. He’d stopped back near the state line for a cup of carryout coffee, a dreadful machine brew that he would normally pour into a ditch. But what it lacked in flavor it more than made up for in caffeine, and Keith was buzzing right along, his head spinning, his speedometer exactly eight miles per hour over the limit.

Boyette had requested a beer at the last stop. Keith declined and bought him a bottle of water. He found a bluegrass station out of Edmond and listened to it at low volume. At 5:30, he called Dana, but she had little to say. South of Oklahoma City, Boyette jerked from his slumber and said, “Guess I dozed off.”

“You did indeed.”

“Pastor, these pills I take really work on the bladder. Can we do a quick pit stop?”

“Sure,” Keith said. What else could he say? He kept one eye on the clock. They would leave the expressway somewhere north of Denton, Texas, and head east on two-lane roads. Keith had no idea how long that would take. His best guess was arriving in Slone between noon and 1:00 p.m. The pit stops, of course, were not helping their progress.

They stopped in Norman and bought more coffee and water. Boyette managed to blaze through two cigarettes, sucking and blowing rapidly as if it might be his last smoke, while Keith quickly refueled. Fifteen minutes later, they were back on I-35, racing south through the flat country of Oklahoma.

As a man of God, Keith felt compelled to at least explore the subject of faith. He began, somewhat tentatively, “You’ve talked about your childhood, Travis, and we don’t need to go back there. Just curious, though, if you were ever exposed to a church or to a preacher when you were a kid?”

The tic was back. So was the contemplation. “No,” he said, and for a moment that seemed to be all. Then, “I never knew my mother to go to church. She didn’t have much of a family. I think they were ashamed of her, so they kept away. Darrell certainly didn’t do the church thing. Uncle Chett needed a good dose of religion, but I’m sure he’s in hell right now.”

Keith saw an opening. “So you believe in hell?”

“I suppose. I believe we all go somewhere after we die, and I can’t imagine you and me going to the same place. Can you, Pastor? I mean, look, I’ve spent most of my life in prison, and, trust me, there’s a species of mankind that’s subhuman. These people were born mean. They’re vicious, soulless, crazy men who cannot be helped. When they die, they gotta go to some bad place.”

The irony was almost comical. A confessed murderer and serial rapist condemning violent men.

“Was there a Bible in the house?” Keith asked, trying to stay away from the subject of heinous crimes.

“Never saw one. Never saw much in the way of books. I was raised on porn, Pastor, fed to me by Uncle Chett and kept under Darrell’s bed. That’s the extent of my childhood reading.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“Look, Pastor, I’m not talking about God and Jesus and salvation and all that. I heard it all the time in prison. Lots of guys get really turned on when they’re locked away and start thumping the Bible. I guess some are serious, but it also sounds good at the parole hearings. I just never bought into it.”

“Are you prepared for death, Travis?”

A pause. “Look, Pastor, I’m forty-four years old, and my life has been one massive train wreck. I’m tired of living in prison. I’m tired of living with the guilt of what I’ve done. I’m tired of hearing the pitiful voices of the people I hurt. I’m tired of a lot of shit, Pastor, okay? Sorry for the language. I’m tired of being some degenerate who lives on the edges of society. I’m just so sick of it all. I’m proud of my tumor, okay? Hard to believe, but when it’s not cracking my skull, I kinda like the damned thing. It tells me what’s ahead. My days are numbered, and that doesn’t bother me. I won’t hurt anybody else. No one will miss me, Pastor. If I didn’t have the tumor, I’d get a bottle of pills and a bottle of vodka and float away forever. Still might do that.”

So much for a penetrating discussion on the subject of faith. Ten miles passed before Keith said, “What would you like to talk about, Travis?”

“Nothing. I just want to sit here and look at the road and think about nothing.”

“Sounds good to me. You hungry?”

“No, thanks.”

———

Robbie left the house at 5:00 a.m. and drove a circuitous route to the office. He kept his window down so he could smell the smoke. The fire had long since been extinguished, but the odor of freshly charred wood hung like a thick cloud over Slone. There was no wind. Downtown, anxious cops were blocking streets and diverting traffic away from the First Baptist Church. Robbie got just a glimpse of its smoking ruins, illuminated by the flashing lights of fire and rescue vehicles. He took the backstreets, and when he parked at the old train station and got out of his car, the smell was still pungent and fresh. All of Slone would be awakened and greeted with the ominous vapor of a suspicious fire. And the obvious question would be, will there be more?

His staff drifted in, all sleep deprived and anxious to see if the day would take a dramatic turn away from the direction it was headed. They gathered in the main conference room, around the long table still cluttered with the debris of the night before. Carlos gathered empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, while Samantha Thomas served coffee and bagels. Robbie, trying to appear upbeat, replayed for the gang his conversation with Fred Pryor about the surreptitious recording from the strip club. Pryor himself had not yet arrived.

The phone started ringing. No one wanted to answer it. The receptionist was not in yet. “Somebody punch ‘Do Not Disturb,’ ” Robbie barked, and the phone stopped ringing.

Aaron Rey walked from room to room, looking out the windows. The television was on, but muted.

Bonnie entered the conference room and said, “Robbie, I just checked the phone messages for the past six hours. Nothing important. Just a couple of death threats, and a couple of rednecks happy the big day is finally here.”

“No call from the governor?” Robbie asked.

“Not yet.”

“What a surprise. I’m sure he lost sleep like the rest of us.”

———

Keith would eventually frame the speeding ticket, and because of it he would always know exactly what he was doing at 5:50 a.m. on Thursday, November 8, 2007. The location wasn’t clear, because there was no town in sight. Just a long, empty stretch of I-35, somewhere north of Ardmore, Oklahoma.

The trooper was hiding in some trees in the median, and as soon as Keith saw him and glanced at his speedometer, he knew he was in trouble. He hit his brakes, slowed considerably, and waited a few seconds. When the blue lights appeared, Boyette said, “Oh, shit.”

“Watch your language.” Keith was braking hard and hurrying to the shoulder.

“My language is the least of your problems. What’re you gonna tell him?”

“That I’m sorry.”

“What if he asks what we’re doing?”

“We’re driving down the highway, maybe a bit too fast, but we’re okay.”