“A pleasure to meet you,” Keith said.
“Sounds like you’re having quite an adventure.”
Keith laughed and said, “I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing.”
“Then you’ve come to the right law firm,” Judge Henry said. They shared a laugh, a quick one, and then all humor vanished.
“What do you think?” Robbie asked Judge Henry.
The judge scratched his cheek, thought hard for a moment, and then said, “The question is, what will the court of appeals think? You can never tell. They hate these last-minute surprise witnesses who pop up and begin changing facts that are ten years old. Plus, a man who’s made a career out of aggravated rape is not likely to be taken seriously. I’d give you a slight chance of getting a stay.”
“That’s a lot more than we had two hours ago,” Robbie said.
“When do you file? It’s almost two o’clock.”
“Within the hour. Here’s my question. Do we tell the press about Mr. Boyette? I’m sending the video to the court and to the governor. I can also give it to the local TV station, or I can send it to every station in Texas. Or, better yet, I can arrange a press conference here or at the courthouse and let the world listen as Boyette tells his story.”
“To what benefit?”
“Maybe I want the world to know that Texas is about to execute the wrong man. Here’s the killer, listen to him.”
“But the world cannot stop the execution. Only the courts or the governor can do that. I’d be careful here, Robbie. There’s smoke in the air now, and if people see Boyette on television, claiming responsibility, this place could blow up.”
“It’s blowing up anyway.”
“You want a race war?”
“If they kill Donté, yes. I wouldn’t mind a race war. A small one.”
“Come on, Robbie. You’re playing with dynamite here. Think strategically, not emotionally. And keep in mind that this guy could be lying. This would not be the first execution where a fraud claimed responsibility. The press can’t resist it. The nut gets on television. Everybody looks stupid.”
Robbie was pacing, four steps one way, four steps the other. He was fidgety, frantic, but still thinking clearly. He had great admiration for Judge Henry, and Robbie was smart enough to know he needed advice at that moment.
The room was quiet. On the other side of the door, the voices were tense, the phones were ringing.
Judge Henry said, “I assume it’s not possible to search for the body.”
Robbie shook his head and deferred to Keith, who said, “Not now. Two days ago, Tuesday I think it was, I’m not sure—I feel as though I’ve lived with this guy for a year—but anyway, Tuesday I suggested the best way to stop the execution was to find the body. He said that it would be difficult. He buried her nine years ago in a secluded area that is heavily wooded. He also said that he’s gone back to visit her several times—I’m not sure what that meant, and I really didn’t want to pursue it. Then I lost contact with him. I searched and searched and I was determined to somehow corral him and insist that we notify the authorities, here and in Missouri, if that is in fact where Nicole is buried, but he would not agree. Then we lost contact again. He’s a strange guy, very strange. He called me around midnight last night; I was already in bed, sound asleep, and he said he wanted to come here, to tell his story, to stop the execution. I felt as though I had no choice. I’ve never done anything like this before, I can promise you that. I know it’s wrong to help a convict violate his parole, but so be it. Anyway, we left Topeka around 1:00 this morning, and again I suggested that we notify the authorities and at least begin the search for the body. He wanted no part of that.”
“It would not have worked, Keith,” Robbie said. “The authorities here are useless. They would laugh at you. They have their man, the case is solved. Almost closed, I guess. Nobody in Missouri would lift a finger because there is no active investigation. You can’t just call a sheriff and suggest that he and his boys go out in the woods and start digging somewhere down by the creek. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Then who looks for the body?” Keith asked.
“I guess we do.”
“I’m going home, Robbie. My wife is barking at me. My lawyer friend thinks I’m crazy. I think I’m crazy. I’ve done my best. Boyette’s all yours. I’m sick of the guy.”
“Relax, Keith. I need you right now.”
“For what?”
“Just hang around, okay? Boyette trusts you. Besides, when was the last time you had front-row seats at a race riot?”
“Not funny.”
“Sit on the video, Robbie,” Judge Henry said. “Show it to the court and to the governor, but don’t make it public.”
“I can control the video, but I cannot control Mr. Boyette. If he wants to talk to the press, I can’t stop him. God knows he’s not my client.”
———
By 2:30 Thursday afternoon, every church in Slone, black and white, was being guarded by preachers, deacons, and Sunday school teachers, all men, all heavily armed and visible. They sat on the front steps and chatted anxiously, shotguns across their knees. They sat under shade trees near the streets, waving at the passing cars, many of which honked in solidarity. They patrolled the rear doors and back property, smoking, chewing, watching for any movement. There would be no more church burnings in Slone.
The cotton gin had been abandoned two decades earlier when a newer one replaced it east of town. It was an eyesore, a badly decaying old building, and under normal circumstances a good fire would have been welcomed. The 911 call was recorded at 2:44. A teenager driving by saw heavy smoke and called on her cell phone. The beleaguered firemen rushed to the old gin, and by the time they arrived, the flames were roaring through the roof. Since it was an empty, abandoned building, and not a great loss anyway, they took their time.
The black smoke boiled into the sky. The mayor could see it from his second-story office, near the courthouse, and after consulting with the chief of police, he called the governor’s office. The situation in Slone was not likely to improve. The citizens were in danger. They needed the National Guard.
CHAPTER 23
The petition was finished just before 3:00 p.m., and with Boyette’s affidavit included, it ran for thirty pages. Boyette swore in writing that he was telling the truth, and Sammie Thomas e-mailed the petition to the Defender Group’s office in Austin. The staff there was waiting. It was printed, copied twelve times, and handed off to Cicely Avis, who sprinted from the office, hopped in her car, and raced across town to the offices of the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. The petition was filed at 3:35.
“What’s this?” the clerk asked, holding a disc.
“It’s a video of a confession by the real murderer,” Cicely replied.
“Interesting. I assume you want the judges to see this fairly soon.”
“Right now, please.”
“I’ll get it done.”
They chatted for a second, and Cicely left the office. The clerk immediately delivered the petition to the offices of the nine judges. In the chief justice’s office, he spoke to the law clerk and said, “You might want to watch the video first. Some guy just confessed to the murder.”
“And where is this guy?” asked the clerk.
“He’s in Donté Drumm’s lawyer’s office in Slone, according to the Defender Group lawyer.”
“So Robbie Flak’s found him a new witness?”
“Looks like it.”