weight. You said it best in one of your briefs, Robbie. This conviction is based on a bogus confession, a dog named Yogi, a lying snitch who later recanted, and a jilted lover bent on revenge. We can't convict people with garbage such as this. Judge Grale was biased-I guess we know why. Paul Koffee was blinded by his own tunnel vision and the fear he might be wrong. It's a terrible case, Robbie.'
'Thank you, Judge. I've lived it for nine years.'
'And it's dangerous. I met with two black lawyers yesterday, good guys, you know them. They're angry with the system, but they're also afraid of the backlash. They expect trouble if Drumm is executed.'
'That's what I hear.'
'What can be done, Robbie? Is there a way to stop this? I'm not a death-penalty lawyer, and I don't know where your appeals are right now.'
'The tank is almost empty, Judge. We're filing an insanity petition now.'
'And your chances?'
'Slim. Donte has no record of mental illness until now. We're alleging that eight years on death row have driven him insane. As you know, the appeals courts usually frown on theories that are hatched at the last minute.'
'Is the boy crazy?'
'He has severe problems, but I suspect he knows what's happening.'
'So you're not optimistic.'
'I'm a criminal defense lawyer, Judge. Optimism is not in my DNA.'
Judge Henry finally unscrewed the cap off the plastic bottle of water and took a sip. His eyes never left Robbie. 'Very well, I'll call the governor,' he said, as if his phone call would save the day. It would not. The governor was getting lots of calls right now. Robbie and his team were generating plenty.
'Thanks, Judge, but don't expect much. This governor has never stopped an execution. In fact, he wants to speed them up. He has his eye on a Senate seat, and he counts votes before he chooses what to eat for breakfast. He's a two-faced, cutthroat, dirt-dumb, chickenshit, slimy little bastard with a bright future in politics.'
'So you didn't vote for him?'
'I did not. But please give him a call.'
'I will. I'm meeting with Paul Koffee in half an hour to discuss this with him. I don't want him to be surprised. I'll also chat with the fellow over at the newspaper. I want to be on record in opposition to this execution.'
'Thanks, Judge, but why now? We could've had this conversation a year ago, or five. It's awfully late to get involved.'
'A year ago, few people were thinking about Donte Drumm. There was no execution looming. There was a chance he would find relief in a federal court. Maybe a reversal, a new trial. I don't know, Robbie. Maybe I should've been more involved, but this is not my case. I was busy with my own matters.'
'I understand, Judge.'
They shook hands and offered their farewells. Robbie took the back stairs so he wouldn't bump into some lawyer or clerk who wanted to chat. As he hurried along the empty corridor, he tried to think of another elected official in Slone or in Chester County who had voiced support for Donte Drumm. One came to mind, the only black city councilman in Slone.
For nine years, he had fought a long and lonely battle. And he was about to lose. A phone call from the cousin of a big donor would never be enough to stop an execution in Texas. The machinery was well-oiled and efficient. It was in motion, and there was no way to stop it.
On the front lawn of the courthouse, city workers were assembling a makeshift podium. A few policemen loitered about, chatting nervously as they watched the first church bus unload. A dozen or so black folks got off and made their way across the lawn and past the war memorials. They found their spot, unfolded chairs, and began to wait. The rally, or protest, or whatever it was to be called, was scheduled for noon.
Robbie had been asked to speak, but declined. He couldn't think of anything to say that would not be inflammatory, and he did not want to be accused of inciting the crowd. There would be enough troublemakers.
According to Carlos, who was charged with monitoring the Web site, the comments, and the blogs, the traffic was increasing dramatically. Protests were being planned for Thursday in Austin, Huntsville, and Slone and on the campuses of at least two of the black universities in Texas.
Give 'em hell, Robbie thought as he drove away.
CHAPTER 13
Keith arrived early at the hospital and made his rounds. St. Mark's Lutheran currently had half a dozen members in various stages of treatment or recuperation. He said hello to all six, shared a quick word of comfort, held their hands in prayer, then was off to get Mr. Boyette for what promised to be an eventful day.
Eventful in unexpected ways. Mr. Boyette was already gone. According to a nurse, when they checked on him at 6:00 a.m., they found his bed empty and neatly made up, his hospital gown folded next to his pillow, and the IV wrapped carefully around the portable stand next to his bed. An hour later, someone from Anchor House called with the message that Travis Boyette was back home and wanted his doctor to know all was well. Keith drove to Anchor House, but Boyette was not there. According to a supervisor, he was not scheduled to work on Wednesdays. No one had any idea where he was or when he might return. As Keith was driving to St. Mark's, he told himself not to worry, not to panic, Boyette would show. Then he called himself an idiot for placing even the remotest bit of confidence in a confessed murderer, a serial rapist, and a compulsive liar. Because he habitually tried to see the good in every person he knew and met, he realized, as he began to panic, that he had been much too gentle with Boyette. He had tried too hard to be understanding, even compassionate. Hell, the man had murdered a seventeen-year-old girl just to satisfy his lust and was now seemingly content to watch another man die for the crime. God only knew how many other women he'd raped.
Keith was angry when he entered the church office. Charlotte Junger, back from the flu, greeted him with a cheery 'Good morning, Pastor,' and Keith was barely civil.
'I'm locked in my office, okay? No calls, unless it's a man named Travis Boyette.'
'Yes, sir.'
He closed his door, ripped off his coat, and called Dana with the latest news. 'He's loose on the streets?' she asked.
'Well, yes, he's in the process of getting paroled. He's served his time, and he's about to be a free man. I guess you could say he's loose.'
'Thank God for the tumor.'
'I can't believe you said that.'
'Sorry. I can't either. What's the plan?'
'There's nothing to do but wait. Maybe he'll show up.'
'Keep me posted.'
Keith called Matthew Burns in the prosecutor's office and told him there was a delay. Matthew had first been cool to the idea of meeting Boyette and videoing his statement, but he came around. He had agreed to make a call or two to Texas after he heard Boyette's story, if, in fact, he believed what he heard. He was disappointed to hear the man was missing.
Keith checked the Drumm Web site for an update, something he'd done almost every waking hour since Monday morning. He went to the filing cabinets and pulled out folders with old sermons. He called Dana again, but she was having coffee with the girls.
At exactly 10:30 a.m., he called the law office of Robbie Flak. The young lady who answered the phone explained that Mr. Flak was unavailable. Keith said he understood this and said that he'd called yesterday, Tuesday, left his phone numbers, but had not heard from anyone. 'I have information about the murder of Nicole Yarber,' he said.
'What type of information?' she asked.
'I need to speak to Mr. Flak,' Keith said firmly.
