John Grisham - The Confession

“Excuse me, Donté, but you said earlier it was Route 244.”

“That’s right: 244. I drove onto the bridge, it was still dark, no other car lights anywhere, not a sound, and I got her out of the back of the van and tossed her into the river. When I heard her splash, it made me sick. I remember crying all the way back home.”

The governor stepped forward and punched the off button. “Boys, that’s all I need to see. Let’s go.” All three straightened their ties, buttoned their cuffs, put on their jackets, and walked out of the office. In the hallway, they were met with a security detail, one beefed up for the occasion. They took the stairs down to the street level and walked quickly to the Capitol. They waited, unseen by the crowd, until the Reverend Jeremiah Mays finished his incendiary remarks. The crowd roared when he signed off, vowing revenge. When their governor suddenly appeared at the podium, the mood changed remarkably. For a moment, those present were confused, but when they heard the words “I’m Gill Newton, governor of the great state of Texas,” they drowned him out in an avalanche of boos.

He yelled back, “Thank you for coming here and expressing your First Amendment right to assemble. God bless America.” Even louder boos. “Our country is great because we love democracy, the greatest system in the world.” Loud boos for democracy. “You’ve assembled here today because you believe Donté Drumm is innocent. Well, I’m here to tell you he is not. He was convicted in a fair trial. He had a good lawyer. He confessed to the crime.” The boos and whistles and angry shouts were now continuous, and Newton was forced to yell into the microphone. “His case has been reviewed by dozens of judges, sitting on five different courts, state and federal, and every ruling against him has been unanimous.”

When the roar became too loud to continue, Newton stood and smirked at the crowd, a man with power facing those with none. He nodded, acknowledging their hatred of him. When the noise subsided slightly, he leaned closer to the microphone and, with as much drama as he could muster and knowing full well that what he was about to say would play on every evening and late newscast in Texas, said, “I refuse to grant a reprieve to Donté Drumm. He is a monster. He is a guilty man!”

The crowd roared again and pressed forward. The governor waved and saluted for the cameras and stepped away. He was swarmed by his security team and whisked away to safety. Barry and Wayne followed, neither able to suppress a smile. Their man had just pulled off another beautiful stunt, one that would no doubt win every election from then on.

CHAPTER 24

The last meal, the last walk, the last statement. Donté had never understood the significance of these final details. Why the fascination with what a man consumed just before he died? It wasn’t as though the food gave comfort, or strengthened the body, or postponed the inevitable. The food, along with the organs, would soon be flushed out and incinerated. What good did it do? After feeding a man gruel for decades, why pamper him with something he might enjoy just before you kill him?

He could vaguely recall the early days on death row and his horror of what he was supposed to eat. He’d been raised by a woman who appreciated and enjoyed the kitchen, and though Roberta relied too heavily on grease and flour, she also grew her own vegetables and was careful with processed ingredients. She loved to use herbs, spices, and peppers, and her chickens and meats were highly seasoned. The first meat Donté was served on death row was allegedly a slice of pork, and completely devoid of taste. He lost his appetite the first week and never regained it.

Now, at the end, he was expected to order a feast and be thankful for this one last favor. As silly as it was, virtually all condemned men gave thought to the final meal. They had so little else to think about. Donté had decided days earlier that he wanted to be served nothing that even remotely resembled dishes his mother once prepared. So he ordered a pepperoni pizza and a glass of root beer. It arrived at 4:00 p.m., rolled into the holding cell on a small tray by two guards. Donté said nothing as they left. He’d been napping off and on throughout the afternoon, waiting on his pizza, waiting on his lawyer. Waiting on a miracle, though by 4:00 p.m. he’d given up.

In the hallway, just beyond the bars, his audience watched without a word. A guard, a prison official, and the chaplain who’d tried twice to talk to him. Twice Donté had rejected the offers of spiritual counseling. He wasn’t sure why they watched him so closely, but presumed it was to prevent a suicide. How he might go about killing himself wasn’t clear, not in this holding cell. If Donté could have committed suicide, he would have done so months earlier. And now he wished he had. He would already be gone, and his mother could not watch him die.

For a palate neutralized by tasteless white bread, bland applesauce, and an endless stream of “mystery meats,” the pizza was surprisingly delicious. He ate it slowly.

Ben Jeter stepped to the bars and asked, “How’s the pizza, Donté?”

Donté did not look at the warden. “It’s fine,” he said softly.

“Need anything?”

He shook his head no. I need a lot of things, pal, not a damned one of which you can provide. And if you could, you wouldn’t. Just leave me alone.

“I think your lawyer’s on the way.”

Donté nodded and picked up another slice.

———

At 4:21, the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in New Orleans denied relief under Donté’s claim of mental illness. The Flak Law Firm immediately filed in the U.S. Supreme Court a petition for a writ of certiorari, or cert, as it’s known; a request that the Court hear the appeal and consider the merits of the petition. If cert was granted, the execution would be stopped, and time would pass while the dust settled and briefs were filed. If cert was denied, the claim would be dead, and so would the claimant, in all likelihood. There was no other place to appeal.

At the Supreme Court Building in Washington, the “death clerk” received the cert petition electronically and distributed it to the offices of the nine justices.

There was no word on the Boyette petition pending before the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals.

When the King Air landed in Huntsville, Robbie called the office and was informed of the adverse ruling in the Fifth Circuit. Joey Gamble had not yet found his way to the law office of Agnes Tanner in Houston. The governor had denied a reprieve, in spectacular fashion. There were currently no new fires in Slone, but the National Guard was on the way. A depressing phone call, but then Robbie had expected little else.

He, Aaron, Martha, and Keith jumped into a minivan driven by an investigator Robbie had used before, and they raced off. The prison was fifteen minutes away. Keith called Dana and tried to explain what was happening in his life, but the explanation got complicated, and others were listening. She was beyond bewildered and certain that he was doing something stupid. He promised to call back in a few moments. Aaron called the office and talked to Fred Pryor. Boyette was up and moving about, but slowly. He was complaining because he had not talked to any reporters. He expected to tell his side of the story to everyone, and it seemed as if no one wanted to hear him. Robbie was frantically trying to reach Joey Gamble, with no luck. Martha Handler took her usual pages of notes.

———

At 4:30, Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe convened the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, by teleconference, to consider the Boyette petition in the case of Donté Drumm. The court had not been impressed with Boyette. The general feeling was that he was a publicity seeker with serious credibility issues. After a brief discussion, he called the roll. The vote was unanimous; not a single judge voted to grant relief to Donté Drumm. The clerk of the court e-mailed the decision to the attorney general’s office, the lawyers fighting Donté’s appeals; to Wayne Wallcott, the governor’s lawyer; and to the law office of Robbie Flak.