Under the stress of police questioning, innocent people are far likelier to agree to a polygraph. They have nothing to hide and they’re desperate to prove it. Guilty suspects rarely consent to the exams, and for obvious reasons.
Donté was led to another room and introduced to a Detective Ferguson, who’d been at home asleep an hour earlier when Detective Needham called. Ferguson was the department’s polygraph expert, and he insisted that Kerber, Morrissey, and Needham leave the room. Ferguson was extremely polite, soft-spoken, even apologetic for putting Donté through the process. He explained everything, ran through the paperwork, rigged up the machine, and began asking Donté about his involvement in the Nicole Yarber matter. This went on for about an hour.
When Ferguson finished, he explained that it would be a few minutes before he could digest the results. Donté was taken back to “The Choir Room.”
The results clearly showed that Donté was telling the truth. However, the law, as decided by the U.S. Supreme Court, permits the police to engage in a wide range of deceptive practices during interrogations. They can lie at will.
When Kerber returned to “The Choir Room,” he was holding the graph paper from the test. He threw it at Donté, hitting him in the face, and called him a “lyin’ son of a bitch!” Now they had proof that he was lying! They had clear evidence that he snatched his ex-lover, raped her, killed her in a fit of rage, and threw her off a bridge. Kerber picked up the graph paper, shook it in Donté’s face, and promised him that when the jury saw the results of the test, they would find him guilty and give him death. You’re looking at the needle, Kerber said over and over.
Another lie. Polygraphs are so famously unreliable that their results are never admitted in court.
Donté was stunned. He felt faint. He was bewildered and struggled to find words. Kerber relaxed and took his seat across the table. He said that in many cases involving horrible crimes, especially those committed by good, decent folks—noncriminals—the killer subconsciously erases the act from his memory. He just “blocks it out.” This is quite common, and he, Detective Kerber, because of his extensive training and vast experience, had seen this many times. He suspected that Donté was quite fond of Nicole, maybe even in love, and did not plan to harm her. Things got out of control. She was dead before he realized it. Then he was in shock at what he’d done, and the guilt was crushing. So he tried to block it out.
Donté continued to deny everything. He was exhausted and laid his head on the table. Kerber slapped the table violently, startling his suspect. He again accused Donté of the crime, said they had the witnesses and the proof, and that he would be dead within five years. Texas prosecutors know how to streamline the system so that the executions are not delayed.
Kerber asked Donté to just imagine his mother, sitting in the witness room, waving at him for the last time, crying her eyes out, as they strapped him down and adjusted the chemicals. You’re a dead man, he said more than once. But there was an option. If Donté would come clean, tell them what happened, make a full confession, then he, Kerber, would guarantee that the state would not seek the death penalty. Donté would get life with no parole, which was no piece of cake, but at least he could write letters to his mom and see her twice a month.
Such threats of death and promises of leniency are unconstitutional, and the police know it. Both Kerber and Morrissey denied using these tactics. Not surprisingly, Morrissey’s notes make no reference to threats or promises. Nor do they accurately record the time and sequence of events. Donté did not have access to a pen and paper and, after five hours of interrogation, lost track of time.
Around midnight, Detective Needham opened the door and announced, “Pickett’s talking.” Kerber smiled at Morrissey, then left in another dramatic exit.
Pickett was alone in his locked room, fuming because he’d been forgotten. He had not seen or spoken to anyone in over an hour.
Riley Drumm found his green van parked at the city jail. He’d been driving the streets and was relieved to find the van. He was also concerned about his son and what kind of trouble he was in. The Slone City Jail is next door, and attached, to the police department. Riley went to the jail first and, after some confusion, was told that his son was not behind bars. He had not been processed. There were sixty-two prisoners back there, none by the name of Donté Drumm. The jailer, a younger white officer, recognized Donté’s name and was as helpful as possible. He suggested that Mr. Drumm check next door with the police department. This he did, and it too proved confusing and frustrating. It was 12:40 a.m. and the front door was locked. Riley called his wife with an update, then he pondered how to get inside the building. After a few minutes, a patrol car parked nearby, and two uniformed officers emerged. They spoke to Riley Drumm, who explained why he was there. He followed them inside and took a seat in the lobby. The two officers left in search of his son. Half an hour passed before they reappeared and said that Donté was being questioned. About what? Why? The officers did not know. Riley began waiting. At least the boy was safe.
The first crack occurred when Kerber produced a color eight-by-ten photo of Nicole. Weary, alone, frightened, uncertain, and overwhelmed, Donté took one look at her pretty face and began crying. Kerber and Morrissey exchanged confident smiles.
Donté wept for several minutes, then asked to use the restroom. They escorted him down the hall, stopping at the window so he could see Torrey Pickett sitting at a table, holding a pen, writing on a legal pad. Donté stared in disbelief, even shook his head and mumbled something to himself.
Torrey wrote a one-page summary in which he denied knowing anything about Nicole Yarber’s disappearance. The summary was somehow misplaced by the Slone Police Department and has never been seen.
Back in “The Choir Room,” Kerber informed Donté that his pal Torrey had signed a statement in which he swore, under oath, that Donté was seeing Nicole, that he was crazy about her, but she was worried about the consequences and trying to break up. Donté was desperate and stalking the girl. Torrey was afraid he might hurt her.
As Kerber delivered this latest series of lies, he read from a sheet of paper, as if it were Torrey’s statement. Donté closed his eyes, shook his head, and tried to understand what was happening. But his thoughts were much slower now, his reaction time deadened by fatigue and fear.
He asked if he could leave, and Kerber yelled at him. The detective cursed him and said no, he could not leave, because he was their prime suspect. He was their man. They had the proof. Donté asked if he needed a lawyer, and Kerber said of course not. A lawyer can’t change the facts. A lawyer can’t bring back Nicole. A lawyer can’t save your life, Donté, but we can.
Morrissey’s notes make no reference to the discussion about lawyers.
At 2:20 a.m., Torrey Pickett was allowed to leave. Detective Needham led him through a side door so he would not bump into Mr. Drumm in the lobby. The detectives in the basement had been warned that the defendant’s father was in the building and wanted to see him. This was denied under oath at several hearings.
Morrissey began to fade and was replaced by Needham. For the next three hours, while Morrissey napped, Needham took notes. Kerber showed no signs of slowing down. As he hammered away at the suspect, he seemed to energize himself. He was about to break the suspect, solve the case, and become the hero. He offered Donté another crack at the polygraph, this one to be limited solely to the question of his whereabouts on Friday, December 4, at approximately 10:00 p.m. Donté’s first reaction was to say no, to distrust the machine, but such wisdom was overridden by the desire to get out of the room. Just get away from Kerber. Anything to get the psycho out of his face.