“So, let’s ask the governor for a reprieve,” Robbie said with a smile. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear from us again.” Of the truckload of motions and petitions and requests that his firm had filed in the last month, and would continue to churn out until his client was dead, a request for a reprieve from the governor of Texas was undoubtedly the biggest waste of paper. Twice in the past year the governor had ignored clemency approvals from his parole board and allowed the executions. He loved the death penalty, especially when seeking votes. One of his campaigns featured the slogan “Tough Texas Justice” and included his promise to “empty death row.” And he was not talking about early parole.
“Let’s go see Donté,” Robbie announced.
———
The drive from Slone to the Polunsky Unit near Livingston, Texas, was a hard three-hour grind on two-lane roads. Robbie had made it a hundred times. A few years earlier, when he had three clients on death row—Donté, Lamar Billups, and a man named Cole Taylor—he grew weary of speeding tickets and rural drivers and near misses because he was on the phone. He bought a van, a long, heavy one with plenty of room, and he took it to a high-end custom shop in Fort Worth where they installed phones, televisions, and every gadget on the market, along with plush carpet, fine leather captain’s chairs that both swiveled and reclined, a sofa in the rear, if Robbie needed a nap, and a bar in case he became thirsty. Aaron Rey was named the designated driver. Bonnie, the other paralegal, usually sat in the front passenger’s seat, ready to jump when Mr. Flak barked. The trips became much more productive as Robbie worked the phone and laptop or read briefs on the way to Polunsky and back, traveling comfortably in the portable office.
His chair was directly behind the driver’s. Next to him was Martha Handler. Up front with Aaron was Bonnie. They left Slone at 8:30 a.m. and were soon winding through the hills of East Texas.
The fifth member of the team was a new one. Her name was Dr. Kristina Hinze, or Kristi, as she was called around the Flak office, where no one was presumptuous enough to wear a title and most first names were shortened. She was the latest in a series of experts Robbie had burned cash on in his efforts to save Donté. She was a clinical psychiatrist who’d studied prisoners and prison conditions, and she’d written a book that argued, among other things, solitary confinement is one of the worst forms of torture. For $10,000, she was expected to meet with Donté, evaluate him, then prepare (quickly) a report in which she would describe his deteriorated mental condition and declare that (1) he had been driven crazy by eight years of solitary and (2) such confinement constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.
In 1986, the U.S. Supreme Court stopped the execution of insane people. Robbie’s final thrust would be to portray Donté as a psychotic schizoid who understood nothing.
The argument was a long shot. Kristi Hinze was only thirty-two years old, not far removed from the classroom, with a résumé that included no experience in court. Robbie was not concerned. He only hoped she got the chance to testify in a hearing on mental competency, months down the road. She had the rear sofa, papers spread everywhere, hard at work like everyone else.
When Robbie finished a phone call, Martha Handler said, “Can we talk?” This had become her standard opening when she had questions.
“Sure,” he said.
She clicked on one of her many tape recorders and slid it in front of him. “On the subject of money, you were appointed by the judge to represent Donté, who qualified as an indigent defendant, but—”
“Yep, Texas has no public defender system to speak of,” he interrupted. After months together, Martha had learned that she should never expect to finish a sentence. He went on, “So the local judges appoint their buddies or drag in some poor schmuck when the case is so bad no one wants it. Me, I went to the judge and volunteered. She was happy to give it to me. No other lawyer in town would get near it.”
“But the Drumms are not exactly poor. They both—?”
“Sure, but here’s how it works. Only a rich person can afford to pay a lawyer for a capital defense, and there are no rich people on death row. I could’ve squeezed five or ten thousand bucks out of the family, made ’em mortgage their house again, something like that. But why bother? The fine folks of Chester County would pay. This is one of the great ironies of the death penalty. The people want the death penalty—something like 70 percent in this state—yet they have no idea how much they’re paying for it.”
“How much have they paid?” she asked, deftly inserting the question before he could start talking again.
“Oh, I don’t know. A lot. Bonnie, how much have we been paid so far?”
With no hesitation and hardly a glance over her shoulder, Bonnie said, “Almost $400,000.”
Robbie went on, barely skipping a beat, “That includes attorney’s fees, at the rate of $125 an hour, plus expenses, primarily for investigators, and then a nice chunk for expert witnesses.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Martha said.
“It is and it isn’t. When a law firm is working for $125 an hour, it’s losing serious money. I’ll never do it again. I can’t afford it. Neither can the taxpayers, but at least I know I’m losing my ass. They do not. Ask the average Joe on Main Street in Slone how much he and his fellow citizens have paid to prosecute Donté Drumm, and you know what he’ll say?”
“How am I supposed to—”
“He’ll say he doesn’t have a clue. Have you heard about the Tooley boys in West Texas? It’s a famous case.”
“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed—”
“These two brothers, the Tooleys, a couple of idiots, somewhere out in West Texas. What county, Bonnie?”
“Mingo.”
“Mingo County. Very rural. A great story, listen. These two thugs are robbing convenience stores and gas stations. Very sophisticated stuff. One night, something goes wrong, and a young female clerk gets shot. Sawed-off shotgun, really nasty. They catch the Tooley brothers because the boys forgot about all of the video cameras. The town is outraged. The police are strutting. The prosecutor is promising swift justice. Everybody wants a quick trial and quick execution. There’s not much crime in Mingo County, and no jury there has ever sent a man to death row. Now, there are many ways to feel neglected in Texas, but living in a community that’s been left out of the execution business is downright embarrassing. What do the kinfolks in Houston think? These Mingo people see their opportunity. They want blood. The boys refuse to plea-bargain because the prosecutor insists on death. Why plead to death? So they try them, together. Quick convictions and, finally, death. On appeal, the court finds all manner of error. The prosecutor really butchered the case. The convictions are thrown out. The case is sent back for separate trials. Two trials, not one. Are you taking notes?”
“No, I’m searching for some relevance here.”
“It’s a great story.”
“That’s all that matters.”
“A year or so passes. The boys are tried separately. Two new guilty verdicts, two more trips to death row. The appeals court sees more problems. I mean, glaring problems. The prosecutor was a moron. Reversals, sent back for two new trials. The third time, one jury convicts the gunman of murder and he gets life. The other jury convicts the one who didn’t fire the gun of murder and he gets death. Go figure. It’s Texas. So one brother is serving life. The other went to death row, where he committed suicide a few months later. Somehow he got a razor and slashed himself.”
“And your point is?”
“Here’s the point. From start to finish, the case cost Mingo County $3 million. They were forced to raise property taxes several times, and this led to an uprising. There were drastic budget cuts in schools, road maintenance, and health services. They closed their only library. The county was near bankruptcy for years. And all of it could have been prevented if the prosecutor had allowed the boys to plead guilty and take life without parole. I’ve heard that the death penalty is not that popular in Mingo County now.”