The Confession

CHAPTER 22

Donté’s first helicopter ride was intended to be his last. Courtesy of the Texas Department of Public Safety, he was moving through the air at ninety miles per hour, three thousand feet above the rolling hills, and he could see nothing below. He was wedged between two guards, thick young men scowling out the windows as if Operation Detour might have a surface-to-air missile or two in its arsenal. Up front were the two pilots, grim-faced boys thrilled with the excitement of their mission. The rocky, noisy ride made Donté nauseous, so he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against hard plastic, and tried to think of something pleasant. He could not.

He practiced his last statement, mouthing the words, though with the racket in the helicopter he could have barked them out and no one would have noticed. He thought of other inmates—some friends, some enemies, almost all guilty, but a few who claimed innocence—and how they faced their deaths.

The ride lasted twenty minutes, and when the helicopter landed at the old rodeo grounds inside Huntsville prison, a small army awaited the prisoner. Donté, laden with chains and shackles, was practically carried by his guards to a van. Minutes later, the van pulled into an alley lined with chain-link fencing covered by a thick windscreen and topped with glistening razor wire. Donté was escorted from the van, through a gate, along a short sidewalk to a small, flat, redbrick building where Texas does its killing.

Inside, he squinted and tried to focus on his new surroundings. There were eight cells to his right, each emptying onto a short hallway. On a table, there were several Bibles, including one in Spanish. A dozen guards milled about, some chatting about the weather as if the weather were important at that moment. Donté was positioned in front of a camera and photographed. The handcuffs were removed, and a technician informed him they would now fingerprint him.

“Why?” Donté asked.

“Routine,” came the response. He took a finger and rolled it on the ink pad.

“I don’t understand why you need to fingerprint a man before you kill him.”

The technician did not respond.

“I get it,” Donté said. “You wanna make sure you got the right man, right?”

The technician rolled another finger.

“Well, you got the wrong man this time; I can assure you of that.”

When the fingerprinting was over, he was led to the holding cell, one of the eight. The other seven were not used. Donté sat on the edge of the bunk. He noticed how shiny the floors were, how clean the sheets were, how pleasant the temperature. On the other side of the bars, in the hallway, were several prison officials. One stepped to the bars and said, “Donté, I’m Ben Jeter, the warden here at Huntsville.”

Donté nodded but did not stand. He stared at the floor.

“Our chaplain is Tommy Powell. He’s here and he’ll stay here all afternoon.”

Without looking up, Donté said, “Don’t need a chaplain.”

“It’s your call. Now listen to me because I want to tell you how things happen around here.”

“I think I know what happens.”

“Well, I’ll tell you anyway.”

———

After a round of speeches, each more strident than the one before, the rally lost some steam. A large mob of blacks packed around the front of the courthouse, and even spilled onto Main Street, which had been closed. When no one else took up the bullhorn, the drum corps came to life, and the crowd followed the music down Main Street, heading west, chanting, waving banners, singing “We Shall Overcome.” Trey Glover assumed his role as parade master and maneuvered his SUV in front of the drummers. The rap blasted the downtown shops and cafés where the owners, clerks, and customers stood in the windows and doors. Why were the blacks so upset? The boy confessed. He killed Nicole; he said he did it. An eye for an eye.

There was no trouble, but the town seemed ready to erupt.

When Trey and the drummers came to Sisk Avenue, they turned right, not left. A left turn would have routed the march to the south, the general direction of where it started. A turn to the right meant they were headed into the white section. Still, no one had thrown anything. No threats had been made. A few police cars followed well behind, while others shadowed the march from parallel streets. Two blocks north of Main and they were in the older residential section. The noise brought people to their porches, and what they saw sent them back inside, to their gun cabinets. They also went to their phones to call the mayor and the police chief. Surely, this was disturbing the peace. What are these folks so upset about? The boy confessed. Do something.

Civitan Park was a complex of youth baseball and softball fields on Sisk, five blocks north of Main, and Trey Glover decided they had walked far enough. The drums were put aside, and the march came to an end. It was now a gathering, a volatile mix of youth, anger, and a sense of having nothing better to do for the afternoon and evening. A police captain estimated the crowd at twelve hundred, almost all under the age of thirty. Most of the older blacks had fallen aside and returned home. Cell phones confirmed details, and cars full of more young blacks headed for Civitan Park.

