'The sun was barely up. I waited until I could see things, see where I was, and find the best place to hide her.'
'And this was Sunday, December 6, 1998?'
'If you say so. Yes.'
'So sunrise would be around 6:30 a.m.?'
'That sounds about right.'
'And you returned to Slone and went where?'
'I went to my room at the Rebel Motor Inn, after I'd bought a case of beer with the cash I took from Nicole.'
'You got drunk at the Rebel Motor Inn?'
'Yes.'
'How long did you live in Slone after the murder?'
'I don't know, maybe a month and a half. I was arrested here in January, you got the records. After I got outta jail, I took off.'
'After you killed her, when did you hear that Donte Drumm had been arrested?'
'Don't know exactly. I saw it on television. I saw you yelling at the cameras.'
'What did you think when he was arrested?'
Boyette shook his head and said, 'I thought, what a bunch of idiots. That kid had nothing to do with it. They got the wrong guy.'
It was a perfect place to end. Robbie said, 'That's all.' Carlos reached for the camera.
Robbie asked the court reporter, 'How long before we have a transcript?'
'Ten minutes.'
'Good. Hurry.' Robbie huddled with the rest of his firm at the conference table and everyone talked at once. Boyette was forgotten for a moment, though Fred Pryor kept an eye on him. Boyette asked for water, and Pryor handed him a bottle. Keith stepped outside to call Dana and Matthew Burns and to get some fresh air. But the air wasn't refreshing; it was heavy with smoke and tension.
There was a loud thud, followed by a shriek, as Boyette fell out of his chair and hit the floor. He grabbed his head, pulled his knees to his chest, and began shaking as the seizure consumed him. Fred Pryor and Aaron Rey knelt over him, uncertain what to do. Robbie and the others crowded around, staring in horror at a fit so violent that the ancient wooden floor seemed to shake. They actually felt sorry for the man. Keith heard the commotion and joined the crowd.
'He needs a doctor,' Sammie Thomas said.
'He has meds, doesn't he, Keith?' Robbie asked in a hushed tone.
'Yes.'
'Have you seen this before?'
Boyette was still thrashing about, groaning pitifully. Surely the man was dying. Fred Pryor was patting him softly on the arm.
'Yes,' Keith said. 'About four hours ago, somewhere in Oklahoma. He vomited forever and then passed out.'
'Should we take him to the hospital? I mean, look, Keith, could he be dying right now?'
'I don't know, I'm not a doctor. What else do you need from him?'
'We must have his signature on his affidavit, signed under oath.' Robbie stepped back and motioned for Keith to join him. They spoke softly. Robbie continued, 'And then there's the matter of finding the body. Even with his affidavit, there's no guarantee the court will stop the execution. The governor will not. Either way, we have to find the body, and soon.'
Keith said, 'Let's put him on the sofa in your office, turn off the lights. I'll give him a pill. Maybe he's not dying.'
'Good idea.'
It was 1:20 p.m.
CHAPTER 22
Donte's first helicopter ride was intended to be his last. Courtesy of the Texas Department of Public Safety, he was moving through the air at ninety miles per hour, three thousand feet above the rolling hills, and he could see nothing below. He was wedged between two guards, thick young men scowling out the windows as if Operation Detour might have a surface-to-air missile or two in its arsenal. Up front were the two pilots, grim-faced boys thrilled with the excitement of their mission. The rocky, noisy ride made Donte nauseous, so he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against hard plastic, and tried to think of something pleasant. He could not.
He practiced his last statement, mouthing the words, though with the racket in the helicopter he could have barked them out and no one would have noticed. He thought of other inmates-some friends, some enemies, almost all guilty, but a few who claimed innocence-and how they faced their deaths.
The ride lasted twenty minutes, and when the helicopter landed at the old rodeo grounds inside Huntsville prison, a small army awaited the prisoner. Donte, laden with chains and shackles, was practically carried by his guards to a van. Minutes later, the van pulled into an alley lined with chain-link fencing covered by a thick windscreen and topped with glistening razor wire. Donte was escorted from the van, through a gate, along a short sidewalk to a small, flat, redbrick building where Texas does its killing.
Inside, he squinted and tried to focus on his new surroundings. There were eight cells to his right, each emptying onto a short hallway. On a table, there were several Bibles, including one in Spanish. A dozen guards milled about, some chatting about the weather as if the weather were important at that moment. Donte was positioned in front of a camera and photographed. The handcuffs were removed, and a technician informed him they would now fingerprint him.
'Why?' Donte asked.
'Routine,' came the response. He took a finger and rolled it on the ink pad.
'I don't understand why you need to fingerprint a man before you kill him.'
The technician did not respond.
'I get it,' Donte said. 'You wanna make sure you got the right man, right?'
The technician rolled another finger.
'Well, you got the wrong man this time; I can assure you of that.'
When the fingerprinting was over, he was led to the holding cell, one of the eight. The other seven were not used. Donte sat on the edge of the bunk. He noticed how shiny the floors were, how clean the sheets were, how pleasant the temperature. On the other side of the bars, in the hallway, were several prison officials. One stepped to the bars and said, 'Donte, I'm Ben Jeter, the warden here at Huntsville.'
Donte nodded but did not stand. He stared at the floor.
'Our chaplain is Tommy Powell. He's here and he'll stay here all afternoon.'
Without looking up, Donte said, 'Don't need a chaplain.'
'It's your call. Now listen to me because I want to tell you how things happen around here.'
'I think I know what happens.'
'Well, I'll tell you anyway.' – After a round of speeches, each more strident than the one before, the rally lost some steam. A large mob of blacks packed around the front of the courthouse, and even spilled onto Main Street, which had been closed. When no one else took up the bullhorn, the drum corps came to life, and the crowd followed the music down Main Street, heading west, chanting, waving banners, singing 'We Shall Overcome.' Trey Glover assumed his role as parade master and maneuvered his SUV in front of the drummers. The rap blasted the downtown shops and cafes where the owners, clerks, and customers stood in the windows and doors. Why were the blacks so upset? The boy confessed. He killed Nicole; he said he did it. An eye for an eye.
There was no trouble, but the town seemed ready to erupt.
When Trey and the drummers came to Sisk Avenue, they turned right, not left. A left turn would have routed the march to the south, the general direction of where it started. A turn to the right meant they were headed into
