The Confession

CHAPTER 18

At one point in his blurred past, Donté knew the precise number of days he’d spent in cell number 22F, death row, at the Polunsky Unit. Most inmates kept such a tally. But he’d lost count, for the same reason he’d lost interest in reading, writing, exercising, eating, brushing his teeth, shaving, showering, trying to communicate with other inmates, and obeying the guards. He could sleep and dream and use the toilet when necessary; beyond that, he was unable or unwilling to try much else.

“This is the big day, Donté,” the guard said when he slid the breakfast tray into the cell. Pancakes and applesauce again. “How you doin’?”

“Okay,” Donté mumbled. They spoke through a narrow slit in the metal door.

The guard was Mouse, a tiny black guy, one of the nicer ones. Mouse moved on, leaving Donté to stare at the food. He did not touch it. An hour later, Mouse was back. “Come on, Donté, you gotta eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“How ’bout your last meal? You thought about that? You gotta place your order in a few hours.”

“What’s good?” Donté asked.

“I’m not sure anything’s good as a last meal, but they tell me most of the guys eat like a horse. Steak, potatoes, catfish, shrimp, pizza, anything you want.”

“How ’bout cold noodles and boiled leather, same as any other day?”

“Whatever you want, Donté.” Mouse leaned a few inches closer, lowered his voice, and said, “Donté, I’ll be thinking about you, you hear?”

“Thanks, Mouse.”

“I’ll miss you, Donté. You’re a good guy.”

Donté was amused at the thought that someone on death row would miss him. He did not respond and Mouse moved on.

Donté sat on the edge of his bunk for a long time and stared at a cardboard box they’d delivered yesterday. In it, he’d neatly packed his possessions—a dozen paperbacks, none of which he’d read in years, two writing tablets, envelopes, a dictionary, a Bible, a 2007 calendar, a zippered bag in which he kept his money, $18.40, two tins of sardines and a package of stale saltines from the canteen, and a radio that picked up only a Christian station from Livingston and a country one from Huntsville. He took a writing tablet and a pencil and began to calculate. It took some time, but he finally arrived at a total he believed to be fairly accurate.

Seven years, seven months, and three days, in cell number 22F—2,771 days. Before that, he’d spent about four months at the old death row at Ellis. He’d been arrested on December 22, 1998, and he’d been locked up since.

Almost nine years behind bars. It was an eternity, but not an impressive number. Four doors down, Oliver Tyree, age sixty-four, was in his thirty-first year on death row with no execution date on the calendar. There were several twenty-year veterans. It was changing, though. The newer arrivals faced a different set of rules. There were tougher deadlines for their appeals. For those convicted after 1990, the average wait before execution was ten years. Shortest in the nation.

During his early years in 22F, Donté waited and waited for news from the courts. They moved at a snail’s pace, it seemed. Then it was all over, no more petitions to file, no more judges and justices for Robbie to attack. Looking back now, the appeals seemed to have flown by. He stretched out on his bed and tried to sleep.

You count the days and watch the years go by. You tell yourself, and you believe it, that you’d rather just die. You’d rather stare death boldly in the face and say you’re ready because whatever is waiting on the other side has to be better than growing old in a six-by-ten cage with no one to talk to. You consider yourself half-dead at best. Please take the other half.

You’ve watched dozens leave and not return, and you accept the fact that one day they’ll come for you. You’re nothing but a rat in their lab, a disposable body to be used as proof that their experiment is working. An eye for an eye, each killing must be avenged. You kill enough and you’re convinced that killing is good.

You count the days, and then there are none left. You ask yourself on your last morning if you are really ready. You search for courage, but the bravery is fading.

When it’s over, no one really wants to die.

———

It was a big day for Reeva too, and to show the world she was suffering, she invited Fordyce—Hitting Hard! back into her home for breakfast. In her most stylish pantsuit, she cooked bacon and eggs and sat around the table with Wallis and their two children, Chad and Marie, both in their late teens. None of the four needed a heavy breakfast. They should’ve skipped the meal completely. But the cameras were rolling, and as the family ate, they prattled on about the fire that destroyed their beloved church, a fire that was still smoldering. They were stunned, angry. They were certain it was arson, but managed to restrain themselves and not make allegations against anyone—on camera. Off camera, they just knew the fire had been started by black thugs. Reeva had been a member of the church for over forty years. She had married both husbands there. Chad, Marie, and Nicole had been baptized there. Wallis was a deacon. It was a tragedy. Gradually, they got around to more important matters. They all agreed that it was a sad day, a sad occasion. Sad, but so necessary. For almost nine years they had waited for this day, for justice to finally arrive for their family, and yes, for all of Slone as well.

Sean Fordyce was still tied up with a complicated execution in Florida, but he had made his plans well-known. He would arrive, by private jet, at the Huntsville airport later in the afternoon for a quick interview with Reeva before she witnessed the execution. Of course, he would be there when it was over.

