The crowd continued to disperse, a few throwing rocks in retreat. By 9:00 p.m., the park had been secured, and the police and soldiers walked through the debris—empty cans and bottles, fast-food containers, cigarette butts, fireworks wrappers, enough litter for a landfill. The two dugouts were gone, nothing left but metal benches. The concession stand had been broken into, but there was nothing to take. In the wake of the tear gas, several vehicles had been abandoned, including Trey Glover’s SUV. Trey and a dozen others were already at the jail. Four had volunteered, the rest had been caught. Several had been taken to the hospital because of the tear gas. Three policemen had been injured, along with the reporter.
The acrid smell of the gas permeated the park. A gray cloud from the smoke bombs hung not far above the ball fields. The place resembled a battlefield without the casualties.
The breakup of the party meant that a thousand or so angry blacks were now moving around Slone with no intention of going home and with no plans to do anything constructive. The use of tear gas infuriated them. They had been raised with the black-and-white videos of the dogs in Selma, the fire hoses in Birmingham, and the tear gas in Watts. That epic struggle was a part of their heritage, their DNA, a glorified chapter in their history, and suddenly here they were, on the streets protesting and fighting and being gassed, just like their ancestors. They had no intention of stopping the fight. If the cops wanted to play dirty, so be it.
———
The mayor, Harris Rooney, was monitoring the deteriorating condition of his little city from the police department, which had become the command center. He and the police chief, Joe Radford, had made the decision to scatter the crowd at Civitan Park and break things up, and they both had agreed that tear gas should be used. Reports were now flooding in, by radio and cell phone, that the protesters were roaming in packs, breaking windows, yelling threats at passing motorists, throwing rocks and debris, all manner of hooligan behavior.
At 9:15, he called the Reverend Johnny Canty, pastor of Bethel African Methodist Church. The two had met on Tuesday, when Reverend Canty had pleaded with the mayor to intervene with the governor and support a stay. The mayor had declined. He did not know the governor, had no clout with him whatsoever, and besides, anyone begging for a reprieve was wasting his time with Gill Newton. Canty had warned Mayor Rooney of the potential for unrest if the execution of Donté took place. The mayor had been skeptical.
All skepticism had now been replaced by fear.
Mrs. Canty answered the phone and explained that her husband was not home. He was at the funeral home waiting for the Drumm family to return. She gave the mayor a cell phone number, and Reverend Canty finally answered. “Well, good evening, Mayor,” he said softly in his rich preacher’s voice. “How are things tonight?”
“Things are pretty exciting right now, Reverend. How are you?”
“I’ve had better days. We’re here at the funeral home, waiting for the family to return with the body, so I’m not doing too well right now. What can I do for you?”
“You were right about the unrest, Reverend. I didn’t believe you, and I’m sorry. I should have listened, and I didn’t. But things seem to be going from bad to worse. We’ve had eight fires, I think, a dozen arrests, half a dozen injuries, and there’s no reason to believe those numbers will not go up. The crowd at Civitan Park has been dispersed, but the crowd at Washington Park is growing by the minute. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone doesn’t get killed very soon.”
“There’s already been a killing, Mayor. I’m waiting on the body.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s the purpose of this call, Mayor?”
“You are a well-regarded leader in your community. You are the Drumms’ pastor. I ask you to go to Washington Park and appeal for calm. They will listen to you. This violence and unrest serves no purpose.”
“I have one question for you, Mayor. Did your police use tear gas on those kids in Civitan Park? I heard that rumor only minutes ago.”
“Well, yes. It was considered necessary.”
“No, it wasn’t necessary, and it was a monumental mistake. By gassing our children, the police made a bad situation worse. Don’t expect me to go rushing in to repair your damage. Good night.”
The line was dead.
———
Robbie, with Aaron Rey on one side and Fred Pryor on the other, stood before the mikes and cameras and answered questions. He explained that Travis Boyette was still in the building and did not wish to speak to anyone. One reporter asked if he could go inside and interview Boyette. Only if you want to get arrested and perhaps shot was Robbie’s sharp reply. Stay away from the building. They asked about Donté’s last meal, visit, statement, and so on. Who were the witnesses? Any contact with the victim’s family? Useless questions, in Robbie’s opinion, but then the whole world seemed worthless at that point.
After twenty minutes, he thanked them. They thanked him. He asked them to leave and not come back. In the event Boyette changed his mind and wanted to talk, Robbie would give him a phone and a number.
Keith watched the press conference from a dark spot on the platform, outside the office but under its veranda. He was on the phone with Dana, recounting the events of the day, trying to stay awake, when she suddenly said that Robbie Flak was on the screen. She was watching the cable news and there he was, live from Slone, Texas.
“I’m about fifty feet behind him, in the shadows,” Keith said, voice lower.
“He looks tired,” she said. “Tired and maybe a bit crazy.”
“Both. The fatigue comes and goes, but I suspect he’s always a little crazy.”
“He looks like a wild man.”
“Certified, but there’s a sweet man under the surface.”