The fifth article was a continuation of the ferocious investigation into what happened in the governor’s office in the waning hours before the execution. So far, the team of journalists had been unable to smoke out anyone from inside the governor’s office who would admit to having seen the video of Boyette making his confession. The e-mail was sent from the Flak Law Firm at 3:11 p.m., and Robbie certainly made his server records available. The governor’s office did not. Nothing was forthcoming. His close aides, and dozens who were not so close, were marching in step and saying nothing. This would probably change. When the investigations began, and the subpoenas started flying, the finger-pointing would begin.
At 6:02 a.m., the phone rang. Caller ID showed it as “Unknown.” Keith grabbed it before it woke up Dana and the boys. A man with a thick accent, possibly French, said he was looking for Reverend Keith Schroeder.
“And who are you?”
“My name is Antoine Didier; I’m with Le Monde, a newspaper in Paris. I would like to speak about the Drumm matter.”
“I’m sorry, I have no comment.” Keith hung up and waited for it to ring again. It did, he grabbed it, gave an abrupt “No comment, sir,” then hung up again. There were four phones in the house, and he hurried through and punched “Do Not Disturb” on all of them. In the bedroom, Dana was coming to life. “Who is calling?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“The French.”
“The who?”
“Get up. It might be a long day.”
———
Lazarus Flint was the first black park ranger in East Texas. For over thirty years, he had supervised the maintenance of Rush Point along the Red River, and for the past nine years he and his two staff members had patiently cared for the sacred ground upon which the family and friends of Nicole Yarber made their treks and conducted their vigils. He had watched them for years. They showed up every now and then, and they would sit at the point near the makeshift cross. They would sit and cry and burn candles, all the while gazing into the river in the distance, as if the river had taken her away. As if they knew for certain that was her final resting place. And once a year, on the anniversary of her disappearance, her mother made her annual pilgrimage to Rush Point, always with cameras around her, always wailing and carrying on. They burned more candles, packed flowers around the cross, brought mementos and crude artwork and signs with messages. They would stay until dark, and always left with a prayer at the cross.
Lazarus was from Slone, and he had never believed Donté was guilty. One of his nephews was sent away for a burglary he had nothing to do with, and Lazarus, like most blacks in Slone, had never trusted the police. They got the wrong man, he’d said many times from a distance as he watched Nicole’s family and friends carry on.
Early Tuesday, long before anyone arrived at Rush Point, Lazarus parked his pickup truck near the shrine and slowly, methodically began dismantling the junk. He yanked the cross from the ground—there had been several crosses over the years, each larger than the last. He lifted the wax-covered block of granite upon which they stuck the candles. There were four photos of Nicole, two laminated and two framed in glass. A very pretty girl, Lazarus thought as he placed the photos in his truck. A terrible death, but then so was Donté’s. He gathered tiny porcelain figures of cheerleaders, clay tablets with printed messages, bronze works with no discernible meanings, baffling works of oil on canvas, and bunches of wilted flowers.
It was a load of trash, in his opinion.
What a waste, Lazarus said to himself as he drove away. Wasted effort, time, tears, emotions, hatred, hope, prayers. The girl had been more than five hours away, buried in the hills of Missouri by someone else. She had never been near Rush Point.
———
Paul Koffee entered the chambers of Judge Henry on Tuesday at 12:15. Though it was lunchtime, there was no food in sight. Judge Henry stayed behind his desk, and Koffee sat in a deep leather chair, one he knew well.
Koffee had not left his cabin since Friday night. On Monday, he had not called his office, and his staff knew nothing of his whereabouts. His two court appearances, both in front of Judge Henry, had been postponed. He looked gaunt, tired, pale, with even deeper circles under his eyes. His customary prosecutor’s swagger had vanished.
“How are you doing these days, Paul?” the judge began pleasantly.
“I’ve been better.”
“I’m sure you have. Are you and your staff still working on the theory that Drumm and Boyette were in cahoots?”
“We’re giving that some thought,” Koffee said while staring out a window to his left. Eye contact was difficult for Koffee, but not for Judge Henry.
“Perhaps I can help here, Paul. You and I, and the rest of the world at this moment, know full well that such a ridiculous theory is nothing but a sick, lame, desperate attempt to save your ass. Paul, listen to me, your ass cannot be saved. Nothing can save you. And if you trot out this co-defendant theory, you will be laughed out of town. Worse, it will only create more tension. It’s not going to fly, Paul. Don’t pursue it. Don’t file anything, because if you do, I’ll dismiss it immediately. Forget about it, Paul. Forget about everything in your office right now.”
“Are you telling me to quit?”
“Yes. Immediately. Your career will end in disgrace; get it over with, Paul. Until you step down, the blacks will be in the streets.”
“Suppose I don’t want to resign?”
“I can’t make you, but I can make you wish you had. I’m your judge, Paul, I rule on every motion in every case. I preside over every trial. As long as you are the district attorney, your office gets nothing out of me. Don’t even file a motion, because I won’t consider it. Don’t indict anyone; I’ll quash the indictments. Don’t ask for a trial, because I’m busy that week. Nothing, Paul, nothing. You and your staff will be able to do nothing.”
Koffee was breathing through his mouth, frowning at the judge, trying to digest what he’d just heard. “That’s pretty severe, Judge.”
“If that’s what it takes to get you out of office.”
“I could file a complaint.”
Judge Henry laughed. “I’m eighty-one years old and retiring. I don’t care.”
Koffee slowly got to his feet and walked to a window. He spoke with his back to the judge. “I don’t care either, Elias, to be honest. I just want to get outta here, take a break, run away. I’m only fifty-six, still young enough to do something else.” A long pause as Koffee rubbed a pane of glass with a finger. “God, I can’t believe this, Judge. How did this happen?”
“Everybody got careless. Bad police work. When there’s no evidence, the easiest way to solve a crime is to get a confession.”
Koffee turned around and took a few steps to the edge of the desk. His eyes were moist, his hands trembled. “I can’t lie, Judge. I feel rotten.”
“I understand. I’m sure I would too, under the circumstances.”
Koffee stared at his feet for a long time. Finally, he said, “I’ll quit, Elias, if that’s what it takes. I guess that means a special election.”
“Eventually, but I have a suggestion. When you resign, put Grimshaw in charge, he’s the best of your assistants. Call in the grand jury and indict Boyette for the crime. The faster, the better. It’s a wonderfully symbolic act—we, the judicial system, in effect admit our mistake, and we are now trying to rectify it by prosecuting the real killer. Our admission will do much to soothe feelings in Slone.”