———
Robbie Flak parked at the curb in front of the Drumm home and braced himself for another meeting.
“How many times have you been here?” his passenger asked.
“I don’t know. Dozens and dozens.” He opened the door, climbed out, and she did the same.
Her name was Martha Handler. She was an investigative journalist, a freelancer who worked for no one but was paid occasionally by the big magazines. She had first visited Slone two years earlier when the Paul Koffee scandal broke and after that had developed a fascination with the Drumm case. She and Robbie had spent hours together, professionally, and things might have degenerated from there, but for the fact that Robbie was committed to his current live-in, a woman twenty years his junior. Martha no longer believed in commitment and gave mixed signals as to whether the door was open or not. There was sexual tension between the two, as if they were both fighting the urge to say yes. So far, they had been successful.
At first, she claimed to be writing a book about the Drumm case. Then it was a lengthy article for Vanity Fair. Then it was one for the New Yorker. Then it was a screenplay for a movie to be produced by one of her ex-husbands in L.A. In Robbie’s opinion, she was a passable writer, with a brilliant recall of the facts, but a disaster with organization and planning. Whatever the final product, he had complete veto power, and if her project ever earned a dime, he and the Drumm family would get a share. After two years with her, he was not counting on any payoff. He liked her, though. She was wickedly funny, irreverent, a total zealot to the cause, and she had developed a fierce hatred for almost every person she’d met in Texas. Plus, she could guzzle bourbon and play poker far past midnight.
The small living room was crowded. Roberta Drumm sat on the piano bench, her usual position. Two of her brothers stood by the door to the kitchen. Her son Cedric, Donté’s oldest brother, was on the sofa holding a toddler who was asleep. Her daughter, Andrea, Donté’s younger sister, had one chair. Her preacher, Reverend Canty, had another. Robbie and Martha sat close to each other in flimsy, shaky chairs brought in from the kitchen. Martha had been there many times, and had even cooked for Roberta when she had the flu.
After the usual hellos and hugs and instant coffee, Robbie began talking. “Nothing happened today, which is not good news. First thing tomorrow, the parole board will issue its decision. They don’t meet, they just circulate the case and everybody votes. We don’t expect a recommendation for clemency. That rarely happens. We expect a denial, which we will then appeal to the governor’s office and ask for a reprieve. The governor has the right to grant one thirty-day reprieve. It’s unlikely we’ll get one, but we have to pray for a miracle.” Robbie Flak was not a man of prayer, but in the staunch Bible Belt of East Texas, he could certainly talk the talk. And he was in a room full of people who prayed around the clock, Martha Handler being the exception.
“On the positive side, we made contact today with Joey Gamble, found him outside of Houston, a place called Mission Bend. Our investigator had lunch with him, confronted him with the truth, impressed upon him the urgency of the situation, and so on. He is following the case and knows what’s at stake. We invited him to sign an affidavit recanting the lies he told at trial, and he declined. However, we won’t give up. He was not decisive. He seemed to waver, to be troubled by what’s happening to Donté.”
“What if he signs the affidavit and tells the truth?” Cedric asked.
“Well, we suddenly have some ammunition, a bullet or two, something to take to court and make some noise. The problem, though, is that when liars start recanting their testimony, everybody gets real suspicious, especially judges hearing appeals. When does the lying stop? Is he lying now, or was he lying then? It’s a long shot, frankly, but right now everything is a long shot.” Robbie had always been blunt, especially when dealing with the families of his criminal clients. And at this stage in Donté’s case, it made little sense to raise hopes.
Roberta sat stoically with her hands wedged under her legs. She was fifty-six years old, but looked much older. Since the death of her husband, Riley, five years earlier, she had stopped coloring her hair and stopped eating. She was gray and gaunt and said little, but then she never had said much. Riley had been the big talker, the boaster, the bruiser, with Roberta in the role as the fixer who eased behind her husband and patched up the rifts he created. In the past few days, she had slowly accepted reality, and seemed overwhelmed by it. Neither she nor Riley, nor any member of the family, had ever questioned Donté’s innocence. He had once tried to maim ballcarriers and quarterbacks, and he could adequately defend himself when necessary on the playground or in the streets. But Donté was really a pushover, a sensitive kid who would never harm an innocent person.
“Martha and I are going to Polunsky tomorrow to see Donté,” Robbie was saying. “I can take any mail you might have for him.”
“I have a meeting with the mayor at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow,” Reverend Canty announced. “I’ll be joined by several other pastors. We intend to convey our concerns about what might happen in Slone if Donté is executed.”
“It’ll be ugly,” said an uncle.
“You got that right,” Cedric added. “Folks on this side are fired up.”
“The execution is still set for 6:00 p.m. on Thursday, right?” asked Andrea.
“Yes,” Robbie said.
“Well, when will you know for sure that it’ll be carried out?” she asked.
“These things usually go down to the wire, primarily because the lawyers fight to the last minute.”
Andrea looked uneasily at Cedric, then said, “Well, I’ll just tell you, Robbie, a lot of people on this side of town plan to get outta here when it happens. There’s gonna be trouble, and I understand why. But once it starts, things might get out of control.”
“The whole town better look out,” Cedric said.
“That’s what we’ll tell the mayor,” Canty said. “He’d better do something.”
“All he can do is react,” Robbie said. “He has nothing to do with the execution.”
“Can’t he call the governor?”
“Sure, but don’t assume the mayor is against the execution. If he got through to the governor, he’d probably lobby against a reprieve. The mayor is a good old Texas boy. He loves the death penalty.”
No one in the room was fond of the mayor, or the governor for that matter. Robbie moved the discussion away from the prospect of violence. There were important details to be discussed. “According to the rules from the Department of Corrections, the last family visit will take place at 8:00 a.m. on Thursday morning, at the Polunsky Unit, before Donté is transferred to Huntsville.” Robbie continued, “I know you’ll be anxious to see him, and he’s desperate to see you. But don’t be surprised when you get there. It will be just like a regular visit. He’ll be on one side of a sheet of Plexiglas, you’ll have to stay on the other. You talk by phone. It’s ridiculous, but then this is Texas.”
“No hugs, no kisses?” Andrea said.
“No. They have their rules.”
Roberta began crying, quiet sniffles with big tears. “I can’t hug my baby,” she said. One of her brothers handed her a tissue and patted her shoulder. After a minute or so, she pulled herself together and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Roberta,” Robbie said. “You’re the mother, and your son is about to be executed for something he didn’t do. You have the right to cry. Me, I’d be bawling and screaming and shooting at people. Still might do it.”