John Grisham - The Confession

To take a break from Boyette, he yanked his feet off the desk and turned to face his computer. The monitor was showing a Web site for the Kansas chapter of AADP, Americans Against the Death Penalty, and Keith decided to join. Using his credit card, he paid the $25 annual fee, now one of three thousand members and as such entitled to the online newsletter, a monthly magazine with all the latest, and other periodic updates from the staff. The group met once a year in Wichita, details to follow. Outside of the church, it was the first organization he’d ever joined.

Out of curiosity, he looked at the sites of anti-death-penalty groups in Texas, and found plenty. He noticed the names of several groups he’d seen in the news coverage the past two days; the abolitionists down there were making the most of the Drumm execution, and there was no shortage of activity. Execution Watch, Students Against the Death Penalty, Texas Network Moratorium, TALK (Texans Against Legalized Killing), Texans for Alternatives to the Death Penalty. One familiar name was Death Penalty Focus. Keith went to its Web site and was impressed. Membership was only $10. Keith pulled out his credit card and signed up. He was enjoying himself and not thinking about Boyette.

The largest and oldest group in Texas was ATeXX, an acronym for Abolish Texas Executions. It not only published extensively on the subject of capital punishment but also pushed its policies on the legislature, built support groups for the men and women on death row, raised money to defend those charged with capital crimes, networked with dozens of other groups around the country, and, most impressively, at least in Keith’s opinion, reached out to both families—those of the victims and those of the condemned. ATeXX had fifteen thousand members and an annual budget of $2 million and offered membership to anyone willing to pay $25. Keith was in the mood, and moments later he joined his third group.

Sixty dollars later, he felt like a certified abolitionist.

His intercom beeped and broke the silence. Charlotte Junger announced, “There’s a reporter on the phone. I think you should talk to her.”

“Where’s she from?”

“Houston, and she’s not going away.”

“Thanks.” He answered the phone. “This is the Reverend Keith Schroeder.”

“Reverend Schroeder, my name is Eliza Keene. I’m with the Houston Chronicle .” Her voice was soft, her words unhurried, her accent similar to the twang Keith had heard in Slone. “I have some questions about Travis Boyette.”

His life flashed before his eyes. Headlines, controversy, handcuffs, jail.

Keith froze long enough to convince Ms. Keene that she was on the right trail. “Sure,” he said. What was he supposed to say? He would not lie and deny knowing Boyette. For a split second, he thought about refusing to talk to her, but that would set off alarms.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” she asked pleasantly.

Yes. No. He had no idea. “Well, no,” he said.

“Good. It helps me keep things accurate. Just a second.” A pause. “Now the recorder is on.”

“Okay,” Keith said, but only because it seemed as though something was needed on his end. He decided to stall as he tried to gather his thoughts. “Say, uh, Ms. Keene, I don’t spend a lot of time talking to reporters. Is there some way I can verify that you are indeed a reporter for the Houston Chronicle ?”

“Is your computer on?”

“It is.”

“Then I’m sending you my bio right now. I’m also sending a photo taken outside the law office of Robbie Flak. It was last Thursday as Mr. Flak and his team were leaving. There are four people in the photo, one wearing a dark jacket and a white collar. I’ll bet that’s you.”

Keith opened the e-mail, checked the attachment. It was him. He scanned her bio but knew it wasn’t necessary.

“Nice-looking guy,” Keith said.

“We thought so. That you?”

“Yep.”

“Did you witness the execution of Donté Drumm?” she asked, and Keith’s mouth went dry. He grunted, cleared his throat, and said, “Why do you think I witnessed the execution?”

“We have obtained the records from the prison. You’re listed as a witness for the inmate. Plus, one of the men standing behind you during the execution was a reporter, not for us, but for another paper. He did not get your name. I found it.”

What would Elmo Laird advise him to do at this point? Stop talking, perhaps. He wasn’t sure, but he was impressed. If she had the prison records and a photo, then what else had she found? His curiosity took over. “Then I guess I witnessed the execution,” he said.

“Why would a Lutheran minister from Topeka witness an execution in Texas?” she asked. It was the same question Keith had posed to himself at least a thousand times.

Keith forced a chuckle and said, “It’s a long story.”

“A friend of Donté Drumm’s?”

“No.”

“Travis Boyette was staying at a halfway house in Topeka, then he pops up in Slone, Texas. Any idea how he got there?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you drive a maroon Subaru, Kansas plates, registration LLZ787?”

“I’m assuming you have a copy of my registration.”

“I do, and one of our reporters noticed the car in Slone. Not many Kansans stop over in Slone. Any chance Boyette hitched a ride with you?”

Another chuckle, this one for real. “All right, Ms. Keene, what do you want from me?”

“I want the story, Reverend Schroeder, all of it.”

“That would take hours, and I’m not willing to spend the time, not right now.”

“When did you first meet Travis Boyette?”

“One week ago today, last Monday.”

“And at that time, did he admit to the murder of Nicole Yarber?”

Surely, all confidentiality was gone. Boyette had broadcast his admissions to the world; there weren’t too many secrets left. Some things, though, should be kept private. Keith wasn’t obliged to answer the question, or any others for that matter. He was not afraid of the truth; in fact, he was determined not to hide it. If his tracks were this easy to follow, other reporters would be calling soon. Let’s get it over with.

“This is what I’m willing to say, Ms. Keene. Travis Boyette visited our church Sunday of last week. He wanted to talk, so he came back the following day. He confided in me, and we eventually made our way down to Slone, Texas, arriving last Thursday around midday. He was determined to stop the execution because Donté Drumm was innocent. Boyette went on the air, admitted that he was the killer, and gave the statement that we’ve all seen. Mr. Flak asked me to travel with him to Huntsville. I reluctantly said yes, and one thing led to another. I met Donté and, quite unexpectedly, witnessed the execution. The following morning, Boyette led Mr. Flak and others, including me, to the place in Missouri where he’d buried the girl. After that, Boyette fell ill. I took him to a hospital in Joplin, and from there he managed to walk away. I drove home. I’ve had no contact with Boyette since.”

There was a pause on the other end as she digested this. “Reverend Schroeder, I have about a thousand questions.”

“And I’m late for soccer practice. Good day, ma’am.” Keith hung up and hurriedly left the office.

———

Fordyce—Hitting Hard! ran a one-hour segment during prime time Monday night. The event had been shamelessly advertised throughout the weekend, and Sean Fordyce spoke to the world live from Slone, Texas, where he was still darting around in search of another fire or, hopefully, a dead body or a bomb blast. The first half hour was the Reeva show, with lots of tears and anticipation of the execution. There was footage of Nicole as a little girl dancing in a recital, and more of her bounding on the sideline as she cheered on the Warriors. There was a clip of Donté mauling a running back. And lots of Reeva, with the highlight being the post-execution interview. In light of the obvious, she looked foolish, almost pathetic, and it was obvious Fordyce set her up for the kill. There were close shots of Reeva bawling without restraint, then going mute as she watched the tape of Boyette for the first time. She was visibly shaken when Boyette displayed Nicole’s class ring. After that, no more Reeva. In the second half, Fordyce ran a collage of videos and interviews and produced nothing that wasn’t already known. The piece was a mess. It was ironic that a mouthpiece so enamored of the death penalty was airing an exclusive about a wrongful execution, but irony was lost on Sean Fordyce. He cared for nothing but ratings.