The Confession (15 page)
Authors: John Grisham
T
HE
K
OFFEE
-G
RALE
S
CANDAL
The prosecution of Donté Drumm was led by Paul Koffee, the district attorney for Slone and Chester County. The presiding judge at Donté’s trial was Vivian Grale. Both Koffee and Grale were elected officials. At the time of the trial, Koffee had been in office for thirteen years. Grale had been on the bench for five. Koffee was married to his wife, Sara, and they had, and still have, three children. Grale was married to her husband, Frank, and they had, and still have, two children.
The Koffees are now divorced, as are the Grales.
The only significant motion filed by the defense that was granted by Judge Grale was a request to change the venue of the trial. Given its sensational nature and extensive coverage in the media, a fair trial was impossible in Slone. Attorneys for Donté wanted to move it far away, and they suggested either Amarillo or Lubbock, each about five hundred miles from Slone. Judge Grale granted the request—experts agree that she really had no choice, to have the trial in Slone would have been to create certain reversible error—and she decided to hold it in Paris, Texas. The courthouse in Paris is exactly forty-nine miles from the courthouse in Slone. After the conviction, attorneys for Donté argued vehemently on appeal that trying the case in Paris was no different from trying it in Slone. Indeed, during the jury selection process, over half of the prospective jurors admitted they had heard something about the case.
Other than the change of venue, Judge Grale showed no patience with the defense. Her most crucial ruling was to allow Donté’s coerced confession. Without it, the prosecution had no case, no evidence, nothing. The confession was their case.
But other rulings were almost as damaging. The police and prosecutors used a favorite tactic when they produced a jailhouse snitch by the name of Ricky Stone. Stone was in jail on drug charges and agreed to cooperate with Detective
Kerber and the Slone police. He was placed in a cell with Donté Drumm for four days, then removed. Donté never saw him again until the trial. Stone testified that Donté talked openly about the rape and murder of Nicole and said that he went crazy after she broke up with him. They had been dating secretly for several months, they were in love, but she became frightened and worried that her wealthy father would cut off the money if he knew she was seeing a black guy. Stone testified that he had been promised nothing by the prosecutor in return for his testimony. Two months after Donté was convicted, Stone pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor and walked out of jail.
Stone had an extensive criminal record and zero credibility. He was a classic jailhouse snitch, fabricating testimony in return for a lighter sentence. Judge Grale allowed him to testify.
Stone later recanted and said he’d been pressured by Detective Kerber and Paul Koffee to lie.
Judge Grale also permitted testimony that had been discredited for many years in many jurisdictions. During the search for Nicole, the police used bloodhounds to sniff around for clues. The dogs were given a scent from Nicole’s car and some articles in it, and turned loose. The trails led nowhere, that is, until Donté was arrested. The police then allowed the bloodhounds to sniff through the green Ford van owned by the Drumm family. According to the dogs’ handler, the dogs became excited, agitated, and showed every sign of picking up Nicole’s scent in the van. This unreliable testimony was first played out in a pretrial hearing. Attorneys for Donté were incredulous and demanded to know how they were supposed to cross-examine a bloodhound. Attorney Robbie Flak was so outraged that he called one of the dogs, a bloodhound named Yogi, a “stupid son of a bitch.” Judge Grale held him in contempt and fined him $100. Remarkably, the dogs’ principal handler was still allowed to testify at trial, and stated to the jury that after thirty years of experience with bloodhounds, he was “absolutely certain” that Yogi had picked up Nicole’s scent in the green van. He was eviscerated on cross-examination by Robbie Flak, who at one point demanded to have the dog brought to the courtroom, sworn in, and put in the witness chair.
Judge Grale exhibited animosity toward the defense lawyers, especially Robbie Flak. She was much more agreeable with Paul Koffee.
And with good reason. Six years after the trial, it became known that the
judge and the prosecutor were involved in a long-running illicit romance. The affair came to light when a disgruntled ex-secretary in Mr. Koffee’s office filed a claim for sexual harassment and produced e-mails, phone records, and even phone recordings that revealed her ex-boss’s involvement with Judge Grale. Lawsuits followed, as did divorces.
