“Yes, no. Go on.”
“Nothing left but the cert petitions before the Supremes. No word yet.”
Robbie was leaning on a chain-link fence, trying to steady himself. A tantrum would not help matters now. He could throw things and curse and maybe file lawsuits tomorrow, but he needed to think. “I don’t expect any help from the Supreme Court, do you?” he asked.
“No, not really.”
“Well, then, it’s almost over.”
“Yes, Robbie, that’s the feeling around here.”
“You know, Sammie, all we needed was twenty-four hours. If Travis Boyette and Joey Gamble had given us twenty-four hours, we could’ve stopped this damned thing, and there’s a very good chance Donté would one day walk out of here. Twenty-four hours.”
“Agreed, and speaking of Boyette, he’s outside waiting for a TV crew. He called them, not us, though I did give him the number. He wants to talk.”
“Let him talk, damn it. As of now, let him tell the world. I don’t care. Is Carlos ready with the video blast?”
“I think so.”
“Then turn him loose. I want every big newspaper and television station in the state to get the video right now. Let’s make as much noise as possible. If we’re going down, then let’s go down in flames.”
“You got it, Boss.”
Robbie listened to the distant chants for a moment while staring at his phone. Who could he call? Was there anyone in the world who could help?
———
Keith flinched when the metal bars closed behind him. This was not his first prison visit, but it was the first time he’d been locked in a cell. His breathing was labored and his colon was in knots, but he had prayed for strength. It was a very short prayer: God, please give me courage and wisdom. Then please get me out of here.
Donté did not rise when Keith entered the visitors’ cell, but he did smile and offer a hand. Keith shook it, a soft, passive handshake. “I’m Keith Schroeder,” he said as he sat on the stool, his back to the wall, his shoes inches from Donté’s.
“Robbie said you were a good guy,” Donté said. He seemed to concentrate on Keith’s collar, as if to confirm that he was in fact a minister.
Keith’s voice froze as he thought about what to say. A grave “How are you doing?” seemed ludicrous. What do you say to a young man who will die in less than an hour, whose death is certain, and could be avoided?
You talk about death. “Robbie tells me you didn’t want to talk to the prison chaplain,” Keith said.
“He works for the system. The system has persecuted me for nine years, and it will soon get what it wants. So I concede nothing to the system.”
Makes perfect sense, Keith thought. Donté was sitting straighter, his arms folded across his chest, as though he would welcome a good debate about religion, faith, God, heaven, hell, or anything else Keith wanted to discuss.
“You’re not from Texas, are you?” Donté asked.
“Kansas.”
“The accent. Do you believe the state has the right to kill people?”
“No.”
“Do you think Jesus would approve of the killing of inmates for retribution?”
“Of course not.”
“Does ‘Thou shalt not kill’ apply to everybody, or did Moses forget the exemption for state governments?”
“The government is owned by the people. The commandment applies to everyone.”
Donté smiled and relaxed a little. “Okay, you pass. We can talk. What’s on your mind?”
Keith breathed a little easier, pleased to have survived the entrance exam. He half expected to meet a young man without all of his mental assets, and he was wrong. Robbie’s noisy claim that Donté had been driven insane by death row seemed misguided.
Keith plunged ahead. “Robbie tells me you were raised in a church, baptized at an early age, had a strong faith, raised by parents who were devout Christians.”
“All true. I was close to God, Mr. Schroeder, until God abandoned me.”
“Please call me Keith. I read a story about a man who once sat right here, in this cell, his name was Darrell Clark, young man from West Texas, Midland, I think. He’d killed some people in a drug war, got convicted and sent to death row, at the old unit at Ellis. While he was on death row, someone gave him a Bible, and someone else shared a Christian testimony. Clark became a Christian and grew very close to the Lord. His appeals ran out, and his execution date was set. He embraced the end. He looked forward to death because he knew the exact moment when he would enter the kingdom of heaven. I can’t think of another story quite like Darrell Clark’s.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is you’re about to die, and you know when it will happen. Very few people know this. Soldiers in battle may feel like dead men, but there’s always a chance they’ll survive. I suppose some victims of horrible crimes know they’re at the end, but they have such short notice. You, though, have had this date for months. Now the hour is at hand, and it’s not a bad time to make amends with God.”
“I know the legend of Darrell Clark. His final words were ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’ Luke 23, verse 46, the last words of Jesus before he died on the cross, according to Luke anyway. But you’re missing something here, Keith. Clark killed three people, execution style, and after they convicted him, he never made a serious claim of innocence. He was guilty. I am not. Clark deserved to be punished, not to be killed, but imprisoned for life. Me, I am innocent.”
“True, but death is death, and in the end nothing else matters except your relationship with God.”
“So you’re trying to convince me that I should go running back to God here at the last minute, and just sort of forget the past nine years.”
“You blame God for the past nine years?”
“Yes, I do. This is what happened to me, Keith. I was eighteen years old, a longtime Christian, still active in church, but also doing some things that most kids do, nothing bad, but, hell, when you grow up in a house as strict as mine, you’re gonna rebel a little. I was a good student, the football thing was on hold, but I wasn’t running drugs and beating people. I stayed off the streets. I was looking forward to college. Then, for some reason I guess I’ll never understand, a bolt of lightning hits me square in the forehead. I’m wearing handcuffs. I’m in jail. My picture is on the front page. I’m declared guilty long before the trial. My fate is determined by twelve white people, half of them good, solid Baptists. The prosecutor was a Methodist, the judge was Presbyterian, or at least their names were on church rolls somewhere. They were also screwing each other, but I guess we all have a weakness for flesh. Most of us anyway. Screwing each other, yet pretending to give me a fair trial. The jury was a bunch of rednecks. I remember sitting in the courtroom, looking at their faces as they condemned me to death—hard, unforgiving, Christian faces—and thinking to myself, ‘We don’t worship the same God.’ And we don’t. How can God allow His people to kill so often? Answer that, please.”
“God’s people are often wrong, Donté, but God is never wrong. You can’t blame Him.”
The fight left him. The weight of the moment returned. Donté leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and hung his head. “I was a faithful servant, Keith, and look what I get.”
Robbie walked in from the outside and stood by the visitors’ cell. Keith’s time was up. “Would you pray with me, Donté?”
“Why? I prayed the first three years I was in prison, and things just got worse. I could’ve prayed ten times a day, and I would still be sitting right here, talking to you.”