The Confession (21 page)

“Watch your language, son. Look, I’m on the road headed for Texas, traveling with a man named Travis Boyette, a nice gentleman who visited our church last Sunday. You may have seen him. Walks with a cane. Anyway, Travis here has a confession to make to the authorities in Texas, a small town called Slone, and we’re dashing off to stop an execution.”

Matthew’s voice cleared quickly. “Have you lost your mind, Keith? You’ve got that guy in the car?”

“Oh yes, left Topeka about an hour ago. The reason I’m calling, Matt, is to ask for your help.”

“I’ll give you some help, Keith. Free advice. Turn that damned car around and get back here.”

“Thanks, Matt, but look, in a few hours I’ll need you to make a couple of phone calls to Slone, Texas.”

“What does Dana say about this?”

“Fine, fine. I’ll need you to call the police, the prosecutor, and maybe a defense lawyer. I’ll be calling them too, Matt, but since you’re a prosecutor, they might listen to you.”

“Are you still in Kansas?”

“Yes, I-35.”

“Don’t cross the state line, Keith. Please.”

“Well, that might make it rather difficult to get to Texas, don’t you think?”

“Don’t cross the state line!”

“Get some sleep. I’ll call you back around six, and we’ll start working the phones, okay?”

Keith closed his phone, punched voice mail, and waited. Ten seconds later it buzzed. Matthew was calling back.

They were through Emporia and bearing down on Wichita.

———

Nothing prompted the narrative. Perhaps Boyette was getting sleepy himself, or maybe he was just bored. But the more he talked, the
more Keith realized he was listening to the twisted autobiography of a dying man, one who knew no sense could be made of his life, but wanted to try anyway.

“Darrell’s brother, we called him Uncle Chett, would take me fishing, that was what he told my parents. Never caught the first fish, never wet the first hook. We’d go to his little house out in the country, had a pond out back, and that’s where all the fish were supposed to be. Never made it that far. He’d give me a cigarette, let me taste his beer. At first I didn’t know what he was doing. Had no idea. I was just a kid, eight years old. I was too scared to move, to fight back. I remember how bad it hurt. He had all sorts of kiddie porn, magazines and movies, sick stuff he was generous enough to share with me. You cram all that garbage into the head of a little boy, and before long he sort of accepts it. I thought, well, maybe this is what kids do. Maybe this is what adults do to kids. It looked legitimate and normal. He wasn’t mean to me; in fact, he bought me ice cream and pizza—anything I wanted. After each fishing trip, he would drive me home, and right before we’d get to my house, he would get real serious, sort of mean and threatening. He would tell me that it was important for me to keep our little secret. Some things are private. He kept a gun in his truck, a shiny pistol. Later, he would show me how to use it. But at first, he would take it out and place it on the seat, then explain that he loved his secrets, and if they were ever revealed, then he would be forced to hurt someone. Even me. If I told anyone, he would be forced to kill me, and then kill whomever I told, and that included Darrell and my mother. It was very effective. I never told anyone.

“We kept fishing. I think my mother knew, but she had her own problems, primarily with the bottle. She was drunk most of the time, didn’t sober up until much later, until it was too late for me. When I was about ten or so, my uncle gave me some pot, and we started smoking together. Then some pills. It wasn’t all bad. I thought I was pretty cool. A young punk smoking cigarettes and pot, drinking beer, watching porn. The other part was never pleasant, but it didn’t last long. We were living in Springfield at the time, and one day my mother told me we had
to move. My dad, her husband, whatever the hell he was, had found a job near Joplin, Missouri, where I was born. We packed in a hurry, loaded everything into a U-Haul, and fled in the middle of the night. I’m sure there was some unpaid rent involved. Probably a lot more than that—bills, lawsuits, arrest warrants, indictments, who knows. Anyway, I woke up the next morning in a double-wide trailer, a nice one. Uncle Chett got left behind. I’m sure it broke his heart. He finally found us and showed up a month or so later, asked me if I wanted to go fishing. I said no. He had no place to take me, so he just hung around the house, couldn’t take his eyes off me. They were drinking, the adults, and before long they got into a fight over money. Uncle Chett left cussing. Never saw him again. But the damage was done. If I saw him now, I’d take a baseball bat and splatter his brains across forty acres. I was one screwed-up little boy. And I guess I’ve never gotten over it. Can I smoke?”

