“Yes, sure, Reeva, just one more question. Now that you’ve seen an execution, do you think they should be televised?”
Reeva yanked the mike off her jacket and bounced to her feet. “Come on, Wallis. I’m tired.”
The interview was over. Reeva, Wallis, and their two children walked out of the motel with Brother Ronnie behind them. They piled into the church van and headed for Slone.
———
At the airport, Keith called Dana with the latest update on his little road trip. He was free-falling now, with no idea where he was going and not sure where he’d been. When he explained, gently, that he had just witnessed the execution, she was speechless. So was he. The conversation was brief. She asked if he was okay, and he replied that he definitely was not.
The King Air lifted off at 7:05 and was soon in heavy clouds. The plane dipped and lurched, much like an old truck on a bumpy road. “Moderate turbulence” the pilot had called it as they boarded. With the noise of the engines, the sense of being tossed about, and the mind-bending blur of images from the past two hours, Keith found it easy to close his eyes and withdraw into his own little cocoon.
Robbie was withdrawn too. He sat forward, elbows on knees, chin in hand, eyes closed, deep in thought and painful memories. Martha Handler wanted to talk, to take notes, to capture the moment fully, but there was no one to interview. Aaron Rey stared nervously out the window, as if waiting for a wing to break off.
At five thousand feet, the ride smoothed somewhat and the cabin noise died down. Robbie reclined in his seat and smiled at Martha. “What were his last words?” she asked.
“He loves his momma and he’s an innocent man.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s enough. There’s a Web site for the Texas death row, an official one, and they post all of the last statements. Donté’s will be up by noon tomorrow. It was beautiful. He called ’em by name, the bad guys—Kerber, Koffee, Judge Grale, the governor. Beautiful, just beautiful.”
“So he went down fighting?”
“He was not able to fight, but he did not give an inch.”
———
The car was an old Buick owned by an old widow, Ms. Nadine Snyderwine, and it was parked beside her modest home on a concrete pad, under a willow oak. She drove it three times a week, max, and with her failing eyesight she knew her driving days were numbered. Ms. Snyderwine had never worked outside the home, never met a lot of people, and certainly never provoked anyone. Her car was chosen because it was accessible and, more important, because it was parked on a quiet, dark street in a very white part of town. The Buick was unlocked, not that a lock would have mattered. The driver’s door was opened, a Molotov cocktail was lit and tossed inside, and the arsonists disappeared into the night without a trace. A neighbor saw flames, and the 911 call was recorded at 7:28.
If there was a chance that the old Buick’s wiring shorted, that the car somehow ignited on its own, such thoughts were dashed when the second 911 call came at 7:36. Another car was on fire, a Volvo wagon parked on a street halfway between the courthouse and Civitan Park. Fire trucks screamed back and forth across town, with police escorts clearing the way. The sirens were applauded by the mob at the park, a mob that was growing larger as the night grew later. But aside from underage drinking and possession of pot, no crimes were being committed. Yet. Perhaps disturbing the peace, but given the tension of the moment, the police were not inclined to enter the park and break up the fun. The crowd was in a belligerent mood, fueled by the news of Donté’s death, the statements of Travis Boyette, the angry rap blasting from car stereos, and some drugs and alcohol.
The police watched and pondered their options. They huddled with the National Guardsmen and plotted strategy. The wrong move could provoke a response that was unpredictable, primarily because the crowd had no real leader at that point and had no idea where the night would lead it. Every half hour or so, some clown lit a string of firecrackers, and for a split second the policemen and guardsmen froze and strained to tell if the noise was gunfire. So far, only firecrackers.
The third call was recorded at 7:40, and it was the most ominous so far. In fact, when the police chief got the details, he thought about leaving town himself. At Big Louie’s honky-tonk west of town, the gravel parking lot was packed as usual for a Thursday night, the unofficial beginning of the weekend. To kick things off, Louie offered a variety of drink specials, all involving reduced prices, and the Bubbas responded with enthusiasm. Of the vehicles parked outside the cheap metal building, virtually all were pickup trucks, an even split between Ford and Chevrolet. The arsonists picked one of each, broke the windows, tossed the cocktails, and disappeared into the darkness. A latecomer, in a pickup, thought he saw a “coupla black boys” running away, crouching low, very suspicious. But he wasn’t close and didn’t see their faces. In fact, he wasn’t even sure they were black.
When the Bubbas stampeded outside and saw flames roaring out of both trucks, they scrambled for their own. A melee ensued, a near demolition derby, as they frantically tried to get away from the fires. Many of them left, evidently no longer thirsty and anxious to get home, lock the doors, get the guns loaded. Every pickup at Big Louie’s had at least one gun under the seat or in the glove box. Many had hunting rifles in the window racks.
It was the wrong crowd to start a fight with. You burn a man’s pickup, and he’s ready for war.
CHAPTER 28
By eight o’clock, the drumsticks were gone, too much booze had been consumed, and most of Koffee’s guests were anxious to get home and see how bad things were in town. The television crews were darting around, trying to keep up with the arsonists, and the fires effectively ended the celebration by the lake. Drew Kerber hung around, stalling, waiting for everyone to leave. He opened another beer and said to Paul Koffee, “We need to talk.”
They walked to the edge of the narrow dock, as far away from the cabin as possible, though no one else was there. Koffee also had a bottle of beer. They leaned on the railing and looked at the water below them.
Kerber spat, sipped his beer, and said, “This guy Boyette, does he worry you?”
Koffee appeared to look surprised, or at least attempted to. “No, but he obviously worries you.”
A long, slow pull on the beer, and Kerber said, “I grew up in Denton, and there were some Boyettes in the neighborhood. Ted Boyette was a good friend, finished high school together, then he joined the Army and disappeared. I heard he got into some trouble, but I moved away, ended up here, and sort of forgot about him. You know how it is with childhood friends, you don’t ever forget them, but you don’t ever see them either. Anyway, in January 1999, and I remember the month because we had Drumm locked up, I was at the station and some of the other guys were laughing about a thug they’d caught in a stolen pickup. They ran his record; guy’s got three convictions for sexual assault. A registered sex offender in three states, and he was only in his mid-thirties. The cops were wondering, what’s the record? Which pervert is registered in the most states? Someone asked his name. Someone else said, ‘T. Boyette.’ I didn’t say a word, but I was curious as to whether it might be the kid from our neighborhood. I checked his file, saw his name was Travis, but I was still curious. A couple of days later, he was led into the courtroom for a quick appearance before the judge. I didn’t want him to see me, because if it had been my old pal, I didn’t want to embarrass him. The courtroom was busy, it was easy to not be noticed. But it wasn’t him. It was Travis Boyette, the same guy who is in town right now. I recognized him the second I saw him on television—same slick head, same tattoo on the left side of his neck. He was here, Paul, in Slone, in jail, at approximately the same time the girl disappeared.”