John Grisham - The Confession

“What about Travis Boyette?” a reporter asked.

Robbie said, “I’m not in charge of Mr. Boyette. I understand he’s still inside and doesn’t wish to say anything else. I’ll speak with him, see what he wants to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Flak.”

“I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” he said, and climbed the steps. Keith, Aaron, and Martha followed. Emotions hit hard when they walked into the conference room and saw Carlos, Bonnie, Sammie Thomas, Kristi Hinze, Fanta, and Fred Pryor. There were hugs and condolences and tears.

“Where’s Boyette?” Robbie asked.

Fred Pryor pointed to the closed door of a small office.

“Good, keep him there. Let’s gather around the conference table. I’d like to describe what it was like, while it’s fresh. Reverend Schroeder might want to help, because he was there. He spent time with Donté and watched him die.”

Keith was already in a chair against the wall, drained, fatigued, and wiped out. They looked at him in disbelief. He nodded without a smile.

Robbie took off his jacket and loosened his tie. Bonnie brought a tray of sandwiches and placed it in front of him. Aaron grabbed one, as did Martha. Keith waved them off; he’d lost his appetite. When they were settled in, Robbie began by saying, “He was very brave, but he expected a last-minute miracle. I guess they all do.”

Like a third-grade teacher at story time, Robbie led them through the last hour of Donté’s life, and when he finished, they were all crying again.

———

Rocks began flying, some thrown by teenagers hiding behind groups of other teenagers, and some thrown by persons unseen. They landed on Walter Street, where the police and the guardsmen maintained a casual line of defense. The first injury was to a Slone officer who took a rock in the teeth and went down hard, much to the delight of the crowd. The sight of a cop down inspired more rock throwing, and Civitan Park was finally exploding. A police sergeant made the decision to break up the crowd and with a bullhorn ordered everyone to disperse immediately or face arrest. This provoked an angry response, and the launching of more rocks and debris. The crowd jeered at the police and soldiers, spewing profanities and threats and showing no signs of obeying the order. The police and soldiers, with helmets and shields, formed a wedge, crossed the street, and entered the park. Several students, including Trey Glover, the tailback and initial leader of the protest, walked forward with their hands thrust out, volunteering for arrest. As Trey was being handcuffed, a rock bounced off the helmet of the officer arresting him. The officer yelled and cursed, then forgot about Trey and began chasing the kid who threw the rock. A few of the protesters scattered and ran through the streets, but most fought on, throwing whatever they could find. The dugouts on one of the baseball fields were made of cinder block, perfect for breaking into pieces and hurling at the men and women in uniform. One student wrapped a string of firecrackers around a stick, lit the fuse, and tossed it into the wedge. The explosions caused the cops and soldiers to break ranks and run for cover. The mob roared. From somewhere behind the wedge, a Molotov cocktail dropped from the sky and landed on the roof of an unmarked and unoccupied police car parked at the edge of Walter Street. The flames spread quickly as the gasoline splashed over the vehicle. This created another wave of delirious cheering and yelling from the crowd. A TV van arrived as the action picked up. The reporter, a serious blonde who should’ve stuck to the weather, scrambled out with a microphone and was met by an angry policeman who demanded that she get back in the van and get the hell out of there. The van, painted white with bold red and yellow lettering, made an easy target, and seconds after it slid to a stop, it was being pelted with rocks and debris. Then a jagged piece of cinder block struck the reporter in the back of the head, opening a wide gash and knocking her unconscious. More cheers, more obscenities. Lots of blood. Her cameraman dragged her to safety as the police called for an ambulance. To add to the fun and frenzy, smoke bombs were tossed at the police and soldiers, and at that point the decision was made to respond with tear gas. The first canisters were fired, and panic swept through the crowd. It began to break up, with people running away, fanning through the neighborhood. On the streets around Civitan Park, men were on their front porches, listening to the chaos not far away, watching for any sign of movement or trouble. With the women and children safe inside, they stood guard with their shotguns and rifles, just waiting for a black face to appear. When Herman Grist of 1485 Benton Street saw three young blacks walking down the middle of the street, he fired two shotgun blasts into the air from his porch and yelled at the kids to get back to their part of town. The kids began running away. The blasts cut through the night, a grave signal that vigilantes had entered the fray. Fortunately, though, Grist did not fire again.

The crowd continued to disperse, a few throwing rocks in retreat. By 9:00 p.m., the park had been secured, and the police and soldiers walked through the debris—empty cans and bottles, fast-food containers, cigarette butts, fireworks wrappers, enough litter for a landfill. The two dugouts were gone, nothing left but metal benches. The concession stand had been broken into, but there was nothing to take. In the wake of the tear gas, several vehicles had been abandoned, including Trey Glover’s SUV. Trey and a dozen others were already at the jail. Four had volunteered, the rest had been caught. Several had been taken to the hospital because of the tear gas. Three policemen had been injured, along with the reporter.

The acrid smell of the gas permeated the park. A gray cloud from the smoke bombs hung not far above the ball fields. The place resembled a battlefield without the casualties.

The breakup of the party meant that a thousand or so angry blacks were now moving around Slone with no intention of going home and with no plans to do anything constructive. The use of tear gas infuriated them. They had been raised with the black-and-white videos of the dogs in Selma, the fire hoses in Birmingham, and the tear gas in Watts. That epic struggle was a part of their heritage, their DNA, a glorified chapter in their history, and suddenly here they were, on the streets protesting and fighting and being gassed, just like their ancestors. They had no intention of stopping the fight. If the cops wanted to play dirty, so be it.

———

The mayor, Harris Rooney, was monitoring the deteriorating condition of his little city from the police department, which had become the command center. He and the police chief, Joe Radford, had made the decision to scatter the crowd at Civitan Park and break things up, and they both had agreed that tear gas should be used. Reports were now flooding in, by radio and cell phone, that the protesters were roaming in packs, breaking windows, yelling threats at passing motorists, throwing rocks and debris, all manner of hooligan behavior.

At 9:15, he called the Reverend Johnny Canty, pastor of Bethel African Methodist Church. The two had met on Tuesday, when Reverend Canty had pleaded with the mayor to intervene with the governor and support a stay. The mayor had declined. He did not know the governor, had no clout with him whatsoever, and besides, anyone begging for a reprieve was wasting his time with Gill Newton. Canty had warned Mayor Rooney of the potential for unrest if the execution of Donté took place. The mayor had been skeptical.

All skepticism had now been replaced by fear.

Mrs. Canty answered the phone and explained that her husband was not home. He was at the funeral home waiting for the Drumm family to return. She gave the mayor a cell phone number, and Reverend Canty finally answered. “Well, good evening, Mayor,” he said softly in his rich preacher’s voice. “How are things tonight?”