Carlos and Bonnie were hammering keys on their laptops, racing through the Internet, digging for anything on Keith Schroeder, Travis Boyette, the arrest in Slone.
Keith continued: “In fact, he was in jail in Slone while Donté Drumm was under arrest. Boyette posted bond, got out, then skipped town. He drifted to Kansas, tried to rape another woman, got caught, and is just finishing his sentence.”
Tense looks were exchanged around the table. Everyone took a breath. “Why is he talking now?” Robbie asked, leaning down closer to the speakerphone.
“He’s dying,” Keith said bluntly, no need to soft-pedal things at this point. “He has a brain tumor, a glioblastoma, grade four, inoperable. He says that the doctors have told him he has less than a year to live. He says he wants to do the right thing. While he was in prison, he lost track of the Drumm case, said he figured the authorities in Texas would one day figure out that they had the wrong man.”
“This guy’s in the car with you?”
“Yes.”
“Can he hear this conversation?”
Keith was driving with his left hand and holding his cell phone with his right. “No,” he said.
“When did you meet this guy, Keith?”
“Monday.”
“Do you believe him? If he is in fact a serial rapist and career criminal, then he’d rather lie than tell the truth. How do you know he has a brain tumor?”
“I checked that out. It’s true.” Keith glanced at Boyette, who was still staring at nothing through the passenger window. “I think it’s all true.”
“What does he want?”
“So far, nothing.”
“Where are you right now?”
“Interstate 35, not far from the Texas line. How does this work, Robbie? Is there a chance of stopping the execution?”
“There’s a chance,” Robbie said as he looked into the eyes of Samantha Thomas. She shrugged, nodded, a weak “Maybe.”
Robbie rubbed both hands and said, “Okay, Keith, here’s what we have to do. We have to meet Boyette and ask him a lot of questions, and if that goes well, then we’ll prepare an affidavit for him to sign and file it with a petition. We have time, but not much.”
Carlos handed Samantha a photo of Boyette he’d just printed out from a Web site for the Kansas Department of Corrections. She pointed at his face and whispered, “Get him on the phone.”
Robbie nodded and said, “Keith, I’d like to talk to Boyette. Can you put him on?”
Keith lowered his cell phone and said, “Travis, this is the lawyer. He wants to talk to you.”
“I don’t think so,” Boyette said.
“Why not? We’re driving to Texas to talk to the man, here he is.”
“Nope. I’ll talk when we get there.”
Boyette’s voice was clear on the speakerphone. Robbie and the rest were relieved to know that Keith actually had someone else in the car with him. Maybe he wasn’t some nut playing games at the eleventh hour.
Robbie pressed on. “If we can talk to him now, we can start to work on his affidavit. That’ll save some time, and we don’t have much of it.”
Keith relayed this to Boyette, whose reaction was startling. His upper body pitched forward violently as he grabbed his head with both hands. He tried to suppress a scream, but a very loud “Aghhhhh!” escaped, followed by deep guttural lurches that made the man sound as if he were dying in horrendous pain.
“What was that?” Robbie asked.
Keith was driving, talking on the phone, and suddenly distracted by another seizure. “I’ll call you back,” he said and put the phone down.
“I’m throwing up,” Boyette said, reaching for the door handle. Keith hit the brakes and steered the Subaru onto the shoulder. An 18-wheeler behind him swerved and sounded the horn. They finally came to a stop, and Boyette clutched his seat belt. When he was free, he leaned through the cracked door and began vomiting. Keith got out, walked to the rear bumper, and decided not to watch. Boyette puked for a long time, and when he finally finished, Keith handed him a bottle of water. “I need to lie down,” Boyette said, and crawled into the backseat. “Don’t move the car,” he directed. “I’m still sick.”
Keith walked a few feet away and called his wife.
———
After another noisy bout of gagging and throwing up, Boyette seemed to settle down. He returned to the rear seat, with the right-side door open, his feet hanging out.
“We need to move along, Travis. Slone is not getting any closer.”
“Just a minute, okay? I’m not ready to move.” He was rubbing his temples, and his slick skull seemed ready to crack. Keith watched him for a minute, but felt uncomfortable gawking at such agony. He stepped around the vomit and leaned on the hood of the car.
His phone buzzed. It was Robbie. “What happened?” he asked.
Robbie was seated now, still at the conference table, with most of the crew still there. Carlos was already working on an affidavit. Bonnie had found Boyette’s arrest record in Slone and was trying to determine which lawyer had represented him. Kristi Hinze arrived around 7:30 and soon realized she was missing the excitement. Martha Handler typed furiously, another episode in her evolving story about the execution. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor roamed around the train station, sipping cup after cup of coffee and nervously watching all doors and windows. Thankfully, the sun was now up and they didn’t really expect trouble. Not at the office, anyway.
“He has these seizures,” Keith said, as an 18-wheeler roared by, its wind blowing his hair. “I guess it’s the tumor, but when they hit, they’re pretty frightening. He’s been throwing up for the past twenty minutes.”
“Is the car moving, Keith?”
“No. We’ll take off in a minute.”
“The minutes are getting by us, Keith. You understand this, right? Donté will be executed at six o’clock tonight.”
“I got that. If you’ll recall, I tried to talk to you yesterday, and you told me to get lost.”
Robbie took a deep breath as he collected the stares from around the table. “Can he hear you right now?”
“No. He’s lying in the backseat, rubbing his head, afraid to move. Me, I’m sitting on the hood, dodging 18-wheelers.”
“Tell us why you believe this guy.”
“Well, let’s see, where do I start? He knows a lot about the crime. He was in Slone when it happened. He’s obviously capable of such violence. He’s dying. There’s no proof against Donté Drumm other than the confession. And Boyette has her senior class ring on a chain around his neck. That’s the best I can do, Robbie. And, I’ll admit, there’s a slight chance this is all a big lie.”
“But you’re helping him jump parole. You’re committing a crime.”
“Don’t remind me, okay? I just talked to my wife and she happened to mention that.”
“How soon can you get here?”
“I don’t know. Three hours, maybe. We’ve stopped twice for coffee because I haven’t slept in three nights. I bought myself a speeding ticket, one written by the slowest trooper in Oklahoma. Now Boyette is puking his guts out, and I’d rather him do that in a ditch and not in my car. I don’t know, Robbie. We’re trying.”
“Hurry up.”
CHAPTER 19
With the sun up and the town anxiously coming to life, the Slone police were on high alert, with holsters unfastened, radios squawking, patrol cars darting up and down the streets, and every officer looking for the next hint of trouble. It was expected at the high school, and for good measure the chief sent half a dozen men there early on Thursday morning. When the students arrived for class, they saw police cars parked near the main entrance, an ominous sign.