The Confession (45 page)

Brother Ronnie was a troubled soul. He had watched his church burn, which was no fault of his, but he had also watched Donté die, and with no small measure of satisfaction. There was a sin in there somewhere. He was a Baptist, a breed noted for its creative ways of finding new versions of sin, and he needed forgiveness. He shared this with his congregation. He bared his soul, admitted he was wrong, and asked them to pray for him. He seemed genuinely humbled and distressed.

Arrangements for Nicole’s funeral were incomplete. Brother Ronnie explained that he had talked with Reeva by phone—she was not taking visitors—and the church Web site would post the details when the family made decisions. Nicole was still in Missouri, and the authorities there had not said when they would release her.

The tent was being watched closely. Across the street, on property
that did not belong to the church, two dozen or so reporters loitered about, most with cameras. If not for the presence of several quite edgy police officers, the reporters would have been under the tent, recording every word, making a nuisance of themselves.

Slone had never been more divided than on that Sunday morning, but even at that dark hour there was some circling of the wagons. The number of reporters and cameras had steadily increased since Thursday, and everyone in town felt an element of the siege. The man on the street had stopped talking to reporters. City officials had nothing but “No comment.” Not a single word could be pried out of the courthouse. And in certain places, the police increased their presence and sharpened their attitude. Any reporter trying to get near the Drumm home was likely to be handled roughly. The funeral home where Donté was resting was strictly off-limits. Reeva’s house was being guarded by cousins and friends, but the police were nearby, just waiting for some clown with a camera to intrude. Robbie Flak could take care of himself, and was doing a fine job of it, but his home and office were patrolled every hour. And on Sunday morning, the devoted Christians who worshipped at the Bethel African Methodist Church, and at the First Baptist Church, were able to do so without intrusion. The Slone Police Department made sure of it.

———

At St. Mark’s Lutheran, the Reverend Keith Schroeder assumed the pulpit and startled his congregation with the most gripping opening of any sermon yet. “Last Thursday, the State of Texas executed an innocent man. If you’ve missed the story, then I don’t know where you’ve been. Most of you know the facts of the case, but what you don’t know is that the real killer was here last Sunday, sitting right over there. His name is Travis Boyette, a convicted felon, released a few weeks ago from the prison in Lansing and assigned to a halfway house on Seventeenth Street here in Topeka.”

No one in the crowd of two hundred seemed to be breathing. Those who had been planning naps were suddenly wide-awake. Keith
was amused at the odd looks he was getting. He went on: “No, I’m not kidding. And while I would like to say that Mr. Boyette was attracted to our little church because of its reputation for great preaching, the truth is that he came because he was troubled. First thing Monday morning, he was in my study to talk about his problems. He then made his way down to Texas and tried to stop the execution of Donté Drumm. He was unsuccessful. Somehow, he got away.”

Keith’s initial plan was to describe his adventures in Texas, in what would undoubtedly be his most fascinating sermon ever. He was not afraid of the truth; he wanted it told. He assumed his church would find out sooner or later, and he was determined to confront the issue head-on. However, Dana had maintained that the wiser course was to wait until he met with a lawyer. Admitting to a crime, especially in such a public manner, without the advice of counsel, seemed risky. She prevailed, and Keith decided on a different message.

As a minister, he steadfastly refused to mix politics and religion. In the pulpit, he had stayed away from issues such as gay rights, abortion, and war, preferring instead to teach what Jesus taught—love your neighbor, help the less fortunate, forgive others because you have been forgiven, and follow God’s laws.

However, after witnessing the execution, Keith was a different person, or at least a different preacher. Suddenly, confronting social injustice was far more important than making his flock feel good each Sunday. He would begin hitting the issues, always from the Christian perspective and never from the politician’s, and if it rankled folks, too bad. He was tired of playing it safe.

“Would Jesus witness an execution without trying to stop it?” he asked. “Would Jesus approve of laws that allow us to kill those who have killed?” The answer to both was no, and for a full hour, in the longest sermon of his career, Keith explained why not.

———

Before dark on Sunday afternoon, Roberta Drumm, with her three children, their spouses, and her five grandchildren, walked a few blocks
to Washington Park. They had made the same walk the day before, and for the same purpose. They met with the young people congregated there and in one-on-one conversations talked about Donté’s death and what it was doing to all of them. The rap was turned off. The crowd became quiet and respectful. At one point, several dozen gathered around Roberta and listened as she pleaded for civility. In a strong, eloquent voice, and sometimes pointing for emphasis, she said, “Please don’t desecrate the memory of my son with more bloodshed. I don’t want the name of Donté Drumm to be remembered as the reason for a race riot here in Slone. Nothing you do out here on the streets will help our people. Violence creates more violence, and in the end we lose. Please, go home and hug your mother.”

To his people, Donté Drumm was already a legend. The courage of his mother inspired them to go home.

S
lone 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?”