The Confession

CHAPTER 33

The meeting was arranged by Judge Elias Henry, and while he did not have the authority to order people around on a Friday night, his powers of persuasion were more than enough. Paul Koffee and Drew Kerber arrived in the judge’s chambers promptly at 8:00 p.m. Joe Radford followed them in, and the three sat together on one side of the judge’s worktable. Robbie had been there for thirty minutes, along with Carlos, and the atmosphere was already toxic. There were no greetings, no handshakes, no pleasantries. A moment later Mayor Rooney arrived and sat by himself, away from the table.

Judge Henry, as always in a dark suit, white shirt, and orange tie, began solemnly. “Everyone is here. Mr. Flak has some information.”

Robbie was seated directly across from Kerber, Koffee, and Radford, all three still and subdued as if waiting for a death sentence. Robbie started by saying, “We left Slone this morning around five and drove to Newton County, Missouri. Travis Boyette was with us. The trip took just under six hours. With Boyette giving directions, we worked our way through a remote section of the county, along back roads, then dirt trails, then to a place known locally as Roop’s Mountain. Secluded, remote, overgrown. Boyette struggled to remember it at times, but eventually led us to the place where he claims he buried Nicole Yarber.” Robbie nodded at Carlos, who punched a key on his laptop. At the far end of the room, on a whiteboard, a photo of the overgrown clearing appeared. Robbie continued, “We found the site and began to dig.” The next photo was of Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor with shovels. “When Boyette was here in Slone in the fall of 1998, he worked for a company called R. S. McGuire and Sons out of Fort Smith. He kept a large metal box, one that was once used for hydraulic tools, in the back of his truck, and he used it to bury her.” Next photo: the top of the orange toolbox. “The soil was not hard, and within ten, maybe fifteen minutes we found this.” Next photo: the top half of the toolbox with “R. S. McGuire and Sons” stenciled on it. “As you can see, the toolbox opened from the top with a latch to the side. The latch was secured by a combination lock, which Boyette claimed he bought at a hardware store in Springdale, Arkansas. Boyette remembered the combination and unlocked it.” Next photo: Boyette kneeling at the grave, handling the lock. The color drained from Koffee’s face, and Kerber had perspiration on his forehead. “When we opened the box, this is what we found.” Next photo: the skeleton. “Before we opened it, Boyette told us there would be a wad of clothing next to her head.” Next photo: the clothing next to the skull. “He also told us that rolled up in the clothing we would find Nicole’s driver’s license and a credit card. He was right.” Next photo: a close-up of the MasterCard, also stained but with her name easily readable. “Boyette told us he killed her by choking her with her black leather belt with a silver buckle.” Next photo: a length of black leather, partially decomposed, but with the silver buckle. “I have a complete set of these photos for you boys to take home and look at all night. At this point, we called the sheriff of Newton County and surrendered the site.” Next photo: the sheriff and three of his deputies gawking at the skeletal remains. “The site was soon crawling with police and investigators, and the decision was made to leave her remains in the box and take it to the satellite crime lab there in Joplin. That’s where it is now. I gave the authorities a copy of Nicole’s dental X-rays, a copy of the same set you boys inadvertently handed over when you were playing games with discovery before the trial. I have talked to the crime lab, and the case has priority. They expect to finish the preliminary identification tonight. We are expecting a phone call any moment. They will examine everything in the toolbox and hopefully find evidence for DNA testing. This is a long shot, but DNA is not crucial. It’s pretty clear who was buried in the box, and there’s no doubt who did the killing. Boyette has a lethal brain tumor—that’s one reason he came forward—and he’s subject to violent seizures. He collapsed at the site and was taken to a hospital in Joplin. Somehow, he managed to leave the hospital without being detected, and as of now no one knows where he is. He’s considered a suspect, but he was not under arrest when he disappeared.”