Without the host, the breakfast footage went on and on. Off camera, an assistant producer prompted the family with such gems as, “Do you think lethal injection is too humane?” Reeva certainly did. Wallis just grunted. Chad chewed his bacon. Marie, a chatterbox like her mother, said, between bites, that Drumm should suffer intense physical pain as he was dying, just like Nicole.

“Do you think executions should be made public?” Mixed reactions around the table.

“The condemned man is allowed a last statement. If you could speak to him, what would you say?” Reeva, chewing, burst into tears and covered her eyes. “Why, oh, why?” she wailed. “Why did you take my baby?”

“Sean will love this,” the assistant producer whispered to the cameraman. Both were suppressing smiles.

Reeva pulled herself together, and the family plowed through breakfast. At one point, she barked at her husband, who’d said almost nothing, “Wallis! What are you thinking?” Wallis shrugged as if he hadn’t been thinking at all.

Coincidentally, Brother Ronnie dropped by just as the meal was wrapping up. He’d been up all night watching his church burn, and he needed sleep. But Reeva and her family also needed him. They quizzed him about the fire. He appeared sufficiently burdened. They moved to the rear of the home, to Reeva’s room, where they sat and huddled around a coffee table. They held hands, and Brother Ronnie led them in prayer. With an effort at drama, and with the camera two feet from his head, he pleaded for strength and courage for the family to endure what was ahead on this difficult day. He thanked the Lord for justice. He prayed for their church and its members.

He did not mention Donté Drumm or his family.

———

After a dozen trips to voice mail, a real person finally answered. “Flak Law Firm,” she said quickly.

“Robbie Flak, please,” Keith said as he perked up. Boyette turned and looked at him.

“Mr. Flak is in a meeting.”

“I’m sure he is. Listen, this is very important. My name is Keith Schroeder. I’m a Lutheran minister from Topeka, Kansas. I spoke with Mr. Flak yesterday. I’m driving to Slone as we speak, and I have with me, here in my car, a man by the name of Travis Boyette. Mr. Boyette raped and killed Nicole Yarber, and he knows where her body is buried. I’m driving him to Slone so he can tell his story. It is imperative that I speak with Robbie Flak. Now.”

“Uh, sure. Can I put you on hold?”

“I can’t stop you from putting me on hold.”

“Just a moment.”

“Please hurry.”

She put him on hold. She left her desk near the front door and hurried through the train station, rounding up the team. Robbie was in his office with Fred Pryor. “Robbie, you need to hear this,” she said, and her face and voice left no room for discussion. They met in the conference room, where they gathered around a speakerphone. Robbie pushed a button and said, “This is Robbie Flak.”

“Mr. Flak, this is Keith Schroeder. We spoke yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, it’s Reverend Schroeder, right?”

“Yes, but now it’s just Keith.”

“You’re on our speakerphone. Is that okay? My whole firm is here, plus some others. I’m counting ten people. Is that okay?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“And the recorder is on, is that okay?”

“Yes, fine, anything else? Look, we’ve been driving all night, and we should be in Slone around noon. I have Travis Boyette with me, and he’s ready to tell his story.”

“Tell us about Travis,” Robbie said. There was no movement, and little breathing, around the table.

“He’s forty-four years old, born in Joplin, Missouri, a career criminal, registered sex offender in at least four states.” Keith glanced at Boyette, who was looking through the passenger window, as if he were somewhere else. “His last stop was a prison in Lansing, Kansas, and he’s now on parole. He was living in Slone at the time of Nicole Yarber’s disappearance, staying at the Rebel Motor Inn. I’m sure you know where it is. He was arrested for drunk driving in Slone in January 1999. There is a copy of his arrest.”

Carlos and Bonnie were hammering keys on their laptops, racing through the Internet, digging for anything on Keith Schroeder, Travis Boyette, the arrest in Slone.

Keith continued: “In fact, he was in jail in Slone while Donté Drumm was under arrest. Boyette posted bond, got out, then skipped town. He drifted to Kansas, tried to rape another woman, got caught, and is just finishing his sentence.”

Tense looks were exchanged around the table. Everyone took a breath. “Why is he talking now?” Robbie asked, leaning down closer to the speakerphone.

“He’s dying,” Keith said bluntly, no need to soft-pedal things at this point. “He has a brain tumor, a glioblastoma, grade four, inoperable. He says that the doctors have told him he has less than a year to live. He says he wants to do the right thing. While he was in prison, he lost track of the Drumm case, said he figured the authorities in Texas would one day figure out that they had the wrong man.”

“This guy’s in the car with you?”

“Yes.”

“Can he hear this conversation?”

Keith was driving with his left hand and holding his cell phone with his right. “No,” he said.

“When did you meet this guy, Keith?”

“Monday.”

“Do you believe him? If he is in fact a serial rapist and career criminal, then he’d rather lie than tell the truth. How do you know he has a brain tumor?”

“I checked that out. It’s true.” Keith glanced at Boyette, who was still staring at nothing through the passenger window. “I think it’s all true.”

