grown weary of the death penalty but had stopped short of calling for its abolition, covered its front page with an unrestrained summary of the case. It was a condensed version of Robbie's press conference, with large photographs of Donte, Nicole, and Robbie on page one, and a dozen more on page five. The stories, all six of them, hit hard at the mistakes and peeled skin off Drew Kerber, Paul Koffee, and Judge Vivian Grale. The identities of the villains were clear; blame was inescapable. One reporter was on the trail of the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, and it was obvious that there would be no place for the court to hide. Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe was unavailable for comment, as were the other eight justices. The clerk of the court, Mr. Emerson Pugh, refused comment. However, Cicely Avis, the Defender Group lawyer who tried to enter Pugh's office at 5:07 Thursday afternoon, had plenty to say. The details were emerging, with more stories sure to come. Another Chronicle reporter was stalking the governor and his staff, all evidently in full retreat.
Reactions varied around the state. Newspapers known to be generally moderate in their politics--those in Austin and San Antonio--called for outright abolition of the death penalty. The Dallas paper was on record calling for a moratorium. Newspapers that were firmly on the right went light on the editorials but could not resist full-blown coverage of the events in Slone.
On television, the Sunday morning talk shows all found room for the story, though the presidential campaign was still the main topic. On cable, Donte Drumm had been the lead story since Robbie's press conference twenty-four hours earlier, and it showed no signs of slipping to number two. At least one of the subplots had been deemed important enough to have its own title: "The Hunt for Travis Boyette" could be seen every thirty minutes. On the Internet, the story was all the rage, showing five times more hits than anything else. Anti-death-penalty bloggers railed with uncontrolled fury.
As tragic as it was, the story was a huge gift for those on the left. On the right, things were predictably quiet. Those who supported the death penalty were not likely to change, not overnight anyway, but there seemed to be a general feeling that it was a good time to say nothing. The hard-right cable shows and AM radio commentators simply ignored the story.
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In Slone, Sunday was still a day of worship. At the Bethel African Methodist Church, a crowd much larger than normal gathered for the 8:00 a.m. call to worship, to be followed by Sunday school, a men's prayer breakfast, choir practice, Bible lessons, coffee and doughnuts, and eventually the worship hour, which would go on far longer than sixty minutes. Some were there in hopes of seeing one of the Drumms, preferably Roberta, and maybe offering a quiet word of condolence. But the Drumm family needed rest and stayed at home. Some were there because they needed to talk, to hear the gossip, to lend support or to receive it.
Whatever the motive, the sanctuary was overflowing when the Reverend Johnny Canty stepped to the pulpit and warmly welcomed the crowd. It didn't take long to get to the issue of Donte Drumm. It would've been easy to stir up his people, to throw gas on the fire, to hit all the open targets, but Reverend Canty was not inclined to do so. He talked about Roberta and her grace under pressure, her agony in watching her son die, her strength, her love for her children. He talked about the urge for revenge, and how Jesus turned the other cheek. He prayed for patience and tolerance and the wisdom of good men to deal with what had happened. He talked about Martin Luther King and his courage in bringing about change by eschewing violence. It's man's nature to strike back, but the second blow leads to the third, and the fourth. He thanked his flock for laying down their arms and getting off the streets.
Remarkably, it had been a quiet night in Slone. Canty reminded his people that Donte Drumm's name was now famous; it was a symbol that would bring about change. "Let us not smear it with more blood, more violence."
After a thirty-minute warm-up, the worshippers fanned out through the church to pursue the usual Sunday morning activities.
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" Donte 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 Donte 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 Donte 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 Donte 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 Donte'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 Donte 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, Donte 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.
The school board met again with the mayor and the police. The term "powder keg" was used often to describe the atmosphere in Slone. There were enough hotheads on both sides to make trouble. Anonymous phone calls were still being recorded. There were threats of violence as soon as the school reopened. In the end, it was decided that the safest route was to wait until after the funeral of Donte Drumm.
At 9:00 a.m., the football team met with their coaches in the locker room at the field. The meeting was closed. The twenty-eight black players were there, as were their white teammates, all forty-one of them. The meeting had been suggested by Cedric and Marvin Drumm, both of whom had played as Warriors, though at a level far below their brother's. Standing side by side, they addressed the team. They thanked the white players for their courage in joining the Longview players in protest. They spoke fondly, even emotionally, of their brother and said that Donte would not approve of the divisiveness. The football team was the pride of the town, and if it managed to heal itself, then there was hope for everyone. They appealed for unity. Cedric said, "When we bury Donte, I ask that all of you be there. It will mean so much to our family, and to the rest of our community."
Denny Weeks, the son of a Slone policeman and the first player to remove his helmet and jersey and sit with the Longview players, asked if he could speak. He faced the team and began by describing how sickened he was by the execution and its aftermath. He, along with most of the whites he knew, had felt all along that Donte was guilty and getting what he deserved. He was wrong, so incredibly wrong, and he would always carry the guilt. He apologized for what he'd believed, that he'd favored the execution. Denny became emotional and, trying to keep his composure, finished by saying that he hoped Cedric and Marvin, the rest of the family, and his black teammates could find it in their hearts to forgive him. Other confessionals followed, and the meeting became a prolonged and fruitful effort at reconciliation. It was a team, complete with petty grudges and fierce rivalries, but most of the boys had played football together since middle school and knew each other well. They had nothing to gain by allowing the bitterness to fester.