Robbie stared at Koffee and Kerber as he delivered his narrative, but they were unable to maintain eye contact. Koffee was pinching the bridge of his nose, while Kerber picked his cuticles. There were three identical black binders in the center of the table, and Robbie gently slid them over, one each for Koffee, Kerber, and Radford. Robbie continued, “In these, you each have a complete set of the photos, along with a few other goodies—Boyette’s arrest record here in Slone, which proves he was here at the time of the murder. In fact, you boys actually had him in jail at the same time Donté Drumm was locked up. There is also a copy of his extensive criminal record and history of incarcerations. His affidavit is included, but you don’t really need to read it. It’s a detailed account of the abduction, sexual assaults, murder, and burial; the same story you have no doubt seen a dozen times now on television. There’s also an affidavit signed yesterday by Joey Gamble in which he says he lied at the trial. Any questions?”

Silence.

He continued, “I have chosen to proceed in this manner out of respect for Nicole’s family. I doubt if any of you have the backbone to meet with Reeva tonight and tell her the truth, but at least you have that option. It would be a shame for her to hear it secondhand. Someone needs to tell her tonight. Comments? Anything?”

Silence.

The mayor cleared his throat and asked, softly, “When will this go public?”

“I have asked the authorities in Missouri to sit on it until tomorrow. At nine in the morning, I’m holding a press conference.”

“God, Robbie, is that really necessary?” the mayor blurted.

“It’s Mr. Flak to you, Mr. Mayor, and, yes, it is quite necessary. The truth must be told. It’s been buried for nine years by the police and the prosecutor, so, yes, it is time to tell the truth. The lies will finally be exposed. After nine years and the execution of an innocent man, the world will finally know that Donté’s confession was bogus, and I’ll explain the brutal methods used by Detective Kerber to obtain it. I plan to go into great detail describing the lies used at trial—Joey Gamble’s and the jailhouse snitch Kerber and Koffee rounded up and cut a deal with—and I’ll describe all the dirty tactics used at trial. I’ll probably have the opportunity to remind everyone that Mr. Koffee was sleeping with the judge during the trial, just in case anyone has forgotten. I wish the bloodhound were still alive—what was his name?”

“Yogi,” Carlos said.

“How could I forget? I wish ol’ Yogi were still alive so I could show him to the world and call him a stupid son of a bitch again. I figure it might be a long press conference. You boys are invited. Questions? Comments?”

Paul Koffee’s mouth opened slightly as if words were being formed, but words failed him. Robbie was far from finished. “And just so you boys will know what’s coming in the next few days, I’ll file at least two lawsuits Monday morning, one here in state court, naming you as defendants, along with the city, county, and half the state. Another one will be filed in federal court, a civil-rights action with a long list of allegations. You will be named in that one also. I might file another one or two, if I can find a cause of action. I plan to contact the Justice Department and request an investigation. For you, Koffee, I plan to file a complaint with the state bar association for ethics violations, not that I expect the state bar to show much of an interest, but you will get chewed up in the process. You might want to start thinking about a resignation. For you, Kerber, early retirement is now a real option. You should be fired, but I doubt the mayor and the city council have the balls to do that. Chief, you were the assistant chief when this investigation got off track. You will be named as a defendant, too. But don’t take it personally. I’m suing everybody.”

The chief slowly stood up and walked toward the door. “You’re leaving, Mr. Radford?” the judge asked, in a tone that left no doubt such an abrupt exit would be frowned upon.

“My job does not require me to sit and listen to pompous assholes like Robbie Flak,” the chief replied.

“The meeting is not over,” Judge Henry said sternly.

“I’d stay if I were you,” the mayor said, and the chief decided to stay. He assumed a position by the door.

Robbie stared at Kerber and Koffee, then said, “So last night you had a little party by the lake to celebrate; now I guess the party is over.”

“We always thought Drumm had an accomplice,” Koffee managed to blurt out, though his words trailed off under the weight of their own absurdity. Kerber nodded quickly, ready to pounce on any new theory that might save them.

“Good God, Paul,” Judge Henry roared in disbelief. Robbie was laughing. The mayor’s jaw had dropped in shock.