“What does he want?”

“So far, nothing.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Interstate 35, not far from the Texas line. How does this work, Robbie? Is there a chance of stopping the execution?”

“There’s a chance,” Robbie said as he looked into the eyes of Samantha Thomas. She shrugged, nodded, a weak “Maybe.”

Robbie rubbed both hands and said, “Okay, Keith, here’s what we have to do. We have to meet Boyette and ask him a lot of questions, and if that goes well, then we’ll prepare an affidavit for him to sign and file it with a petition. We have time, but not much.”

Carlos handed Samantha a photo of Boyette he’d just printed out from a Web site for the Kansas Department of Corrections. She pointed at his face and whispered, “Get him on the phone.”

Robbie nodded and said, “Keith, I’d like to talk to Boyette. Can you put him on?”

Keith lowered his cell phone and said, “Travis, this is the lawyer. He wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t think so,” Boyette said.

“Why not? We’re driving to Texas to talk to the man, here he is.”

“Nope. I’ll talk when we get there.”

Boyette’s voice was clear on the speakerphone. Robbie and the rest were relieved to know that Keith actually had someone else in the car with him. Maybe he wasn’t some nut playing games at the eleventh hour.

Robbie pressed on. “If we can talk to him now, we can start to work on his affidavit. That’ll save some time, and we don’t have much of it.”

Keith relayed this to Boyette, whose reaction was startling. His upper body pitched forward violently as he grabbed his head with both hands. He tried to suppress a scream, but a very loud “Aghhhhh!” escaped, followed by deep guttural lurches that made the man sound as if he were dying in horrendous pain.

“What was that?” Robbie asked.

Keith was driving, talking on the phone, and suddenly distracted by another seizure. “I’ll call you back,” he said and put the phone down.

“I’m throwing up,” Boyette said, reaching for the door handle. Keith hit the brakes and steered the Subaru onto the shoulder. An 18-wheeler behind him swerved and sounded the horn. They finally came to a stop, and Boyette clutched his seat belt. When he was free, he leaned through the cracked door and began vomiting. Keith got out, walked to the rear bumper, and decided not to watch. Boyette puked for a long time, and when he finally finished, Keith handed him a bottle of water. “I need to lie down,” Boyette said, and crawled into the backseat. “Don’t move the car,” he directed. “I’m still sick.”

Keith walked a few feet away and called his wife.

———

After another noisy bout of gagging and throwing up, Boyette seemed to settle down. He returned to the rear seat, with the right-side door open, his feet hanging out.

“We need to move along, Travis. Slone is not getting any closer.”

“Just a minute, okay? I’m not ready to move.” He was rubbing his temples, and his slick skull seemed ready to crack. Keith watched him for a minute, but felt uncomfortable gawking at such agony. He stepped around the vomit and leaned on the hood of the car.

His phone buzzed. It was Robbie. “What happened?” he asked.

Robbie was seated now, still at the conference table, with most of the crew still there. Carlos was already working on an affidavit. Bonnie had found Boyette’s arrest record in Slone and was trying to determine which lawyer had represented him. Kristi Hinze arrived around 7:30 and soon realized she was missing the excitement. Martha Handler typed furiously, another episode in her evolving story about the execution. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor roamed around the train station, sipping cup after cup of coffee and nervously watching all doors and windows. Thankfully, the sun was now up and they didn’t really expect trouble. Not at the office, anyway.

“He has these seizures,” Keith said, as an 18-wheeler roared by, its wind blowing his hair. “I guess it’s the tumor, but when they hit, they’re pretty frightening. He’s been throwing up for the past twenty minutes.”

“Is the car moving, Keith?”

“No. We’ll take off in a minute.”

“The minutes are getting by us, Keith. You understand this, right? Donté will be executed at six o’clock tonight.”

“I got that. If you’ll recall, I tried to talk to you yesterday, and you told me to get lost.”

Robbie took a deep breath as he collected the stares from around the table. “Can he hear you right now?”

“No. He’s lying in the backseat, rubbing his head, afraid to move. Me, I’m sitting on the hood, dodging 18-wheelers.”

“Tell us why you believe this guy.”

“Well, let’s see, where do I start? He knows a lot about the crime. He was in Slone when it happened. He’s obviously capable of such violence. He’s dying. There’s no proof against Donté Drumm other than the confession. And Boyette has her senior class ring on a chain around his neck. That’s the best I can do, Robbie. And, I’ll admit, there’s a slight chance this is all a big lie.”

“But you’re helping him jump parole. You’re committing a crime.”

“Don’t remind me, okay? I just talked to my wife and she happened to mention that.”

“How soon can you get here?”

“I don’t know. Three hours, maybe. We’ve stopped twice for coffee because I haven’t slept in three nights. I bought myself a speeding ticket, one written by the slowest trooper in Oklahoma. Now Boyette is puking his guts out, and I’d rather him do that in a ditch and not in my car. I don’t know, Robbie. We’re trying.”

“Hurry up.”