“Nothing. I just want to sit here and look at the road and think about nothing.”
“Sounds good to me. You hungry?”
“No, thanks.”
———
Robbie left the house at 5:00 a.m. and drove a circuitous route to the office. He kept his window down so he could smell the smoke. The fire had long since been extinguished, but the odor of freshly charred wood hung like a thick cloud over Slone. There was no wind. Downtown, anxious cops were blocking streets and diverting traffic away from the First Baptist Church. Robbie got just a glimpse of its smoking ruins, illuminated by the flashing lights of fire and rescue vehicles. He took the backstreets, and when he parked at the old train station and got out of his car, the smell was still pungent and fresh. All of Slone would be awakened and greeted with the ominous vapor of a suspicious fire. And the obvious question would be, will there be more?
His staff drifted in, all sleep deprived and anxious to see if the day would take a dramatic turn away from the direction it was headed. They gathered in the main conference room, around the long table still cluttered with the debris of the night before. Carlos gathered empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, while Samantha Thomas served coffee and bagels. Robbie, trying to appear upbeat, replayed for the gang his conversation with Fred Pryor about the surreptitious recording from the strip club. Pryor himself had not yet arrived.
The phone started ringing. No one wanted to answer it. The receptionist was not in yet. “Somebody punch ‘Do Not Disturb,’ ” Robbie barked, and the phone stopped ringing.
Aaron Rey walked from room to room, looking out the windows. The television was on, but muted.
Bonnie entered the conference room and said, “Robbie, I just checked the phone messages for the past six hours. Nothing important. Just a couple of death threats, and a couple of rednecks happy the big day is finally here.”
“No call from the governor?” Robbie asked.
“Not yet.”
“What a surprise. I’m sure he lost sleep like the rest of us.”
———
Keith would eventually frame the speeding ticket, and because of it he would always know exactly what he was doing at 5:50 a.m. on Thursday, November 8, 2007. The location wasn’t clear, because there was no town in sight. Just a long, empty stretch of I-35, somewhere north of Ardmore, Oklahoma.
The trooper was hiding in some trees in the median, and as soon as Keith saw him and glanced at his speedometer, he knew he was in trouble. He hit his brakes, slowed considerably, and waited a few seconds. When the blue lights appeared, Boyette said, “Oh, shit.”
“Watch your language.” Keith was braking hard and hurrying to the shoulder.
“My language is the least of your problems. What’re you gonna tell him?”
“That I’m sorry.”
“What if he asks what we’re doing?”
“We’re driving down the highway, maybe a bit too fast, but we’re okay.”
“I think I’ll tell him I’m jumping parole and you’re my getaway driver.”
“Knock it off, Travis.”
The truth was that Travis looked exactly like the sort of character who would be jumping parole, right out of central casting. Keith stopped the car, turned off the ignition, straightened his clerical collar and made sure it was as visible as possible, and said, “Don’t say a word, Travis. Let me do the talking.”
As they waited for a very deliberate and purposeful state trooper, Keith managed to amuse himself by admitting that he was sitting beside the road, engaged in not one but two criminal activities, and that for some inconceivable reason he’d chosen as his partner in crime a serial rapist and murderer. He glanced at Travis and said, “Can you cover up that tattoo?” It was on the left side of his neck, a swirling creation that only a deviant might understand and wear with pride.
“What if he likes tattoos?” Travis said, without making a move for his shirt collar.
The trooper approached carefully, with a long flashlight, and when things appeared safe, he said gruffly, “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Keith said, glancing up. He handed over his license, registration, and insurance card.
“You a priest?” It was more of an accusation. Keith doubted there were many Catholics in southern Oklahoma.
“I’m a Lutheran minister,” he said with a warm smile. The perfect picture of peace and civility.
“Lutheran?” the trooper grunted, as if that might be worse than a Catholic.
“Yes, sir.”
He shined his light on the license. “Well, Reverend Schroeder, you were doing eighty-five miles an hour.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry about that.”
“Limit out here is seventy-five. What’s the hurry?”
“No real hurry. Just wasn’t paying attention.”
“Where you headed?”
Keith wanted to fire back, “Why, sir, is that any of your business?” But he quickly said, “Dallas.”
“Got a boy in Dallas,” the trooper said, as if that fact were somehow relevant. He walked back to his car, got inside, slammed the door, and began his paperwork. His blue lights sparkled through the fading darkness.
When the adrenaline settled down and Keith got bored with the waiting, he decided to make use of the time. He called Matthew Burns, who appeared to be holding his cell phone. Keith explained where he was and what was happening to him at the moment and had trouble convincing Matthew that it was nothing but a routine speeding ticket. They managed to work through Matthew’s overreaction and agreed to start calling Robbie Flak’s office immediately.
The trooper eventually returned. Keith signed his ticket, retrieved his documents, apologized again, and after twenty-eight minutes they were back on the road. Boyette’s presence was never acknowledged.
CHAPTER 18
At one point in his blurred past, Donté knew the precise number of days he’d spent in cell number 22F, death row, at the Polunsky Unit. Most inmates kept such a tally. But he’d lost count, for the same reason he’d lost interest in reading, writing, exercising, eating, brushing his teeth, shaving, showering, trying to communicate with other inmates, and obeying the guards. He could sleep and dream and use the toilet when necessary; beyond that, he was unable or unwilling to try much else.
“This is the big day, Donté,” the guard said when he slid the breakfast tray into the cell. Pancakes and applesauce again. “How you doin’?”
“Okay,” Donté mumbled. They spoke through a narrow slit in the metal door.
The guard was Mouse, a tiny black guy, one of the nicer ones. Mouse moved on, leaving Donté to stare at the food. He did not touch it. An hour later, Mouse was back. “Come on, Donté, you gotta eat.”
“Not hungry.”
“How ’bout your last meal? You thought about that? You gotta place your order in a few hours.”
“What’s good?” Donté asked.
“I’m not sure anything’s good as a last meal, but they tell me most of the guys eat like a horse. Steak, potatoes, catfish, shrimp, pizza, anything you want.”
“How ’bout cold noodles and boiled leather, same as any other day?”
“Whatever you want, Donté.” Mouse leaned a few inches closer, lowered his voice, and said, “Donté, I’ll be thinking about you, you hear?”
“Thanks, Mouse.”
“I’ll miss you, Donté. You’re a good guy.”
Donté was amused at the thought that someone on death row would miss him. He did not respond and Mouse moved on.
Donté sat on the edge of his bunk for a long time and stared at a cardboard box they’d delivered yesterday. In it, he’d neatly packed his possessions—a dozen paperbacks, none of which he’d read in years, two writing tablets, envelopes, a dictionary, a Bible, a 2007 calendar, a zippered bag in which he kept his money, $18.40, two tins of sardines and a package of stale saltines from the canteen, and a radio that picked up only a Christian station from Livingston and a country one from Huntsville. He took a writing tablet and a pencil and began to calculate. It took some time, but he finally arrived at a total he believed to be fairly accurate.