The Confession (12 page)

“I was more interested in—”

“From soup to nuts, it takes about two million bucks to legally kill a man in Texas. Compare that with the $30,000 it costs per year to keep one on death row.”

“I’ve heard this before,” Martha said, and indeed she had. Robbie never shied away from his soapbox, especially when the subject was the death penalty, one of his many favorites.

“But what the hell. We have plenty of money in Texas.”

“Can we talk about Donté Drumm’s case?”

“Oh, why not?”

“The defense fund. You—”

“Established a few years back, a certified nonprofit governed by all relevant code sections set forth by the Internal Revenue Service. Administered jointly by my office and Andrea Bolton, younger sister of Donté Drumm. Receipts so far total how much, Bonnie?”

“Ninety-five thousand dollars.”

“Ninety-five thousand dollars. And how much is on hand?”

“Zero.”

“That’s what I figured. Would you like a breakdown of where the money went?”

“Maybe. Where did it go?”

“Litigation expenses, law firm expenses, expert witnesses, a few bucks to the family to travel back and forth to see Donté. Not exactly a high-powered nonprofit. All moneys have been raised through the Internet. Frankly, we haven’t had the time or manpower to pursue fund-raising.”

“Who are the donors?”

“Mostly Brits and Europeans. The average donation is something like twenty bucks.”

“Eighteen fifty,” Bonnie said.

“It’s very hard to raise money for a convicted murderer, regardless of his story.”

“How much are you out of pocket?” Martha asked.

There was no rapid response. Bonnie, finally stumped, gave a slight shrug from the front seat. “I don’t know,” Robbie said. “If I had to guess, it would be at least $50,000, maybe a hundred. Maybe I should’ve spent more.”

Phones were buzzing throughout the van. Sammie at the office had a question for the boss. Kristi Hinze was talking to another psychiatrist. Aaron was listening to someone as he drove.

———

The party began early with sweet potato biscuits straight from Reeva’s oven. She loved to cook them, and eat them, and when Sean Fordyce admitted he’d never eaten one, she feigned disbelief. By the time he arrived, with his hairdresser, makeup girl, appointment secretary, and publicist, all hustling around him, the home of Reeva and Wallis Pike was crammed with neighbors and friends. The thick smell of fried country ham wafted out the front door. Two long trucks were backed into the driveway, and even the crew members were chomping on biscuits.

Fordyce, an Irish ass from Long Island, was slightly irritated by the crowd, but put on his game face and signed autographs. He was the star. These were his fans. They bought his books, watched his show, and gave him his ratings. He posed for a few photographs, ate a biscuit with ham, and seemed to like it. He was pudgy, with a doughy face, not exactly the traditional looks of a star, but that didn’t matter anymore. He wore dark suits and funky eyeglasses that made him appear far more intelligent than he acted.

The set was in Reeva’s room, the large addition stuck to the rear of the house like a cancerous growth. Reeva and Wallis were situated on a sofa, with color blowups of Nicole as the backdrop. Wallis wore a tie and looked as if he’d just been ordered out of his bedroom, which in fact he had. Reeva was heavily made up, her hair freshly colored and permed, and she wore her finest black dress. Fordyce sat in a chair, close to them. He was tended to by his handlers, who sprayed his hair and powdered
his forehead. The crew fussed with the lighting. Sound checks were done. Monitors were adjusted. The neighbors were packed in tight behind the cameras with stern instructions not to make a sound.

The producer said, “Quiet! We’re rolling.”

Close-up on Fordyce as he welcomed his audience to another episode. He explained where he was, whom he was interviewing, and the basis of the crime, the confession, and the conviction. “If all goes as expected,” he said gravely, “Mr. Drumm will be executed the day after tomorrow.”

He introduced the mother and the stepfather and, of course, passed along his condolences for this tragedy. He thanked them for opening their home so that the world, through his cameras, could witness the suffering. He began with Nicole. “Tell us about her,” he almost pleaded.

Wallis made no effort to speak, something he would do throughout the interview. This was Reeva’s show. She was excited and over-stimulated and after just a few words began crying. But she had cried in public for so long that she could now chatter away while the tears flowed. She went on and on about her daughter.