Judge Grale resigned from the bench in disgrace and left Slone while her divorce was pending. Paul Koffee was reelected without opposition in 2006, but only after promising to quit when the term was over.
Attorneys for Donté sought relief because of the obvious conflict of interest between the judge and the prosecutor. The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals said that while the affair was “unfortunate” and “could possibly give the appearance of impropriety,” it did not violate the defendant’s right to a fair trial. Relief in the federal courts was just as elusive.
In 2005, Paul Koffee filed a defamation suit against Robbie Flak for statements Flak made in an interview about Koffee’s intimate involvement with his trial judge. Flak countersued Koffee for a myriad of offenses. The litigation is still pending.
———
Hours later, when the lights were off and the house was quiet, Keith and Dana stared at the ceiling and debated whether they should go look for the sleeping pills. Both were exhausted, but sleep seemed impossible. They were tired of reading about the case, discussing it, tired of worrying about a young black man on death row whom they had never heard of until the day before, and they were especially frustrated with the newest person in their lives, one Travis Boyette. Keith was certain he was telling the truth. Dana was leaning that way but was still skeptical because of his disgusting criminal record. They were tired of arguing about it.
If Boyette was telling the truth, could they be the only people in the world who knew for certain that Texas was about to execute the wrong man? If so, what could they do? How could they do anything if Boyette refused to admit the truth? And if he changed his mind and decided to admit the truth, what were they supposed to do about it? Slone was four
hundred miles away, and they didn’t know anyone there. Why should they? They’d never heard of the place until yesterday.
The questions raged through the night, and the answers were nowhere to be found. They decided to watch the digital clock until midnight, and, if still awake, go find the pills.
At 11:04 p.m., the phone rang and startled them. Dana hit a light switch. The caller ID read, “St. Fran. Hospital.”
“It’s him,” she said. Keith picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”
“Sorry to call so late, Pastor,” Boyette said in a low, strained voice.
“It’s okay, Travis. We were not asleep.”
“How’s your cute little wife?”
“Fine. Look, Travis, I’m sure you’re calling for a reason.”
“Yes, sorry, Pastor. I really want to see the girl again, you know what I mean?”
Keith held the receiver so Dana could squeeze in with her left ear. He did not want to repeat everything afterward. “I’m not sure what you mean, Travis,” he said.
“The girl, Nicole, my little Nikki. I’m not long for this world, Pastor. I’m still in the hospital, an IV in my arm, all kinds of dope in my blood, and the doctors are telling me that it won’t be long. I’m half-dead now, Pastor, and I don’t like the thought of kicking the bucket without one last visit with Nikki.”
“She’s been dead for nine years.”
“No shit. I was there, remember. It was awful, what I did to her was just awful, and I’ve apologized before, several times, face-to-face. But I gotta go again, tell her just once more how sorry I am about what happened. You know what I mean, Pastor?”
“No, Travis, I have no idea what you mean.”
“She’s still there, okay? She’s where I left her.”
“You said you probably couldn’t find her now.”
There was a long pause as Travis seemed to recall this. “I know where she is,” he said.
“Great, Travis. Then go find her. Go dig her up and look at her bones and tell her you’re sorry. Then what? You’ll feel better about
yourself? Meanwhile, an innocent man gets the needle for your crime. I have an idea, Travis. After you tell Nicole you’re sorry one last time, why don’t you go to Slone and stop by the cemetery, find Donté’s grave, and tell him you’re sorry too?”
Dana turned and frowned at her husband. Travis took another pause, and then said, “I don’t want that boy to die, Pastor.”
“That’s really hard to believe, Travis. You’ve kept quiet for nine years while he’s been accused and persecuted. You’ve wasted yesterday and today, and if you keep flip-flopping, the time will run out and he’ll be dead.”
“I can’t stop it.”
“You can try. You can go to Slone and tell the authorities where the body is buried. You can admit the truth, show them the ring, make plenty of noise. I’m sure the reporters and cameras would love you. Who knows, maybe a judge or the governor will take notice. I don’t have a lot of experience in these matters, Travis, but it seems to me that they might find it difficult to execute Donté Drumm when you’re on television claiming you killed Nicole and you acted alone.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“Rent one.”
“I haven’t had a driver’s license in ten years.”
