John Grisham - The Confession

Ten miles to the south, the mood was much merrier at the cabin. Huddled around the television, fresh drinks in hand, they grinned smugly when death was confirmed. Paul Koffee toasted Drew Kerber, then Drew Kerber toasted Paul Koffee. Glasses clinked together. The discomforting hesitation they had felt with that Boyette thing was quickly forgotten. At least for the moment.

Justice had finally prevailed.

———

Warden Jeter walked Robbie and Keith back to the front of the prison, shook their hands, said good-bye. Robbie thanked him for his thoughtfulness. Keith wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank him or insult him—his last-second approval of Keith as a witness had led to a horrific experience—but he was gracious anyway, as was his nature. When they stepped through the front door, they saw where the noise was coming from. To the right, three blocks away, and on the other side of a wall of police and state troopers, students were yelling and waving homemade banners and placards. They were packed together in the middle of a street that had been cordoned off. Beyond them, traffic was backed up. A wave of cars had tried to reach the prison, and when they were blocked, their drivers simply got out and joined the crowd. Operation Detour had planned to choke the prison with people and vehicles, and the plan was working. The goal of preventing the execution had not been reached, but Donté’s supporters had at least been mobilized, and they had been heard.

Aaron Rey was waiting on the sidewalk, waving Keith and Robbie over. “We’ve found an escape route,” he said. “This place is ready to blow up.” They hurried to the minivan and took off. The driver began darting through side streets, dodging parked cars and angry students. Martha Handler studied Robbie’s face, but he did not make eye contact.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

He shook his head no. Keith did the same. Both closed their eyes.

———

A Huntsville funeral home had the contract. One of its black hearses was inside the Walls Unit, out of sight, and when the last of the witnesses and officials left the death house, it backed to the same gate where the vans had come and gone. A collapsible gurney was pulled out, extended, and rolled inside to the death chamber, where it was wedged tightly next to the bed where Donté lay motionless and unrestrained. The tubes had been removed and recoiled into the dark room where the chemist, still unseen, was filling out his paperwork. On the count of three, four guards lifted the corpse gently and placed it on the gurney, where it was once again strapped, but not as tightly this time. A blanket, owned by the funeral home, was tucked over him, and when all was in place, the gurney was rolled back to the hearse. Twenty minutes after the pronouncement of death, the body was leaving the Walls Unit, through a different route, to avoid the protesters and cameras.

At the funeral home, the body was taken to a prep room. Mr. Hubert Lamb and his son Alvin, owners of Lamb & Son Funeral Home, Slone, Texas, were waiting. They would embalm the body at their place in Slone, on the same table where they had prepared Riley Drumm five years earlier. But Riley had been an old man of fifty-five when he passed, his body shrunken and decayed, and his death had been anticipated. It could be explained. His son’s could not. As men who dealt in death, constantly handling corpses, the Lambs figured they had seen it all. But they were taken aback by the sight of Donté lying peacefully on the gurney, his face content, his body undisturbed, a young man of twenty-seven. They had known him since he was a boy. They had cheered for him on the football field and, like all of Slone, expected a long, glorious career. They had whispered and gossiped with the rest of the town when he was arrested. They were stunned by the confession, and quick to believe Donté when he immediately recanted. The Slone police, and Detective Kerber in particular, were not trusted on their side of town. The boy was tricked; they beat a confession out of him, just like in the old days. They watched with frustration as he was tried and convicted by a white jury, and after he was sent away, they, like the rest of the town, half expected the girl’s body to show up, or maybe even the girl herself.

With the help of two others, they lifted Donté from the gurney and gently placed him in a handsome oak casket selected by his mother on Monday. Roberta had paid a small deposit—she had burial insurance—and the Lambs were quick to agree to a full refund if the casket became unnecessary. They would have happily forgone the use of it. They had prayed they would not be where they were at that moment—collecting the body, then driving it home, then preparing for a painful wake, memorial, and funeral.

The four men wrestled the casket into the Lamb & Son hearse, and at 7:02 Donté left Huntsville and headed home.

———

The Fordyce—Hitting Hard! set was in a small “ballroom” in a cheap chain motel on the fringe of Huntsville. Reeva and Wallis were perched on director’s chairs and made up for the cameras while Sean Fordyce stomped around in his usual manic mode. He’d just “jetted” in from an execution in Florida, barely made it to Huntsville, but so glad he did because the Nicole Yarber case had become one of his best ever. In preliminary chitchat, as the technicians worked frantically on the sound, the lighting, the makeup, the script, Fordyce realized that Reeva had not yet heard about the appearance of Travis Boyette. She had been inside the prison, preparing for the big event, when the story broke. Instinctively, he decided not to tell her. He would save it for later.

The post-execution interview was the most dramatic segment of his show. Catch ’em just minutes after they’ve watched the bastard die and they might say anything. He snapped at a technician, cursed a cameraman, yelled that he was ready to go. A final dusting of powder on his forehead, then an instant change of demeanor as he looked at the camera, smiled, and became a man of great compassion. With tape running, he explained where he was, gave the time, the hour, the gravity of the moment, then he walked to Reeva and said, “Reeva, it’s over. Tell us what you saw.”

Reeva, a Kleenex in each hand—she’d gone through a box since lunch—dabbed her eyes and said, “I saw him, for the first time in eight years, I saw the man who killed my baby. I looked him in the eyes, but he would not look at me.” Her voice was strong, no breakdown yet.

“What did he say?”

“He said he was sorry, and I appreciate that.”

Fordyce leaned in closer, frowning. “Did he say he was sorry for killing Nicole?”

“Something like that,” she said, but Wallis shook his head and glanced at his wife.

“You disagree, Mr. Pike?”

“He said he was sorry for what happened, not sorry for anything he did,” Wallis grunted.

“Are you sure?” Reeva fired back at her husband.

“I’m sure.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Tell us about the execution, the dying,” Fordyce pleaded.

Reeva, still pissed at Wallis, shook her head and wiped her nose with a Kleenex. “It was much too easy. He just went to sleep. When they opened the curtains, he was already on the little bed in there, all strapped down, looking very much at peace. He made his last statement, then he closed his eyes. We couldn’t tell anything, nothing, no sign that the drugs had been administered, nothing. He just went to sleep.”

“And you were thinking about Nicole and how horrible her death must have been?”

“Oh, God, yes, exactly, my poor baby. She suffered greatly. Just terrible …” Her voice choked and the camera zoomed even closer.

“Did you want him to suffer?” Fordyce asked, prodding, prompting.