can't afford it. Neither can the taxpayers, but at least I know I'm losing my ass. They do not. Ask the average Joe on Main Street in Slone how much he and his fellow citizens have paid to prosecute Donte Drumm, and you know what he'll say?'
'How am I supposed to-'
'He'll say he doesn't have a clue. Have you heard about the Tooley boys in West Texas? It's a famous case.'
'I'm sorry, I must've missed-'
'These two brothers, the Tooleys, a couple of idiots, somewhere out in West Texas. What county, Bonnie?'
'Mingo.'
'Mingo County. Very rural. A great story, listen. These two thugs are robbing convenience stores and gas stations. Very sophisticated stuff. One night, something goes wrong, and a young female clerk gets shot. Sawed- off shotgun, really nasty. They catch the Tooley brothers because the boys forgot about all of the video cameras. The town is outraged. The police are strutting. The prosecutor is promising swift justice. Everybody wants a quick trial and quick execution. There's not much crime in Mingo County, and no jury there has ever sent a man to death row. Now, there are many ways to feel neglected in Texas, but living in a community that's been left out of the execution business is downright embarrassing. What do the kinfolks in Houston think? These Mingo people see their opportunity. They want blood. The boys refuse to plea-bargain because the prosecutor insists on death. Why plead to death? So they try them, together. Quick convictions and, finally, death. On appeal, the court finds all manner of error. The prosecutor really butchered the case. The convictions are thrown out. The case is sent back for separate trials. Two trials, not one. Are you taking notes?'
'No, I'm searching for some relevance here.'
'It's a great story.'
'That's all that matters.'
'A year or so passes. The boys are tried separately. Two new guilty verdicts, two more trips to death row. The appeals court sees more problems. I mean, glaring problems. The prosecutor was a moron. Reversals, sent back for two new trials. The third time, one jury convicts the gunman of murder and he gets life. The other jury convicts the one who didn't fire the gun of murder and he gets death. Go figure. It's Texas. So one brother is serving life. The other went to death row, where he committed suicide a few months later. Somehow he got a razor and slashed himself.'
'And your point is?'
'Here's the point. From start to finish, the case cost Mingo County $3 million. They were forced to raise property taxes several times, and this led to an uprising. There were drastic budget cuts in schools, road maintenance, and health services. They closed their only library. The county was near bankruptcy for years. And all of it could have been prevented if the prosecutor had allowed the boys to plead guilty and take life without parole. I've heard that the death penalty is not that popular in Mingo County now.'
'I was more interested in-'
'From soup to nuts, it takes about two million bucks to legally kill a man in Texas. Compare that with the $30,000 it costs per year to keep one on death row.'
'I've heard this before,' Martha said, and indeed she had. Robbie never shied away from his soapbox, especially when the subject was the death penalty, one of his many favorites.
'But what the hell. We have plenty of money in Texas.'
'Can we talk about Donte Drumm's case?'
'Oh, why not?'
'The defense fund. You-'
'Established a few years back, a certified nonprofit governed by all relevant code sections set forth by the Internal Revenue Service. Administered jointly by my office and Andrea Bolton, younger sister of Donte Drumm. Receipts so far total how much, Bonnie?'
'Ninety-five thousand dollars.'
'Ninety-five thousand dollars. And how much is on hand?'
'Zero.'
'That's what I figured. Would you like a breakdown of where the money went?'
'Maybe. Where did it go?'
'Litigation expenses, law firm expenses, expert witnesses, a few bucks to the family to travel back and forth to see Donte. Not exactly a high-powered nonprofit. All moneys have been raised through the Internet. Frankly, we haven't had the time or manpower to pursue fund-raising.'
'Who are the donors?'
'Mostly Brits and Europeans. The average donation is something like twenty bucks.'
'Eighteen fifty,' Bonnie said.
'It's very hard to raise money for a convicted murderer, regardless of his story.'
'How much are you out of pocket?' Martha asked.
There was no rapid response. Bonnie, finally stumped, gave a slight shrug from the front seat. 'I don't know,' Robbie said. 'If I had to guess, it would be at least $50,000, maybe a hundred. Maybe I should've spent more.'
Phones were buzzing throughout the van. Sammie at the office had a question for the boss. Kristi Hinze was talking to another psychiatrist. Aaron was listening to someone as he drove. – The party began early with sweet potato biscuits straight from Reeva's oven. She loved to cook them, and eat them, and when Sean Fordyce admitted he'd never eaten one, she feigned disbelief. By the time he arrived, with his hairdresser, makeup girl, appointment secretary, and publicist, all hustling around him, the home of Reeva and Wallis Pike was crammed with neighbors and friends. The thick smell of fried country ham wafted out the front door. Two long trucks were backed into the driveway, and even the crew members were chomping on biscuits.
Fordyce, an Irish ass from Long Island, was slightly irritated by the crowd, but put on his game face and signed autographs. He was the star. These were his fans. They bought his books, watched his show, and gave him his ratings. He posed for a few photographs, ate a biscuit with ham, and seemed to like it. He was pudgy, with a doughy face, not exactly the traditional looks of a star, but that didn't matter anymore. He wore dark suits and funky eyeglasses that made him appear far more intelligent than he acted.
The set was in Reeva's room, the large addition stuck to the rear of the house like a cancerous growth. Reeva and Wallis were situated on a sofa, with color blowups of Nicole as the backdrop. Wallis wore a tie and looked as if he'd just been ordered out of his bedroom, which in fact he had. Reeva was heavily made up, her hair freshly colored and permed, and she wore her finest black dress. Fordyce sat in a chair, close to them. He was tended to by his handlers, who sprayed his hair and powdered his forehead. The crew fussed with the lighting. Sound checks were done. Monitors were adjusted. The neighbors were packed in tight behind the cameras with stern instructions not to make a sound.
The producer said, 'Quiet! We're rolling.'
Close-up on Fordyce as he welcomed his audience to another episode. He explained where he was, whom he was interviewing, and the basis of the crime, the confession, and the conviction. 'If all goes as expected,' he said gravely, 'Mr. Drumm will be executed the day after tomorrow.'
He introduced the mother and the stepfather and, of course, passed along his condolences for this tragedy. He thanked them for opening their home so that the world, through his cameras, could witness the suffering. He began with Nicole. 'Tell us about her,' he almost pleaded.
Wallis made no effort to speak, something he would do throughout the interview. This was Reeva's show. She was excited and over-stimulated and after just a few words began crying. But she had cried in public for so long that she could now chatter away while the tears flowed. She went on and on about her daughter.
'Do you miss her?' Fordyce asked, one of his patented inane questions designed only to elicit more emotion.
Reeva gave it to him. He handed her the white handkerchief from his coat pocket. Linen. The man oozed compassion.
He finally got around to the execution, which was the thrust of his program. 'Do you still plan to be there?' he asked, certain of the answer.
