A mile away, members of the First Baptist Church began arriving for a unique worship experience. The rubble of their sanctuary was still lined with yellow police tape, still a crime scene under active investigation. In a parking lot, a large white tent had been erected. Beneath it were rows of folding chairs and tables covered with food. The dress was casual, the mood generally upbeat. After a quick breakfast they sang hymns, old-time gospel tunes with a beat and lyrics they knew by heart. The chairman of the deacons spoke about the fire and, more important, about the new church they would build. They had insurance, they had faith, they would borrow, if necessary, but a beautiful new sanctuary would rise from the ashes, all to the glory of the Lord.
Reeva was not in attendance. She had not come out of the house. Frankly, she was hardly missed. Her friends felt her pain, now that her daughter had been found, but with Reeva the pain had been relentless for nine years. Her friends could not help but remember the vigils by the Red River, the marathon prayer sessions, the endless tirades in the press, the enthusiastic embrace of victimhood, all in an effort to extract revenge on that “monster” Donté Drumm. Now that they had executed the wrong monster, and with Reeva happily watching him die, few of her fellow church members wanted to face her. Fortunately, she did not want to face them.
Brother Ronnie was a troubled soul. He had watched his church burn, which was no fault of his, but he had also watched Donté die, and with no small measure of satisfaction. There was a sin in there somewhere. He was a Baptist, a breed noted for its creative ways of finding new versions of sin, and he needed forgiveness. He shared this with his congregation. He bared his soul, admitted he was wrong, and asked them to pray for him. He seemed genuinely humbled and distressed.
Arrangements for Nicole’s funeral were incomplete. Brother Ronnie explained that he had talked with Reeva by phone—she was not taking visitors—and the church Web site would post the details when the family made decisions. Nicole was still in Missouri, and the authorities there had not said when they would release her.
The tent was being watched closely. Across the street, on property that did not belong to the church, two dozen or so reporters loitered about, most with cameras. If not for the presence of several quite edgy police officers, the reporters would have been under the tent, recording every word, making a nuisance of themselves.
Slone had never been more divided than on that Sunday morning, but even at that dark hour there was some circling of the wagons. The number of reporters and cameras had steadily increased since Thursday, and everyone in town felt an element of the siege. The man on the street had stopped talking to reporters. City officials had nothing but “No comment.” Not a single word could be pried out of the courthouse. And in certain places, the police increased their presence and sharpened their attitude. Any reporter trying to get near the Drumm home was likely to be handled roughly. The funeral home where Donté was resting was strictly off-limits. Reeva’s house was being guarded by cousins and friends, but the police were nearby, just waiting for some clown with a camera to intrude. Robbie Flak could take care of himself, and was doing a fine job of it, but his home and office were patrolled every hour. And on Sunday morning, the devoted Christians who worshipped at the Bethel African Methodist Church, and at the First Baptist Church, were able to do so without intrusion. The Slone Police Department made sure of it.
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At St. Mark’s Lutheran, the Reverend Keith Schroeder assumed the pulpit and startled his congregation with the most gripping opening of any sermon yet. “Last Thursday, the State of Texas executed an innocent man. If you’ve missed the story, then I don’t know where you’ve been. Most of you know the facts of the case, but what you don’t know is that the real killer was here last Sunday, sitting right over there. His name is Travis Boyette, a convicted felon, released a few weeks ago from the prison in Lansing and assigned to a halfway house on Seventeenth Street here in Topeka.”
No one in the crowd of two hundred seemed to be breathing. Those who had been planning naps were suddenly wide-awake. Keith was amused at the odd looks he was getting. He went on: “No, I’m not kidding. And while I would like to say that Mr. Boyette was attracted to our little church because of its reputation for great preaching, the truth is that he came because he was troubled. First thing Monday morning, he was in my study to talk about his problems. He then made his way down to Texas and tried to stop the execution of Donté Drumm. He was unsuccessful. Somehow, he got away.”
Keith’s initial plan was to describe his adventures in Texas, in what would undoubtedly be his most fascinating sermon ever. He was not afraid of the truth; he wanted it told. He assumed his church would find out sooner or later, and he was determined to confront the issue head-on. However, Dana had maintained that the wiser course was to wait until he met with a lawyer. Admitting to a crime, especially in such a public manner, without the advice of counsel, seemed risky. She prevailed, and Keith decided on a different message.
As a minister, he steadfastly refused to mix politics and religion. In the pulpit, he had stayed away from issues such as gay rights, abortion, and war, preferring instead to teach what Jesus taught—love your neighbor, help the less fortunate, forgive others because you have been forgiven, and follow God’s laws.
However, after witnessing the execution, Keith was a different person, or at least a different preacher. Suddenly, confronting social injustice was far more important than making his flock feel good each Sunday. He would begin hitting the issues, always from the Christian perspective and never from the politician’s, and if it rankled folks, too bad. He was tired of playing it safe.
“Would Jesus witness an execution without trying to stop it?” he asked. “Would Jesus approve of laws that allow us to kill those who have killed?” The answer to both was no, and for a full hour, in the longest sermon of his career, Keith explained why not.
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Before dark on Sunday afternoon, Roberta Drumm, with her three children, their spouses, and her five grandchildren, walked a few blocks to Washington Park. They had made the same walk the day before, and for the same purpose. They met with the young people congregated there and in one-on-one conversations talked about Donté’s death and what it was doing to all of them. The rap was turned off. The crowd became quiet and respectful. At one point, several dozen gathered around Roberta and listened as she pleaded for civility. In a strong, eloquent voice, and sometimes pointing for emphasis, she said, “Please don’t desecrate the memory of my son with more bloodshed. I don’t want the name of Donté Drumm to be remembered as the reason for a race riot here in Slone. Nothing you do out here on the streets will help our people. Violence creates more violence, and in the end we lose. Please, go home and hug your mother.”
To his people, Donté Drumm was already a legend. The courage of his mother inspired them to go home.
CHAPTER 37
Slone High School did not open Monday morning. Though the tension appeared to be easing, the school authorities and the police were still nervous. Another round of fights and smoke bombs could spill over into the streets and disrupt the fragile truce. The white students were ready to return to class, to their normal routines and activities. As a rule, they were shocked, even appalled by what had happened over the weekend. They were as stunned by the Drumm execution as their black friends, and they were anxious to confront it, discuss it, and try to move on. The joining of the sit-in by the white football players at the Longview game was the topic of nonstop chatter around town, and that simple act of solidarity was viewed as one huge offer of an apology. A momentous mistake had been made, but others were to blame. Let’s meet and shake hands and deal with it. For most of the black students, the thought of continued violence was not appealing. They had the same routines and activities as their white friends, and they, too, wanted a return to normalcy.