John Grisham: The Confession

Luke, the six-year-old, had a soccer game under the lights, and since it was Tuesday, the Schroeder family ate at their favorite pizza place. The boys were in bed by 9:30, Keith and Dana by 10:00. They debated whether to keep the phones silent, but in the end agreed to remove the “Do Not Disturb” hold and hope for the best. If one reporter called, they would silence the phones. At 11:12, the phone rang. Keith, still awake, grabbed it and said, “Hello.”

“Pastor, Pastor, how are we?” It was Travis Boyette. In anticipation of this unlikely event, Keith had rigged a small recorder to his phone. He pushed “Record” and said, “Hello, Travis,” and Dana came to life. She scrambled out of bed, flipped on a light switch, grabbed her cell phone, and began punching the number of a Detective Lang, a man they had met with twice.

“What are you doing these days?” Keith asked. Just a couple of old friends. Lang had told him to keep Boyette on the line as long as possible.

“Moving around, can’t stay in one place too long.” His tongue was thick, his words slow.

“Still in Missouri?”

“Naw, I left Missouri before you did, Pastor. I’m here and there.”

“You forgot your cane, Travis. Left it on the bed. Why did you do that?”

“Don’t need it, never did. I exaggerated a little bit, Pastor, please forgive me. I got a tumor, but it’s been with me for a long time. Meningioma, not a glioblastoma. Grade one. Benign little fella. It acts up every now and then, but I doubt if it will kill me. The cane was a weapon, Pastor, something I used for self-defense. You live with a bunch of thugs in a halfway house, and you just never know when you might need a weapon.” Country music was in the background; he was probably in a seedy lounge.

“But you had a limp.”

“Well, come on, Pastor, if you’re using a cane, you need a little limp, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know, Travis. You got some folks looking for you.”

“The story of my life. They’ll never find me. Just like they never found Nicole. Have they buried her yet, Pastor?”

“No. Her funeral is Thursday. Donté’s is tomorrow.”

“I might sneak around and watch Nicole’s, whatta you think about that, Pastor?”

Great idea. They would not only catch him but probably beat him. “I think you should, Travis. You’re the reason for the funeral. Seems fitting.”

“How’s that cute little wife of yours, Pastor? Bet you guys are having fun. She’s so fine.”

“Knock it off, Travis.” Keep him on the line. “You thought much about Donté Drumm?”

“Not really. We should’ve known those people down there wouldn’t listen to us.”

“They would have, Travis, if you had come forward earlier. If we had found the body first, the execution would not have happened.”

“Still blaming me, huh?”

“Who else, Travis? I guess you’re still the victim, right?”

“I don’t know what I am. Tell you what, though, Pastor. I gotta find a woman, know what I mean?”

“Listen to me, Travis. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you and bring you back to Topeka. I’ll leave right now. We’ll do another road trip, just the two of us. I don’t care where you are. You’ll be locked up here, and then they’ll extradite you to Missouri. Do what’s right for once, Travis, and nobody else will get hurt. Let’s do it, pal.”

“I don’t like prison, Pastor. I’ve seen enough to know.”

“But you’re tired of hurting people, Travis. I know you are. You told me so.”

“I guess. I gotta go, Pastor.”

“Call me anytime, Travis. I’m not tracing these calls. I just want to talk to you.”

The phone line was dead.

An hour later, Detective Lang was at the house, listening to the recording. They had been able to trace the call to the owner of a stolen cell phone in Lincoln, Nebraska.

CHAPTER 40

The memorial service for Donté Drumm was to be held in the sanctuary of the Bethel African Methodist Church, regular capacity of 250. But if folding chairs were wedged into every possible crevice, and the choir loft was packed, and the elders and young men stood two deep along the walls, the capacity might reach 350. When it was announced late Tuesday night that classes would not resume, phone calls were made, plans were changed. The service was moved to the high school gymnasium, capacity of 2,000. The time was set at 1:00 p.m., with Donté’s burial to follow immediately thereafter at the Greenwood Cemetery, next to his father.

By noon, there were at least two thousand people inside the gym and more waiting patiently to get in. Donté’s casket was placed at one end, under a raised backboard and goal, and it was surrounded by a massive sea of beautiful flower arrangements. On a screen above his casket, his handsome smiling face greeted those who had come to say goodbye. His family sat in the front row, in folding chairs, and as the crowd moved in, they gamely held on, greeting friends, hugging strangers, trying to keep their composure. A choir from his church stood near the flowers, singing and humming soft, comforting spirituals. Miss Daphne Dellmore, a saintly spinster who had once tried quite unsuccessfully to teach Donté Drumm the basics of the piano, accompanied the choir on an old upright Baldwin. To the right of the casket was a small elevated stage with a podium and a microphone, and before it, in rows of folding chairs, the Slone Warriors sat together, every player present, along with their coaches and trainers. They proudly wore their blue home jerseys. Other than the football players, there were a few white faces sprinkled about, but not many.

The media had been put in a box, literally. Under the stern direction of Marvin Drumm, the reporters and their cameras were bunched into a tight pack at the opposite end of the building, under the opposing backboard, and they were sealed off by a row of chairs laced with yellow police tape. Large young black men in dark suits stood next to the tape, watching the reporters, who had been warned not to make a sound. Any violation would lead to expulsion, and quite possibly a broken leg out in the parking lot. The family was sick of reporters, as was most of the town.

Roberta had wisely decided to close the coffin. She did not want the last image of Donté to be that of a lifeless corpse. She understood that a lot of people would be watching, and she preferred a smiling Donté.

At twenty minutes after one, the gym was completely packed. The doors were closed. The choir stopped and the Reverend Johnny Canty stepped to the podium. “We are here to celebrate a life,” he said, “not to mourn a death.” It sounded good, and there were a lot of “Amens,” but the mood was far from celebratory. The air was heavy with sadness, but not the sadness that comes from loss. This was a sadness born of anger and injustice.

The first prayer was offered by the Reverend Wilbur Woods, the white pastor of the First United Methodist Church of Slone. Cedric Drumm had called him with the invitation, which he readily accepted. He gave a lovely prayer, one that dwelled on love and forgiveness and, most important, justice. The oppressed shall not remain the oppressed. Those responsible for injustice must one day face justice themselves. Reverend Woods’s voice was soft but strong, and his words calmed the crowd. The sight of a white pastor standing on the stage with his eyes closed, his arms uplifted, his soul bared for all to see, soothed a lot of raw feelings, if only for the moment.

Donté had never discussed his funeral. Therefore, his mother chose the music, the speakers, and the order of the service, and it would reflect the strong Christian faith of her family. Donté claimed to have given up his faith, but his mother had never believed it.