John Grisham - The Confession

“It would not have worked, Keith,” Robbie said. “The authorities here are useless. They would laugh at you. They have their man, the case is solved. Almost closed, I guess. Nobody in Missouri would lift a finger because there is no active investigation. You can’t just call a sheriff and suggest that he and his boys go out in the woods and start digging somewhere down by the creek. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Then who looks for the body?” Keith asked.

“I guess we do.”

“I’m going home, Robbie. My wife is barking at me. My lawyer friend thinks I’m crazy. I think I’m crazy. I’ve done my best. Boyette’s all yours. I’m sick of the guy.”

“Relax, Keith. I need you right now.”

“For what?”

“Just hang around, okay? Boyette trusts you. Besides, when was the last time you had front-row seats at a race riot?”

“Not funny.”

“Sit on the video, Robbie,” Judge Henry said. “Show it to the court and to the governor, but don’t make it public.”

“I can control the video, but I cannot control Mr. Boyette. If he wants to talk to the press, I can’t stop him. God knows he’s not my client.”

———

By 2:30 Thursday afternoon, every church in Slone, black and white, was being guarded by preachers, deacons, and Sunday school teachers, all men, all heavily armed and visible. They sat on the front steps and chatted anxiously, shotguns across their knees. They sat under shade trees near the streets, waving at the passing cars, many of which honked in solidarity. They patrolled the rear doors and back property, smoking, chewing, watching for any movement. There would be no more church burnings in Slone.

The cotton gin had been abandoned two decades earlier when a newer one replaced it east of town. It was an eyesore, a badly decaying old building, and under normal circumstances a good fire would have been welcomed. The 911 call was recorded at 2:44. A teenager driving by saw heavy smoke and called on her cell phone. The beleaguered firemen rushed to the old gin, and by the time they arrived, the flames were roaring through the roof. Since it was an empty, abandoned building, and not a great loss anyway, they took their time.

The black smoke boiled into the sky. The mayor could see it from his second-story office, near the courthouse, and after consulting with the chief of police, he called the governor’s office. The situation in Slone was not likely to improve. The citizens were in danger. They needed the National Guard.

CHAPTER 23

The petition was finished just before 3:00 p.m., and with Boyette’s affidavit included, it ran for thirty pages. Boyette swore in writing that he was telling the truth, and Sammie Thomas e-mailed the petition to the Defender Group’s office in Austin. The staff there was waiting. It was printed, copied twelve times, and handed off to Cicely Avis, who sprinted from the office, hopped in her car, and raced across town to the offices of the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. The petition was filed at 3:35.

“What’s this?” the clerk asked, holding a disc.

“It’s a video of a confession by the real murderer,” Cicely replied.

“Interesting. I assume you want the judges to see this fairly soon.”

“Right now, please.”

“I’ll get it done.”

They chatted for a second, and Cicely left the office. The clerk immediately delivered the petition to the offices of the nine judges. In the chief justice’s office, he spoke to the law clerk and said, “You might want to watch the video first. Some guy just confessed to the murder.”

“And where is this guy?” asked the clerk.

“He’s in Donté Drumm’s lawyer’s office in Slone, according to the Defender Group lawyer.”

“So Robbie Flak’s found him a new witness?”

“Looks like it.”

As Cicely Avis left the TCCA offices, she detoured two blocks and drove past the State Capitol. The “Rally for Donté” was drawing a nice crowd on the south lawn. Police were everywhere. A permit had been issued, and the First Amendment appeared to be working.

The crowd, almost all black, was streaming in. The permit was valid for three hours, from 3:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., the moment of execution, but it was obvious things were behind schedule—in Austin, but certainly not in Huntsville.

———

The governor was in a meeting, an important one, one that had nothing to do with Donté Drumm. At 3:11, the video was received by an assistant who handled the requests for reprieves, and she watched all fourteen minutes of it before she could decide what to do next. While she found Boyette somewhat believable and chilling, she was skeptical because of his background and the timing of his sudden desire to come clean. She went to find Wayne Wallcott, the governor’s lawyer and close friend, and described the video.

Wallcott listened closely, then shut the door of his office and told her to sit down. “Who has seen this video?” he asked.

“Only me,” the assistant answered. “It was e-mailed from Mr. Flak’s office, with a pass code. I watched it immediately and here I am.”

“And it’s a full confession?”

“Oh yes, with lots of details.”

“And you believe this guy?”

“I didn’t say that. I said he seems to know what he’s talking about. He’s a serial rapist, and he was in Slone when the girl disappeared. It’s a full confession.”

“Does he mention Drumm?”

“Why don’t you just watch the video?”

“I didn’t ask for any suggestions, did I?” Wallcott snapped. “Just answer my questions.”

“Sorry.” The assistant took a breath. She was suddenly nervous and uneasy. Wallcott was listening, but he was also scheming. “He mentioned Drumm only to say that he’s never met him and he had nothing to do with the crime.”

“He’s obviously lying. I’m not bothering the governor with this, and I want you to keep the video to yourself. I don’t have the time to look at it. Neither does the governor. You understand?”

She did not, but she nodded anyway.

Wallcott narrowed his eyes and frowned. “You do understand, don’t you?” he asked gravely. “This video stays in your computer.”

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as she left, Wallcott practically jogged to the office of Barry Ringfield, the governor’s chief spokesman and closest friend. The office suite was crawling with staff and interns, so they took a stroll down the hall.

After a few minutes of discussing their options, they agreed that the governor would not see the video. If Boyette was lying, then the video would be irrelevant and the right man was executed. But if Boyette was telling the truth, which they strongly doubted, and the wrong man was executed, the fallout could be messy. The only way to protect Governor Gill Newton was for one of them, or perhaps the assistant, to take the fall by admitting they sat on, or maybe even lost, the video. Gill Newton had never granted a reprieve in a death case, and with the thrilling attention being stirred up by the Drumm case, he was not about to back down now. Even if he watched the video, and even if he believed Boyette, he would not retreat.

Wayne and Barry walked to the governor’s office. They were expected there promptly at 4:00 p.m., two hours before the execution, and they would not tell the governor about the video.

———

At 3:30 p.m., the Flak Law Firm gathered once again around the main conference table. All were present and accounted for, including Keith, who, though fighting the worst fatigue of his life, was finding it hard to believe he had somehow acquired a ticket to this circus. He and Judge Henry sat away from the table, against a wall. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor read newspapers on the other side of the room. Travis Boyette was still alive, still resting in the dark on Robbie’s sofa.