“I was more interested in—”
“From soup to nuts, it takes about two million bucks to legally kill a man in Texas. Compare that with the $30,000 it costs per year to keep one on death row.”
“I’ve heard this before,” Martha said, and indeed she had. Robbie never shied away from his soapbox, especially when the subject was the death penalty, one of his many favorites.
“But what the hell. We have plenty of money in Texas.”
“Can we talk about Donté Drumm’s case?”
“Oh, why not?”
“The defense fund. You—”
“Established a few years back, a certified nonprofit governed by all relevant code sections set forth by the Internal Revenue Service. Administered jointly by my office and Andrea Bolton, younger sister of Donté Drumm. Receipts so far total how much, Bonnie?”
“Ninety-five thousand dollars.”
“Ninety-five thousand dollars. And how much is on hand?”
“Zero.”
“That’s what I figured. Would you like a breakdown of where the money went?”
“Maybe. Where did it go?”
“Litigation expenses, law firm expenses, expert witnesses, a few bucks to the family to travel back and forth to see Donté. Not exactly a high-powered nonprofit. All moneys have been raised through the Internet. Frankly, we haven’t had the time or manpower to pursue fund-raising.”
“Who are the donors?”
“Mostly Brits and Europeans. The average donation is something like twenty bucks.”
“Eighteen fifty,” Bonnie said.
“It’s very hard to raise money for a convicted murderer, regardless of his story.”
“How much are you out of pocket?” Martha asked.
There was no rapid response. Bonnie, finally stumped, gave a slight shrug from the front seat. “I don’t know,” Robbie said. “If I had to guess, it would be at least $50,000, maybe a hundred. Maybe I should’ve spent more.”
Phones were buzzing throughout the van. Sammie at the office had a question for the boss. Kristi Hinze was talking to another psychiatrist. Aaron was listening to someone as he drove.
———
The party began early with sweet potato biscuits straight from Reeva’s oven. She loved to cook them, and eat them, and when Sean Fordyce admitted he’d never eaten one, she feigned disbelief. By the time he arrived, with his hairdresser, makeup girl, appointment secretary, and publicist, all hustling around him, the home of Reeva and Wallis Pike was crammed with neighbors and friends. The thick smell of fried country ham wafted out the front door. Two long trucks were backed into the driveway, and even the crew members were chomping on biscuits.
Fordyce, an Irish ass from Long Island, was slightly irritated by the crowd, but put on his game face and signed autographs. He was the star. These were his fans. They bought his books, watched his show, and gave him his ratings. He posed for a few photographs, ate a biscuit with ham, and seemed to like it. He was pudgy, with a doughy face, not exactly the traditional looks of a star, but that didn’t matter anymore. He wore dark suits and funky eyeglasses that made him appear far more intelligent than he acted.
The set was in Reeva’s room, the large addition stuck to the rear of the house like a cancerous growth. Reeva and Wallis were situated on a sofa, with color blowups of Nicole as the backdrop. Wallis wore a tie and looked as if he’d just been ordered out of his bedroom, which in fact he had. Reeva was heavily made up, her hair freshly colored and permed, and she wore her finest black dress. Fordyce sat in a chair, close to them. He was tended to by his handlers, who sprayed his hair and powdered his forehead. The crew fussed with the lighting. Sound checks were done. Monitors were adjusted. The neighbors were packed in tight behind the cameras with stern instructions not to make a sound.
The producer said, “Quiet! We’re rolling.”
Close-up on Fordyce as he welcomed his audience to another episode. He explained where he was, whom he was interviewing, and the basis of the crime, the confession, and the conviction. “If all goes as expected,” he said gravely, “Mr. Drumm will be executed the day after tomorrow.”
He introduced the mother and the stepfather and, of course, passed along his condolences for this tragedy. He thanked them for opening their home so that the world, through his cameras, could witness the suffering. He began with Nicole. “Tell us about her,” he almost pleaded.
Wallis made no effort to speak, something he would do throughout the interview. This was Reeva’s show. She was excited and over-stimulated and after just a few words began crying. But she had cried in public for so long that she could now chatter away while the tears flowed. She went on and on about her daughter.
“Do you miss her?” Fordyce asked, one of his patented inane questions designed only to elicit more emotion.
Reeva gave it to him. He handed her the white handkerchief from his coat pocket. Linen. The man oozed compassion.
He finally got around to the execution, which was the thrust of his program. “Do you still plan to be there?” he asked, certain of the answer.
“Oh yes,” she said, and Wallis managed to nod.
“Why? What will it mean to you?”
“It means so much,” she said. The thought of revenge dried the tears. “This animal took my daughter’s life. He deserves to die and I want to be there, to stare him in the eyes when he takes his last breath.”
“Do you think he’ll look at you?”
“I doubt it. He’s a coward. Any human who could do what he did to my precious little girl, I doubt he’ll be man enough to look at me.”
“What about his last words? Do you want an apology?”
“Yes, but I’m not expecting one. He has never taken responsibility for what he did.”
“He confessed.”
“Yes, but then he changed his mind and he’s denied it ever since. I expect he’ll deny it when they strap him down and he says good-bye.”
“Anticipate for us, Reeva. Tell us how you think you’ll feel when he’s pronounced dead.”
Just the thought made her smile, but she quickly caught herself. “Relief, sadness, I don’t know. It’ll be the closing of another chapter in a long, sad story. But it won’t be the end.”
Wallis frowned slightly upon learning this.
“What’s the final chapter here, Reeva?”
“When you lose a child, Sean, especially one taken in such a violent way, there is no end.”
“There is no end,” he repeated somberly, then turned to the camera, and, with every effort at great drama, said again, “There is no end.”
They took a quick break, moved some cameras, and added more spray to Fordyce’s hair. And when they rolled again, he managed to get a few grunts from Wallis, stuff that wouldn’t last ten seconds in editing.
The filming was over in less than an hour. Fordyce made a quick exit—he was also working on an execution in Florida. He made sure everyone knew there was a jet waiting to take him there. One of his camera crews would hang around Slone for the next two days, hoping for violence.
Fordyce would be in Huntsville on Thursday night, looking for drama, praying the execution would not be put off. His favorite part of his show was the post-execution interview when he got the victim’s family fresh from the prison. They were usually emotional wrecks, and he knew that Reeva would light up the screen.