John Grisham - The Confession

She nodded vigorously, her eyes closed. Fordyce asked Wallis, “What changes now, Mr. Pike? What does this mean for your family?”

Wallis thought for a second, and while he was thinking, Reeva blurted, “It means a lot, knowing he’s dead, knowing he’s been punished. I think I’ll sleep better at night.”

“Did he claim to be innocent?”

“Oh yes,” Reeva said, the tears gone for the moment. “Same old stuff we’ve been hearing for years. ‘I’m an innocent man!’ Well, now he’s a dead man, that’s all I can say.”

“Have you ever thought that he might be innocent, that someone else might have killed Nicole?”

“No, not for a minute. The monster confessed.”

Fordyce pulled back a little. “Have you heard of a man named Travis Boyette?”

A blank face. “Who?”

“Travis Boyette. At 5:30 this afternoon, he went on television in Slone and claimed to be the killer.”

“Nonsense.”

“Here’s the tape,” Fordyce said, pointing to a twenty-inch screen off to the right. On cue, the video of Travis Boyette appeared. The volume was high; the rest of the set was perfectly still. As he talked, Reeva watched closely, frowning, almost smirking, then shaking her head no. An idiot, a fraud. She knew who the killer was. But when Boyette pulled out the class ring, shoved it at the cameras, and said he had kept it for nine years, Reeva’s face turned pale, her jaw dropped, her shoulders slumped.

Sean Fordyce may have been a noisy proponent of the death penalty, but like most cable screamers he never let ideology get in the way of a sensational story. The possibility that the wrong man had just been executed would undoubtedly strike a blow against capital punishment, but Fordyce couldn’t have cared less. He was smack in the middle of the hour’s hottest story—number two on CNN’s home page—and he planned to make the most of it.

And he saw nothing wrong with ambushing his own guest. He’d done it before, and he would do it again if it produced great drama.

Boyette vanished from the screen.

“Did you see the ring, Reeva?” Fordyce boomed.

Reeva looked as though she’d seen a ghost. Then she collected herself and remembered that everything was being filmed. “Yes,” she managed to say.

“And is it Nicole’s?”

“Oh, there’s no way to tell. Who is this guy and where did he come from?”

“He’s a serial rapist with a rap sheet a mile long, that’s who he is.”

“Well, there. Who can believe him?”

“So you don’t, Reeva?”

“Of course not.” But the tears were gone, as was the spunk. Reeva appeared confused, disoriented, and very tired. As Fordyce moved in for another question, she said, “Sean, it’s been a long day. We’re going home.”

“Yes, sure, Reeva, just one more question. Now that you’ve seen an execution, do you think they should be televised?”

Reeva yanked the mike off her jacket and bounced to her feet. “Come on, Wallis. I’m tired.”

The interview was over. Reeva, Wallis, and their two children walked out of the motel with Brother Ronnie behind them. They piled into the church van and headed for Slone.

———

At the airport, Keith called Dana with the latest update on his little road trip. He was free-falling now, with no idea where he was going and not sure where he’d been. When he explained, gently, that he had just witnessed the execution, she was speechless. So was he. The conversation was brief. She asked if he was okay, and he replied that he definitely was not.

The King Air lifted off at 7:05 and was soon in heavy clouds. The plane dipped and lurched, much like an old truck on a bumpy road. “Moderate turbulence” the pilot had called it as they boarded. With the noise of the engines, the sense of being tossed about, and the mind-bending blur of images from the past two hours, Keith found it easy to close his eyes and withdraw into his own little cocoon.

Robbie was withdrawn too. He sat forward, elbows on knees, chin in hand, eyes closed, deep in thought and painful memories. Martha Handler wanted to talk, to take notes, to capture the moment fully, but there was no one to interview. Aaron Rey stared nervously out the window, as if waiting for a wing to break off.

At five thousand feet, the ride smoothed somewhat and the cabin noise died down. Robbie reclined in his seat and smiled at Martha. “What were his last words?” she asked.

“He loves his momma and he’s an innocent man.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s enough. There’s a Web site for the Texas death row, an official one, and they post all of the last statements. Donté’s will be up by noon tomorrow. It was beautiful. He called ’em by name, the bad guys—Kerber, Koffee, Judge Grale, the governor. Beautiful, just beautiful.”

“So he went down fighting?”

“He was not able to fight, but he did not give an inch.”

———

The car was an old Buick owned by an old widow, Ms. Nadine Snyderwine, and it was parked beside her modest home on a concrete pad, under a willow oak. She drove it three times a week, max, and with her failing eyesight she knew her driving days were numbered. Ms. Snyderwine had never worked outside the home, never met a lot of people, and certainly never provoked anyone. Her car was chosen because it was accessible and, more important, because it was parked on a quiet, dark street in a very white part of town. The Buick was unlocked, not that a lock would have mattered. The driver’s door was opened, a Molotov cocktail was lit and tossed inside, and the arsonists disappeared into the night without a trace. A neighbor saw flames, and the 911 call was recorded at 7:28.

If there was a chance that the old Buick’s wiring shorted, that the car somehow ignited on its own, such thoughts were dashed when the second 911 call came at 7:36. Another car was on fire, a Volvo wagon parked on a street halfway between the courthouse and Civitan Park. Fire trucks screamed back and forth across town, with police escorts clearing the way. The sirens were applauded by the mob at the park, a mob that was growing larger as the night grew later. But aside from underage drinking and possession of pot, no crimes were being committed. Yet. Perhaps disturbing the peace, but given the tension of the moment, the police were not inclined to enter the park and break up the fun. The crowd was in a belligerent mood, fueled by the news of Donté’s death, the statements of Travis Boyette, the angry rap blasting from car stereos, and some drugs and alcohol.

The police watched and pondered their options. They huddled with the National Guardsmen and plotted strategy. The wrong move could provoke a response that was unpredictable, primarily because the crowd had no real leader at that point and had no idea where the night would lead it. Every half hour or so, some clown lit a string of firecrackers, and for a split second the policemen and guardsmen froze and strained to tell if the noise was gunfire. So far, only firecrackers.

The third call was recorded at 7:40, and it was the most ominous so far. In fact, when the police chief got the details, he thought about leaving town himself. At Big Louie’s honky-tonk west of town, the gravel parking lot was packed as usual for a Thursday night, the unofficial beginning of the weekend. To kick things off, Louie offered a variety of drink specials, all involving reduced prices, and the Bubbas responded with enthusiasm. Of the vehicles parked outside the cheap metal building, virtually all were pickup trucks, an even split between Ford and Chevrolet. The arsonists picked one of each, broke the windows, tossed the cocktails, and disappeared into the darkness. A latecomer, in a pickup, thought he saw a “coupla black boys” running away, crouching low, very suspicious. But he wasn’t close and didn’t see their faces. In fact, he wasn’t even sure they were black.