Her behavior was often bizarre. Periodically, she took long drives downriver in search of her daughter. She was often seen standing on bridges, gazing at the water, lost in another world. The Red River bisects Shreveport, Louisiana, 120 miles south and east of Slone. Reeva became fixated on Shreveport. She found a hotel downtown with a view of the river, and this became her refuge. She spent many nights and days there, roaming the city, loitering around shopping malls, cinemas, and any of the other places where teenagers liked to gather. She knew it was irrational. She knew it was inconceivable that Nikki could have survived and was alive and hiding from her. Nonetheless, she kept driving to Shreveport and watching the faces. She couldn’t quit. She had to do something.
Several times, Reeva dashed off to other states where teenage girls went missing. She was the expert with wisdom to share. “You can survive this” was her motto, her effort to soothe and comfort the families, though many back home wondered how well she was surviving.
Now, as the final countdown was under way, she was in a frenzy with the details of the execution. The reporters were back, and she had plenty to say. After nine long and bitter years, justice was finally at hand.
Early Monday evening, Paul Koffee and Drew Kerber decided it was time to go see Reeva.
———
She met them at the front door with a smile, even quick hugs. They never knew which Reeva they would find. She could be charming, and she could be frightening. But with Donté’s death so close, she was gracious and vibrant. They walked through the comfortable suburban split-level to a large room behind the garage, an add-on that had become Reeva’s war room over the years. Half was an office with filing cabinets, the other half a shrine to her daughter. There were large framed color blowups, portraits done posthumously by admirers, trophies, ribbons, plaques, and an award from the eighth-grade science fair. Most of Nikki’s life could be traced through the displays.
Wallis, her second husband and Nicole’s stepfather, was not at home. He had been seen less and less over the years, and it was rumored that he simply couldn’t take much more of his wife’s constant mourning and griping. She served them iced tea as they sat around a coffee table. After a few pleasantries, the conversation moved to the execution.
“You have five slots in the witness room,” Koffee said. “Who gets them?”
“Wallis and I, of course. Chad and Marie are undecided, but will probably be there.” She threw out the names of Nicole’s half brother and half sister as if they couldn’t decide to go to the game or not. “The last place will probably be Brother Ronnie. He doesn’t want to watch an execution, but he feels the need to be there for us.”
Brother Ronnie was the current pastor of the First Baptist Church. He’d been in Slone for about three years, had obviously never met Nicole, but was convinced of Drumm’s guilt and afraid to cross Reeva.
They talked for a few minutes about the protocol on death row, the rules regarding witnesses, the timeline, and so on.
“Reeva, could we talk about tomorrow?” Koffee asked.
“Of course we can.”
“Are you still doing the Fordyce thing?”
“Yes. He’s in town now and we’ll film at ten in the morning, right here. Why do you ask?”
“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,” Koffee said, and Kerber nodded his agreement.
“Oh, really. And why not?”
“He’s such an inflammatory character, Reeva. We are very concerned about the aftershocks Thursday night. You know how upset the blacks are.”
“We are expecting trouble, Reeva,” Kerber added.
“If the blacks start trouble, then arrest them,” she said.
“It’s exactly the kind of situation Fordyce loves to pounce on. He’s an agitator, Reeva. He wants to start trouble so he can get in the middle of it. Helps his ratings.”
“It’s all about ratings,” Kerber added.
“Well, well. Aren’t we nervous,” she chided.
Sean Fordyce was a New York–based talk-show host who’d found a niche on cable sensationalizing murder cases. His slant was unapologetically from the right side of the street, always in support of the latest execution, or gun rights, or the rounding up of illegal immigrants, a group he loved to attack because they were much easier targets than others with dark skin. It was hardly original programming, but Fordyce struck gold when he began filming the families of victims as they prepared to watch the executions. He became famous when his tech crew managed to successfully hide a tiny camera in the frame of a pair of eyeglasses worn by the father of a young boy who was murdered in Alabama. For the first time, the world saw an execution, and Sean Fordyce owned the footage. He played it and played it and, with each showing, commented on how simple it was, how peaceful and painless and much too easy for such a violent killer.
He was indicted in Alabama, sued by the dead man’s family, and threatened with death and censure, but he survived it. The charges didn’t stick—they couldn’t nail down a specific crime. The lawsuit was thrown out. Three years after the stunt, he was not only standing but standing at the top of the cable garbage heap. Now he was in Slone, preparing for another episode. Rumor was that he’d paid Reeva $50,000 for the exclusive.
“Please reconsider, Reeva,” Koffee said.
“No, Paul. The answer is no. I’m doing it for Nicole, for my family, and for the other victims out there. The world needs to see what this monster has done to us.”
“What’s the benefit?” Koffee said. Both he and Kerber had ignored phone calls from Fordyce’s production team.
“Maybe the laws can be changed.”
“But the laws are working here, Reeva. Sure, it’s taken longer than we wanted, but in the scheme of things nine years is not bad.”
“Oh my God, Paul, I can’t believe you just said that. You haven’t lived our nightmare for the past nine years.”
“No, I haven’t, and I don’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through. But the nightmare won’t end Thursday night.” And it certainly would not, not if Reeva had anything to do with it.
“You have no idea, Paul. I can’t believe this. The answer is no. No, no, no. I’m doing the interview and the show will run. The world will see what it’s like.”
They had not expected to be successful, so they were not surprised. When Reeva Pike made up her mind, the conversation was over. They shifted gears.
“So be it,” Koffee said. “Do you and Wallis feel safe?”
She smiled, and almost chuckled. “Of course, Paul. We got a houseful of guns and the neighbors are on high alert. Every car that comes down this street is watched through rifle scopes. We are not expecting trouble.”
“There were phone calls at the station today,” Kerber said. “The usual anonymous stuff, vague threats about this and that if the boy is executed.”
“I’m sure you guys can deal with it,” she said with no concern whatsoever. After waging such a relentless war of her own, Reeva had forgotten how to be afraid.
“I think we should have a patrol car parked outside for the rest of the week,” Kerber said.
“Do as you wish. It doesn’t matter to me. If the blacks start trouble, they won’t do it over here. Don’t they normally burn their own buildings first?”
Both men shrugged. They’d had no experience with riots. Slone had an unremarkable history with race relations. What little they knew had been learned from the television news. Yes, it did seem as if the riots were confined to the ghettos.
They talked about this for a few minutes, then it was time to leave. They hugged again at the front door and promised to see each other after the execution. What a great moment it would be. The end of the ordeal. Justice at last.