John Grisham - The Confession

“Thanks for coming, Robbie,” Donté said in a whisper.

“I promised I’d be here until the end. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this, Donté, I’m truly sorry.”

“Come on, Robbie, you did the best you could. You’re still fighting, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes. We have some last-minute appeals still out there, so there’s a chance.”

“How much of a chance, Robbie?”

“A chance. Joey Gamble has admitted he lied at trial. He got drunk last night in a strip club and admitted everything. We secretly recorded it, and filed a petition this morning. The court turned us down. Then around 3:30 this afternoon, Joey contacted us and said he wants to admit everything.”

Donté’s only reaction was to slowly shake his head in disbelief.

“We’re trying to file another petition, one that includes his sworn affidavit, and it gives us a chance.”

They were hunched over, their heads almost touching, speaking in whispers. There was so much to say, and so little. Robbie was bitter at the system, angry to the point of violence, burdened by his lack of success in defending Donté, but most of all he was, at that moment, just sad.

For Donté, the brief stay in the holding cell was confusing. Ahead, not thirty feet away, was a door that led to death, a door he preferred not to open. Behind him was death row and the maddening existence of isolation in a cell he preferred to never see again. He thought he was ready for the door, but he was not. Nor did he wish to ever see Polunsky again.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Robbie. I’ll be all right.”

Keith, with permission, stepped outside and tried to breathe. It had snowed Monday morning in Topeka; now it felt like eighty degrees in Texas. He leaned against a fence and stared at the razor wire above him.

He called Dana and told her where he was, what he was doing, what he was thinking. She seemed as astonished as he was.

———

With the Drumm matter out of the way, Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe left his office and hurried to the Rolling Creek Country Club in west-central Austin. He had a 5:00 p.m. tennis match with a major contributor to his last, and next, campaigns. In traffic, his cell phone rang. The clerk of the court informed him that they had received a call from the Defender Group, and that another petition was in the works.

“What time do you have?” Prudlowe demanded.

“Four forty-nine.”

“I get so tired of this crap,” Prudlowe said. “We close at five, and everybody knows it.”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said. The clerk knew quite well that Justice Prudlowe despised the last-minute Hail Marys thrown by desperate defense lawyers. The cases drag on for years with little activity, then with hours to go, the lawyers suddenly shift into high gear.

“Any idea what they’re filing?” Prudlowe asked.

“I think it’s the same thing they filed this morning—an eyewitness is recanting. They’re having trouble with their computers.”

“Gee, that’s original. We close at five, and at five I want the door locked, and not a minute after. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

At 4:45, Cicely Avis and two paralegals left the Defender Group offices with the petition and Gamble’s affidavit. All twelve copies. As they sped through traffic, Cicely called the clerk’s office with the heads-up that they were on the way. The clerk informed her that the office would close at five, the usual time, five days a week.

“But we have a petition that includes a sworn affidavit from the only eyewitness at trial,” she insisted.

“I think we’ve already seen that one,” the clerk said.

“You have not! This has a sworn statement.”

“I just talked to the chief justice. We close at five.”

“But we’ll be a few minutes late!”

“We close at five.”

———

Travis Boyette was sitting by a window in the conference room, cane across his knees, watching the chaos of frantic people yelling at each other. Fred Pryor was close by, also watching.

Unable to make sense of what was happening, Boyette stood and approached the table. “Can anybody tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

“Yep, we’re losing,” Carlos snapped at him.

“What about my statement? Is anybody listening to me?”

“The answer is no. The court was not impressed.”

“They think I’m lying?”

“Yes, Travis, they think you’re lying. I’m sorry. We believe you, but we don’t have a vote.”

“I want to talk to the reporters.”

“I think they’re busy chasing fires.”

Sammie Thomas looked at her laptop, scribbled down something, and handed it to Boyette. “This is the cell phone number of one of our local TV idiots.” She pointed to a table near the television. “That is a telephone. Feel free to do whatever you want, Mr. Boyette.” Travis shuffled over to the phone, punched the numbers, and waited. He was being watched by Sammie, Carlos, Bonnie, and Fred Pryor.

He held the receiver and stared at the floor. Then he flinched, and said, “Uh, yes, is this Garrett? Okay, look, my name is Travis Boyette, and I’m down at the law office of Robbie Flak. I was involved in the murder of Nicole Yarber, and I’d like to go on the air and make a confession.” Pause. The tic. “I want to confess to the murder of the girl. Donté Drumm had nothing to do with it.” Pause. The tic. “Yes, I want to say that on the air, and I have a lot more to say as well.” The others could almost hear the frantic thrill in Garrett’s voice. What a story!

Boyette said, “Okay,” and hung up. He looked around the conference room and said, “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Sammie said, “Fred, why don’t you take him out front, somewhere near the landing, and find a good spot.”

Boyette said, “I can leave if I want to, right? I don’t have to stay here?”

“You’re a free man as far as I’m concerned,” Sammie said. “Do whatever you want. I really don’t care.”

Boyette and Pryor left the conference room and waited outside the train station.

Carlos took the call from Cicely Avis. She explained that they arrived at the court at 5:07, the doors were locked, the offices closed. She called the clerk’s cell phone. The clerk said he was not there, he was in fact driving home.

Donté’s final petition would not be filed.

———

According to club records, Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe and his guest played tennis on court 8 for an hour, beginning at 5:00 p.m.

CHAPTER 25

Paul Koffee’s cabin was on a small lake ten miles south of Slone. He’d owned it for years and used it as an escape, a hiding place, a fishing hole. He’d also used it as a love nest during his romp with Judge Vivian Grale, an unfortunate episode that led to an ugly divorce that almost led to the loss of the cabin. His ex-wife got their home instead.

After lunch on Thursday, he left his office and drove to the cabin. The town was in a meltdown, it was beginning to feel dangerous, the phone was ringing nonstop, and no one in his office was even attempting to appear productive. He escaped the frenzy and was soon in the peaceful countryside, where he prepared for a party he’d thrown together a week earlier. He iced down the beer, stocked the bar, puttered around the cabin, and waited for his guests. They began arriving before 5:00 p.m.—most had left work early—and everyone needed a drink. They gathered on a deck near the edge of the water—retired lawyers, active lawyers, two assistant prosecutors in Koffee’s office, an investigator, and other assorted friends, almost all of whom had some connection to the law.

Drew Kerber and another detective were there. Everyone wanted to talk to Kerber, the cop who broke the case. Without his skillful interrogation of Donté Drumm, there would have been no conviction. He’d found the bloodhounds that picked up Nicole’s scent in the green Ford van. He’d deftly manipulated a jailhouse snitch into obtaining yet another confession from their suspect. Good, solid police work. The Drumm case was Kerber’s crowning moment, and he intended to savor its final moments.