“Gee, that’s original. We close at five, and at five I want the door locked, and not a minute after. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
At 4:45, Cicely Avis and two paralegals left the Defender Group offices with the petition and Gamble’s affidavit. All twelve copies. As they sped through traffic, Cicely called the clerk’s office with the heads-up that they were on the way. The clerk informed her that the office would close at five, the usual time, five days a week.
“But we have a petition that includes a sworn affidavit from the only eyewitness at trial,” she insisted.
“I think we’ve already seen that one,” the clerk said.
“You have not! This has a sworn statement.”
“I just talked to the chief justice. We close at five.”
“But we’ll be a few minutes late!”
“We close at five.”
———
Travis Boyette was sitting by a window in the conference room, cane across his knees, watching the chaos of frantic people yelling at each other. Fred Pryor was close by, also watching.
Unable to make sense of what was happening, Boyette stood and approached the table. “Can anybody tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
“Yep, we’re losing,” Carlos snapped at him.
“What about my statement? Is anybody listening to me?”
“The answer is no. The court was not impressed.”
“They think I’m lying?”
“Yes, Travis, they think you’re lying. I’m sorry. We believe you, but we don’t have a vote.”
“I want to talk to the reporters.”
“I think they’re busy chasing fires.”
Sammie Thomas looked at her laptop, scribbled down something, and handed it to Boyette. “This is the cell phone number of one of our local TV idiots.” She pointed to a table near the television. “That is a telephone. Feel free to do whatever you want, Mr. Boyette.” Travis shuffled over to the phone, punched the numbers, and waited. He was being watched by Sammie, Carlos, Bonnie, and Fred Pryor.
He held the receiver and stared at the floor. Then he flinched, and said, “Uh, yes, is this Garrett? Okay, look, my name is Travis Boyette, and I’m down at the law office of Robbie Flak. I was involved in the murder of Nicole Yarber, and I’d like to go on the air and make a confession.” Pause. The tic. “I want to confess to the murder of the girl. Donté Drumm had nothing to do with it.” Pause. The tic. “Yes, I want to say that on the air, and I have a lot more to say as well.” The others could almost hear the frantic thrill in Garrett’s voice. What a story!
Boyette said, “Okay,” and hung up. He looked around the conference room and said, “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Sammie said, “Fred, why don’t you take him out front, somewhere near the landing, and find a good spot.”
Boyette said, “I can leave if I want to, right? I don’t have to stay here?”
“You’re a free man as far as I’m concerned,” Sammie said. “Do whatever you want. I really don’t care.”
Boyette and Pryor left the conference room and waited outside the train station.
Carlos took the call from Cicely Avis. She explained that they arrived at the court at 5:07, the doors were locked, the offices closed. She called the clerk’s cell phone. The clerk said he was not there, he was in fact driving home.
Donté’s final petition would not be filed.
———
According to club records, Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe and his guest played tennis on court 8 for an hour, beginning at 5:00 p.m.
CHAPTER 25
Paul Koffee’s cabin was on a small lake ten miles south of Slone. He’d owned it for years and used it as an escape, a hiding place, a fishing hole. He’d also used it as a love nest during his romp with Judge Vivian Grale, an unfortunate episode that led to an ugly divorce that almost led to the loss of the cabin. His ex-wife got their home instead.
After lunch on Thursday, he left his office and drove to the cabin. The town was in a meltdown, it was beginning to feel dangerous, the phone was ringing nonstop, and no one in his office was even attempting to appear productive. He escaped the frenzy and was soon in the peaceful countryside, where he prepared for a party he’d thrown together a week earlier. He iced down the beer, stocked the bar, puttered around the cabin, and waited for his guests. They began arriving before 5:00 p.m.—most had left work early—and everyone needed a drink. They gathered on a deck near the edge of the water—retired lawyers, active lawyers, two assistant prosecutors in Koffee’s office, an investigator, and other assorted friends, almost all of whom had some connection to the law.
Drew Kerber and another detective were there. Everyone wanted to talk to Kerber, the cop who broke the case. Without his skillful interrogation of Donté Drumm, there would have been no conviction. He’d found the bloodhounds that picked up Nicole’s scent in the green Ford van. He’d deftly manipulated a jailhouse snitch into obtaining yet another confession from their suspect. Good, solid police work. The Drumm case was Kerber’s crowning moment, and he intended to savor its final moments.
Not to be outdone, Paul Koffee commanded his share of attention. He would retire in a few years, and in his old age he would have something to brag about. Against a ferocious defense mounted by Robbie Flak and his team, Koffee and his boys had fought on, fought for justice, fought for Nicole. The fact that he had gotten his prized death verdict without a body was even more reason to gloat.
The booze loosened the tension. They howled with laughter at the story of their beloved governor shouting down a black mob and calling Drumm a monster. Things were a bit quieter when Koffee described the petition, filed hardly two hours ago, in which some nut claimed to be the killer. But have no fear, he assured them, the court of appeals had already denied relief. Only one other appeal was in play, a bogus one—“hell, they’re all bogus”—but it was as good as dead in the Supreme Court. Koffee happily assured his guests that justice was on the verge of prevailing.
They swapped stories about the church burnings, the cotton gin fire, the growing mob in Civitan Park, and the coming of the cavalry. The National Guard was expected by 6:00 p.m., and there was no shortage of opinions about whether it was actually needed.
Koffee was barbecuing chicken on a grill, breasts and thighs coated with a thick sauce. But the treat of the night, he announced, would be “Drumm sticks.” A chorus of laughter echoed across the lake.
———
Huntsville is also the home of Sam Houston State University. The school has an enrollment of sixteen thousand—81 percent white, 12 percent black, 6 percent Hispanic, and 1 percent other.
Late Thursday afternoon, many of the black students were drifting toward the prison, some eight blocks away in central Huntsville. Operation Detour may have failed in its attempt to block roads, but it would not fail in its efforts to raise a little hell. The streets closer to the prison were sealed off by Texas state troopers and Huntsville police. The authorities were expecting trouble, and security around Walls Unit was tight.
The black students gathered three blocks from the prison and began making noise. When Robbie stepped out of the death house to work the phone, he heard in the distance the organized chanting of a thousand voices. “Donté! Donté!” He could see nothing but the exterior walls of the death house and chain-link fencing, but he could tell the crowd was close.
What difference did it make? It was too late for protests and marches. He listened for a second, then called the office. Sammie Thomas answered by blurting, “They wouldn’t let us file the Gamble petition. They locked the doors at 5:00 p.m., Robbie, and we got there seven minutes late. They knew we were coming too.”
His first impulse was to launch the phone against the nearest brick wall and watch it shatter into a thousand pieces, but he was too stunned to move. She went on, “The Defender Group called the clerk a few minutes before five. They were actually in a car racing to file. Clerk said too bad, said he’d talked to Prudlowe and the office closed at five. Are you there, Robbie?”