The Confession

CHAPTER 41

The summons from the bishop came by e-mail early Thursday morning, and was confirmed by a brief phone conversation in which nothing of substance was discussed. By 9:00 a.m., Keith and Dana were once again on the road, this time headed southwest on Interstate 35 to Wichita. As he drove, Keith recalled the same journey only a week earlier, same car, same radio station, but with a very different passenger. He had finally convinced Dana that Boyette was crazy enough to stalk her. The man had been arrested innumerable times, so he wasn’t the craftiest criminal on the prowl. Until he was caught, Keith would not let his wife out of his sight.

Keith was ignoring the office and the church. Dana’s nonprofit work and jam-packed daily planners had been placed aside. Only the family mattered at the moment. If they had the flexibility, and the money, Keith and Dana would have loaded up the boys and taken a long trip. She was concerned about her husband. He had witnessed a uniquely disturbing event, a tragedy that would haunt him forever, and though he’d been thoroughly unable to stop it or intervene in any manner, he was nonetheless burdened by it. He had told her several times how dirty he felt when the execution was over, how he wanted to go somewhere and take a shower, to cleanse himself of the perspiration and grime and fatigue and complicity. He wasn’t sleeping and he wasn’t eating, and around the boys he worked hard to carry on the usual banter and games, but it was forced. Keith was detached, and as the days passed, she was beginning to realize that he was not snapping out of it. He seemed to have forgotten about the church. He had not mentioned a sermon or anything related to the upcoming Sunday. There was a pile of phone messages on his desk, all waiting to be returned. He’d corralled their assistant minister into presiding over the Wednesday night dinner, blaming it on a migraine. He’d never had a migraine, never faked being ill, and never asked someone to pinch-hit in any situation. When he wasn’t reading about the Drumm case, or researching the death penalty, he was watching cable news, some of the same segments over and over. Something was brewing.

———

The bishop was a man named Simon Priester, a huge round ball of an old man who was married to the church and had absolutely nothing else to do but micromanage those under him. Though only in his early fifties, he looked and acted much older, with no hair except matching white patches above the ears, and a grotesque abdomen that bulged out and hung grossly over the hips. There had never been a wife to scold him about his weight, or make sure his socks matched, or do something about the stains on his shirt. He spoke in soft slow words, hands usually clasped in front of him, as if waiting for every word to come from above. Behind his back, he was known as the Monk, usually in an affectionate tone, though often otherwise. Twice a year, on the second Sunday in March and the third Sunday in September, the Monk insisted on preaching at St. Mark’s in Topeka. He was a crowd killer. The few who came to hear him were the hardiest of the flock, but even they had to be cajoled into attending by Keith, Dana, and the staff. Because of the slim crowds, the Monk was overly concerned about the health of St. Mark’s. If you only knew, thought Keith, who couldn’t imagine larger crowds at other churches on the Monk’s tour.

The meeting was not urgent, though the initial e-mail began with “Dear Keith: I am deeply concerned …” Simon had suggested a possible lunch, his favorite pastime, sometime the following week, but Keith had little else to do. In truth, a quick trip to Wichita gave him an excuse to leave town and spend the day with Dana.

“I’m sure you’ve seen this,” Simon said after they were properly arranged at a small table with coffee and frozen croissants. It was a copy of an editorial in the morning edition of the Topeka paper, something Keith had read three times before sunrise.

“I have,” Keith said. With the Monk, it was always safer to use as few words as possible. He was brilliant in taking the loose ones, piecing them together, and tying them around your neck.

Hands clasped, after a bite of croissant that had not been fully consumed because a large crumb was stuck on his lower lip, the Monk said, “Don’t get me wrong here, Keith, we are quite proud of you. What courage. You threw caution to the wind and raced off to a war zone to save a man’s life. Dazzling, actually.”

“Thank you, Simon, but I don’t remember feeling that brave. I just reacted.”

“Right, right. But you must’ve been terrified. What was it like, Keith? The violence, death row, being with Boyette? Must’ve been horrible.”

The last thing Keith wanted to do was tell the story, but the Monk looked so eager. “Come on, Simon, you’ve read the papers,” Keith tried to protest. “You know what happened.”

“Keith, humor me. What really happened?”

So Keith bored himself while humoring the Monk, who added to the narrative every fifteen seconds with a bewildered “Unbelievable” or a clucking “My, my.” Once, while he was shaking his head, the crumb was dislodged and fell into his coffee, but the Monk did not notice. In this rendition, Keith chose the chilling phone call from Boyette as the final chapter.

“My, my.”

Typical of the Monk, they had begun with the unpleasant—the editorial—then switched to the enjoyable—Keith’s brave journey south—and suddenly it was back to the real purpose of the meeting. The first two paragraphs of the editorial commended Keith on his courage, but that was just the warm-up. The remainder chastised him for knowingly violating the law, though the editors, like the lawyers, struggled to set forth the exact violation.

“I assume you’re getting top-notch legal advice,” the Monk said, obviously anxious to give his version of the necessary advice, if Keith would only ask.

“I have a good lawyer.”

“And?”

“Come on, Simon. You understand the nature of confidential relationships.”

The Monk’s overloaded spine managed to stiffen. Chastised, he plowed on. “Of course. I didn’t mean to pry, but this does have our attention, Keith. There is the suggestion that there could be a criminal investigation, that you could be in hot water, so to speak, and so on. This is hardly private.”

“I’m guilty of something, Simon. I did it, plain and simple. My lawyer thinks that I may one day find it necessary to plead guilty to some vague obstruction of justice charge. No jail. Small fine. Record to be expunged later. There.”

