The Confession

CHAPTER 37

Slone High School did not open Monday morning. Though the tension appeared to be easing, the school authorities and the police were still nervous. Another round of fights and smoke bombs could spill over into the streets and disrupt the fragile truce. The white students were ready to return to class, to their normal routines and activities. As a rule, they were shocked, even appalled by what had happened over the weekend. They were as stunned by the Drumm execution as their black friends, and they were anxious to confront it, discuss it, and try to move on. The joining of the sit-in by the white football players at the Longview game was the topic of nonstop chatter around town, and that simple act of solidarity was viewed as one huge offer of an apology. A momentous mistake had been made, but others were to blame. Let’s meet and shake hands and deal with it. For most of the black students, the thought of continued violence was not appealing. They had the same routines and activities as their white friends, and they, too, wanted a return to normalcy.

The school board met again with the mayor and the police. The term “powder keg” was used often to describe the atmosphere in Slone. There were enough hotheads on both sides to make trouble. Anonymous phone calls were still being recorded. There were threats of violence as soon as the school reopened. In the end, it was decided that the safest route was to wait until after the funeral of Donté Drumm.

At 9:00 a.m., the football team met with their coaches in the locker room at the field. The meeting was closed. The twenty-eight black players were there, as were their white teammates, all forty-one of them. The meeting had been suggested by Cedric and Marvin Drumm, both of whom had played as Warriors, though at a level far below their brother’s. Standing side by side, they addressed the team. They thanked the white players for their courage in joining the Longview players in protest. They spoke fondly, even emotionally, of their brother and said that Donté would not approve of the divisiveness. The football team was the pride of the town, and if it managed to heal itself, then there was hope for everyone. They appealed for unity. Cedric said, “When we bury Donté, I ask that all of you be there. It will mean so much to our family, and to the rest of our community.”

Denny Weeks, the son of a Slone policeman and the first player to remove his helmet and jersey and sit with the Longview players, asked if he could speak. He faced the team and began by describing how sickened he was by the execution and its aftermath. He, along with most of the whites he knew, had felt all along that Donté was guilty and getting what he deserved. He was wrong, so incredibly wrong, and he would always carry the guilt. He apologized for what he’d believed, that he’d favored the execution. Denny became emotional and, trying to keep his composure, finished by saying that he hoped Cedric and Marvin, the rest of the family, and his black teammates could find it in their hearts to forgive him. Other confessionals followed, and the meeting became a prolonged and fruitful effort at reconciliation. It was a team, complete with petty grudges and fierce rivalries, but most of the boys had played football together since middle school and knew each other well. They had nothing to gain by allowing the bitterness to fester.

The state officials were still trying to resolve the baffling issues presented by the Longview standoff. It was generally believed that both teams would be given a forfeit, but the regular season would go on. There was one game left on the schedule. The coach said that it was all or nothing—if they could not come together as a team, then the last game would be forfeited. With Cedric and Marvin standing before them, the players had no choice. They could not say no to the brothers of Donté Drumm. After two hours, they shook hands and decided to meet that afternoon for a long practice.

———

The spirit of reconciliation had not reached the Flak Law Firm, and it probably would not. Energized by a quiet Sunday, and facing a mountain of work, Robbie pushed the troops to prepare for an assault on various fronts. Top priority was the civil litigation. Robbie was determined to file suit that day, both in state and in federal court. The state action, for wrongful death, would be a shotgun blast aimed at the City of Slone, its police department, the county and its district attorney, the state and its judges, prison officials, and appeals court justices. The members of the judiciary were immune from liability, but Robbie planned to sue them anyway. He would sue the governor, who was absolutely immune. Much of the lawsuit would be dismantled and eventually dismissed, but Robbie didn’t care. He wanted revenge, and embarrassing those responsible and forcing them to hire lawyers were things he relished. He loved bare-knuckle litigation, especially when he was throwing the punches and the press was watching. His clients, the Drumms, were sincerely opposed to more violence in the streets, as was Robbie, but he knew how to create violence in the courts. The litigation would drag on for years and consume him, but he was confident of prevailing eventually.

The lawsuit in federal court would be a civil-rights action, with many of the same defendants. There, he would not waste time suing the judges, justices, and the governor, but would hit hard at the City of Slone, its police, and Paul Koffee. In light of what had become obvious, he foresaw a lucrative settlement, but far down the road. The city and county, and, more important, their insurance companies, would never run the risk of having their dirty laundry aired before a jury in such a notorious case. When they were fully exposed, the actions of Drew Kerber and Paul Koffee would terrify the well-paid lawyers for the insurers. Robbie was obsessed with revenge, but he also smelled money.

