John Grisham - The Confession

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The bourbon was usually Knob Creek, but on special occasions the really fine stuff was pulled out of the drawer. A shot each of Pappy Van Winkle’s, and all three smacked their lips. They were starting a bit early, but the governor said he needed a stiff one. Barry and Wayne had never said no. They had their coats off, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, busy men with a lot on their minds. They stood near a credenza in a corner, sipping, watching the rally on a small television. If they had opened a window, they could have heard the noise. One long-winded speaker after another delivered scathing attacks on the death penalty, racism, and the Texas judicial system. The term “judicial lynching” was used freely. So far, every speaker had demanded that the governor stop the execution. Capitol security estimated the crowd at ten thousand.

Behind the governor’s back, Barry and Wayne exchanged nervous glances. If the crowd could see the video, a riot would break out. Should they tell him? No, maybe later.

“Gill, we need to make a decision about the National Guard,” Barry said.

“What’s happening in Slone?”

“As of thirty minutes ago, they’ve burned two churches, one white and one black. Now an abandoned building is on fire. They canceled classes this morning at the high school after fights broke out. The blacks are marching and roaming the streets, looking for trouble. One brick was thrown through the rear window of a police car, but so far there’s been no other violence. The mayor is scared and thinks the town could blow up after the execution.”

“Who’s available?”

“The unit in Tyler is getting ready and can be deployed within an hour. Six hundred guardsmen. That should be enough.”

“Do it and issue a press release.”

Barry darted from the office. Wayne took another sip and with hesitation said, “Gill, should we at least have the conversation about a thirty-day stay? Let things cool off a bit.”

“Hell no. We can’t back down just because the blacks are upset. If we show weakness now, then they’ll get louder next time. If we wait thirty days, then they’ll just start this crap again. I’m not blinking. You know me better than that.”

“Okay, okay. Just wanted to mention it.”

“Don’t mention it again.”

“You got it.”

“Here he is,” the governor said and took a step closer to the television.

The crowd roared as the Reverend Jeremiah Mays took the podium. Mays was currently the loudest black radical roaming the country and was quite adept at somehow wedging himself into every conflict or episode where race was an issue. He raised his hands, called for quiet, and launched into a flowery prayer in which he beseeched the Almighty to look down upon the poor misguided souls running the State of Texas, to open their eyes, to grant them wisdom, to touch their hearts so that this grave injustice could be stopped. He asked for the hand of God, for a miracle, for the rescue of their brother Donté Drumm.

When Barry returned, he refilled the shot glasses, his hands visibly shaking. The governor said, “Enough of this nonsense,” and hit the mute button. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I want to watch it one more time.” They had watched “it” together several times, and with each viewing all lingering doubts were erased. They walked to the other side of the office, to another television, and Barry picked up the remote.

Donté Drumm, December 23, 1998. He was facing the camera, a can of Coke and an uneaten doughnut on the table in front of him. No one else could be seen. He was subdued, tired, and frightened. He spoke slowly, in a monotone, his eyes never looking directly into the camera.

Off camera, Detective Drew Kerber said, “You’ve been read your Miranda rights, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re giving this statement of your own free will, no threats, no promises of any kind, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, tell us what happened on Friday night, December 4, nineteen days ago.”

Donté leaned forward on his elbows and looked as though he might pass out. He picked a spot on the table, stared at it, spoke to it. “Well, me and Nicole had been sneaking around, having sex, having a good time.”

“How long had this been going on?”

“Three or four months. I liked her, she liked me, things were getting serious, and she got scared because she was afraid people would find out. We started to fight some, she wanted to break it off, I didn’t want to. I think I was in love with her. Then she wouldn’t see me anymore, and this drove me crazy. All I could think about was her, she was so fine. I wanted her more than anything in the world. I was obsessed. I was crazy, couldn’t stand to think that somebody else might have her. So that Friday night, I went looking for her. I knew where she liked to hang out. I saw her car at the mall, over on the east side of the mall.”

“Excuse me, Donté, but I believe you said earlier that her car was parked on the west side of the mall.”

“That’s right, the west side. So I waited and waited.”

“And you were driving a green Ford van, owned by your parents?”

“That’s right. And I guess it was around ten o’clock Friday night, and—”

Kerber said, “Excuse me, Donté, but you said earlier that it was closer to eleven.”

“That’s right, eleven.”

“Go ahead, you were in the green van, looking for Nicole, and you saw her car.”

“That’s right, I was really wanting to see her, and so we were driving around, looking for her car, and—”

“Excuse me, Donté, but you said ‘we’ were driving around, you said earlier—”

“Yeah, me and Torrey Pickett were—”

“But you said earlier that you were alone, that you had dropped Torrey off at his mother’s house.”

“That’s right, sorry about that. At his mother’s house, right. And so I was by myself at the mall and I saw her car and I parked and waited. When she came out, she was alone. We talked for a minute, and she agreed to get in the van. We used the van a few times on dates, when we were sneaking around. And so I drove and we talked. We both got upset. She was determined to break up, and I was determined to stay together. We talked about running away together, to get out of Texas, go to California, where nobody would bother us, you know. But she wouldn’t listen to me. She started crying, and that made me start crying. We parked behind Shiloh Church, out on Travis Road, one of our places, and I said I wanted to have sex one last time. At first, she seemed okay with it, and we started making out. Then she pulled away, said stop it, said no, said she wanted to get back because her friends would be looking for her, but I couldn’t stop. She started pushing me away, and I got mad, real mad, just all of a sudden I hated her because she was pushing me away, because I couldn’t have her. If I was white, then I could have her, but because I’m not, then I’m not good enough, you know. We started fighting, and at some point she realized that I was not going to stop. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t give in either. When it was over, she got mad, real mad. She slapped me and said I’d raped her. And then, something just happened, I snapped or something, I don’t know, but I just went crazy. She was still under me, and I, uh, well … I hit her, and I hit her again, and I couldn’t believe I was hitting that beautiful face, but if I couldn’t have her, then nobody else could either. I just went into a rage, like some kinda wild man, and before I realized what I was doing, my hands were around her neck. I just shook her and shook her, and then she was still. Everything was very still. When I came to my senses, I just looked at her, and at some point I realized she wasn’t breathing. [Donté took the first sip and only sip from the Coke can.] I started driving around; I had no idea where to go. I kept waiting for her to wake up, but she didn’t. I’d call back there, but she wouldn’t answer. I guess I panicked. I didn’t know what time it was. I drove north, and when I realized the sun was coming up, I panicked again. I saw a sign for the Red River. I was on Route 344, and—”