All of Slone knew that the black players had boycotted practice on Wednesday and had vowed not to play Friday. There could be no greater insult to a community that loved its football. The fans, so ardent and loyal only a week earlier, now felt betrayed. Feelings were strong; emotions were raw all over Slone. On the white side of town, the bitterness was caused by football, and now the burning of a church. On the black side, it was all about the execution.
As with most violent and sudden conflicts, the precise manner in which the riot began would never be known. In the endless retelling of it, two things became obvious: the black students blamed the white students, and the whites blamed the blacks. The question of time was a bit clearer. Just seconds after the first bell at 8:15, several things happened at once. Smoke bombs were lit in the boys’ restrooms on the first and second floors. Cherry bombs were rolled down the main hallway, exploding like howitzers under the metal lockers. A string of firecrackers went off near the central stairwell, and panic swept the school. Most of the black students walked out of class and mingled in the halls. A brawl erupted in a junior homeroom class when a black hothead and a white hothead exchanged insults and started swinging. Others were quick to take sides and join in. The teacher ran from the room screaming for help. One fight sparked a dozen more. Before long, students were rushing out of the building, running for safety. Some were yelling, “Fire! Fire!” though no flames had been seen. The police called for backups and fire trucks. Firecrackers were popping all over the first and second floors. The smoke grew thicker and thicker as the chaos spread. Near the entryway to the gymnasium, some black kids were ransacking the trophy cases when they were seen by a gang of whites. Another fight broke out, one that spilled into a parking lot next to the gym. The principal stayed in his office and barked nonstop into the PA system. His warnings were ignored and only added to the confusion. At 8:30, he announced that school had been canceled for that day and the next. The police, with reinforcements, eventually settled things down and evacuated Slone High School. There were no fires, only smoke and the acrid smell of cheap explosives. There was some broken glass, clogged toilets, upended lockers, and stolen backpacks, and a soft drink machine was vandalized. Three students—two whites and one black—were taken to the hospital and treated for cuts. There were a lot of cuts and bruises that went unreported. Typical of such a melee, with so many taking part, it was not possible to determine who was causing trouble and who was trying to flee, so no arrests were made at the time.
Many of the older boys, black and white, went home to get their guns.
———
Roberta, Andrea, Cedric, and Marvin were cleared through the security desk at Polunsky’s front building and led by a supervisor to the Visitors’ Room, a process and a walk they had endured many times in the past seven years. And though they had always hated the prison and everything about it, they realized that it would soon be a part of their past. If it meant nothing else, Polunsky was where Donté lived. That would change in a matter of hours.
There are two private rooms used by attorneys in the visiting area. They are slightly wider than the other booths used by visitors, and they are fully enclosed so no guard or prison official, or other inmate or lawyer, can eavesdrop. On his final day, a condemned man is allowed to see his family and friends in one of the attorney’s rooms. The Plexiglas is still there, and all conversations are through black phones on each side of it. No touching.
The Visitors’ Room is a loud and busy place on weekends, but on weekdays there is little traffic. Wednesdays are set aside as “Media Days,” and a man “with a date” is typically interviewed by a couple of reporters from the town where the murder took place. Donté had declined all requests for interviews.
When the family entered the visiting area at 8:00 a.m., the only other person there was a female guard named Ruth. They knew her well. She was a thoughtful soul who liked Donté. Ruth welcomed them and said how sorry she was.
Donté was already in the attorney’s booth when Roberta and Cedric entered. A guard could be seen through the window of a door behind him. As always, he placed the palm of his left hand flat on the Plexiglas, and Roberta did the same from the other side. Though the touch was never completed, it was a long, warm embrace in their minds. Donté had not touched his mother since the last day of his trial, in October 1999, when a guard allowed them a quick hug as he was being led from the courtroom.
He held the phone with his right hand and said with a smile, “Hi, Momma. Thanks for coming. I love you.” Their hands were still together, pressed against the glass. Roberta said, “And I love you right back, Donté. How are you today?”
“The same. I’ve already had my shower and a shave. Everybody’s real nice to me. Got fresh clothes on, a new pair of boxers. This is a lovely place. They get real nice around here right before they kill you.”
“You look great, Donté.”
“And so do you, Momma. You’re as beautiful as always.”
During one of her first visits, Roberta had wept and had been unable to stop herself. Afterward, Donté wrote to her and explained how upsetting it was to see her so distraught. In the solitude of his cell, he wept for hours, but he couldn’t bear to watch his mother do the same. He wanted her to visit him whenever possible, but the tears did more harm than good. There had been no more tears, not from Roberta, Andrea, Cedric, Marvin, or any other relative or friend. Roberta made this very clear with each visit. If you can’t control yourself, get out of the room.
“I talked to Robbie this morning,” she said. “He has one or two more plans for the final appeals, plus the governor has not ruled on your request for a reprieve. So there’s still hope, Donté.”
“There’s no hope, Momma, so don’t kid yourself.”
“We can’t give up, Donté.”
“Why not? There’s nothing we can do. When Texas wants to kill somebody, they’re gonna do it. Killed one last week. Got another planned later this month. It’s an assembly line around here, can’t nobody stop it. You might get lucky and get a stay every now and then, happened to me two years ago, but sooner or later your time is up. They don’t care about guilt or innocence, Momma, all they care about is showing the world how tough they are. Texas don’t fool around. Don’t mess with Texas. Ever heard that?”
Softly she said, “I don’t want you to be angry, Donté.”
“I’m sorry, Momma, I’m gonna die angry. I can’t help it. Some of these guys go peacefully, singing hymns, quoting scripture, begging for forgiveness. Dude last week said, ‘Father, unto you I commend my spirit.’ Some don’t say a word, just close their eyes and wait for the poison. A few go out kicking. Todd Willingham died three years ago, always claimed to be innocent. They said he started a house fire that burned up his three little girls. Yet he was in the house and got burned too. He was a fighter. He cussed ’em in his final statement.”
“Don’t do that, Donté.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do, Momma. Maybe nothing. Maybe I’ll just lie there with my eyes closed and start counting, and when I get to a hundred, I’ll just float away. But, Momma, you’re not gonna be there.”
“We’ve had this conversation, Donté.”
“Well, now we’re having it again. I don’t want you to witness this.”
“I don’t want to either, believe me. But I’ll be there.”
“I’m gonna talk to Robbie.”
“I’ve already talked to him, Donté. He knows how I feel.”
Donté slowly withdrew his left hand from the glass, and Roberta did the same. She placed the phone on the counter and removed a sheet of paper from her pocket. No purses were allowed past the front desk. She unfolded the paper, picked up the phone, and said, “Donté, this is a list of the folks who’ve called or stopped by to ask about you. I promised them I would pass along their thoughts.”