The state officials were still trying to resolve the baffling issues presented by the Longview standoff. It was generally believed that both teams would be given a forfeit, but the regular season would go on. There was one game left on the schedule. The coach said that it was all or nothing--if they could not come together as a team, then the last game would be forfeited. With Cedric and Marvin standing before them, the players had no choice. They could not say no to the brothers of Donte Drumm. After two hours, they shook hands and decided to meet that afternoon for a long practice.
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The spirit of reconciliation had not reached the Flak Law Firm, and it probably would not. Energized by a quiet Sunday, and facing a mountain of work, Robbie pushed the troops to prepare for an assault on various fronts. Top priority was the civil litigation. Robbie was determined to file suit that day, both in state and in federal court. The state action, for wrongful death, would be a shotgun blast aimed at the City of Slone, its police department, the county and its district attorney, the state and its judges, prison officials, and appeals court justices. The members of the judiciary were immune from liability, but Robbie planned to sue them anyway. He would sue the governor, who was absolutely immune. Much of the lawsuit would be dismantled and eventually dismissed, but Robbie didn't care. He wanted revenge, and embarrassing those responsible and forcing them to hire lawyers were things he relished. He loved bare-knuckle litigation, especially when he was throwing the punches and the press was watching. His clients, the Drumms, were sincerely opposed to more violence in the streets, as was Robbie, but he knew how to create violence in the courts. The litigation would drag on for years and consume him, but he was confident of prevailing eventually.
The lawsuit in federal court would be a civil-rights action, with many of the same defendants. There, he would not waste time suing the judges, justices, and the governor, but would hit hard at the City of Slone, its police, and Paul Koffee. In light of what had become obvious, he foresaw a lucrative settlement, but far down the road. The city and county, and, more important, their insurance companies, would never run the risk of having thei
r dirty laundry aired before a jury in such a notorious case. When they were fully exposed, the actions of Drew Kerber and Paul Koffee would terrify the well-paid lawyers for the insurers. Robbie was obsessed with revenge, but he also smelled money.
Other strategies on the table included an ethics complaint against Paul Koffee. A win there could mean disbarment and further humiliation, though Robbie was not overly optimistic. He also made plans to file a complaint against Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe with the State Commission on Judicial Conduct, but this would take more time. So few of the facts surrounding the aborted filing were known. It appeared, though, as if the facts would be forthcoming. Something akin to a hornet's nest of reporters was already attacking the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. Robbie was content to sit back and watch the press flush out the truth.
He contacted the Justice Department in Washington. He took calls from death-penalty opponents around the country. He chatted with reporters. His office was chaos, and he thrived on it.
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The law office Keith and Dana walked into Monday morning was far different from the last one Keith had seen. The Flak Law Firm had been filled with people, tension, and activity. The office of Elmo Laird was small and quiet. Matthew's scouting report described Elmo as a sole practitioner, a sixty-year-old veteran of the criminal courts who dispensed solid advice but rarely went to trial. He and Matthew were friends, and, more important, Elmo played golf with the district attorney.
"I've never had a case like this," Elmo admitted after listening to Keith for a few minutes. He had done his homework and, like everyone who enjoys the morning paper, knew the basics of the Drumm mess down in Texas.
"Well, it's something new for me too," Keith said.
"There's no clear statute on point. You provided assistance to a man who was determined to violate his parole anyway by leaving this jurisdiction. It's not exactly a major crime, but you could be prosecuted for obstruction of justice."
"We've read the statutes," Dana said. "Matthew sent them over, along with a few cases from other states. Nothing is clear."
"I haven't been able to find a similar case in Kansas," Elmo said. "Not that that means anything. If the district attorney chooses to prosecute, then I'd say he has a pretty good case. You're admitting everything, aren't you?"
"Sure," Keith said.
"Then I suggest we explore the possibility of a plea agreement, and the sooner, the better. Boyette is on the loose. He may strike again, maybe not. Perhaps this week, maybe never. It's to your advantage to cut a deal, a good deal, before he makes any more trouble. If he hurts someone, you become more culpable, and a simple case could get complicated."
"What's a good deal?" Keith asked.
"No jail and a slap on the wrist," Elmo said with a shrug.
"And what does that mean?"
"Not much. A quick court appearance, a small fine of some sort, certainly no time in jail."
"I was hoping you would say that," Dana said.
"And after some time, I could probably get your record expunged," Elmo added.
"But the conviction would be a public record, right?" Keith asked.
"Yes, and that is worrisome. Boyette was front-page news this morning here in Topeka, and I suspect there will be more about him in the coming days. It's our own little connection to this sensational episode. If a reporter sniffs around, he might stumble across your conviction. It's a pretty good story, if you think about it. Local minister gives assistance to the real killer, and so on. I can see a big splash in the paper, but no permanent damage. The bigger story will be written if and when he commits another crime. Then the prosecutor will take some heat and might be