John Grisham - The Confession

The van was almost at the prison when Robbie got the call from Carlos. Though he’d been reminding himself throughout the afternoon that relief was unlikely, he still took it hard. “Sons of bitches!” he snapped. “Didn’t believe Boyette. Denied, denied, denied, all nine of them. Sons of bitches.”

“What happens next?” Keith asked.

“We run to the U.S. Supreme Court. Let ’em see Boyette. Pray for a miracle. We’re running out of options.”

“Did they give a reason?” Martha asked.

“Nope, they don’t have to. The problem is that we want desperately to believe Boyette, and they, the chosen nine, have no interest in believing him. Believing Boyette would upset the system. Excuse me. I gotta call Agnes Tanner. Gamble’s probably in a strip club getting plastered while a lap dancer works him over.”

———

There were no strippers, no stops or detours, just a couple of wrong turns. Joey walked into the law office of Agnes Tanner at 4:40, and she was waiting at the door. Ms. Tanner was a hard-nosed divorce lawyer who, when bored, occasionally volunteered for a capital murder defense. She knew Robbie well, though they had not spoken in over a year.

She was holding the affidavit and, after a tense “Nice to meet you,” led Joey to a small meeting room. She wanted to ask him where he had been, why it took so long, whether he was drunk, if he realized they were out of time, and why he lied nine years ago and had sat on his fat ass ever since. She wanted to grill him for an hour, but there was no time; plus, he was moody and unpredictable, according to Robbie.

“You can read this, or I’ll tell you what it says,” she said, waving the affidavit.

Joey sat in a chair, buried his face in his hands, and said, “Just tell me.”

“It gives your name, address, all that crap. It says you testified at the trial of Donté Drumm on such and such date in October 1999; that you gave crucial testimony on behalf of the prosecution, and in your testimony you told the jury that on the night of Nicole’s disappearance, at about the same time, you saw a green Ford van driving suspiciously through the parking lot where her car was parked, and that the driver appeared to be a black male, and that the van was very similar to the one owned by Donté Drumm. There are a lot more details, but we don’t have time for details. Are you with me, Joey?”

“Yes.” His eyes were covered, and he appeared to be crying.

“You now recant that testimony and swear that it was not true. You’re saying that you lied at trial. Got that, Joey?”

He nodded his head in the affirmative.

“And it goes on to say that you made the anonymous phone call to Detective Drew Kerber in which you informed him that Donté Drumm was the killer. Again, lots of details, but I’ll spare you. I think you understand all this, Joey, don’t you?”

He uncovered his face, wiped tears, and said, “I’ve lived with this for a long time.”

“Then fix it, Joey.” She slapped the affidavit on the table and thrust a pen at him. “Page five, bottom right. Quickly.”

He signed the affidavit, and after it was notarized, it was scanned and e-mailed to the Defender Group office in Austin. Agnes Tanner waited for a confirmation, but it bounced back. She called a lawyer at the Defender Group—it had not been received. There had been some problems with their Internet server. Agnes sent it again, and again it was not received. She barked at a clerk who began faxing the five pages.

Joey, suddenly neglected, left the office without being noticed. He at least expected someone to say thanks.

———

The prison in Huntsville is called the Walls Unit. It’s the oldest prison in Texas, built the old way with tall, thick brick walls, thus the name. Its storied history includes the incarcerations of once-famous outlaws and gunslingers. Its death chamber has been used to execute more men and women than any other state. The Walls Unit is proud of its history. A block of the oldest cells has been preserved and presents a step back in time. Tours can be arranged.

Robbie had been there twice before, always hurried and burdened and disinterested in the history of the Walls Unit. When he and Keith walked in the front door, they were met by Ben Jeter, who managed a smile. “Hello, Mr. Flak,” he said.

“Hello, Warden,” Robbie said grimly, grabbing his wallet. “This is Donté’s spiritual adviser, the Reverend Keith Schroeder.” The warden shook hands cautiously. “Wasn’t aware that Drumm had a spiritual adviser.”

“Well, he does now.”

“Okay. Give me some ID.”

They handed Jeter their driver’s licenses, and he gave them to a guard behind a counter. “Follow me,” he said.

Jeter had been the warden at Walls Unit for eleven years, and every execution belonged to him. It was a duty he assumed but didn’t ask for; it was just part of the job. He was noted for his detachment and professionalism. All movements were precise, all details followed without variation. Texas was so efficient in its death work that other states sent over prison officials for consultation. Ben Jeter could show them precisely how it should be done.

He had asked 298 men and 3 women if they had any last words. Fifteen minutes later, he declared them all dead.

“What about the appeals?” he asked, one step ahead of Robbie, two ahead of Keith, who was still in a daze. They were zipping down a hallway, its walls lined with fading black and whites of former wardens and dead governors.

“Doesn’t look good,” Robbie said. “Couple of balls in the air, but nothing much.”

“So you think we’ll go at six?”

“I don’t know,” Robbie said, unwilling to offer much.

“Go at six,” Keith said to himself. As if they were catching a flight or waiting for a kickoff.

They stopped at a door and Jeter waved a card. It opened and they stepped outside, walked twenty feet, then entered the death house. Keith’s heart was pounding, and he was so dizzy he needed to sit down. Inside, he saw bars, rows of bars in a dimly lit block of cells. There were guards in the way, two men in bad suits, the warden, all looking at the holding cell.

“Donté, your lawyer is here,” Jeter announced, as if he were delivering a gift. Donté rose to his feet and smiled. Metal clanged, the door slid open, and Donté took a step. Robbie grabbed him, clutched him, whispered something in his ear. Donté squeezed his lawyer, the first real human contact in almost a decade. Both were crying when they separated.

Next to the holding cell was the visiting cell, a space identical except for a wall of glass behind the bars that allowed privacy as the lawyer met with his client for the last time. The rules allowed one hour of visitation. Most condemned men saved a few minutes for the last prayer with the prison chaplain. The rules stated that the hour of visitation ran from 4:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m., leaving the inmate all alone at the end. Warden Jeter, though a stickler for the rules, knew when to bend them. He also knew that Donté Drumm had been a model prisoner, unlike many, and that meant a lot in his business.

Jeter tapped his watch and said, “It’s 4:45, Mr. Flak, you have sixty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Donté entered the visiting cell and sat on the edge of the bed. Robbie followed him and sat on a stool. A guard closed the glass door, then rolled the bars in place.

They were alone, knees touching; Robbie put a hand on Donté’s shoulder and worked to keep his composure. He had agonized over whether he should bring up Boyette. On the one hand, Donté had probably accepted the inevitable and, with an hour to go, was ready for whatever stood beyond. He certainly seemed to be at peace. Why upset him with a wild new story? On the other hand, Donté might appreciate knowing that the truth would finally be known. His name would be cleared, even though posthumously. The truth, though, was far from certain, and Robbie decided not to mention Boyette.