“Take a bus.”
“I don’t have the money for a bus ticket, Pastor.”
“I’ll loan you the money. No, I’ll give you the money for a one-way bus ticket to Slone.”
“What if I have a seizure on the bus, or black out? Hell, they might kick me off in Podunk, Oklahoma.”
“You’re playing games, Travis.”
“You gotta take me, Reverend. Just me and you. If you’ll drive me down there, I’ll tell the truth about what really happened. I’ll take them to the body. We can stop the execution, but you gotta go with me.”
“Why me?”
“Ain’t nobody else around right now, Pastor.”
“I have a better idea. Tomorrow morning, let’s go downtown to the
prosecutor’s office. I have a friend there. You tell him the story. Maybe we can convince him to call the prosecutor in Slone, as well as the police chief and defense lawyer and, I don’t know, maybe even a judge somewhere. They’ll listen to him a lot quicker than they’ll listen to a Lutheran minister who knows nothing about the criminal justice system. We can video your statement, send it immediately to the authorities in Texas, send it to the newspapers too. How about it, Travis? You won’t violate parole. I won’t get in trouble by helping you.”
Dana was nodding her approval. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Finally, Travis said, “Maybe it’ll work, Pastor. Maybe we can stop the execution, but there’s no way they’re finding her. I have to be there for that.”
“Let’s concentrate on stopping it.”
“They’re discharging me tomorrow morning at nine.”
“I’ll be there, Travis. The prosecutor’s office is not far away.”
Five seconds, ten seconds. “I like it, Pastor. Let’s do it.”
———
At 1:00 a.m., Dana found the bottle of over-the-counter sleeping aids, but an hour later they were still awake. The trip to Texas occupied them. They had discussed it briefly once before, but were so afraid of it they had not pursued the conversation. The idea was ludicrous—Keith in Slone with a serial sex offender of dubious credibility, trying to get someone to listen to a bizarre tale while the town counted down the final hours of Donté Drumm. The unlikely pair would be ridiculed, maybe even shot. And upon his return to Kansas, the Reverend Keith Schroeder could find himself accused of a crime for which there would be no defense. His job and career could hang in the balance. All because of a lowlife like Travis Boyette.
W
ednesday morning. Six hours after leaving his office just after midnight, Robbie was back in the conference room preparing for another frantic day. The night had not gone well. The drinking session with Fred Pryor and Joey Gamble produced nothing, except an admission by Gamble that Mr. Koffee had indeed called and reminded him of the penalties for perjury. Robbie had listened to the entire session. Pryor, who over the years had become masterful with his recording devices, had used the same pen mike and passed along their conversation through a cell phone. The sound quality was remarkable. Robbie had enjoyed a few drinks along with them, in his office, with Martha Handler sipping bourbon and Carlos, the paralegal, drinking beer and monitoring the speakerphone. They all had enjoyed their booze for almost two hours, Joey and Fred in a fake saloon somewhere outside of Houston, and the Flak Law Firm hard at work at the office in the old train station. After two hours, though, Joey had had enough—even beers—and said he was tired of being pressured. He could not accept the reality that a last-minute affidavit signed by him would repudiate his testimony at trial.
He did not want to call himself a liar, though he stopped short of admitting he’d lied.
“Donté should not have confessed,” he said several times, as if uttering a false confession were grounds enough for a death sentence.
But Pryor would shadow him throughout Wednesday and Thursday, if necessary. He believed there was still a slight chance, one that increased as the hours went by.
At 7:00 a.m., the firm gathered in the conference room for the daily briefing. All were present, all bleary-eyed and fatigued and ready for the final push. Dr. Kristi Hinze had worked through the night and finished her report. She summarized it briefly while everyone ate pastries and gulped coffee. The report was forty-five pages long, more than the court would want to read, but maybe enough to get someone’s attention. Her findings surprised no one, at least no one within the Flak Law Firm. She described her examination of Donté Drumm. She had reviewed his medical and psychological history while in prison. She had read 260 letters he had written over the eight years he’d been on death row. He was schizophrenic, psychotic, delusional, and depressed and did not understand what was happening to him. She went on to condemn solitary confinement as a means of incarceration and again labeled it as a cruel form of torture.