Other strategies on the table included an ethics complaint against Paul Koffee. A win there could mean disbarment and further humiliation, though Robbie was not overly optimistic. He also made plans to file a complaint against Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe with the State Commission on Judicial Conduct, but this would take more time. So few of the facts surrounding the aborted filing were known. It appeared, though, as if the facts would be forthcoming. Something akin to a hornet’s nest of reporters was already attacking the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. Robbie was content to sit back and watch the press flush out the truth.

He contacted the Justice Department in Washington. He took calls from death-penalty opponents around the country. He chatted with reporters. His office was chaos, and he thrived on it.

———

The law office Keith and Dana walked into Monday morning was far different from the last one Keith had seen. The Flak Law Firm had been filled with people, tension, and activity. The office of Elmo Laird was small and quiet. Matthew’s scouting report described Elmo as a sole practitioner, a sixty-year-old veteran of the criminal courts who dispensed solid advice but rarely went to trial. He and Matthew were friends, and, more important, Elmo played golf with the district attorney.

“I’ve never had a case like this,” Elmo admitted after listening to Keith for a few minutes. He had done his homework and, like everyone who enjoys the morning paper, knew the basics of the Drumm mess down in Texas.

“Well, it’s something new for me too,” Keith said.

“There’s no clear statute on point. You provided assistance to a man who was determined to violate his parole anyway by leaving this jurisdiction. It’s not exactly a major crime, but you could be prosecuted for obstruction of justice.”

“We’ve read the statutes,” Dana said. “Matthew sent them over, along with a few cases from other states. Nothing is clear.”

“I haven’t been able to find a similar case in Kansas,” Elmo said. “Not that that means anything. If the district attorney chooses to prosecute, then I’d say he has a pretty good case. You’re admitting everything, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Keith said.

“Then I suggest we explore the possibility of a plea agreement, and the sooner, the better. Boyette is on the loose. He may strike again, maybe not. Perhaps this week, maybe never. It’s to your advantage to cut a deal, a good deal, before he makes any more trouble. If he hurts someone, you become more culpable, and a simple case could get complicated.”

“What’s a good deal?” Keith asked.

“No jail and a slap on the wrist,” Elmo said with a shrug.

“And what does that mean?”

“Not much. A quick court appearance, a small fine of some sort, certainly no time in jail.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” Dana said.

“And after some time, I could probably get your record expunged,” Elmo added.

“But the conviction would be a public record, right?” Keith asked.

“Yes, and that is worrisome. Boyette was front-page news this morning here in Topeka, and I suspect there will be more about him in the coming days. It’s our own little connection to this sensational episode. If a reporter sniffs around, he might stumble across your conviction. It’s a pretty good story, if you think about it. Local minister gives assistance to the real killer, and so on. I can see a big splash in the paper, but no permanent damage. The bigger story will be written if and when he commits another crime. Then the prosecutor will take some heat and might be harder to deal with.”

Keith and Dana exchanged uncertain looks. It was their first visit to a law office together, and hopefully their last. Keith said, “Look, Mr. Laird, I really don’t want this hanging over my head. I’m guilty of doing what I did. If I committed a crime, I’ll take my punishment. Our question is simple: What now?”

“Give me a few hours to talk to the district attorney. If he agrees, then we cut a quick deal and get it over with. With some luck, you’ll slide under the radar.”

“How soon could this happen?”

Another shrug. “This week.”

“And you promise he’s not going to jail?” Dana asked, almost pleading.

“No promises, but it’s very unlikely. Let’s talk first thing in the morning.”

Keith and Dana sat in the car outside Laird’s office and stared at the side of his building. “I can’t believe we’re here, doing this, talking about pleading guilty, worrying about going to jail,” she said.

“Isn’t it great? I love it.”

“You what?”

“I gotta tell you, Dana, other than our honeymoon, this past week has been the greatest week of my life.”

“You’re sick. You’ve spent too much time with Boyette.”

“I sorta miss Travis.”

“Drive, Keith. You’re cracking up.”

———

The governor was officially hard at work grappling with the state’s budget. He was too busy to comment on the Drumm matter; the case was closed as far as he was concerned.

