John Grisham - The Confession

Sean Fordyce was still tied up with a complicated execution in Florida, but he had made his plans well-known. He would arrive, by private jet, at the Huntsville airport later in the afternoon for a quick interview with Reeva before she witnessed the execution. Of course, he would be there when it was over.

Without the host, the breakfast footage went on and on. Off camera, an assistant producer prompted the family with such gems as, “Do you think lethal injection is too humane?” Reeva certainly did. Wallis just grunted. Chad chewed his bacon. Marie, a chatterbox like her mother, said, between bites, that Drumm should suffer intense physical pain as he was dying, just like Nicole.

“Do you think executions should be made public?” Mixed reactions around the table.

“The condemned man is allowed a last statement. If you could speak to him, what would you say?” Reeva, chewing, burst into tears and covered her eyes. “Why, oh, why?” she wailed. “Why did you take my baby?”

“Sean will love this,” the assistant producer whispered to the cameraman. Both were suppressing smiles.

Reeva pulled herself together, and the family plowed through breakfast. At one point, she barked at her husband, who’d said almost nothing, “Wallis! What are you thinking?” Wallis shrugged as if he hadn’t been thinking at all.

Coincidentally, Brother Ronnie dropped by just as the meal was wrapping up. He’d been up all night watching his church burn, and he needed sleep. But Reeva and her family also needed him. They quizzed him about the fire. He appeared sufficiently burdened. They moved to the rear of the home, to Reeva’s room, where they sat and huddled around a coffee table. They held hands, and Brother Ronnie led them in prayer. With an effort at drama, and with the camera two feet from his head, he pleaded for strength and courage for the family to endure what was ahead on this difficult day. He thanked the Lord for justice. He prayed for their church and its members.

He did not mention Donté Drumm or his family.

———

After a dozen trips to voice mail, a real person finally answered. “Flak Law Firm,” she said quickly.

“Robbie Flak, please,” Keith said as he perked up. Boyette turned and looked at him.

“Mr. Flak is in a meeting.”

“I’m sure he is. Listen, this is very important. My name is Keith Schroeder. I’m a Lutheran minister from Topeka, Kansas. I spoke with Mr. Flak yesterday. I’m driving to Slone as we speak, and I have with me, here in my car, a man by the name of Travis Boyette. Mr. Boyette raped and killed Nicole Yarber, and he knows where her body is buried. I’m driving him to Slone so he can tell his story. It is imperative that I speak with Robbie Flak. Now.”

“Uh, sure. Can I put you on hold?”

“I can’t stop you from putting me on hold.”

“Just a moment.”

“Please hurry.”

She put him on hold. She left her desk near the front door and hurried through the train station, rounding up the team. Robbie was in his office with Fred Pryor. “Robbie, you need to hear this,” she said, and her face and voice left no room for discussion. They met in the conference room, where they gathered around a speakerphone. Robbie pushed a button and said, “This is Robbie Flak.”

“Mr. Flak, this is Keith Schroeder. We spoke yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, it’s Reverend Schroeder, right?”

“Yes, but now it’s just Keith.”

“You’re on our speakerphone. Is that okay? My whole firm is here, plus some others. I’m counting ten people. Is that okay?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“And the recorder is on, is that okay?”

“Yes, fine, anything else? Look, we’ve been driving all night, and we should be in Slone around noon. I have Travis Boyette with me, and he’s ready to tell his story.”

“Tell us about Travis,” Robbie said. There was no movement, and little breathing, around the table.

“He’s forty-four years old, born in Joplin, Missouri, a career criminal, registered sex offender in at least four states.” Keith glanced at Boyette, who was looking through the passenger window, as if he were somewhere else. “His last stop was a prison in Lansing, Kansas, and he’s now on parole. He was living in Slone at the time of Nicole Yarber’s disappearance, staying at the Rebel Motor Inn. I’m sure you know where it is. He was arrested for drunk driving in Slone in January 1999. There is a copy of his arrest.”

Carlos and Bonnie were hammering keys on their laptops, racing through the Internet, digging for anything on Keith Schroeder, Travis Boyette, the arrest in Slone.

Keith continued: “In fact, he was in jail in Slone while Donté Drumm was under arrest. Boyette posted bond, got out, then skipped town. He drifted to Kansas, tried to rape another woman, got caught, and is just finishing his sentence.”

Tense looks were exchanged around the table. Everyone took a breath. “Why is he talking now?” Robbie asked, leaning down closer to the speakerphone.

“He’s dying,” Keith said bluntly, no need to soft-pedal things at this point. “He has a brain tumor, a glioblastoma, grade four, inoperable. He says that the doctors have told him he has less than a year to live. He says he wants to do the right thing. While he was in prison, he lost track of the Drumm case, said he figured the authorities in Texas would one day figure out that they had the wrong man.”

“This guy’s in the car with you?”

“Yes.”

“Can he hear this conversation?”

Keith was driving with his left hand and holding his cell phone with his right. “No,” he said.

“When did you meet this guy, Keith?”

“Monday.”

“Do you believe him? If he is in fact a serial rapist and career criminal, then he’d rather lie than tell the truth. How do you know he has a brain tumor?”

“I checked that out. It’s true.” Keith glanced at Boyette, who was still staring at nothing through the passenger window. “I think it’s all true.”

“What does he want?”

“So far, nothing.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Interstate 35, not far from the Texas line. How does this work, Robbie? Is there a chance of stopping the execution?”

“There’s a chance,” Robbie said as he looked into the eyes of Samantha Thomas. She shrugged, nodded, a weak “Maybe.”

Robbie rubbed both hands and said, “Okay, Keith, here’s what we have to do. We have to meet Boyette and ask him a lot of questions, and if that goes well, then we’ll prepare an affidavit for him to sign and file it with a petition. We have time, but not much.”

Carlos handed Samantha a photo of Boyette he’d just printed out from a Web site for the Kansas Department of Corrections. She pointed at his face and whispered, “Get him on the phone.”

Robbie nodded and said, “Keith, I’d like to talk to Boyette. Can you put him on?”

Keith lowered his cell phone and said, “Travis, this is the lawyer. He wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t think so,” Boyette said.

“Why not? We’re driving to Texas to talk to the man, here he is.”

“Nope. I’ll talk when we get there.”

Boyette’s voice was clear on the speakerphone. Robbie and the rest were relieved to know that Keith actually had someone else in the car with him. Maybe he wasn’t some nut playing games at the eleventh hour.

Robbie pressed on. “If we can talk to him now, we can start to work on his affidavit. That’ll save some time, and we don’t have much of it.”

Keith relayed this to Boyette, whose reaction was startling. His upper body pitched forward violently as he grabbed his head with both hands. He tried to suppress a scream, but a very loud “Aghhhhh!” escaped, followed by deep guttural lurches that made the man sound as if he were dying in horrendous pain.