John Grisham - The Confession

“And what would you like to talk about, Travis?”

“How’d you meet your wife?”

“I’ve told you before, Travis, leave her out of it. You’re much too concerned with my wife.”

“She’s so cute.”

———

On the conference table, Robbie pushed a button for the speakerphone and said, “Talk to me, Fred.”

“We met them; they’re behind us now, and they appear to be a genuine minister and one seriously weird sidekick.”

“Describe Boyette.”

“White male, you wouldn’t call him handsome. Five ten, 150, shaved scalp with a bad tattoo on the left side of his neck, several more covering his arms. Has the look of a sick puppy who’s spent his life locked away. Green shifty eyes that don’t blink. I wanted to wash my hand after shaking his. Weak handshake, a dishrag.”

Robbie took a deep breath and then said, “So they’re here.”

“They are indeed. We’ll be there in a matter of minutes.”

“Hurry up.” He turned off the speakerphone and looked at his team scattered around the table, all watching him. “It might be somewhat intimidating for Boyette to walk in here and have ten people staring at him,” Robbie said. “Let’s pretend like it’s business as usual. I’ll take him to my office and ask the first questions.”

Their file on Boyette was getting thicker. They had found records of his convictions in four states and a few details of his incarcerations, and they had located the lawyer in Slone who’d represented him briefly after his arrest there. The lawyer vaguely remembered him and had sent over his file. They had an affidavit from the owner of the Rebel Motor Inn, one Inez Gaffney, who had no recollection of Boyette, but did find his name in an old ledger from 1998. They had the building records from the Monsanto warehouse where Boyette allegedly worked in the late fall of that year.

Carlos tidied up the conference table and they waited.

———

When Keith parked at the train station and opened his door, he heard sirens in the distance. He smelled smoke. He sensed trouble.

“The First Baptist Church burned last night,” Aaron said as they walked up the steps to the old loading platform. “Now there’s a fire at a black church over there.” He nodded to his left, as if Keith was supposed to know his way around town.

“They’re burning churches?” he asked.

“Yep.”

Boyette struggled up the steps, leaning on his cane, and then they stepped into the lobby. Fanta pretended to be busy with a word processor, barely looking up.

“Where’s Robbie?” Fred Pryor asked, and she nodded toward the back.

Robbie met them in the conference room. Awkward introductions were made. Boyette was reluctant to speak or to shake hands. Abruptly, he said to Robbie, “I remember you. I saw you on television after the boy was arrested. You were upset, almost yelling at the camera.”

“That’s me. Where were you?”

“I was here, Mr. Flak, watching it all, couldn’t believe they had arrested the wrong guy.”

“That’s right, the wrong guy.” For someone as high-strung and quick-tempered as Robbie Flak, it was difficult to remain calm. He wanted to slap Boyette, and grab his cane and beat him senseless, and curse him for a long list of transgressions. He wanted to kill him with his bare hands. Instead, he pretended to be cool, detached. Harsh words would not help Donté.

They left the conference room and walked into Robbie’s office. Aaron and Fred Pryor stayed outside, ready for whatever came next. Robbie directed Keith and Boyette to a small table in the corner, and all three sat down. “Would you like some coffee or something to drink?” he asked, almost pleasantly. He stared at Boyette, who stared back without flinching or blinking.

Keith cleared his throat and said, “Look, Robbie, I hate to ask for favors, but we haven’t eaten in a long time. We’re starving.”

Robbie picked up the phone, rang Carlos, and ordered a tray of deli sandwiches and water.

“No sense beating around the bush, Mr. Boyette. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

The tic, the pause. Boyette shifted and squirmed, suddenly unable to make eye contact. “Well, the first thing I want to know is if there’s any reward money on the table.”

Keith dropped his head and said, “Oh my God.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Robbie asked.

“I suppose everything is serious right now, Mr. Flak,” Boyette said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“This is the first mention of reward money,” Keith said, completely exasperated.

“I have needs,” Boyette said. “I don’t have a dime and no prospects of finding one. Just curious, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Robbie repeated. “The execution is less than six hours away, and our chances of stopping it are very slim. Texas is about to execute an innocent man, and I’m sitting here with the real killer, who suddenly wants to get paid for what he’s done.”

“Who says I’m the real killer?”

“You,” Keith blurted. “You told me you killed her and you know where the body is buried because you buried it. Stop playing games, Travis.”

“If I recall correctly, her father put up a bunch of dough when they were trying to find her. Something like $200,000. That right, Mr. Flak?”

“That was nine years ago. If you think you’re in line for the reward money, you’re badly mistaken.” Robbie’s words were measured, but an explosion was imminent.

“Why do you want money?” Keith asked. “According to your own words, you’ll be dead in a few months. The tumor, remember?”

“Thanks for reminding me, Pastor.”

Robbie glared at Boyette with unrestrained hatred. The truth was that Robbie, at that moment, would sign over every asset he could find in exchange for a nice thick affidavit that told the truth and might save his client. There was a long stretch of silence as the three contemplated what to do next. Boyette grimaced and then began rubbing his slick head. He placed both palms on both temples and pressed as hard as possible, as if pressure from the outside world would relieve the pressure from within.

“Are you having a seizure?” Keith asked, but there was no response.

“He has these seizures,” Keith said to Robbie, as if an explanation would help matters. “Caffeine helps.”

Robbie jumped to his feet and left the room. Outside his office, he told Aaron and Pryor, “The son of a bitch wants money.” He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a pot of stale coffee, found two paper cups, and returned to his office. He poured a cup for Boyette, who was bent double at the waist, elbows on knees, cradling his head, and moaning. “Here’s some coffee.”

Silence.

Finally, Boyette said, “I’m going to be sick. I need to lie down.”

“Take the sofa,” Robbie said, pointing to it across the room. Boyette struggled to his feet and with Keith’s help made it to the sofa, where he wrapped his arms around his head and pulled his knees to his chest. “Can you turn off the lights?” Boyette said. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“We don’t have time for this!” Robbie said, ready to scream.

“Please, just a minute,” Boyette said pathetically as his body vibrated and he gasped for air. Keith and Robbie left the office and stepped into the conference room. A crowd soon gathered, and Robbie introduced Keith to the rest of the gang. The food arrived and they ate quickly.

CHAPTER 21

They came for Donté at noon. Not a minute before, not a minute after. Everything precise and well rehearsed. There was a knock on the metal door behind him. Three loud raps. He was talking to Cedric, but when he knew it was time, he asked for his mother. Roberta was standing behind Cedric, with Andrea and Marvin at her sides, all four squeezed into the small room, all four crying now with no effort to hold back the tears. They had watched the clock for four hours, and there was nothing left to say. Cedric exchanged places with Roberta, who took the phone and placed her palm on the Plexiglas. Donté did the same from the other side. His three siblings embraced behind his mother, all four huddled together, touching, with Andrea in the middle and on the verge of collapse.