“No.”

“Then can we pull over for a minute so I can smoke?”

“Sure.” A few miles down the road, they pulled in to a rest stop and took a break. Keith’s phone buzzed again. Another missed call from Matthew Burns. Boyette wandered away, last seen drifting into some woods behind the restrooms, a cloud of smoke trailing him. Keith was walking across the parking lot, back and forth, back and forth, trying to pump the blood, with one eye on his passenger. When Boyette was out of sight, gone in the darkness, Keith wondered if he was gone for good. He was already tired of the trip, and if there was an escape at this point, who would care? Keith would drive back home, wonderfully alone in the car, and face the music with his wife and get an earful from Matthew. With some luck, no one would ever know about the aborted mission. Boyette would do what he’d always done—drift here and there until he either died or got himself arrested again.

But what if he hurt someone? Would Keith share criminal responsibility?

Minutes passed with no movement from the woods. A dozen 18-wheelers were parked together at one end of the parking lot, their generators humming as their drivers slept.

Keith leaned on his car and waited. He’d lost his nerve, and he wanted to go home. He wanted Boyette to stay in the woods, to go deeper until there was no turning back, to simply disappear. Then he thought of Donté Drumm.

A puff of smoke wafted from the trees. His passenger had not escaped.

———

Miles passed without a word. Boyette seemed content to forget his past, though minutes earlier he’d been gushing details. At the first hint of numbness, Keith plowed ahead.

“You were in Joplin. Uncle Chett had come and gone.”

The tic, five, ten seconds, then, “Yes, uh, we were living in a trailer out from town, a poor section. We were always in the poor section, but I remember being proud because we had a nice trailer. A rental, but I didn’t know it then. Next to the trailer park, there was a little road, asphalt, that ran for miles into the hills south of Joplin, in Newton County. There were creeks and dells and dirt roads. It was a kid’s paradise. We’d ride our bikes for hours along the trails and no one could ever find us. Sometimes we’d steal beer and booze out of the trailer, or even out of a store, and dash off into the hills for a little party. One time a kid named Damian had a bag of pot he’d stolen from his big brother, and we got so stoned we couldn’t stay on our bikes.”

“And this is where Nicole is buried?”

Keith counted to eleven before Boyette said, “I suppose. She’s somewhere in there. Not sure I can remember, to tell you the truth. I was pretty drunk, Pastor. I’ve tried to remember, even tried to draw a map the other day, but it’ll be difficult. If we get that far.”

“Why did you bury her there?”

“Didn’t want anybody to find her. It worked.”

“How do you know it worked? How do you know her body hasn’t been found? You buried her nine years ago. You’ve been in prison for the past six years, away from the news.”

“Pastor, I assure you she has not been found.”

Keith felt assured. He believed Boyette, and the fact that he believed so much from this hardened criminal was frustrating. He was wide-awake as they approached Wichita. Boyette had retreated into his sad little shell. He rubbed his temples occasionally.

“You went to court when you were twelve years old?” Keith asked.

The tic. “Something like that. Yes, I was twelve. I remember the judge making some comment about me being too young to launch a new career as a criminal. Little did he know.”

“What was the crime?”

“We broke into a store and loaded up all the stuff we could carry. Beer, cigarettes, candy, lunch meat, chips. Had a regular feast in the woods, got drunk. No problem until somebody looked at the video. It was my first offense, so I got probation. My co-defendant was Eddie Stuart. He was fourteen, and it was not his first offense. They sent him to reform school, and I never saw him again. It was a rough neighborhood, and there was no shortage of bad boys. We were either making trouble or getting into trouble. Darrell yelled at me, but he came and went. My mother tried her best but couldn’t stop drinking. My brother got sent away when he was fifteen. Me, I was thirteen. You ever been inside a reform school, Pastor?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. These are the kids nobody wants. Most are not bad kids, not when they first get there. They just didn’t have a chance. My first stop was a place near St. Louis, and like all reform schools it was nothing but a penitentiary for kids. I got the top bunk in a long room crowded with kids from the streets of St. Louis. The violence was brutal. There were never enough guards or supervisors. We went to class, but the education was a joke. You had to join a gang to survive. Someone looked at my file and saw where I’d been sexually abused, so I was an easy target for the guards. After two years of hell, I was released. Now, Pastor, what’s a fifteen-year-old kid supposed to do when he’s back on the streets after two years of torture?” He actually looked at Keith as if he expected an answer.

