John Grisham - The Confession

“I love you, Momma,” he called over his shoulder, then they shoved him through a door and he was gone.

His skin wasn’t cold, nor was it warm. She touched the small scar under his chin, a small consolation prize from a neighborhood rock fight he’d lost when he was eight years old. Other rock fights followed. He had been a tough kid, made tougher by his older brother Cedric, who teased him constantly. A tough kid, but a sweet boy. She touched the lobe of his right ear, the tiny hole barely visible. He bought an earring when he was fifteen, a small fake diamond, and wore it when he was out with his friends. He hid it from his father, though. Riley would have chastised him.

Her beautiful boy, lying there so peaceful, and so healthy. Dead but not diseased. Dead but not injured. Dead but not maimed. She examined his arms and could find no trace of the needle pricks used for the injections. There was no evidence of the killing, nothing external. He seemed to be resting and waiting for the next drug to be administered, one that would gently wake him and allow him to go home with his mother.

His legs were straight; his arms were by his sides. Hubert Lamb said the stiffening would begin soon, so she had to get busy. From her purse, she removed a tissue to wipe her cheeks and a pair of scissors to cut away the prison garb. She could have unbuttoned the shirt, but instead she cut it down the front, then along the sleeves, removing it piece by piece and dropping the scraps on the floor. Tears still ran down her cheeks, but she was humming now, an old gospel song, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.” She paused to rub his flat stomach and his soft chest and shoulders, and she marveled at how much he’d shrunk in prison. The fierce athlete was gone, replaced by the broken prisoner. He had died slowly in prison.

She unbuckled the cheap canvas belt, and for good measure cut it in half and dropped it on the pile. Tomorrow, when she was alone, she planned to burn the prison scraps in her backyard, in a private ceremony that only she would attend. She unlaced the dreadful shoes, removed them, and pulled off the white cotton socks. She touched the scars along his left ankle, permanent reminders of the injury that ended his football career. She cut the khakis, carefully up the inseams and delicately through the crotch. Of her three boys, Cedric had been the dresser, the clotheshorse who would work two part-time jobs so he could buy better labels. Donté preferred jeans and pullovers and looked good in anything. Anything but the jumpsuits they wore in prison. She clipped away, dropping the pieces of khaki onto the pile. She paused occasionally to wipe her cheeks with the back of a hand, but she had to hurry. The body was stiffening. She stepped to a sink and turned on the faucet.

The boxer shorts were white and oversized. She snipped away like a seamstress and removed them. The pile was complete. He was naked, leaving the world the same way he had entered it. She poured liquid soap into the sink, splashed the water, adjusted the temperature, then turned off the faucet. She dipped a cloth and began bathing her son. She rubbed his legs, then dried them quickly with a small towel. She washed his genitals, and wondered how many grandchildren he would have fathered. He loved the girls, and they loved him. She gently washed his chest and arms, neck and face, drying him as she went.

When the bath was finished, she moved to the last and most difficult part of her preparation. Before the family left for Huntsville, Cedric stopped by the funeral home with a new suit Roberta had purchased and altered. It was hanging on a wall, along with a new white shirt and a handsome gold tie. She assumed the shirt and coat would be the most difficult, the pants and shoes the easiest to finesse. And she was right. His arms would not bend now, and she carefully threaded the shirt over his right arm, then gently maneuvered Donté onto his left side. She brought the shirt around, laid him back down, wiggled it over his left arm, and quickly buttoned it. She did the same with the coat, a dark gray wool blend, and when she wrapped it around him, she paused for a second to kiss the side of his face. His legs were stiff. She methodically inched upward a pair of black cotton boxers, size large and too big. She should have bought mediums. The pants took a while. She tugged gently from side to side, straining to lift Donté at his midsection for a moment to complete the task. When the pants were in place at the waist, she tucked in the shirttail, zipped the pants, then fished a belt through the loops and buckled it. His feet were stiff, his ankles wouldn’t bend, and the socks were more of a challenge than she had expected. The shoes were the black leather lace-ups Donté had worn to church as a teenager.

The shoes had been taken from his closet, one he’d shared with Marvin when they were boys. Donté had assumed full ownership when his brother got married, and for nine years now it had remained virtually untouched. Roberta cleaned it, dusted the clothing, killed the insects, arranged things just so. Hours earlier when she had removed the shoes, she had stood in the closet door for a long time, wondering, what now?

For years after he was sent away, she lived with the fervent belief that Donté would one day be freed. One glorious day their nightmare would end and he would come home. He would sleep in his bed, eat his mother’s cooking, nap on the sofa, and need the things in his closet. One day a judge or a lawyer or someone toiling in the impenetrable maze of the judicial system would discover the truth. The phone call from heaven would arrive and they would celebrate. But the appeals ran their course, no miracles occurred, the years dragged on, and her hope and the hopes of many others slowly faded. The shirts and jeans and sweaters and shoes in his closet would never be used again, and she wondered what to do with them.

Roberta told herself to worry about it later.

She laced his shoes, adjusted his socks, pulled down the cuffs of his pants. Now that he was dressed, she could relax. Cedric had tied the necktie into a perfect knot, and she looped it over Donté’s head and managed to fit it under his collar. She tightened the knot and fiddled with the tie until it was perfect. She adjusted here and there, flattened a few wrinkles in the pants, then she took a step back and admired her work. What a handsome young man. Gray suit, white shirt, gold tie; she had chosen well.

She leaned over and kissed him again. Get up Donté and let’s go to church. You’ll find a wife there and have ten children. Hurry now, there’s so much you’ve missed. Please. Let’s go show you off in your fine new outfit. Hurry now.

She was aware of the grislier aspects of death, the embalming and fluids and such, and she knew that in a few hours Mr. Lamb and his son would be warming the body, removing the clothes, and going about their unspeakable tasks. That’s why she wanted these few precious moments with her son, while he was still whole and intact.

Tomorrow she would plan the funeral and tend to the other details. She would be strong and brave. Now, though, she wanted to be alone with her child, to grieve and ache and cry without restraint, as any mother would.

PART THREE

THE

EXONERATION

CHAPTER 30

Before sunrise Friday, a short caravan of vehicles departed the town and traveled east. The lead vehicle was Robbie’s customized van, with Aaron Rey at the wheel and Carlos riding shotgun. Robbie sat in his favorite chair, sipped coffee, glanced through the newspapers, and generally ignored Martha Handler, who was gulping coffee and scribbling notes and trying to wake up. Behind them was the Subaru, with Keith driving and Boyette gripping his cane and staring into the darkness. Behind the Subaru was a three-quarter-ton pickup truck with Fred Pryor at the wheel. His passengers were two private security guards who had worked off and on during the past few days to protect Robbie’s law office and his home. The truck was Fred’s, and it carried shovels, flashlights, and other equipment. Behind the truck was another van, white and unmarked, owned by the TV station in Slone and driven by a news director named Bryan Day, nicknamed Hairspray Day for obvious reasons. With Day was a cameraman called Buck.