Keith felt assured. He believed Boyette, and the fact that he believed so much from this hardened criminal was frustrating. He was wide-awake as they approached Wichita. Boyette had retreated into his sad little shell. He rubbed his temples occasionally.
'You went to court when you were twelve years old?' Keith asked.
The tic. 'Something like that. Yes, I was twelve. I remember the judge making some comment about me being too young to launch a new career as a criminal. Little did he know.'
'What was the crime?'
'We broke into a store and loaded up all the stuff we could carry. Beer, cigarettes, candy, lunch meat, chips. Had a regular feast in the woods, got drunk. No problem until somebody looked at the video. It was my first offense, so I got probation. My co-defendant was Eddie Stuart. He was fourteen, and it was not his first offense. They sent him to reform school, and I never saw him again. It was a rough neighborhood, and there was no shortage of bad boys. We were either making trouble or getting into trouble. Darrell yelled at me, but he came and went. My mother tried her best but couldn't stop drinking. My brother got sent away when he was fifteen. Me, I was thirteen. You ever been inside a reform school, Pastor?'
'No.'
'Didn't think so. These are the kids nobody wants. Most are not bad kids, not when they first get there. They just didn't have a chance. My first stop was a place near St. Louis, and like all reform schools it was nothing but a penitentiary for kids. I got the top bunk in a long room crowded with kids from the streets of St. Louis. The violence was brutal. There were never enough guards or supervisors. We went to class, but the education was a joke. You had to join a gang to survive. Someone looked at my file and saw where I'd been sexually abused, so I was an easy target for the guards. After two years of hell, I was released. Now, Pastor, what's a fifteen-year-old kid supposed to do when he's back on the streets after two years of torture?' He actually looked at Keith as if he expected an answer.
Keith kept his eyes straight ahead and shrugged.
'The juvenile justice system does nothing but cultivate career criminals. Society wants to lock us up and throw away the key, but society is too stupid to realize that we'll eventually get out. And when we get out, it ain't pretty. Take me. I'd like to think I wasn't a hopeless case when I went in at thirteen. But give me two years of nothing but violence, hate, beatings, abuse, then society's got a problem when I walk out at fifteen. Prisons are hate factories, Pastor, and society wants more and more of them. It ain't working.'
'Are you blaming someone else for what happened to Nicole?'
Boyette exhaled and looked away. It was a heavy question, and he sagged under its weight. Finally, he said, 'You miss the whole point, Pastor. What I did was wrong, but I couldn't stop myself. Why couldn't I stop myself? Because of what I am. I wasn't born this way. I became a man with a lot of problems, not because of my DNA, but because of what society demanded. Lock 'em up. Punish the hell out of them. And if you make a few monsters along the way, too bad.'
'What about the other 50 percent?'
'And who might those be?'
'Half of all inmates paroled from prison stay out of trouble and are never arrested again.'
Boyette didn't appreciate this statistic. He re-shifted his weight and fixated on the right-side mirror. He withdrew into his shell and stopped talking. When they were south of Wichita, he fell asleep. – The cell phone rang again at 3:40 a.m. It was Matthew Burns. 'Where are you, Keith?' he demanded.
'Get some sleep, Matthew. Sorry I bothered you.'
'I'm having trouble sleeping. Where are you?'
'About thirty miles from the Oklahoma state line.'
'Still got your buddy?'
'Oh yes. He's sleeping now. Me, I just nap on and off.'
'I've talked to Dana. She's upset, Keith. I'm worried too. We think you're losing your mind.'
'Probably so. I'm touched. Relax, Matthew. I'm doing what's right, and I'll survive whatever happens. Right now, my thoughts are with Donte Drumm.'
'Don't cross the state line.'
'I heard you the first time.'
'Good. I just wanted to be on record as warning you more than once.'
'I'm writing it down.'
'Okay, now, Keith, listen to me. We have no idea what might happen once you get to Slone and your buddy there starts running his mouth. I'm assuming he'll attract cameras like roadkill attracts buzzards. Stay out of the picture, Keith. Keep your head low. Don't talk to any reporters. One of two things will definitely happen. Number one, the execution will take place as scheduled. If so, then you've done your best, and it'll be time to scramble back home. Boyette has the option of staying there or catching a ride back. Doesn't really matter to you. Just get back home. There's a decent chance no one will know about your little adventure in Texas. The second scenario is that the execution will be stayed. If so, you've won, but don't celebrate. While the authorities grab Boyette, you sneak out of town and get back home. Either way, you gotta stay out of sight. Am I clear?'
'I think so. Here's the question: Where do we go when we get to Slone? The prosecutor, the police, the press, the defense attorney?'
'Robbie Flak. He's the only one who might listen. The police and the prosecutor have no reason to listen to Boyette. They have their man. They're just waiting for the execution. Flak is the only one who might believe you, and he certainly appears capable of making a lot of noise. If Boyette tells a good story, then Flak will take care of the press.'
'That's what I thought. I'm planning on calling Flak at six. I doubt if he's sleeping much.'
'Let's talk before we start making calls.'
'You got it.'
'And, Keith, I still think you're crazy.'
'I don't doubt it, Matthew.'
He put the phone in his pocket, and a few minutes later the Subaru left Kansas and entered Oklahoma. Keith was driving eighty miles an hour. He was also wearing his clerical collar, and he'd convinced himself that any decent trooper wouldn't ask too many questions of a man of God whose crime was nothing more than speeding.
CHAPTER 17
The Drumm family spent the night in a budget motel on the outskirts of Livingston, less than four miles by car from the Allan B. Polunsky correctional facility, where Donte had been locked up for over seven years. The motel did a modest trade with the families of inmates, including the rather bizarre cult of death row wives from abroad. At any given time, around twenty condemned men were married to European women they could never actually touch. The weddings were not officially sanctioned by the state, but the couples nonetheless considered themselves married and carried on to the fullest extent possible. The wives corresponded with each other and often traveled together to Texas to see their men. They stayed at the same motel.
Four had eaten at a table near the Drumms late the night before. They were usually noticeable, with their thick accents and suggestive clothing. They liked to be noticed. Back home they were minor celebrities.
Donte had rebuffed all offers of matrimony. During his final days, he turned down book deals, requests for interviews, marriage proposals, and the chance to make an appearance on Fordyce-Hitting Hard! He had refused to meet with both the prison chaplain and his own minister, the Reverend Johnny Canty. Donte had given up on religion. He wanted no part of the same God so fervently worshipped by the devout Christians who were hell-bent on killing him.
Roberta Drumm awoke in the darkness of room 109. She had slept so little in the past month that her fatigue now kept her awake. The doctor had given her some pills, but they had backfired and made her edgy. The room was warm and she pulled back the sheets. Her daughter, Andrea, was in the other twin bed, only a few feet away, and seemed to be sleeping. Her sons Cedric and Marvin were next door. The rules of the prison allowed them to
