John Grisham - The Confession

“Things are pretty exciting right now, Reverend. How are you?”

“I’ve had better days. We’re here at the funeral home, waiting for the family to return with the body, so I’m not doing too well right now. What can I do for you?”

“You were right about the unrest, Reverend. I didn’t believe you, and I’m sorry. I should have listened, and I didn’t. But things seem to be going from bad to worse. We’ve had eight fires, I think, a dozen arrests, half a dozen injuries, and there’s no reason to believe those numbers will not go up. The crowd at Civitan Park has been dispersed, but the crowd at Washington Park is growing by the minute. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone doesn’t get killed very soon.”

“There’s already been a killing, Mayor. I’m waiting on the body.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s the purpose of this call, Mayor?”

“You are a well-regarded leader in your community. You are the Drumms’ pastor. I ask you to go to Washington Park and appeal for calm. They will listen to you. This violence and unrest serves no purpose.”

“I have one question for you, Mayor. Did your police use tear gas on those kids in Civitan Park? I heard that rumor only minutes ago.”

“Well, yes. It was considered necessary.”

“No, it wasn’t necessary, and it was a monumental mistake. By gassing our children, the police made a bad situation worse. Don’t expect me to go rushing in to repair your damage. Good night.”

The line was dead.

———

Robbie, with Aaron Rey on one side and Fred Pryor on the other, stood before the mikes and cameras and answered questions. He explained that Travis Boyette was still in the building and did not wish to speak to anyone. One reporter asked if he could go inside and interview Boyette. Only if you want to get arrested and perhaps shot was Robbie’s sharp reply. Stay away from the building. They asked about Donté’s last meal, visit, statement, and so on. Who were the witnesses? Any contact with the victim’s family? Useless questions, in Robbie’s opinion, but then the whole world seemed worthless at that point.

After twenty minutes, he thanked them. They thanked him. He asked them to leave and not come back. In the event Boyette changed his mind and wanted to talk, Robbie would give him a phone and a number.

Keith watched the press conference from a dark spot on the platform, outside the office but under its veranda. He was on the phone with Dana, recounting the events of the day, trying to stay awake, when she suddenly said that Robbie Flak was on the screen. She was watching the cable news and there he was, live from Slone, Texas.

“I’m about fifty feet behind him, in the shadows,” Keith said, voice lower.

“He looks tired,” she said. “Tired and maybe a bit crazy.”

“Both. The fatigue comes and goes, but I suspect he’s always a little crazy.”

“He looks like a wild man.”

“Certified, but there’s a sweet man under the surface.”

“Where’s Boyette?”

“He’s in a room, inside the building, with a television and some food. He prefers not to come out, and that’s a good thing. These people knew Donté and loved him. Boyette has no friends around here.”

“A few minutes ago they showed the fires and talked to the mayor. He seemed a bit jumpy. Are you safe, Keith?”

“Sure. I can hear sirens in the distance, but nothing close.”

“Please be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re a wreck, I can tell. Get some sleep. When are you coming home?”

“I plan to leave here in the morning.”

“What about Boyette? Is he coming back?”

“We have not had that conversation.”

CHAPTER 29

Slone had three funeral homes, two for the whites (upper and lower) and one for the blacks. Integration had been achieved in some important areas of life—schools, politics, employment, and commercial activity. But in other areas, integration would never occur because neither race really wanted it. Sunday worship was segregated, by choice. A few blacks attended the larger white churches in town, and they were welcome. Even fewer whites could be found in black churches, where they were treated like everyone else. But the vast majority stuck with their own kind, and bigotry had little to do with it. It was more a matter of tradition and preference. The whites preferred an orderly, more subdued ritual on Sunday morning. Opening prayer at 11:00 a.m., followed by some beautiful music, then a nice crisp sermon, out by noon and certainly no later than 12:10 because by then they were starving. In the black churches, time was not as important. The spirit flowed more freely and made for a more spontaneous style of worship. The crack of noon was never heard. Lunch was often on the grounds, whenever, with no one in a hurry to leave.

And dying was so different. There was never a hurry to bury a black person, while the whites usually wanted it done within three days max. The black funeral home was busier, with more visitors, longer wakes, longer good-byes. Lamb & Son had been providing dignified service in its part of town for decades. When its hearse arrived a few minutes after 10:00 p.m., there was a solemn crowd waiting on the lawn in front of the small chapel. The mourners were silent, with heads down, faces somber. They watched as Hubert and Alvin opened the rear door of the hearse, then gave directions to the pallbearers—eight friends of Donté’s, most of whom had once played football for the Slone Warriors. They carried the casket a few feet, following Hubert Lamb, then disappeared through a side door. The funeral home was closed and would not open until the following morning when Donté was properly prepared and ready to be viewed.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The air was thick, tense, heavy with smoke and fear. Those who were not making trouble were certainly expecting it.

A car pulled into the parking lot and parked next to the hearse. Roberta Drumm, with Marvin, Cedric, and Andrea, got out and moved slowly to the front entrance, where they greeted their friends. There were hugs and whispers and tears. The family eventually went inside, but the friends did not leave. Another car turned in and parked near the hearse. It was Robbie, with Aaron Rey, and they slipped past the crowd and entered through the side door. In the front parlor, Robbie met the family. They sat together and embraced and cried as if they had not seen each other in months. Only a few hours earlier they had watched Donté die, but that time and place were so distant now.

During the drive back from Huntsville, the Drumm family had listened to the radio and talked on cell phones. They quizzed Robbie about this Boyette character, and Robbie gave all the details he had. They knew things were grim in Slone, and expected to get worse, and Roberta repeatedly said she wanted the violence to stop. It’s not within your power, Robbie assured her. It’s out of control.

Hubert Lamb entered the parlor and said, “Roberta, Donté is ready.”

———

She entered the prep room alone, closed the door behind her, and locked it. Her beautiful boy was lying on a narrow table, one covered in white sheets for the moment. He was dressed in the same clothes they had killed him in—cheap white shirt, worn khakis, bargain shoes—courtesy of the State of Texas. She gently placed her hands on his cheeks and kissed him on the face—the forehead, the lips, the nose, the chin—she kissed him and kissed him as her tears dropped like rain. She had not touched him in eight years, the last embrace a quick, stolen hug as they led him out of the courtroom the day they sentenced him to die, and as she wept now, she remembered the unspeakable agony of watching him hauled away, the leg chains rattling, the fat deputies crowding around him as if he just might kill someone else, the hard, smug faces of the prosecutors, the jurors, and the judge, proud of their work.