wrong time to get from one place to another. The road was hopelessly clogged.
Inman was a cool professional, and he knew something the students didn't. As he walked through the jam, headed for the vans, he nodded politely at the students, smiled, asked if they were having a nice day. At the vans, security details for Donte unloaded, thick men in blue SWAT-style uniforms with automatic weapons. Most of the students made their way close to the vans. One seemed to lead the pack. Inman approached him, extended a hand, and politely said, 'I'm Sergeant Inman. May I ask your name?'
'Quincy Mooney.' He reluctantly shook Inman's hand.
'Mr. Mooney, I'm sorry about your car breaking down.'
'Don't mention it.'
Inman looked around, smiled at the other students. 'All these folks friends of yours?'
'I've never seen 'em before.'
Inman smiled. 'Look, Mr. Mooney, we need to get these cars off the road. Traffic is backing up. Everything is blocked.'
'Guess we need to call some mechanics.'
'No, we're just gonna tow 'em, Quincy. Unless, of course, ya'll would like to save a hundred bucks and drive away. If you chose to do so, then we wouldn't be forced to write a bunch of tickets. That's another hundred bucks a car.'
'So, it's against the law for your car to break down?'
'No, sir, it's not. But you and I both know why you're here. The judge will know too.'
'I know why I'm here. Why are you here?'
'I'm doing my job, Quincy. Traffic control and keeping the peace.' Inman nodded his head and said, 'Come with me.' Quincy followed him to the first van. Its double side doors were open. Inman looked inside, then invited Quincy to do the same. The van was empty. They walked to the second van. Both looked inside. It, too, was empty. The security guards were snickering. The whirling thump-thump of a helicopter could be heard.
'Where's Donte Drumm?' Quincy asked, stunned.
'He ain't here, is he?' Inman asked with a smirk. Quincy stared at the darkened windows of the empty van. They walked back to the front of the first one. Inman looked to the sky, in the direction of Polunsky. Everyone waited and waited, and seconds later a helicopter roared directly over them.
Inman pointed at it and said, 'There goes Donte.'
Quincy's jaw dropped, his shoulders slumped. Word spread through the students, and there were looks of shock and disbelief. A perfect operation had been compromised. Donte Drumm would arrive at the death chamber ahead of schedule.
'Too much Internet chatter,' Inman said. 'Here's the deal, Quincy. You guys have fifteen minutes to clear this road and get outta here. In fifteen minutes, we start writing tickets and towing. And, just so you know, there won't be any arrests, so don't provoke us. Got it?'
Quincy walked away, thoroughly defeated. – Boyette, after a sandwich and three cups of coffee, was feeling better. He was at the table, lights on, shades opened. Robbie and Keith were staring at him, and no one was smiling. Evidently, the issue of money had been put aside by Boyette, at least for the moment.
'So if I tell you what happened with Nicole, what happens to me?' he asked, looking at Robbie.
'Nothing, at least nothing for a long time. The cops and prosecutors have their man. If he's killed tonight, then they'll never consider pursuing someone else. If Donte gets a stay, I'm not sure what they'll do, but it'll be a long time before they admit that anybody but Donte killed Nicole. They have far too much invested in their wrongful conviction.'
'So I won't be arrested today or tomorrow or the next day?'
'I can't speak for these clowns, Mr. Boyette. I don't know what they'll do. As a general rule, the cops here are stupid, and Detective Kerber is a moron. But to arrest you is to admit they were wrong about Donte, and that's not going to happen. If you walked into the police station right now, swore on a Bible, and gave them every detail of the abduction, rape, and murder, they would dismiss you outright as a lunatic. They'll have no desire to believe you, Mr. Boyette. Your admission destroys them.'
The tic, the pause. Robbie leaned forward and glared at him. 'Time's up, Mr. Boyette. I want to hear it. Tell me the truth. Did you kill the girl?'
'Yes, just like I've told Keith here. I grabbed her, raped her for two days, then choked her and hid the body.'
'Where is the body? Finding the body will stop the execution, I guarantee it. Where is it?'
'In the hills south of Joplin, Missouri. Deep in the hills.'
'Joplin, Missouri, is at least five hours from here.'
'More than that. Nicole and I drove there.'
'So she was alive when you left Texas.'
The tic, the pause, finally, 'Yes. I killed her in Missouri. Raped her from here to there.'
'Is it possible to call the authorities in Joplin and tell them how to find the body?'
Boyette managed to laugh at such foolishness. 'You think I'm stupid? Why would I bury her where someone could find her? I'm not even sure I can find her after all these years.'
Robbie anticipated this and didn't miss a beat. 'Then we need to take your statement, by video, and quickly.'
'Okay. I'm ready.'
They walked to the conference room, where Carlos was waiting with a camera and a court reporter. Boyette was directed to a chair facing the camera. The court reporter sat to his right, Robbie to his left. Carlos worked the camera. The other members of the firm suddenly materialized-Robbie wanted them as witnesses-and they stood with Keith ten feet away. Boyette looked at them and was suddenly nervous. He felt like a man facing his own, well-attended execution. The court reporter asked him to raise his right hand and swear to tell the truth. He did, and then Robbie began the questioning. Name, place of birth, address, employment, current status as a parolee, and criminal record. He asked if Boyette was giving his statement voluntarily. Nothing had been promised. Was he living in Slone in December 1998? Why? How long?
Robbie's questions were gentle but efficient. Boyette looked squarely at the camera, no flinching or blinking, and seemed to warm to the task. Oddly, the tic went away.
Tell us about Nicole.
Boyette thought for a second and then launched into his narrative. The football games, the fascination with Nicole, the obsession, the stalking, and finally the abduction outside the mall, not a single witness anywhere. On the floor of his truck, he put a gun to her head and threatened to kill her if she made a sound, then he bound her wrists and ankles with duct tape. He taped her mouth. He drove somewhere into the country, he was not sure where, and after he raped her the first time, he almost dumped her in a ditch, injured but not dead, but wanted to rape her again. They left Slone. The cell phone in her handbag kept ringing and ringing so he finally stopped at a bridge over the Red River. He took her cash, credit card, and driver's license, then threw the handbag off the bridge. They drifted through southeastern Oklahoma. Just before sunrise, near Fort Smith, he saw a cheap motel he'd stayed in before, alone. He paid cash for a room and, with a gun to her head, got her inside without being seen. He taped her wrists, ankles, and mouth again and told her to go to sleep. He slept a few hours, not sure if she did. They spent a long day at the motel. He convinced her that if she would cooperate, give him what he wanted, then he would release her. But he already knew the truth. After dark, they moved on, headed north. At daybreak on Sunday, they were south of Joplin, in a heavily wooded, remote area. She begged him, but he killed her anyway. It wasn't easy, she fought hard, scratched him, drew blood. He stuffed her body in a large toolbox and buried it. No one would ever find her. He drove back to Slone and got drunk.
Robbie was taking notes. The court reporter pressed the keys of her stenotype machine. No one else moved. No one seemed to breathe.
Boyette went silent, his story complete. His detached narration and his command of details were chilling. Martha Handler would later write: 'Watching Boyette's eyes and face as he talked about his crimes left no doubt that we were in the presence of a ruthless killer. The story that we will never know, and perhaps prefer not to know, is the suffering this poor girl endured throughout the ordeal.'
Robbie, calm but also anxious to finish the testimony, pressed on: 'Approximately what time on Sunday did you kill her?'