Unofficially, he was locked in his office with Wayne and Barry, all three dazed and hungover, eating ibuprofen, and bitching about what to do next. Reporters were camped outside the building—they’d actually filmed him as he left the Governor’s Mansion that morning at 7:30 with his security detail, something he did five days a week, as if such a movement were now breaking news. The office was being flooded with calls, faxes, e-mails, letters, people, even packages.

Barry said, “It’s a shit storm, growing worse by the minute. Thirty-one editorials yesterday, coast-to-coast, another seventeen today. At this rate, every newspaper in the country will take a shot. Nonstop yakking on cable, experts popping up by the dozens with advice on what to do next.”

“And what should we do next?” the governor asked.

“Moratoriums, moratoriums. Give up capital punishment, or at least study it to death.”

“Polls?”

“The polls say we screwed up, but it’s too early for something like this. Give it a few days, let the aftershocks die down, then we’ll ease back into the market. I suspect we’ll lose a few points, but my guess is at least 65 percent are still in favor of the needle. Wayne?”

Wayne was buried in his laptop, but not missing a word. “Sixty-nine, still my favorite number.”

“I’ll split it,” the governor said. “Sixty-seven. All in?”

Barry and Wayne gave a quick thumbs-up. The standard polling bet was now in play—each of the three with $100 on the line.

The governor walked to his favorite window for the hundredth time, but saw nothing outside. “I gotta talk to someone. Staying in here and ignoring the press makes me look like I’m hiding.”

“You are so hiding,” Barry said.

“Find me an interview with someone we can trust.”

“There’s always Fox. I talked to Chuck Monahand two hours ago, and he would love to have a chat. He’s harmless and his numbers are way up.”

“Will he give us the questions ahead of time?”

“Of course he will. He’ll do anything.”

“I like it. Wayne?”

Wayne cracked his knuckles with enough force to break them, then said, “Not so fast. What’s the urgency? Sure you’re hunkered down, but give it some time. Let’s think of where we’ll be a week from now.”

“My guess is that we’ll be right here,” Barry said. “With the door locked, pulling our hair out and trying to decide what to do next.”

“But it’s such a big moment,” the governor said. “I hate to let it pass.”

“Let it pass,” Wayne said. “You look bad right now, Gov, and there’s no way to fix that. What we need is time, and lots of it. I say we lie low, dodge the bullets, let the press chew on Koffee and the cops and the court of appeals. Let a month go by. It won’t be pleasant, but the clock will not stop.”

“I say we go to Fox,” Barry said.

“And I say we don’t,” Wayne shot back. “I say we cook up a trade mission to China and leave for ten days. Explore foreign markets, more outlets for Texas products, more jobs for our people.”

“I did that three months ago,” Newton said. “I hate Chinese food.”

“You’ll look weak,” Barry said. “Running away smack in the middle of the biggest story since that last hurricane. Bad idea.”

“I agree. I’m not leaving.”

“Then can I go to China?” Wayne asked.

“No. What time is it?” The governor wore a watch, and there were at least three clocks in his office. When that question was asked late in the afternoon, it meant only one thing. Barry stepped to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon.

The governor sat behind his massive desk and took a sip. “When is the next execution?” he asked Wayne. His lawyer punched keys, stared at his laptop, and said, “Sixteen days.”

Barry said, “Oh, boy.”

“Who is it?” Newton asked.

Wayne said, “Drifty Tucker. Male, white, fifty-one years old, Panola County, killed his wife when he caught her in bed with the next-door neighbor. Shot the neighbor too, eight times. Had to reload.”

“Is that a crime?” Barry asked.

“Not in my book,” Newton said. “No claim of innocence?”

“Nope. He claimed insanity, but it looks as if the reloading bit nailed him.”

“Can we get a court somewhere to issue a stay?” Newton asked. “I’d rather not deal with it.”

“I’ll work on it.”

The governor took another sip, shook his head, and mumbled, “Just what we need right now, another execution.”

Wayne suddenly reacted as if he’d been slapped. “Get a load of this. Robbie Flak just filed a lawsuit in state court in Chester County, naming a bunch of defendants; one of them is the Honorable Gill Newton, Governor. Fifty million dollars in damages for the wrongful death of Donté Drumm.”

“He can’t do that,” the governor said.

“He just did. Looks like he e-mailed a copy of it to all defendants, as well as to every newspaper in the state.”

“I’m immune.”

“Of course you are, but you’ve been sued anyway.”

Barry sat down and began scratching his hair. The governor closed his eyes and mumbled to himself. Wayne gawked at his laptop, mouth wide open. A bad day just took a turn for the worse.