John Grisham - The Confession

“I think I’ll tell him I’m jumping parole and you’re my getaway driver.”

“Knock it off, Travis.”

The truth was that Travis looked exactly like the sort of character who would be jumping parole, right out of central casting. Keith stopped the car, turned off the ignition, straightened his clerical collar and made sure it was as visible as possible, and said, “Don’t say a word, Travis. Let me do the talking.”

As they waited for a very deliberate and purposeful state trooper, Keith managed to amuse himself by admitting that he was sitting beside the road, engaged in not one but two criminal activities, and that for some inconceivable reason he’d chosen as his partner in crime a serial rapist and murderer. He glanced at Travis and said, “Can you cover up that tattoo?” It was on the left side of his neck, a swirling creation that only a deviant might understand and wear with pride.

“What if he likes tattoos?” Travis said, without making a move for his shirt collar.

The trooper approached carefully, with a long flashlight, and when things appeared safe, he said gruffly, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Keith said, glancing up. He handed over his license, registration, and insurance card.

“You a priest?” It was more of an accusation. Keith doubted there were many Catholics in southern Oklahoma.

“I’m a Lutheran minister,” he said with a warm smile. The perfect picture of peace and civility.

“Lutheran?” the trooper grunted, as if that might be worse than a Catholic.

“Yes, sir.”

He shined his light on the license. “Well, Reverend Schroeder, you were doing eighty-five miles an hour.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry about that.”

“Limit out here is seventy-five. What’s the hurry?”

“No real hurry. Just wasn’t paying attention.”

“Where you headed?”

Keith wanted to fire back, “Why, sir, is that any of your business?” But he quickly said, “Dallas.”

“Got a boy in Dallas,” the trooper said, as if that fact were somehow relevant. He walked back to his car, got inside, slammed the door, and began his paperwork. His blue lights sparkled through the fading darkness.

When the adrenaline settled down and Keith got bored with the waiting, he decided to make use of the time. He called Matthew Burns, who appeared to be holding his cell phone. Keith explained where he was and what was happening to him at the moment and had trouble convincing Matthew that it was nothing but a routine speeding ticket. They managed to work through Matthew’s overreaction and agreed to start calling Robbie Flak’s office immediately.

The trooper eventually returned. Keith signed his ticket, retrieved his documents, apologized again, and after twenty-eight minutes they were back on the road. Boyette’s presence was never acknowledged.

CHAPTER 18

At one point in his blurred past, Donté knew the precise number of days he’d spent in cell number 22F, death row, at the Polunsky Unit. Most inmates kept such a tally. But he’d lost count, for the same reason he’d lost interest in reading, writing, exercising, eating, brushing his teeth, shaving, showering, trying to communicate with other inmates, and obeying the guards. He could sleep and dream and use the toilet when necessary; beyond that, he was unable or unwilling to try much else.

“This is the big day, Donté,” the guard said when he slid the breakfast tray into the cell. Pancakes and applesauce again. “How you doin’?”

“Okay,” Donté mumbled. They spoke through a narrow slit in the metal door.

The guard was Mouse, a tiny black guy, one of the nicer ones. Mouse moved on, leaving Donté to stare at the food. He did not touch it. An hour later, Mouse was back. “Come on, Donté, you gotta eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“How ’bout your last meal? You thought about that? You gotta place your order in a few hours.”

“What’s good?” Donté asked.

“I’m not sure anything’s good as a last meal, but they tell me most of the guys eat like a horse. Steak, potatoes, catfish, shrimp, pizza, anything you want.”

“How ’bout cold noodles and boiled leather, same as any other day?”

“Whatever you want, Donté.” Mouse leaned a few inches closer, lowered his voice, and said, “Donté, I’ll be thinking about you, you hear?”

“Thanks, Mouse.”

“I’ll miss you, Donté. You’re a good guy.”

Donté was amused at the thought that someone on death row would miss him. He did not respond and Mouse moved on.

Donté sat on the edge of his bunk for a long time and stared at a cardboard box they’d delivered yesterday. In it, he’d neatly packed his possessions—a dozen paperbacks, none of which he’d read in years, two writing tablets, envelopes, a dictionary, a Bible, a 2007 calendar, a zippered bag in which he kept his money, $18.40, two tins of sardines and a package of stale saltines from the canteen, and a radio that picked up only a Christian station from Livingston and a country one from Huntsville. He took a writing tablet and a pencil and began to calculate. It took some time, but he finally arrived at a total he believed to be fairly accurate.

Seven years, seven months, and three days, in cell number 22F—2,771 days. Before that, he’d spent about four months at the old death row at Ellis. He’d been arrested on December 22, 1998, and he’d been locked up since.

Almost nine years behind bars. It was an eternity, but not an impressive number. Four doors down, Oliver Tyree, age sixty-four, was in his thirty-first year on death row with no execution date on the calendar. There were several twenty-year veterans. It was changing, though. The newer arrivals faced a different set of rules. There were tougher deadlines for their appeals. For those convicted after 1990, the average wait before execution was ten years. Shortest in the nation.

During his early years in 22F, Donté waited and waited for news from the courts. They moved at a snail’s pace, it seemed. Then it was all over, no more petitions to file, no more judges and justices for Robbie to attack. Looking back now, the appeals seemed to have flown by. He stretched out on his bed and tried to sleep.

You count the days and watch the years go by. You tell yourself, and you believe it, that you’d rather just die. You’d rather stare death boldly in the face and say you’re ready because whatever is waiting on the other side has to be better than growing old in a six-by-ten cage with no one to talk to. You consider yourself half-dead at best. Please take the other half.

You’ve watched dozens leave and not return, and you accept the fact that one day they’ll come for you. You’re nothing but a rat in their lab, a disposable body to be used as proof that their experiment is working. An eye for an eye, each killing must be avenged. You kill enough and you’re convinced that killing is good.

You count the days, and then there are none left. You ask yourself on your last morning if you are really ready. You search for courage, but the bravery is fading.

When it’s over, no one really wants to die.

———

It was a big day for Reeva too, and to show the world she was suffering, she invited Fordyce—Hitting Hard! back into her home for breakfast. In her most stylish pantsuit, she cooked bacon and eggs and sat around the table with Wallis and their two children, Chad and Marie, both in their late teens. None of the four needed a heavy breakfast. They should’ve skipped the meal completely. But the cameras were rolling, and as the family ate, they prattled on about the fire that destroyed their beloved church, a fire that was still smoldering. They were stunned, angry. They were certain it was arson, but managed to restrain themselves and not make allegations against anyone—on camera. Off camera, they just knew the fire had been started by black thugs. Reeva had been a member of the church for over forty years. She had married both husbands there. Chad, Marie, and Nicole had been baptized there. Wallis was a deacon. It was a tragedy. Gradually, they got around to more important matters. They all agreed that it was a sad day, a sad occasion. Sad, but so necessary. For almost nine years they had waited for this day, for justice to finally arrive for their family, and yes, for all of Slone as well.