“Joplin, Missouri, is at least five hours from here.”
“More than that. Nicole and I drove there.”
“So she was alive when you left Texas.”
The tic, the pause, finally, “Yes. I killed her in Missouri. Raped her from here to there.”
“Is it possible to call the authorities in Joplin and tell them how to find the body?”
Boyette managed to laugh at such foolishness. “You think I’m stupid? Why would I bury her where someone could find her? I’m not even sure I can find her after all these years.”
Robbie anticipated this and didn’t miss a beat. “Then we need to take your statement, by video, and quickly.”
“Okay. I’m ready.”
They walked to the conference room, where Carlos was waiting with a camera and a court reporter. Boyette was directed to a chair facing the camera. The court reporter sat to his right, Robbie to his left. Carlos worked the camera. The other members of the firm suddenly materialized—Robbie wanted them as witnesses—and they stood with Keith ten feet away. Boyette looked at them and was suddenly nervous. He felt like a man facing his own, well-attended execution. The court reporter asked him to raise his right hand and swear to tell the truth. He did, and then Robbie began the questioning. Name, place of birth, address, employment, current status as a parolee, and criminal record. He asked if Boyette was giving his statement voluntarily. Nothing had been promised. Was he living in Slone in December 1998? Why? How long?
Robbie’s questions were gentle but efficient. Boyette looked squarely at the camera, no flinching or blinking, and seemed to warm to the task. Oddly, the tic went away.
Tell us about Nicole.
Boyette thought for a second and then launched into his narrative. The football games, the fascination with Nicole, the obsession, the stalking, and finally the abduction outside the mall, not a single witness anywhere. On the floor of his truck, he put a gun to her head and threatened to kill her if she made a sound, then he bound her wrists and ankles with duct tape. He taped her mouth. He drove somewhere into the country, he was not sure where, and after he raped her the first time, he almost dumped her in a ditch, injured but not dead, but wanted to rape her again. They left Slone. The cell phone in her handbag kept ringing and ringing so he finally stopped at a bridge over the Red River. He took her cash, credit card, and driver’s license, then threw the handbag off the bridge. They drifted through southeastern Oklahoma. Just before sunrise, near Fort Smith, he saw a cheap motel he’d stayed in before, alone. He paid cash for a room and, with a gun to her head, got her inside without being seen. He taped her wrists, ankles, and mouth again and told her to go to sleep. He slept a few hours, not sure if she did. They spent a long day at the motel. He convinced her that if she would cooperate, give him what he wanted, then he would release her. But he already knew the truth. After dark, they moved on, headed north. At daybreak on Sunday, they were south of Joplin, in a heavily wooded, remote area. She begged him, but he killed her anyway. It wasn’t easy, she fought hard, scratched him, drew blood. He stuffed her body in a large toolbox and buried it. No one would ever find her. He drove back to Slone and got drunk.
Robbie was taking notes. The court reporter pressed the keys of her stenotype machine. No one else moved. No one seemed to breathe.
Boyette went silent, his story complete. His detached narration and his command of details were chilling. Martha Handler would later write: “Watching Boyette’s eyes and face as he talked about his crimes left no doubt that we were in the presence of a ruthless killer. The story that we will never know, and perhaps prefer not to know, is the suffering this poor girl endured throughout the ordeal.”
Robbie, calm but also anxious to finish the testimony, pressed on: “Approximately what time on Sunday did you kill her?”
“The sun was barely up. I waited until I could see things, see where I was, and find the best place to hide her.”
“And this was Sunday, December 6, 1998?”
“If you say so. Yes.”
“So sunrise would be around 6:30 a.m.?”
“That sounds about right.”
“And you returned to Slone and went where?”
“I went to my room at the Rebel Motor Inn, after I’d bought a case of beer with the cash I took from Nicole.”
“You got drunk at the Rebel Motor Inn?”
“Yes.”
“How long did you live in Slone after the murder?”
“I don’t know, maybe a month and a half. I was arrested here in January, you got the records. After I got outta jail, I took off.”
“After you killed her, when did you hear that Donté Drumm had been arrested?”
“Don’t know exactly. I saw it on television. I saw you yelling at the cameras.”
“What did you think when he was arrested?”
Boyette shook his head and said, “I thought, what a bunch of idiots. That kid had nothing to do with it. They got the wrong guy.”
It was a perfect place to end. Robbie said, “That’s all.” Carlos reached for the camera.
Robbie asked the court reporter, “How long before we have a transcript?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Good. Hurry.” Robbie huddled with the rest of his firm at the conference table and everyone talked at once. Boyette was forgotten for a moment, though Fred Pryor kept an eye on him. Boyette asked for water, and Pryor handed him a bottle. Keith stepped outside to call Dana and Matthew Burns and to get some fresh air. But the air wasn’t refreshing; it was heavy with smoke and tension.
There was a loud thud, followed by a shriek, as Boyette fell out of his chair and hit the floor. He grabbed his head, pulled his knees to his chest, and began shaking as the seizure consumed him. Fred Pryor and Aaron Rey knelt over him, uncertain what to do. Robbie and the others crowded around, staring in horror at a fit so violent that the ancient wooden floor seemed to shake. They actually felt sorry for the man. Keith heard the commotion and joined the crowd.
“He needs a doctor,” Sammie Thomas said.
“He has meds, doesn’t he, Keith?” Robbie asked in a hushed tone.
“Yes.”
“Have you seen this before?”
Boyette was still thrashing about, groaning pitifully. Surely the man was dying. Fred Pryor was patting him softly on the arm.
“Yes,” Keith said. “About four hours ago, somewhere in Oklahoma. He vomited forever and then passed out.”
“Should we take him to the hospital? I mean, look, Keith, could he be dying right now?”
“I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. What else do you need from him?”
“We must have his signature on his affidavit, signed under oath.” Robbie stepped back and motioned for Keith to join him. They spoke softly. Robbie continued, “And then there’s the matter of finding the body. Even with his affidavit, there’s no guarantee the court will stop the execution. The governor will not. Either way, we have to find the body, and soon.”
Keith said, “Let’s put him on the sofa in your office, turn off the lights. I’ll give him a pill. Maybe he’s not dying.”
“Good idea.”
It was 1:20 p.m.
CHAPTER 22
Donté’s first helicopter ride was intended to be his last. Courtesy of the Texas Department of Public Safety, he was moving through the air at ninety miles per hour, three thousand feet above the rolling hills, and he could see nothing below. He was wedged between two guards, thick young men scowling out the windows as if Operation Detour might have a surface-to-air missile or two in its arsenal. Up front were the two pilots, grim-faced boys thrilled with the excitement of their mission. The rocky, noisy ride made Donté nauseous, so he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against hard plastic, and tried to think of something pleasant. He could not.