Across town, another crowd of angry blacks watched as the fire crews saved what was left of the Mount Sinai Church of God in Christ. Because of the quick 911 call, and the quick response, the damage was not as extensive as that inflicted on the First Baptist Church, but the sanctuary was fairly gutted. The flames had been extinguished, but the smoke still poured from the windows. With no wind, it too lingered over the town and added another layer of tension.

———

Reeva’s departure for Huntsville was properly recorded. She invited some family and friends over for another gut-wrenching performance, and everybody had a good cry for the cameras. Sean Fordyce was on a jet at that moment, zipping in from Florida, and they would hook up in Huntsville for the pre-execution interview.

With Wallis, her other two children, and Brother Ronnie, there were five in her party, and for a three-hour drive that might be uncomfortable. So Reeva had prevailed upon her pastor to borrow one of the church vans, and even suggested that he do the driving. Brother Ronnie was exhausted, and emotionally spent as well, but he was in no position to argue with Reeva, not at that moment, not on “the most important day of her life.” They loaded up and pulled away, Brother Ronnie behind the wheel of a ten-passenger van with “First Baptist Church of Slone, Texas” painted boldly on both sides. Everyone waved at the friends and well-wishers. Everyone waved at the camera.

Reeva was crying before they reached the outskirts of town.

———

After fifteen minutes in the quiet darkness of Robbie’s office, Boyette rallied. He stayed on the sofa, his mind numb from pain, his feet and hands still wobbly. When Keith peeked through the door, Boyette said, “I’m here, Pastor. Still alive.”

Keith walked closer and asked, “How you doing, Travis?”

“Much better, Pastor.”

“Can I get something for you?”

“Some coffee. It seems to help ease the pain.”

Keith left and closed the door. He found Robbie and reported that Boyette was still alive. At the moment, the court reporter was transcribing Boyette’s statement. Sammie Thomas and both paralegals, Carlos and Bonnie, were frantically putting together a filing that was already known as “the Boyette petition.”

Judge Elias Henry walked into the office, past the receptionist, and into the conference room. “Over here,” Robbie said, and led the judge into a small library. He closed the door, picked up a remote, and said, “You gotta see this.”

“What is it?” Judge Henry asked as he fell into a chair.

“Just wait.” He pointed the remote at a screen on a wall, and Boyette appeared. “This is the man who killed Nicole Yarber. We just taped this.”

The video ran for fourteen minutes. They watched it without a word.

“Where is he?” Judge Henry asked when the screen went dark.

“In my office, on the sofa. He has a malignant brain tumor, or so he says, and he’s dying. He walked into the office of a Lutheran minister in Topeka, Kansas, Monday morning and spilled his guts. He played some games, but the minister finally got him in a car. They arrived in Slone a couple of hours ago.”

“The minister drove him here?”

“Yep. Hang on.” Robbie opened the door and called Keith over. He introduced him to Judge Henry. “This is the man,” Robbie said, patting Keith on the back. “Have a seat. Judge Henry is our circuit court judge. If he had presided over the trial of Donté Drumm, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Keith said.

“Sounds like you’re having quite an adventure.”

Keith laughed and said, “I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing.”

“Then you’ve come to the right law firm,” Judge Henry said. They shared a laugh, a quick one, and then all humor vanished.

“What do you think?” Robbie asked Judge Henry.

The judge scratched his cheek, thought hard for a moment, and then said, “The question is, what will the court of appeals think? You can never tell. They hate these last-minute surprise witnesses who pop up and begin changing facts that are ten years old. Plus, a man who’s made a career out of aggravated rape is not likely to be taken seriously. I’d give you a slight chance of getting a stay.”

“That’s a lot more than we had two hours ago,” Robbie said.

“When do you file? It’s almost two o’clock.”

“Within the hour. Here’s my question. Do we tell the press about Mr. Boyette? I’m sending the video to the court and to the governor. I can also give it to the local TV station, or I can send it to every station in Texas. Or, better yet, I can arrange a press conference here or at the courthouse and let the world listen as Boyette tells his story.”

