“I’ll try.”
“It’s the least you can do, Joey. Right now Donté is in the holding cell in Huntsville, thirty feet from the little room where they kill people, and your lies helped put him there.”
“I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked.
“The office is at 118 Clay Street, you got that, Joey?”
“I think so.”
“Get there, Joey. The paperwork will be waiting for you. Every minute is crucial, Joey, do you understand?”
“Okay, okay.”
“Call us back in ten minutes.”
“You got it.”
After the call ended, Robbie barked orders and everyone scrambled. As he headed for the door, he said, “Let’s go, Keith.” They jumped in the van, with Martha Handler racing to keep up with them, and Aaron Rey sped away. Robbie called Agnes Tanner in Houston and urgently confirmed the details.
Keith leaned forward and looked at Aaron in the rearview mirror. “Someone said it’s a three-hour drive to Huntsville.”
“It is,” Aaron replied. “But we’re not driving.”
The Slone Municipal Airport was two miles east of town. It had one runway, west to east, four small hangars, the usual collection of old Cessnas in a row on the deck, and a square metal building for the terminal. They parked, ran through the tiny lobby area, nodded at a deckhand behind the desk, and stepped onto the tarmac, where a shiny twin-engine King Air was waiting. It was owned by a wealthy lawyer friend of Robbie’s who was an avid pilot. He got them on board, locked the door, made them fasten their seat belts, then strapped himself in and began flipping switches.
Keith had not talked to his wife in several hours, and things were happening so fast he wasn’t sure where to begin. Dana answered during the first beep, as if she’d been staring at her cell phone. The engines started, and the cabin was suddenly loud and shaking. “Where are you?” she asked.
“In an airplane, leaving Slone, flying to Huntsville to meet Donté Drumm.”
“I can barely hear you. Whose airplane?”
“A friend of Robbie Flak’s. Look, Dana, I can’t hear you either. I’ll call you when we land in Huntsville.”
“Please be careful, Keith.”
“Love you.”
Keith was facing the front of the plane, his knees almost touching Martha Handler’s. He watched the pilot run through the checklist as they taxied away to the runway. Robbie, Martha, and Aaron were all on the phone, and Keith wondered how they could carry on a conversation amid the racket. At the end of the runway, the King Air did a 180 and pointed west. The pilot revved the engines, the plane shook harder and harder as if it might explode, then the pilot yelled, “Hold on,” and released the brakes. They jerked forward, and all four passengers closed their eyes. Within seconds, they were in the air. The landing gear folded with a thud, but Keith had no idea what he was hearing. In the blur of the moment, he realized that he had never before flown in a small airplane.
Nor had he ever been to Texas, chauffeured a serial rapist and murderer, listened to his chilling confession, witnessed the chaos of a law firm trying to save an innocent man, gone four days with virtually no sleep, picked up a speeding ticket in Oklahoma, or said yes to an invitation to pray with a man minutes before his death.
They flew over Slone at two thousand feet and climbing. The old cotton gin was still burning, thick smoke boiling into a cloud.
Keith closed his eyes again and tried to convince himself that he was where he was and doing what he was doing. He was not convinced. He prayed and asked God to take his hand and guide him now, because he had no idea what to do. He thanked God for this rather unusual situation and acknowledged that only divine intervention could be responsible for it. At five thousand feet, his chin hit his chest, the fatigue finally taking its toll.
———
The bourbon was usually Knob Creek, but on special occasions the really fine stuff was pulled out of the drawer. A shot each of Pappy Van Winkle’s, and all three smacked their lips. They were starting a bit early, but the governor said he needed a stiff one. Barry and Wayne had never said no. They had their coats off, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, busy men with a lot on their minds. They stood near a credenza in a corner, sipping, watching the rally on a small television. If they had opened a window, they could have heard the noise. One long-winded speaker after another delivered scathing attacks on the death penalty, racism, and the Texas judicial system. The term “judicial lynching” was used freely. So far, every speaker had demanded that the governor stop the execution. Capitol security estimated the crowd at ten thousand.
Behind the governor’s back, Barry and Wayne exchanged nervous glances. If the crowd could see the video, a riot would break out. Should they tell him? No, maybe later.
“Gill, we need to make a decision about the National Guard,” Barry said.
“What’s happening in Slone?”
“As of thirty minutes ago, they’ve burned two churches, one white and one black. Now an abandoned building is on fire. They canceled classes this morning at the high school after fights broke out. The blacks are marching and roaming the streets, looking for trouble. One brick was thrown through the rear window of a police car, but so far there’s been no other violence. The mayor is scared and thinks the town could blow up after the execution.”
“Who’s available?”
“The unit in Tyler is getting ready and can be deployed within an hour. Six hundred guardsmen. That should be enough.”
“Do it and issue a press release.”
Barry darted from the office. Wayne took another sip and with hesitation said, “Gill, should we at least have the conversation about a thirty-day stay? Let things cool off a bit.”
“Hell no. We can’t back down just because the blacks are upset. If we show weakness now, then they’ll get louder next time. If we wait thirty days, then they’ll just start this crap again. I’m not blinking. You know me better than that.”
“Okay, okay. Just wanted to mention it.”
“Don’t mention it again.”
“You got it.”
“Here he is,” the governor said and took a step closer to the television.
The crowd roared as the Reverend Jeremiah Mays took the podium. Mays was currently the loudest black radical roaming the country and was quite adept at somehow wedging himself into every conflict or episode where race was an issue. He raised his hands, called for quiet, and launched into a flowery prayer in which he beseeched the Almighty to look down upon the poor misguided souls running the State of Texas, to open their eyes, to grant them wisdom, to touch their hearts so that this grave injustice could be stopped. He asked for the hand of God, for a miracle, for the rescue of their brother Donté Drumm.
When Barry returned, he refilled the shot glasses, his hands visibly shaking. The governor said, “Enough of this nonsense,” and hit the mute button. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I want to watch it one more time.” They had watched “it” together several times, and with each viewing all lingering doubts were erased. They walked to the other side of the office, to another television, and Barry picked up the remote.
Donté Drumm, December 23, 1998. He was facing the camera, a can of Coke and an uneaten doughnut on the table in front of him. No one else could be seen. He was subdued, tired, and frightened. He spoke slowly, in a monotone, his eyes never looking directly into the camera.
Off camera, Detective Drew Kerber said, “You’ve been read your Miranda rights, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re giving this statement of your own free will, no threats, no promises of any kind, right?”