As Cicely Avis left the TCCA offices, she detoured two blocks and drove past the State Capitol. The “Rally for Donté” was drawing a nice crowd on the south lawn. Police were everywhere. A permit had been issued, and the First Amendment appeared to be working.
The crowd, almost all black, was streaming in. The permit was valid for three hours, from 3:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., the moment of execution, but it was obvious things were behind schedule—in Austin, but certainly not in Huntsville.
———
The governor was in a meeting, an important one, one that had nothing to do with Donté Drumm. At 3:11, the video was received by an assistant who handled the requests for reprieves, and she watched all fourteen minutes of it before she could decide what to do next. While she found Boyette somewhat believable and chilling, she was skeptical because of his background and the timing of his sudden desire to come clean. She went to find Wayne Wallcott, the governor’s lawyer and close friend, and described the video.
Wallcott listened closely, then shut the door of his office and told her to sit down. “Who has seen this video?” he asked.
“Only me,” the assistant answered. “It was e-mailed from Mr. Flak’s office, with a pass code. I watched it immediately and here I am.”
“And it’s a full confession?”
“Oh yes, with lots of details.”
“And you believe this guy?”
“I didn’t say that. I said he seems to know what he’s talking about. He’s a serial rapist, and he was in Slone when the girl disappeared. It’s a full confession.”
“Does he mention Drumm?”
“Why don’t you just watch the video?”
“I didn’t ask for any suggestions, did I?” Wallcott snapped. “Just answer my questions.”
“Sorry.” The assistant took a breath. She was suddenly nervous and uneasy. Wallcott was listening, but he was also scheming. “He mentioned Drumm only to say that he’s never met him and he had nothing to do with the crime.”
“He’s obviously lying. I’m not bothering the governor with this, and I want you to keep the video to yourself. I don’t have the time to look at it. Neither does the governor. You understand?”
She did not, but she nodded anyway.
Wallcott narrowed his eyes and frowned. “You do understand, don’t you?” he asked gravely. “This video stays in your computer.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as she left, Wallcott practically jogged to the office of Barry Ringfield, the governor’s chief spokesman and closest friend. The office suite was crawling with staff and interns, so they took a stroll down the hall.
After a few minutes of discussing their options, they agreed that the governor would not see the video. If Boyette was lying, then the video would be irrelevant and the right man was executed. But if Boyette was telling the truth, which they strongly doubted, and the wrong man was executed, the fallout could be messy. The only way to protect Governor Gill Newton was for one of them, or perhaps the assistant, to take the fall by admitting they sat on, or maybe even lost, the video. Gill Newton had never granted a reprieve in a death case, and with the thrilling attention being stirred up by the Drumm case, he was not about to back down now. Even if he watched the video, and even if he believed Boyette, he would not retreat.
Wayne and Barry walked to the governor’s office. They were expected there promptly at 4:00 p.m., two hours before the execution, and they would not tell the governor about the video.
———
At 3:30 p.m., the Flak Law Firm gathered once again around the main conference table. All were present and accounted for, including Keith, who, though fighting the worst fatigue of his life, was finding it hard to believe he had somehow acquired a ticket to this circus. He and Judge Henry sat away from the table, against a wall. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor read newspapers on the other side of the room. Travis Boyette was still alive, still resting in the dark on Robbie’s sofa.
It was past time for Robbie to leave for Huntsville, and the strain was showing. But he couldn’t leave yet. The Boyette petition had energized the team and given them hope.
Robbie worked from a checklist. Yellow legal pad, as always. Sammie Thomas and Bonnie would track the Boyette petition before the court of appeals, and also continue to press the governor’s office on the reprieve. Gill Newton had yet to grant or deny, and he usually waited until the last moment. He loved the drama and attention. Carlos would track the insanity petition, which was still with the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. If denied there, they would appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. Fred Pryor would remain at the office and tend to Boyette. No one knew what to do with Boyette, but he didn’t appear to be leaving. As always, Aaron Rey would accompany Robbie to Huntsville. Martha Handler would also go, to observe and record. Robbie barked orders, answered questions, refereed conflicts, and then suddenly looked at the reverend and asked, “Keith, can you go with us to Huntsville?”
For a few seconds, the reverend couldn’t speak. “Why, Robbie?” he managed to ask.
“Donté might need you.”
Keith’s mouth fell open and no words came out. The room was quiet, all eyes on Keith. Robbie pressed on: “He was raised in a church, Keith, but he now takes a dim view of religion. His jury had five Baptists, two Pentecostals, one Church of Christ, and I guess the others were lost. Over the past few years, he’s come to believe that white Christians are the reason he’s on death row. He wants no part of their God, and I don’t expect him to change his views anytime soon. Still, at the very end, he might appreciate someone to pray with.”
What Keith wanted was a nice bed in a clean motel and twelve hours of sleep. But, as a man of God, he couldn’t say no. He nodded slowly and said, “Sure.”
“Good. We’ll leave in five minutes.”
Keith closed his eyes and rubbed his temples and said to himself, “Lord, what am I doing here? Help me.”
Fred Pryor suddenly jumped from his chair. He held his cell phone at arm’s length, as if it were white-hot, and said loudly, “Oh, boy! It’s Joey Gamble. He wants to sign the affidavit and recant his testimony.”
“Is he on the phone?” Robbie said.
“No. It’s a text message. Should I call him?”
“Of course!” Robbie snapped. Pryor stepped to the center of the table and pressed the keys on the speakerphone. No one moved as the phone rang and rang. Finally, a timid “Hello.”
“Joey, Fred Pryor here, in Slone, just got your message, what the hell’s going on?”
“Uh, I wanna help, Mr. Pryor. I’m really upset by all this.”
“You think you’re upset, what about Donté? He’s got two and a half hours to live, and now you finally wake up and want to help.”
“I’m so confused,” Joey said.
Robbie leaned forward and took charge. “Joey, this is Robbie Flak. Remember?”
“Of course.”
“Where are you?”
“Mission Bend, in my apartment.”
“Are you willing to sign an affidavit admitting that you lied at Donté’s trial?”
With no hesitation, Joey said, “Yes.”
Robbie closed his eyes and dropped his head. Around the table, there were silent fist pumps, quick prayers of thanks, and a lot of tired smiles.
“All right, here’s the plan. There’s a lawyer in Houston by the name of Agnes Tanner. Her office is downtown on Clay Street. Do you know the city?”
“I guess.”
“Can you find an office downtown?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I should drive.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not drunk, but I’ve been drinking.” Robbie instinctively glanced at his watch. Not yet 4:00 p.m. and the boy was already thick tongued.
“Joey, call a cab. I’ll reimburse you later. It’s crucial that you get to Tanner’s office as quickly as possible. We’ll e-mail an affidavit, you sign it, and we’ll get it filed in Austin. Can you do this, Joey?”