“To what benefit?”

“Maybe I want the world to know that Texas is about to execute the wrong man. Here’s the killer, listen to him.”

“But the world cannot stop the execution. Only the courts or the governor can do that. I’d be careful here, Robbie. There’s smoke in the air now, and if people see Boyette on television, claiming responsibility, this place could blow up.”

“It’s blowing up anyway.”

“You want a race war?”

“If they kill Donté, yes. I wouldn’t mind a race war. A small one.”

“Come on, Robbie. You’re playing with dynamite here. Think strategically, not emotionally. And keep in mind that this guy could be lying. This would not be the first execution where a fraud claimed responsibility. The press can’t resist it. The nut gets on television. Everybody looks stupid.”

Robbie was pacing, four steps one way, four steps the other. He was fidgety, frantic, but still thinking clearly. He had great admiration for Judge Henry, and Robbie was smart enough to know he needed advice at that moment.

The room was quiet. On the other side of the door, the voices were tense, the phones were ringing.

Judge Henry said, “I assume it’s not possible to search for the body.”

Robbie shook his head and deferred to Keith, who said, “Not now. Two days ago, Tuesday I think it was, I’m not sure—I feel as though I’ve lived with this guy for a year—but anyway, Tuesday I suggested the best way to stop the execution was to find the body. He said that it would be difficult. He buried her nine years ago in a secluded area that is heavily wooded. He also said that he’s gone back to visit her several times—I’m not sure what that meant, and I really didn’t want to pursue it. Then I lost contact with him. I searched and searched and I was determined to somehow corral him and insist that we notify the authorities, here and in Missouri, if that is in fact where Nicole is buried, but he would not agree. Then we lost contact again. He’s a strange guy, very strange. He called me around midnight last night; I was already in bed, sound asleep, and he said he wanted to come here, to tell his story, to stop the execution. I felt as though I had no choice. I’ve never done anything like this before, I can promise you that. I know it’s wrong to help a convict violate his parole, but so be it. Anyway, we left Topeka around 1:00 this morning, and again I suggested that we notify the authorities and at least begin the search for the body. He wanted no part of that.”

“It would not have worked, Keith,” Robbie said. “The authorities here are useless. They would laugh at you. They have their man, the case is solved. Almost closed, I guess. Nobody in Missouri would lift a finger because there is no active investigation. You can’t just call a sheriff and suggest that he and his boys go out in the woods and start digging somewhere down by the creek. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Then who looks for the body?” Keith asked.

“I guess we do.”

“I’m going home, Robbie. My wife is barking at me. My lawyer friend thinks I’m crazy. I think I’m crazy. I’ve done my best. Boyette’s all yours. I’m sick of the guy.”

“Relax, Keith. I need you right now.”

“For what?”

“Just hang around, okay? Boyette trusts you. Besides, when was the last time you had front-row seats at a race riot?”

“Not funny.”

“Sit on the video, Robbie,” Judge Henry said. “Show it to the court and to the governor, but don’t make it public.”

“I can control the video, but I cannot control Mr. Boyette. If he wants to talk to the press, I can’t stop him. God knows he’s not my client.”

———

By 2:30 Thursday afternoon, every church in Slone, black and white, was being guarded by preachers, deacons, and Sunday school teachers, all men, all heavily armed and visible. They sat on the front steps and chatted anxiously, shotguns across their knees. They sat under shade trees near the streets, waving at the passing cars, many of which honked in solidarity. They patrolled the rear doors and back property, smoking, chewing, watching for any movement. There would be no more church burnings in Slone.

The cotton gin had been abandoned two decades earlier when a newer one replaced it east of town. It was an eyesore, a badly decaying old building, and under normal circumstances a good fire would have been welcomed. The 911 call was recorded at 2:44. A teenager driving by saw heavy smoke and called on her cell phone. The beleaguered firemen rushed to the old gin, and by the time they arrived, the flames were roaring through the roof. Since it was an empty, abandoned building, and not a great loss anyway, they took their time.

The black smoke boiled into the sky. The mayor could see it from his second-story office, near the courthouse, and after consulting with the chief of police, he called the governor’s office. The situation in Slone was not likely to improve. The citizens were in danger. They needed the National Guard.