The Monk ate the last of his croissant with one savage bite and chewed on matters for a while. He washed it down with a slug of coffee. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and, when everything was properly cleared, said, “Assume you plead guilty to something, Keith, what would you expect from the church?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I had two choices, Simon. Play it safe, stay in Kansas, and hope for the best. Or I could do what I did. Imagine for a moment, Simon, if I had done otherwise, if I had known the truth about who killed the girl and I had been too timid to move. They execute the wrong man, they find the body, and for the rest of my life I carry the guilt of not trying to intervene. What would you have done, Simon?”

“We admire you, Keith, honestly,” the Monk replied softly, completely ducking the question. “What concerns us, though, is the prospect of a prosecution, one of our ministers accused of a crime, and in a very public way.”

The Monk often used the word “us” when driving home a point, as if all the important leaders in the Christian world were focused on whatever pressing matter the Monk had on his agenda.

“And if I plead guilty?” Keith asked.

“That should be avoided, if at all possible.”

“And if I’m forced to?”

The Monk shifted his sizable frame, yanked on the sagging lobe of his left ear, then re-clasped his hands, as if ready to pray. “Our synodical policies would require the initiating of a disciplinary procedure. Any criminal conviction would mandate this, Keith, I’m sure you understand. We can’t have our ministers going to court with their lawyers, standing before judges, pleading guilty, getting sentenced, with the media stumbling all over themselves. Especially in a case like this. Think about the church, Keith.”

“How would I be punished?”

“It’s all premature, Keith. Let’s worry about it later. I just wanted to have the first conversation, that’s all.”

“I want to get this straight, Simon. I stand a very good chance of being disciplined, whether suspended, placed on leave, perhaps defrocked, for doing something that you deem admirable and the church is very proud of. Right?”

“Right, Keith, but let’s not jump the gun here. If you can avoid prosecution, the problem is averted.”

“Happily ever after.”

“Something like that. Just keep us in the loop. We prefer to hear the news from you, not the newspaper.”

Keith nodded, his mind already drifting away.

———

Classes resumed without incident Thursday morning at the high school. When the students arrived, they were greeted by the football team, again wearing their home jerseys. The coaches and cheerleaders were there too, at the main entrance, smiling and shaking hands and trying to set a mood of reconciliation. Inside, in the lobby, Roberta, Cedric, Marvin, and Andrea chatted with the students and teachers.

———

Nicole Yarber was buried in a private ceremony at 4:00 on Thursday afternoon, almost exactly one week after the execution of Donté Drumm. There was no formal funeral or memorial service; Reeva simply wasn’t up to it. She was advised by two close friends that a large, showy service would not be well attended, unless reporters were allowed. Besides, the First Baptist Church had no sanctuary, and the thought of borrowing one from a rival denomination was not appealing.

A strong police presence kept the cameras far away. Reeva was sick of those people. For the first time in nine years, she ran from publicity. She and Wallis invited close to a hundred family members and friends, and virtually all showed up. There were a few prominent no-shows. Nicole’s father was excluded because he had not bothered to witness the execution, though, as Reeva was forced to admit to herself in hindsight, she wished that she had not witnessed it either. Things had become quite complicated in Reeva’s world, and not inviting Cliff Yarber seemed appropriate at that moment. She would regret it later. She would not regret excluding Drew Kerber and Paul Koffee, two men she now loathed. They had misled her, betrayed her, and wounded her so deeply that she would never recover.

As the architects of the wrongful conviction, Kerber and Koffee had a list of victims that was growing steadily. Reeva and her family had been added.

Brother Ronnie, who was as weary of Reeva as he was of the media, presided with a subdued dignity that fitted the occasion. He spoke and read scripture, and as he did so, he noticed the perplexed and stunned faces of those in attendance. All were white, and all had been convinced beyond any doubt that the remains in the bronze coffin before them had been swept away by the Red River years earlier. If any had ever felt the slightest sympathy for Donté Drumm and his family, they had kept it from their pastor. They had relished the thought of retribution and execution, as had he. Brother Ronnie was trying to make peace with God and find forgiveness. He wondered how many of those present were doing the same. However, he did not wish to offend anyone, especially Reeva, so his message was on the lighter side. He had never known Nicole, but he managed to recount her life with stories shared by her friends. He assured everyone that Nicole had been with her Father in heaven all these years. In heaven, there is no sorrow, so she was oblivious to the suffering of the loved ones she left behind.

A hymn, a solo, another reading of scripture, and the service ended in less than an hour. Nicole Yarber finally received a proper burial.

———

Paul Koffee waited until after dark to slip into his office. He typed a terse letter of resignation and e-mailed it to Judge Henry, with a copy to the clerk of the court. He typed a slightly longer explanation to his staff and e-mailed it without bothering to check for typos. He hurriedly dumped the contents of his center desk drawer into a box, then grabbed whatever valuables he could carry. An hour later, he walked out of his office for the last time.

His car was packed and he was headed west, a long road trip with Alaska as the likely destination. He had no itinerary, no real plans, no desire to return to Slone in the near future. Ideally, he would never return, but with Flak breathing fire down his neck he knew that was not possible. He would be dragged back for all manner of abuse—an arduous deposition that would go on for days, a likely date with a disciplinary committee from the state bar, perhaps a punishing ordeal with federal investigators. His future would not be pretty. He was fairly certain he would not face the prospect of jail, but he also knew he could not survive financially and professionally.

Paul Koffee was ruined, and he knew it.