The first prayer was offered by the Reverend Wilbur Woods, the white pastor of the First United Methodist Church of Slone. Cedric Drumm had called him with the invitation, which he readily accepted. He gave a lovely prayer, one that dwelled on love and forgiveness and, most important, justice. The oppressed shall not remain the oppressed. Those responsible for injustice must one day face justice themselves. Reverend Woods’s voice was soft but strong, and his words calmed the crowd. The sight of a white pastor standing on the stage with his eyes closed, his arms uplifted, his soul bared for all to see, soothed a lot of raw feelings, if only for the moment.
Donté had never discussed his funeral. Therefore, his mother chose the music, the speakers, and the order of the service, and it would reflect the strong Christian faith of her family. Donté claimed to have given up his faith, but his mother had never believed it.
The choir sang “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” and the tears flowed. There were breakdowns, loud emotional bursts followed by sobbing and wailing. When things settled down, two eulogies followed. The first was by one of Donté’s teammates, a young man who was now a doctor in Dallas. The second was by Robbie Flak. When Robbie walked to the podium, the crowd instantly stood and began a restrained applause. This was a church service; clapping and cheering were frowned on, but some things cannot be helped. Robbie stood for a long time on the stage, nodding at the crowd, wiping tears, acknowledging the admiration, wishing he didn’t have to be there.
For a man who’d spent the past few days raging at the world and suing anyone who crossed his path, his comments were remarkably tame. He had never understood the love-and-forgiveness routine; retaliation was what drove him. But he sensed that, at least for this moment, he should tone down his pugilistic instincts and just try to be nice. It was difficult. He talked about Donté in prison, their many visits, and even managed to get a laugh when recounting Donté’s description of the food on death row. He read from two of Donté’s letters, and again found humor. He closed by describing his last few moments with Donté. He said, “Donté’s last wish was that one day, when the truth was known, when Nicole’s killer was identified, one day when he was exonerated and his name was forever cleared, his family and friends would meet at his grave in the cemetery, throw a party, and tell the world that Donté Drumm is an innocent man. Donté, we are planning the party!”
Cedric’s fourteen-year-old son, Emmitt, read a letter from the family, a long, gut-wrenching farewell to Donté, and did so with a composure that was startling. There was another hymn, then Reverend Canty preached for an hour.
———
Keith and Dana watched the funeral live on cable from her mother’s home in Lawrence, Kansas, the town of her youth. Dana’s father was deceased, and her mother was a retired professor of accounting at the University of Kansas. After dropping the boys off at school, Keith and Dana decided to hit the road, to take a day trip and get out of town. Reporters were dropping by the church. The phones were ringing. The photo of him, Robbie, Martha, and Aaron was on the front page of the Topeka paper that morning, and Keith was weary of the attention, and the questions. Plus, Boyette was out there fantasizing about his wife, and Keith just wanted her close.
Billie, his mother-in-law, offered to fix lunch, and the offer was immediately accepted. As they watched the funeral, Billie kept saying, “I can’t believe you were there, Keith.”
“Neither can I. Neither can I.” It was so far away and so long ago, yet Keith could close his eyes and smell the disinfectant used to clean the holding cell where Donté waited, and he could hear the gasps as the curtains flew open and the family saw him on the gurney, tubes already in his veins.
As he watched the funeral, his eyes moistened when he saw Robbie so warmly received, and he wept when Donté’s nephew said good-bye. For the first time since leaving Texas, Keith had the urge to go back.
———
Donté was laid to rest on the side of a long, sloping hill in Greenwood Cemetery, where most of the blacks were buried in Slone. The afternoon had become overcast and chilly, and as his pallbearers strained to carry him the last fifty yards, a drum corps led the casket, step-by-step, its steady, perfect rhythm echoing through the damp air. The family followed the casket until it was carefully placed on top of the grave, then settled into velvet-covered chairs inches from the fresh dirt. The mourners gathered tightly around the purple funeral tent. Reverend Canty said a few words, read some scripture, then gave the final farewell to their fallen brother. Donté was lowered into the ground next to his father.
An hour passed and the crowd drifted away. Roberta and the family remained behind, under the tent, staring at the lowered casket and the dirt scattered on top of it. Robbie stayed with them, the only non–family member to do so.
———
At 7:00 p.m. on Wednesday, the Slone City Council met in an executive session to discuss the future of Detective Drew Kerber, who was made aware of the meeting but not invited. The door was locked; only the six councilmen, the mayor, the city attorney, and a clerk were present. The lone black councilman, Mr. Varner, began by demanding that Kerber be fired immediately and that the city unanimously adopt a resolution condemning itself for its handling of the Donté Drumm affair. It became readily apparent that nothing would be unanimous. With some difficulty, the council decided to postpone, if briefly, the passing of any resolutions. They would take these delicate matters one step at a time.
The city attorney cautioned against the immediate firing of Kerber. As everyone knew, Mr. Flak had filed a mammoth lawsuit against the city, and the firing of Kerber would be tantamount to an admission of liability.
“Can we offer him early retirement?”
“He’s only been here sixteen years. Doesn’t qualify.”
“We can’t keep him on the police force.”
“Can we transfer him to Parks & Rec for a year or two?”
“That ignores what he did in the Drumm case.”
“Yes, it does. He needs to be fired.”
“And so I take it that we, the city, plan to contest the allegations of the lawsuit. Are we seriously going to claim we have no liability?”
“That’s the initial position of our insurance lawyers.”
“Then fire them and let’s find some lawyers with good sense.”
“The thing for us to do is to admit our police were wrong and settle this case. The sooner, the better.”
“Why are you so sure our police were wrong?”
“Do you read newspapers? Do you own a television?”
“I don’t think it’s that clear.”
“That’s because you’ve never seen the obvious.”
“I resent that.”
“Resent all you want. If you think we should defend the city against the Drumm family, then you’re incompetent and you should resign.”
“I may resign anyway.”
“Great, and take Drew Kerber with you.”
“Kerber has a long record of bad behavior. He should’ve never been hired, and he should’ve been fired years ago. It’s the city’s fault he’s still around, and I’m sure this will come out in court, right?”
“Oh yes.”
“Court? Is anyone here in favor of going to court in this case? If so, then you need an IQ test.”
The debate raged out of control for two hours. At times, all six seemed to be talking at once. There were threats, insults, lots of name-calling and flip-flopping, and no consensus, though it was generally felt that the city should do whatever possible to avoid a trial.
They finally voted—three to terminate Kerber, three to wait and see. As the tiebreaker, the mayor voted to get rid of him. Detectives Jim Morrissey and Nick Needham had taken part in the marathon interrogation that produced the fateful confession, but both had left Slone and moved on to police departments in bigger cities. Chief Joe Radford had been the assistant chief nine years earlier and, as such, had almost no involvement in the Yarber investigation. A motion was made to fire him too, and it failed for lack of a second.