“How serious?”
Matthew shrugged, grimaced, stirred his coffee with a spoon. “It’s a felony, but not a serious one. And it’s not the type of violation that we get excited about.”
“We?” Dana asked.
“As in prosecutors. The district attorney would have jurisdiction, a different office. I’m with the city.”
“A felony?” Keith asked.
“Probably. It appears that your trip to Texas has gone unnoticed here in Topeka. You managed to avoid the cameras, and I have yet to see your name in print.”
“But you know about it, Matthew,” Dana said.
“I do, and I suppose that, technically, I’m expected to inform the police, to turn you in. But it doesn’t work that way. We can process only so much crime. We’re forced to pick and choose. This is not a violation that any prosecutor would want to deal with.”
“But Boyette is a famous guy right now,” Dana said. “It’s just a matter of time before a reporter here picks up on the story. He jumped parole, took off to Texas, and we’ve seen his face for three days now.”
“Yes, but who can link Keith to Boyette?”
“Several folks in Texas,” Keith said.
“True, but I doubt if they care what happens here. And these folks are on our side, right?”
“I guess.”
“So, who can make the link? Did anyone see you with Boyette?”
“What about the guy at the halfway house?” Dana asked.
“It’s possible,” Keith said. “I went there several times looking for Boyette. I signed the register, and there was a guy at the desk, Rudy, I think, who knew my name.”
“But he didn’t see you drive away with Boyette late Wednesday night?”
“No one saw us. It was after midnight.”
Matthew shrugged, satisfied. All three worked on their coffee for a moment, then Keith said, “I can make the link, Matthew. I knew I was violating the law when I left with Boyette because you made things very clear. I made a choice. At the time, I knew I was doing the right thing. I have no regrets now, so long as Boyette is found before he hurts anyone else. But if he’s not found, and if someone gets hurt, then I’ll have a ton of regrets. I am not going to live with a possible criminal violation hanging over my head. We plan to deal with it now.”
Dana and Keith were both looking at Matthew, who said, “That’s sort of what I figured.”
“I’m not running from this,” Keith said. “And we can’t live with the threat of an officer knocking on the door. Let’s get it over with.”
Matthew shook his head and said, “Okay, but you’ll need a lawyer.”
“What about you?” Dana asked.
“A defense lawyer, as in criminal defense. Me? I’m now on the other side of the street, and, frankly, I can help more over there.”
“Could Keith possibly go to jail?” she asked.
“Get right to the point, don’t you?” Keith said, with a smile. Dana was not smiling. Her eyes were moist.
Matthew stretched his arms above his head, then leaned forward on his elbows. “Here’s my worst-case scenario. I’m not predicting this; it’s just the worst case. If you admit your role in taking him to Texas, get ready for some coverage. Then, if Boyette rapes another woman, all hell breaks loose. I can see the DA playing hardball with you, but I cannot, under any scenario, see you going to jail. You may have to plead guilty, get probation, pay a small fine, but I doubt it.”
“I’d stand in court, in front of a judge, and plead guilty?”
“That’s what usually happens.”
Keith took Dana’s hand on the table. There was a long moment of reflection, then she said, “What would you do, Matthew?”
“Hire a lawyer, and pray Boyette is either dead or too ill to attack someone.”
———
At noon, the forty-one white members of the Slone High football team met in the parking lot of a small elementary school on the edge of town. There, they quickly boarded a chartered bus and left town. Their equipment was in a rental van behind the bus. An hour later, they arrived at Mount Pleasant, population fifteen thousand. From there, the bus followed a police car to the high school football field. The players dressed quickly and hustled to the field for their pregame routines. It was odd, warming up with no lights and no fans. Security was tight; police cars blocked every possible route to the field. The Lobos of Longview High took the field minutes later. There were no cheerleaders, no band, national anthem, pregame prayer, or public address announcer. As the coin was tossed, the Slone coach looked across the field at the Lobos and wondered how bad the slaughter might be. They had eighty players on a roster that was at least 70 percent black. Slone had not beaten Longview since the days of Donté Drumm, and the Warriors had no chance today.
What was happening in Slone was being felt throughout East Texas, if not far beyond.
Slone won the toss and elected to receive. It really didn’t matter, but the Slone coach wanted to avoid a long kickoff return and a quick seven points. His receiving team took the field, and the Lobos lined up to kick. Ten black kids and a white kicker. At the whistle, the player closest to the ball suddenly stepped forward and grabbed it. It was a move that had never been seen before, and for a second everyone was startled. The ten black members of the kickoff team then yanked off their helmets and laid them on the turf. The referees blew their whistles, the coaches yelled, and for a few seconds there was total confusion. On cue, the other black Longview players walked onto the field dropping their helmets and jerseys as they went. The Slone players on the field backed away in disbelief. The game was over before it began.
The black players formed a tight circle and sat together at midfield, the modern-day version of a sit-in. The officials, four white and two black, huddled briefly and kept their cool. None of the six volunteered to attempt to get the football. The Longview coach walked to midfield and said, “What the hell is going on here?”
“Game’s over, Coach,” said Number 71, a 330-pound tackle and co-captain.
“We ain’t playing,” said Number 2, the other co-captain.
“Why not?”
“It’s a protest,” said Number 71. “We’re solid with our brothers in Slone.”
The coach kicked the turf and weighed his options. It was clear that this situation was not about to change, not anytime soon. “Well, just so you understand what you are doing here, this means we’ll have to forfeit, which knocks us out of the play-offs, and they’ll probably find some kind of probation for us. That what you guys want?”
All sixty or so said “Yes!” in unison.
The coach threw up his hands, walked off the field, and sat on the bench. The Slone coach called his players off the field. From both sidelines, the white players stared at the black players. Green Lobo jerseys and helmets littered the field. The officials retreated to an end zone and watched; their day was done.
Minutes passed as reality set in. Then from the Longview sideline, Number 35, a white backup fullback, stepped onto the field, removed his helmet and jersey, and took a seat on the forty-yard line, near his black teammates. One by one the other players followed, until only the coaches were left on the sideline.
The Slone coach wasn’t sure what to do. He was thinking that perhaps he had just been handed a victory, snatched by a miracle from certain defeat. He was about to tell his players to leave the field when Number 88, Denny Weeks, the starting tight end and the son of a Slone police officer, stepped onto the field, dropped his helmet, and pulled off his jersey. He sat on the field with the Longview players, one of whom reached over and shook his hand. One by one the Warriors followed, until all forty-one had left the sideline.