“Great!” Robbie yelled. “Wonderful, brilliant. Suddenly a new theory, one that has never been mentioned before. One with absolutely no relation to the truth. Let the lying begin! We have a Web site, Koffee, and my sidekick Carlos here is going to keep a tally of the lies. Lies from the two of you, from the governor, the courts, maybe even dear Judge Vivian Grale, if we can find her. You have lied for nine years in order to kill an innocent man, and now that we know the truth, now that your lies will be exposed, you insist on doing precisely what you have always done. Lie! You make me want to puke, Koffee.”

“Judge, can we leave now?” Koffee asked.

“Just a moment.”

A cell phone rang and Carlos grabbed it. “It’s the crime lab, Robbie.” Robbie reached over, took the phone. The conversation was brief, and there were no surprises. When it ended, Robbie said, “Positive ID, it’s Nicole.”

The room was quiet as they thought about the girl. Judge Henry eventually said, “I am concerned about her family, gentlemen. How do we break the news?”

Drew Kerber was perspiring and appeared to be on the brink of an attack of some variety. He was not thinking about Nicole’s family. He had a wife, a houseful of kids, lots of debts, and a reputation. Paul Koffee could not even begin to imagine a conversation with Reeva about this little twist to their story. No, he would not do it. He would rather run like a coward than deal with that woman. Admitting they had prosecuted and executed the wrong man was, at that moment, far beyond the limits of his imagination.

There were no volunteers. Robbie said, “Obviously, Judge, I’m not the guy. I have my own little trip to make, over to the Drumm home to deliver the news.”

“Mr. Kerber?” the judge asked.

He shook his head no.

“Mr. Koffee?”

He shook his head no.

“Very well. I will call her mother myself and break the news.”

“How late can you wait, Judge?” the mayor asked. “If this hits the streets tonight, then God help us.”

“Who is in the loop, Robbie?” the judge asked.

“My office, the seven of us in this room, the authorities in Missouri. We also took a TV crew with us, but they won’t air anything until I say so. It’s a small world right now.”

“I’ll wait two hours,” Judge Henry said. “This meeting is adjourned.”

———

Roberta Drumm was at home with Andrea and a few friends. The kitchen table and counters were covered with food—casseroles, platters of fried chicken, cakes, and pies, enough food to feed a hundred. Robbie had forgotten to eat dinner, so he snacked as he and Martha waited for the friends to leave. Roberta was thoroughly drained. After a day receiving guests at the funeral home, and crying with most of them, she was emotionally and physically spent.

And so Robbie made things much worse by delivering the news. He had no choice. He began with the journey to Missouri and finished with the meeting in Judge Henry’s office. He and Martha helped Andrea put Roberta in bed. She was conscious, but barely. Knowing that Donté was about to be exonerated, and before he was buried, was simply too much.

———

The sirens were quiet until ten minutes after 11:00 p.m. Three quick 911 calls got them started. The first reported a fire in a shopping center north of town. Evidently, someone tossed a Molotov cocktail through the front window of a clothing store, and a passing motorist saw flames. The second call, anonymous, reported a burning school bus parked behind the junior high. And the third, and most ominous, was from a fire alarm system at a feed store. Its owner was Wallis Pike, Reeva’s husband. The police and guardsmen, already on high alert, stepped up their patrols and surveillance, and for the third straight night Slone endured the sirens and the smoke.

———

Long after the boys were asleep, Keith and Dana sat in the dark den and sipped wine from coffee cups. As Keith told his story, the details poured out, and he remembered facts and sounds and smells for the first time. The little things surprised him—the sound of Boyette heaving in the grass beside the interstate, the lethargy of the state trooper as he went about the task of writing the speeding ticket, the stacks of paperwork on the long table in Robbie’s conference room, the looks of fear on the faces of his staff, the antiseptic smell of the holding room in the death house, the ringing in Keith’s ears as he watched Donté die, the lurching of the airplane as they flew over Texas, and on and on. Dana peppered him with questions, random and insightful. She was as intrigued by the adventure as Keith, and at times incredulous.

When the bottle was empty, Keith stretched out on the sofa and fell into a deep sleep.