John Grisham - The Confession

“Does DNA matter? I mean, we know who killed her.”

“We do, but I would love to have the DNA proof. If we get it, then this will be the first case in U.S. history in which we know by DNA evidence that the wrong man has been executed. There are a dozen or so cases where we strongly suspect the state killed the wrong guy, but none with clear biological proof. Would you like a drink? I need a drink.”

“No.”

“A drink, Carlos?”

“Sure. I’ll take a beer.”

“Aaron?”

“Driving, Boss.”

“Just joking.”

Robbie pulled two beers out of the fridge and handed one to Carlos. After a long drink from the bottle, he closed his eyes again.

“What are you thinking?” Martha asked.

“Boyette, Travis Boyette. We came so close, and if he had just given us twenty-four hours, we could have saved Donté. Now we just deal with the aftermath.”

“What happens to Boyette?”

“They’ll indict him for murder here in Missouri. If he lives long enough, they’ll prosecute him.”

“Will he be prosecuted in Texas?”

“Of course not. They will never, ever admit they killed the wrong guy. Koffee, Kerber, Judge Vivian Grale, the jurors, the appellate judges, the governor—none of those responsible for this travesty will ever admit fault. Watch ’em run. Watch ’em point fingers. Maybe they won’t deny their mistakes, but they damned sure won’t admit them. I suspect they will just keep quiet, hunker down, ride out the storm.”

“Can they?”

Another pull on the bottle. Robbie smiled at the beer and licked his lips. “No cop has ever been indicted for a wrongful conviction. Kerber should go to jail. Koffee should too. They are directly responsible for Donté’s conviction, but Koffee controls the grand jury. He’s in charge of the system. So, criminal prosecutions are unlikely, unless, of course, I can convince the Justice Department to investigate. I will certainly try. And we still have the civil courts.”

“Lawsuits?”

“Oh yes, lots of them. I’ll sue everybody. Can’t wait.”

“Thought you were moving to Vermont.”

“I may have to put that on hold. I’m not quite finished here.”

———

The Slone Municipal School Board met in an emergency session at 2:00 Friday afternoon. The only item on the agenda was the game. Longview was scheduled to arrive at 5:00 p.m. for a 7:30 p.m. kickoff. The school officials and coaches in Longview were worried about the safety of their players and fans, and with good reason. The unrest in Slone was now routinely being referred to as a “race riot,” a sensational description that was as inaccurate as it was catchy.

There had been a constant flow of threatening phone calls to the Slone Police Department and the school. If they tried to play the game, there would be trouble, and lots of it. The chief of police, Joe Radford, pleaded with the board to cancel the game, or somehow postpone it. A crowd of five thousand people, almost all of whom would be white, would provide too enticing a target for those wanting trouble. And just as troubling was the prospect of all the empty and unprotected homes of the fans during the game. The football coach admitted he really didn’t want to play either. The kids were too distracted, not to mention the fact that his best players, the twenty-eight black ones, were boycotting. His star tailback, Trey Glover, was still in jail. Both teams had six wins and two losses and were eligible for the state play-offs. The coach knew he had no chance with an all-white team. But a forfeit was a loss, and this perplexed him and everybody else in the room.

The principal described the burned-out press box, the tension of the past two days, the canceled classes, and the phone threats his office had received throughout the day. He was exhausted and jumpy and practically begged the board to cancel.

A honcho from the National Guard reluctantly attended the meeting. He thought it was possible to secure the stadium area and play the game without incident. But he shared the chief’s concerns about what might happen in the rest of the town for the three hours. When pressed, he admitted that the safest route was to cancel.

The board members squirmed and fretted and passed notes. While they routinely grappled with budgets and curriculum and discipline and dozens of important issues, they had never been faced with something as momentous as canceling a high school football game. They stood for election every four years, and the prospect of alienating the voters weighed heavily. If they voted to cancel and Slone was forced to forfeit, they would be seen as caving in to the boycotters and troublemakers. If they voted to play and people got hurt in an ugly incident, their opponents would lay blame on them.

A compromise was suggested, seized upon, and quickly gained momentum. A flurry of phone calls were made, and the compromise became a reality. The game would not be played that night in Slone; rather, it would be played the following day at an undisclosed site in a nearby town. Longview agreed. Their coach knew of the boycott and smelled blood. The location of the neutral site would be kept secret until two hours before kickoff. Both teams would drive about an hour, play the game without spectators, and the show would go on. The compromise pleased everyone but the head coach. He gamely gritted his teeth and predicted a win. What else could he do?

———

Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, the train station had been a magnet for reporters. It was the last place Boyette had been seen, and he was in demand. His chilling confession had been on the nonstop cable loop for almost a full day now, but his past had caught up with him. His colorful criminal record was in play, his credibility in serious question. Experts of all stripes were on the air, proffering opinions about his background, his profile, his motives. One windbag flat out called him a liar and went on and on about how “these creeps” want their fifteen minutes of fame and enjoy tormenting the families of victims. A former Texas prosecutor opined as to the fairness of the Drumm trial and appeals and assured those listening that all was well with the system. Boyette was obviously a nut job.

As the saga wore on, it lost some of its shock value. Boyette wasn’t around anymore to add details, or to defend himself. And neither was Robbie Flak. The reporters knew that Flak’s car was not at the office. Where was he?

Inside the station, Sammie Thomas, Bonnie, and Fanta adopted a siege mentality and tried to work. It was impossible. The phones rang and rang, and every hour or so one of the ruder reporters would almost make it to the front door before being accosted by one of the security guards. With time, the mob began to understand that Boyette wasn’t there, and neither was Robbie.

Out of boredom, the reporters left and drove around Slone looking for a fire or a fight. To get to the bottom of things, they interviewed guardsmen as they walked the streets, and they filmed and re-filmed the burned-out churches and buildings. They talked to angry young blacks outside of pool halls and honky-tonks, and they stuck microphones into pickup trucks for priceless comments from white vigilantes. Bored again, they returned to the train station and waited on some word from Boyette. Where the hell was he?

By late afternoon, a crowd was beginning to assemble in Washington Park. News of this development spread through the media, and off they went. Their presence attracted more young blacks, and soon the rap was booming and fireworks were popping. It was Friday night—payday, beer day, the start of the weekend, time to blow off some steam.

The tension was rising.

———

Some forty hours after leaving the parsonage with an unwanted passenger, Keith returned to it, alone. When he turned off the ignition, he sat in the car for a moment to get his bearings. Dana was waiting at the kitchen door with a hug and a kiss and a very pleasant “You look tired.”