“What about the other 50 percent?”
“And who might those be?”
“Half of all inmates paroled from prison stay out of trouble and are never arrested again.”
Boyette didn’t appreciate this statistic. He re-shifted his weight and fixated on the right-side mirror. He withdrew into his shell and stopped talking. When they were south of Wichita, he fell asleep.
———
The cell phone rang again at 3:40 a.m. It was Matthew Burns. “Where are you, Keith?” he demanded.
“Get some sleep, Matthew. Sorry I bothered you.”
“I’m having trouble sleeping. Where are you?”
“About thirty miles from the Oklahoma state line.”
“Still got your buddy?”
“Oh yes. He’s sleeping now. Me, I just nap on and off.”
“I’ve talked to Dana. She’s upset, Keith. I’m worried too. We think you’re losing your mind.”
“Probably so. I’m touched. Relax, Matthew. I’m doing what’s right, and I’ll survive whatever happens. Right now, my thoughts are with Donté Drumm.”
“Don’t cross the state line.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Good. I just wanted to be on record as warning you more than once.”
“I’m writing it down.”
“Okay, now, Keith, listen to me. We have no idea what might happen once you get to Slone and your buddy there starts running his mouth. I’m assuming he’ll attract cameras like roadkill attracts buzzards. Stay out of the picture, Keith. Keep your head low. Don’t talk to any reporters. One of two things will definitely happen. Number one, the execution will take place as scheduled. If so, then you’ve done your best, and it’ll be time to scramble back home. Boyette has the option of staying there or catching a ride back. Doesn’t really matter to you. Just get back home. There’s a decent chance no one will know about your little adventure in Texas. The second scenario is that the execution will be stayed. If so, you’ve won, but don’t celebrate. While the authorities grab Boyette, you sneak out of town and get back home. Either way, you gotta stay out of sight. Am I clear?”
“I think so. Here’s the question: Where do we go when we get to Slone? The prosecutor, the police, the press, the defense attorney?”
“Robbie Flak. He’s the only one who might listen. The police and the prosecutor have no reason to listen to Boyette. They have their man. They’re just waiting for the execution. Flak is the only one who might believe you, and he certainly appears capable of making a lot of noise. If Boyette tells a good story, then Flak will take care of the press.”
“That’s what I thought. I’m planning on calling Flak at six. I doubt if he’s sleeping much.”
“Let’s talk before we start making calls.”
“You got it.”
“And, Keith, I still think you’re crazy.”
“I don’t doubt it, Matthew.”
He put the phone in his pocket, and a few minutes later the Subaru left Kansas and entered Oklahoma. Keith was driving eighty miles an hour. He was also wearing his clerical collar, and he’d convinced himself that any decent trooper wouldn’t ask too many questions of a man of God whose crime was nothing more than speeding.
CHAPTER 17
The Drumm family spent the night in a budget motel on the outskirts of Livingston, less than four miles by car from the Allan B. Polunsky correctional facility, where Donté had been locked up for over seven years. The motel did a modest trade with the families of inmates, including the rather bizarre cult of death row wives from abroad. At any given time, around twenty condemned men were married to European women they could never actually touch. The weddings were not officially sanctioned by the state, but the couples nonetheless considered themselves married and carried on to the fullest extent possible. The wives corresponded with each other and often traveled together to Texas to see their men. They stayed at the same motel.
Four had eaten at a table near the Drumms late the night before. They were usually noticeable, with their thick accents and suggestive clothing. They liked to be noticed. Back home they were minor celebrities.
Donté had rebuffed all offers of matrimony. During his final days, he turned down book deals, requests for interviews, marriage proposals, and the chance to make an appearance on Fordyce—Hitting Hard! He had refused to meet with both the prison chaplain and his own minister, the Reverend Johnny Canty. Donté had given up on religion. He wanted no part of the same God so fervently worshipped by the devout Christians who were hell-bent on killing him.
Roberta Drumm awoke in the darkness of room 109. She had slept so little in the past month that her fatigue now kept her awake. The doctor had given her some pills, but they had backfired and made her edgy. The room was warm and she pulled back the sheets. Her daughter, Andrea, was in the other twin bed, only a few feet away, and seemed to be sleeping. Her sons Cedric and Marvin were next door. The rules of the prison allowed them to visit with Donté from 8:00 a.m. until noon on this, his final day. After their last farewell, he would be transported to the death chamber at the prison in Huntsville.
Eight in the morning was hours away.
The schedule was fixed, all movements dictated by a system famous for its efficiency. At 5:00 that afternoon, the family would report to a prison office in Huntsville and then take a short ride in a van to the death chamber, where they would be herded into a cramped witness room just seconds before the drugs were administered. They would see him on the gurney, tubes already in his arms, listen to his final words, wait ten minutes or so for the official declaration of death, then leave quickly. From there, they would drive to a local funeral home to retrieve the body and take it home.
Could it be a dream, a nightmare? Was she really there, awake in the darkness contemplating her son’s final hours? Of course she was. She had lived the nightmare for nine years now, ever since the day she’d been told that Donté had not only been arrested but also confessed. The nightmare was a book as thick as her Bible, every chapter another tragedy, every page filled with sorrow and disbelief.
Andrea rolled from one side to another, the cheap bed squeaking and rattling. Then she was still and breathing heavily.
For Roberta, one horror had been replaced by the next: the numbing shock of seeing her boy in jail for the first time, in an orange jumpsuit, eyes wild and scared; the ache in her stomach as she thought about him in jail, locked away from his family and surrounded by criminals; the hope of a fair trial, only to suffer the shock of realizing it was anything but fair; her loud and unrestrained sobbing when the death sentence was announced; the last image of her son being led from the courtroom by thick deputies so smug in their work; the endless appeals and fading hopes; the countless visits to death row, where she watched a strong, healthy young man slowly deteriorate. She lost friends along the way and she really didn’t care. Some were skeptical of the claims of innocence. Some grew weary of all the talk about her son. But she was consumed, and had little else to say. How could anyone else know what a mother was going through?
And the nightmare would never end. Not today, when Texas finally executed him. Not next week, when she buried him. Not at some point in the future, when the truth was finally known, if ever.