Keith kept his eyes straight ahead and shrugged.

“The juvenile justice system does nothing but cultivate career criminals. Society wants to lock us up and throw away the key, but society is too stupid to realize that we’ll eventually get out. And when we get out, it ain’t pretty. Take me. I’d like to think I wasn’t a hopeless case when I went in at thirteen. But give me two years of nothing but violence, hate, beatings, abuse, then society’s got a problem when I walk out at fifteen. Prisons are hate factories, Pastor, and society wants more and more of them. It ain’t working.”

“Are you blaming someone else for what happened to Nicole?”

Boyette exhaled and looked away. It was a heavy question, and he sagged under its weight. Finally, he said, “You miss the whole point, Pastor. What I did was wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself. Why couldn’t I stop myself? Because of what I am. I wasn’t born this way. I became a man with a lot of problems, not because of my DNA, but because of what society demanded. Lock ’em up. Punish the hell out of them. And if you make a few monsters along the way, too bad.”

“What about the other 50 percent?”

“And who might those be?”

“Half of all inmates paroled from prison stay out of trouble and are never arrested again.”

Boyette didn’t appreciate this statistic. He re-shifted his weight and fixated on the right-side mirror. He withdrew into his shell and stopped talking. When they were south of Wichita, he fell asleep.

———

The cell phone rang again at 3:40 a.m. It was Matthew Burns. “Where are you, Keith?” he demanded.

“Get some sleep, Matthew. Sorry I bothered you.”

“I’m having trouble sleeping. Where are you?”

“About thirty miles from the Oklahoma state line.”

“Still got your buddy?”

“Oh yes. He’s sleeping now. Me, I just nap on and off.”

“I’ve talked to Dana. She’s upset, Keith. I’m worried too. We think you’re losing your mind.”

“Probably so. I’m touched. Relax, Matthew. I’m doing what’s right, and I’ll survive whatever happens. Right now, my thoughts are with Donté Drumm.”

“Don’t cross the state line.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Good. I just wanted to be on record as warning you more than once.”

“I’m writing it down.”

“Okay, now, Keith, listen to me. We have no idea what might happen once you get to Slone and your buddy there starts running his mouth. I’m assuming he’ll attract cameras like roadkill attracts buzzards. Stay out of the picture, Keith. Keep your head low. Don’t talk to any reporters. One of two things will definitely happen. Number one, the execution will take place as scheduled. If so, then you’ve done your best, and it’ll be time to scramble back home. Boyette has the option of staying there or catching a ride back. Doesn’t really matter to you. Just get back home. There’s a decent chance no one will know about your little adventure in Texas. The second scenario is that the execution will be stayed. If so, you’ve won, but don’t celebrate. While the authorities grab Boyette, you sneak out of town and get back home. Either way, you gotta stay out of sight. Am I clear?”

“I think so. Here’s the question: Where do we go when we get to Slone? The prosecutor, the police, the press, the defense attorney?”

“Robbie Flak. He’s the only one who might listen. The police and the prosecutor have no reason to listen to Boyette. They have their man. They’re just waiting for the execution. Flak is the only one who might believe you, and he certainly appears capable of making a lot of noise. If Boyette tells a good story, then Flak will take care of the press.”

“That’s what I thought. I’m planning on calling Flak at six. I doubt if he’s sleeping much.”

“Let’s talk before we start making calls.”

“You got it.”

“And, Keith, I still think you’re crazy.”

“I don’t doubt it, Matthew.”

He put the phone in his pocket, and a few minutes later the Subaru left Kansas and entered Oklahoma. Keith was driving eighty miles an hour. He was also wearing his clerical collar, and he’d convinced himself that any decent trooper wouldn’t ask too many questions of a man of God whose crime was nothing more than speeding.

T
he Drumm family spent the night in a budget motel on the outskirts of Livingston, less than four miles by car from the Allan B. Polunsky correctional facility, where Donté had been locked up for over seven years. The motel did a modest trade with the families of inmates, including the rather bizarre cult of death row wives from abroad. At any given time, around twenty condemned men were married to European women they could never actually touch. The weddings were not officially sanctioned by the state, but the couples nonetheless considered themselves married and carried on to the fullest extent possible. The wives corresponded with each other and often traveled together to Texas to see their men. They stayed at the same motel.