John Grisham - The Confession

“I don’t think so, Robbie. No, look, I’ll just wait—”

Several of the guards were amused by the altercation. Keith was aware of their smirks, but didn’t care.

“Come on,” Robbie said, now dragging the minister. “Do it for Donté. Hell, do it for me. You live in Kansas, a death-penalty state. Come watch a little democracy in action.”

Keith was moving, and everything was a blur. They walked by the columns of guards, past the holding cell where Donté, eyes down, was being handcuffed again, to a narrow unmarked door Keith had not noticed before. It opened and closed behind them. They were in a small boxlike room with dim lights. Robbie finally turned loose of him, then walked over and hugged the Drumm family. “No more appeals,” he said softly. “There’s nothing left to do.”

———

It would be the longest ten minutes in Gill Newton’s lengthy career in public service. From 5:50 until 6:00 p.m., he vacillated as never before. On one side, literally on one side of his office, Wayne pushed harder and harder for a thirty-day reprieve. He argued that the execution could be delayed for thirty days, and thirty days only, while the dust settled and the claims of this Boyette clown could be investigated. If he was telling the truth, and the body could be found, then the governor would be a hero. If he turned out to be a flake, as they strongly suspected, then Drumm would live another thirty days and then get the needle. There was no long-term harm, politically. The only permanent damage would occur if they ignored Boyette, executed Drumm, then found the body exactly where Boyette took them. That would be fatal, and not just for Drumm.

The mood was so tense that they were ignoring the bourbon.

On the other side, Barry argued that any form of retreat would be nothing but a show of weakness, especially in light of the governor’s performance before the mob less than three hours earlier. Executions, especially high-profile ones, attract all sorts of attention seekers, and this guy Boyette was a perfect example. He was obviously looking for the spotlight, his fifteen minutes onstage, and to allow him to derail a proper execution was wrong from a judicial point of view, and even more so from a political one. Drumm confessed to the murder, Barry said over and over. Don’t let some serial pervert cloud the truth. It was a fair trial! The appeals courts, all of them, had affirmed the conviction!

Play it safe, Wayne countered. Just thirty days, maybe we’ll learn something new about the case.

But it’s been nine years, Barry retorted. Enough is enough.

“Are there any reporters outside?” Newton asked.

“Sure,” Barry said. “They have been hanging around all day.”

“Line ’em up.”

———

The final walk was a short one, some thirty feet from the holding cell to the death chamber, the entire pathway lined with guards, some of whom watched from the corners of their eyes to see the dead man’s face, others stared at the floor as if they were sentries guarding a lonely gate. One of three faces could be expected from the condemned man. The most common was a hard frown with wide eyes, a look of fear and disbelief. The second most common was a passive surrender, eyes half-open, as if the chemicals were already at work. The third and least common was the angry look of a man who’d kill every guard in sight if he had a gun. Donté Drumm did not resist; that rarely happens. With a guard holding each elbow, he marched on, his face calm, his eyes on the floor. He refused to allow his captors to see the fear he felt, nor did he wish to acknowledge them in any way.

For such a notorious room, the Texas death chamber is remarkably small, a near-square box twelve feet long and wide, with a low ceiling and a permanent metal bed in the center, adorned in clean white sheets for each occasion. The bed fills the room.

Donté could not believe how cramped it was. He sat on the edge of the bed, and four guards quickly took over. They swung his legs around, stretched them out, then methodically secured his body with five thick leather straps, one around his chest, midsection, groin, thighs, and calves. His arms were placed on extensions 45 degrees from his body and secured with more leather straps. As they prepped him, he closed his eyes, listened to and felt the urgent business about him. There were grunts and a few words, but these men knew their tasks. This was the last stop on the system’s assembly line, and the workers were well experienced.

When all the straps were tightened, the guards retreated. A medical technician who smelled of antiseptic hovered and said, “I’m going to poke and find a vein, left arm first, then the right. You understand?”

“Be my guest,” Donté said and opened his eyes. The technician was rubbing his arm with alcohol. To prevent infection? How thoughtful. Behind him was a darkened window, and below it was an opening from which two ominous tubes ran toward the bed. The warden was to his right, watching it all carefully, very much in charge. Behind the warden were two identical windows—the witness rooms—sealed off by curtains. If he’d been so inclined, and were it not for all the damned leather straps, Donté could’ve reached out and touched the nearest window.

The tubes were in place, one in each arm, though only one would be used. The second one was a backup, just in case.

———

At 5:59, Governor Gill Newton hurriedly stepped in front of three cameras outside of his office and, without notes, said, “My denial of a reprieve still stands. Donté Drumm confessed to this atrocious crime and must pay the ultimate price. He received a fair trial eight years ago, by a jury of his peers, and his case has been reviewed by five different courts, dozens of judges, and all have confirmed his conviction. His claim of innocence is not believable, nor is this last-minute sensational effort by his attorneys to produce a new killer. The judicial system of Texas cannot be hijacked by some criminal looking for attention and a desperate lawyer who will say anything. God bless Texas.”

He refused to answer questions and returned to his office.

———

When the curtains were suddenly opened, Roberta Drumm nearly collapsed at the sight of her youngest son strapped tightly to the bed with tubes running from both arms. She gasped, covered her mouth with both hands, and had Cedric and Marvin not braced her, she would have been on the floor. The shock hit all of them. They squeezed tighter together, and Robbie joined the huddle, adding support.

Keith was too stricken to move. He stood a few feet away. Some strangers were behind him, witnesses who had entered at some point, Keith wasn’t sure when. They inched forward straining for a view. It was Thursday, the second one in November, and at that moment the Ladies’ Bible Class was meeting in the vestry of St. Mark’s Lutheran for the continuation of their study of the Gospel of Luke, to be followed by a pasta dinner in the kitchen. Keith, Dana, and the boys were always invited to the dinner and usually attended. He really missed his church, and his family, and he wasn’t sure why he was having such thoughts as he stared at the very dark head of Donté Drumm. It contrasted sharply with the white shirt he was wearing and the snow-white sheets around him. The leather straps were light brown. Roberta sobbed loudly and Robbie was mumbling and the unknown witnesses behind him were pressing for a better view, and Keith wanted to scream. He was tired of praying, and his prayers weren’t working anyway.

Keith asked himself if he would feel differently if Donté was guilty. He didn’t think so. Guilt would certainly take away some of the sympathy for the kid, but as he watched the preliminaries unfold, he was struck by the coldness, the ruthless efficiency, the sanitized neatness of it. It was similar to killing an old dog, a lame horse, or a laboratory rat. Who, exactly, gives us the right to kill? If killing is wrong, then why are we allowed to kill? As Keith stared at Donté, he knew the image would never go away. And he knew that he would never be the same.