He missed her. Their romance had cracked under the strain of all the negative attention it created. She ran away and refused any contact. His career as a prosecutor would soon be over, and he hated to admit that he would leave office under a cloud. The Drumm execution, though, would be his high-water mark, his vindication, a shining moment that the people of Slone, or at least the white ones, would appreciate.
Tomorrow would be his finest day.
———
The Flak Law Firm watched the rally on the wide-screen television in the main conference room, and when it was finally over, Robbie retreated to his office with half a sandwich and a diet cola. The receptionist had carefully arranged a dozen phone message slips on the center of his desk. The ones from Topeka caught his attention. Something rang a bell. Ignoring the food, he picked up the phone and punched in the number for a cell phone of the Reverend Keith Schroeder.
“Keith Schroeder please,” he said when someone answered “Hello.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Robbie Flak, attorney in Slone, Texas. I have your message, and I think I saw an e-mail a few hours ago.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Flak.”
“It’s Robbie.”
“Okay, Robbie. It’s Keith on this end.”
“Fine, Keith. Where’s the body?”
“In Missouri.”
“I have no time to waste, Keith, and something tells me this call is a complete waste of time.”
“Maybe it is, but give me five minutes.”
“Talk fast.”
Keith ran through the facts—his encounters with an unnamed parolee, his search into his background, the man’s criminal record, his dire medical condition, everything he could cram into five uninterrupted minutes.
“Obviously, you’re not worried about breaching confidentiality here,” Robbie said.
“I’m troubled by it, but the stakes are too high. And I haven’t told you his name.”
“Where is he now?”
“He spent last night in a hospital, checked himself out this morning, and I haven’t heard from him since. He’d due back at the halfway house at 6:00 p.m. sharp. I’ll be there to see him.”
“And he has four felony convictions for sex offenses?”
“At least.”
“Pastor, this man has zero credibility. I can’t do anything with this. There’s nothing here. You gotta understand, Keith, that these executions always attract the nutcases. We had two fruitcakes show up last week. One claimed to know where Nicole is living now, she’s a stripper by the way, and the other claimed to have killed her in a satanic ritual. Location of the body unknown. The first wanted some money, the second wanted out of prison in Arizona. The courts despise these last-minute fantasies.”
“He says the body is buried in the hills south of Joplin, Missouri. That’s where he grew up.”
“How soon can he find the body?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Come on, Keith. Give me something I can use.”
“He has her class ring. I’ve seen it, held it, and examined it. SHS 1999, with her initials ANY. Blue stone, size about six.”
“This is good, Keith. I like it. But where is the ring right now?”
“I assume it’s around his neck.”
“And you don’t know where he is?”
“Uh, correct, at this moment, I don’t know where he is.”
“Who is Matthew Burns?”
“A friend of mine, a prosecutor.”
“Look, Keith, I appreciate your concern. You’ve called twice, e-mailed once, got one of your friends to call. Thank you very much. I’m a very busy man right now, so please leave me alone.” Robbie picked up his sandwich as he put down the phone.
CHAPTER 14
Gill Newton had been the governor of Texas for five years, and though polls showed an enviable level of approval among the electorate, the polls were dwarfed by his own estimation of his popularity. He was from Laredo, far down in South Texas, where he’d been raised on a ranch that had been owned by his grandfather, who’d once been a sheriff. Gill had scratched his way through college and law school, and when no firm would hire him, he became an assistant prosecutor in El Paso. At the age of twenty-nine, he was elected district attorney in the first of many successful campaigns. He had never lost one. By the age of forty, he’d sent five men to death row. As governor, he’d watched two of them die, explaining that it was his duty since he’d prosecuted them. Though records were sketchy, it was widely believed that Newton was the only sitting governor of Texas to witness an execution. This was certainly true for the modern era. In interviews, he claimed that watching the men die had given him a sense of closure. “I remember the victims,” he said. “I kept thinking about the victims. These were horrible crimes.”
Newton seldom passed on a chance to be interviewed.
Brash, loud, vulgar (in private), he was wildly popular because of his antigovernment rhetoric, his unwavering beliefs, his outrageous comments that he never apologized for, and his love of Texas and its history of fierce independence. The vast majority of voters also shared his fondness for the death penalty.
With his second and final term secured, Newton was already gazing across the borders of Texas and contemplating a larger stage, something bigger. He was needed.
Late Wednesday afternoon he met with his two closest advisers, two old friends from law school who had helped with every major decision and most of the minor ones as well. Wayne Wallcott was the lawyer, or chief counsel, as his letterhead proclaimed, and Barry Ringfield was the mouthpiece, or director of communications. On a routine day in Austin, the three met in the governor’s office at precisely 5:15 p.m. They took off their coats, dismissed the secretaries, locked the door, and at 5:30 p.m. poured the bourbon. Then they got down to business.
“This Drumm thing could get messy tomorrow,” Barry was saying. “Blacks are pissed, and they got demonstrations scheduled all over the state tomorrow.”
“Where?” the governor asked.
“Well, here, for starters. On the south lawn of the Capitol. Rumor has it that the Right Reverend Jeremiah Mays is flying in on his fancy jet to get the natives good and agitated.”
“I love it,” the governor said.
“The request for a reprieve has been filed and is on record,” Wayne said, looking at some paperwork. He took a sip. The bourbon, Knob Creek, was poured each time into a heavy crystal Waterford glass with the state’s seal on it.
“Definitely more interest in this one,” Barry said. “Lots of calls, letters, e-mails.”
“Who’s calling?” Newton asked.
“The usual chorus. The Pope. President of France. Two members of the Dutch parliament. Prime minister of Kenya, Jimmy Carter, Amnesty International, that loudmouth from California who runs the Black Caucus in Washington. Lots of folks.”
“Anybody important?”
“Not really. The circuit judge in Chester County, Elias Henry, has called twice and sent an e-mail. He’s in favor of a reprieve, says he has grave doubts about the jury’s verdict. Most of the noise from Slone, though, is gung ho in favor of the execution. They think the boy’s guilty. The mayor called and expressed some concerns about trouble in Slone tomorrow night, says he might be calling for help.”