“Do you miss her?” Fordyce asked, one of his patented inane questions designed only to elicit more emotion.

Reeva gave it to him. He handed her the white handkerchief from his coat pocket. Linen. The man oozed compassion.

He finally got around to the execution, which was the thrust of his program. “Do you still plan to be there?” he asked, certain of the answer.

“Oh yes,” she said, and Wallis managed to nod.

“Why? What will it mean to you?”

“It means so much,” she said. The thought of revenge dried the tears. “This animal took my daughter’s life. He deserves to die and I want to be there, to stare him in the eyes when he takes his last breath.”

“Do you think he’ll look at you?”

“I doubt it. He’s a coward. Any human who could do what he did to my precious little girl, I doubt he’ll be man enough to look at me.”

“What about his last words? Do you want an apology?”

“Yes, but I’m not expecting one. He has never taken responsibility for what he did.”

“He confessed.”

“Yes, but then he changed his mind and he’s denied it ever since. I expect he’ll deny it when they strap him down and he says good-bye.”

“Anticipate for us, Reeva. Tell us how you think you’ll feel when he’s pronounced dead.”

Just the thought made her smile, but she quickly caught herself. “Relief, sadness, I don’t know. It’ll be the closing of another chapter in a long, sad story. But it won’t be the end.”

Wallis frowned slightly upon learning this.

“What’s the final chapter here, Reeva?”

“When you lose a child, Sean, especially one taken in such a violent way, there is no end.”

“There is no end,” he repeated somberly, then turned to the camera, and, with every effort at great drama, said again, “There is no end.”

They took a quick break, moved some cameras, and added more spray to Fordyce’s hair. And when they rolled again, he managed to get a few grunts from Wallis, stuff that wouldn’t last ten seconds in editing.

The filming was over in less than an hour. Fordyce made a quick exit—he was also working on an execution in Florida. He made sure everyone knew there was a jet waiting to take him there. One of his camera crews would hang around Slone for the next two days, hoping for violence.

Fordyce would be in Huntsville on Thursday night, looking for drama, praying the execution would not be put off. His favorite part of his show was the post-execution interview when he got the victim’s family fresh from the prison. They were usually emotional wrecks, and he knew that Reeva would light up the screen.

I
t took Dana almost two hours of persistent calling and cajoling to find the right deputy clerk willing to dig through the right record logs to determine that, yes, in fact, one Travis Boyette was arrested for drunk driving in Slone, Texas, on January 6, 1999. After he was jailed, more serious charges were added. He had posted bond, then skipped town. The charges were dismissed and the file was closed when Mr. Boyette was arrested and sentenced to ten years in prison in Kansas. The clerk explained the procedure in Slone was to dispose of cases that would not or could not be pursued. There were no outstanding warrants on him, at least not in Slone and Chester County.

Keith, who’d been unable to sleep and brewed the first pot of coffee at 3:30 a.m., called Mr. Flak’s office the first time at 7:30 a.m. He was not entirely certain what he would say to the lawyer if he got him on the phone, but he and Dana had decided they could not sit by and do nothing. When he was stiff-armed by Flak’s receptionist, he called another lawyer.

Matthew Burns was an assistant prosecutor and an active member of St. Mark’s. He and Keith were the same age and had coached their sons’
T-ball teams together. Luckily, Burns was not in trial Tuesday morning, but was still quite busy in court with first appearances and other routine matters. Keith found the right courtroom, one of several in the courthouse, and from a seat in the back row watched the flow of justice. After an hour, he was fidgeting and ready to leave, though he wasn’t sure where to go. Burns finished another appearance before the judge, stuffed his paperwork into his briefcase, and headed for the door. He nodded at Keith, who followed. They found a quiet place in the bustling corridors, a well-used wooden bench near a stairwell.

“You look like hell,” Burns began pleasantly.

“Thanks. I’m not sure that’s a nice way to greet your minister. I couldn’t sleep last night, Matthew. Not one minute. Did you look at the Web site?”

“Yes, for about ten minutes at the office. I’d never heard of Drumm, but then these cases tend to run together now. They’re pretty routine down there.”

“Drumm’s innocent, Matthew,” Keith said with a certainty that surprised his friend.

“Well, that’s what the Web site says. But he’s not the first killer who claimed to be innocent.”

The two had rarely talked about the law or any issue related to the death penalty. Keith assumed that, as a prosecutor, Matthew supported it. “The killer is here in Topeka, Matthew. He was in church Sunday morning, probably in a pew not far from you and your family.”

“You have my attention.”

“He’s just been paroled, spending ninety days at the halfway house, and he’s dying of a brain tumor. He stopped by the office yesterday for counseling. He has a long history of sexual assaults. I’ve talked to him twice, and he’s admitted, in confidence of course, he raped and killed the girl. He knows where the body is buried. He doesn’t want Drumm to be executed, but he doesn’t want to come forward either. He’s a mess, Matthew, a real sick psycho who’ll be dead himself in a few months.”

Matthew exhaled and shook his head as if he’d been slapped. “May I ask why you’re in the middle of this?”

“I don’t know. I just am. I know the truth. The question is, how does one go about stopping an execution?”

“Good God, Keith.”

“Yes, I’ve talked to him too and I’m still waiting on His guidance. But until it comes, I need some from you. I’ve called the defense lawyer’s office in Texas, but that went nowhere.”

“Don’t you have to keep these matters in confidence?”

“Yes. And I will. But what if the murderer decides to come clean, to tell the truth, to try to save this man from being executed? What then? How do we go about it?”

“We? Not so fast, buddy.”

“Help me here, Matthew. I don’t understand the law. I’ve read the Web site until I’m cross-eyed, and the more I read, the more confused I become. How do you convict a man of murder when there is no dead body? How do you believe a confession that was so obviously coerced by the police? Why are jailhouse snitches allowed to testify in return for lighter sentences? How can a black defendant get an all-white jury? How can the jurors be so blind? Where are the appellate courts? I have a long list of questions.”

“And I can’t answer all of them, Keith. Seems, though, that the only important one is the first—how do you stop the execution?”

“I’m asking you, pal, you’re the lawyer.”

“Okay, okay. Let me think for a minute. You need some coffee, don’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve only had a gallon.”

They walked down a flight of stairs to a small canteen where they found a table in a corner. Keith bought the coffee, and when he sat down, Matthew said, “You gotta have the body. If your man can produce the body, then Drumm’s lawyers could probably get a stay from the courts. If not, the governor might delay the execution. I’m not sure how the mechanics work down there. Every state is different. Without the body, though, your man will sound like just another quack that shows up looking for attention. Keep in mind, Keith, that there will be the usual last-minute filings. These death-penalty lawyers know how to play
the system, and a lot of executions get delayed. You may have more time than you think.”

“Texas is pretty efficient.”

“Good point.”

“Two years ago, Drumm came within a week of execution. Something clicked in a federal court filing, don’t ask me what. I read it last night and I’m still confused. Anyway, according to the Web site, a last-minute miracle is unlikely now. Drumm’s had his miracle. His luck has run out.”

“Finding the body is crucial. That’s the only clear proof that your man is telling the truth. Do you know where it is? If you do, don’t tell me. Just tell me if you know.”

“No. He’s told me the state, the nearby town, the general location, but he’s also said that he hid it so well he may have trouble finding it.”

“Is it in Texas?”

“Missouri.”

Matthew shook his head. He took a long drink and said, “What if this guy is just another lying con, Keith. I see a dozen a day. They lie about everything. They lie out of habit. They lie when the truth would be of far greater help to themselves. They lie on the witness stand and they lie to their own lawyers. And the longer they stay in prison, the more they lie.”

“He has her class ring, Matthew. Wears it on a cheap little chain around his neck. He stalked the girl; he was obsessed with her. He showed me the ring. I held it and inspected it.”

“You’re sure it’s real?”

“If you saw it, you would say it’s real.”

Another long drink. Matthew glanced at his watch.

“You gotta go?”

“Five minutes. Is this guy willing to go to Texas and proclaim the truth?”

“I don’t know. He says that if he leaves this jurisdiction, he violates his parole.”

“He’s not lying about that. But if he’s dying, why does he really care?”