Carlos would track the insanity petition, which was still with the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. If denied there, they would appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. Fred Pryor would remain at the office and tend to Boyette. No one knew what to do with Boyette, but he didn't appear to be leaving. As always, Aaron Rey would accompany Robbie to Huntsville. Martha Handler would also go, to observe and record. Robbie barked orders, answered questions, refereed conflicts, and then suddenly looked at the reverend and asked, 'Keith, can you go with us to Huntsville?'
For a few seconds, the reverend couldn't speak. 'Why, Robbie?' he managed to ask.
'Donte might need you.'
Keith's mouth fell open and no words came out. The room was quiet, all eyes on Keith. Robbie pressed on: 'He was raised in a church, Keith, but he now takes a dim view of religion. His jury had five Baptists, two Pentecostals, one Church of Christ, and I guess the others were lost. Over the past few years, he's come to believe that white Christians are the reason he's on death row. He wants no part of their God, and I don't expect him to change his views anytime soon. Still, at the very end, he might appreciate someone to pray with.'
What Keith wanted was a nice bed in a clean motel and twelve hours of sleep. But, as a man of God, he couldn't say no. He nodded slowly and said, 'Sure.'
'Good. We'll leave in five minutes.'
Keith closed his eyes and rubbed his temples and said to himself, 'Lord, what am I doing here? Help me.'
Fred Pryor suddenly jumped from his chair. He held his cell phone at arm's length, as if it were white-hot, and said loudly, 'Oh, boy! It's Joey Gamble. He wants to sign the affidavit and recant his testimony.'
'Is he on the phone?' Robbie said.
'No. It's a text message. Should I call him?'
'Of course!' Robbie snapped. Pryor stepped to the center of the table and pressed the keys on the speakerphone. No one moved as the phone rang and rang. Finally, a timid 'Hello.'
'Joey, Fred Pryor here, in Slone, just got your message, what the hell's going on?'
'Uh, I wanna help, Mr. Pryor. I'm really upset by all this.'
'You think you're upset, what about Donte? He's got two and a half hours to live, and now you finally wake up and want to help.'
'I'm so confused,' Joey said.
Robbie leaned forward and took charge. 'Joey, this is Robbie Flak. Remember?'
'Of course.'
'Where are you?'
'Mission Bend, in my apartment.'
'Are you willing to sign an affidavit admitting that you lied at Donte's trial?'
With no hesitation, Joey said, 'Yes.'
Robbie closed his eyes and dropped his head. Around the table, there were silent fist pumps, quick prayers of thanks, and a lot of tired smiles.
'All right, here's the plan. There's a lawyer in Houston by the name of Agnes Tanner. Her office is downtown on Clay Street. Do you know the city?'
'I guess.'
'Can you find an office downtown?'
'I don't know. I'm not sure I should drive.'
'Are you drunk?'
'Not drunk, but I've been drinking.' Robbie instinctively glanced at his watch. Not yet 4:00 p.m. and the boy was already thick tongued.
'Joey, call a cab. I'll reimburse you later. It's crucial that you get to Tanner's office as quickly as possible. We'll e-mail an affidavit, you sign it, and we'll get it filed in Austin. Can you do this, Joey?'
'I'll try.'
'It's the least you can do, Joey. Right now Donte is in the holding cell in Huntsville, thirty feet from the little room where they kill people, and your lies helped put him there.'
'I'm so sorry.' His voice cracked.
'The office is at 118 Clay Street, you got that, Joey?'
'I think so.'
'Get there, Joey. The paperwork will be waiting for you. Every minute is crucial, Joey, do you understand?'
'Okay, okay.'
'Call us back in ten minutes.'
'You got it.'
After the call ended, Robbie barked orders and everyone scrambled. As he headed for the door, he said, 'Let's go, Keith.' They jumped in the van, with Martha Handler racing to keep up with them, and Aaron Rey sped away. Robbie called Agnes Tanner in Houston and urgently confirmed the details.
Keith leaned forward and looked at Aaron in the rearview mirror. 'Someone said it's a three-hour drive to Huntsville.'
'It is,' Aaron replied. 'But we're not driving.'
The Slone Municipal Airport was two miles east of town. It had one runway, west to east, four small hangars, the usual collection of old Cessnas in a row on the deck, and a square metal building for the terminal. They parked, ran through the tiny lobby area, nodded at a deckhand behind the desk, and stepped onto the tarmac, where a shiny twin-engine King Air was waiting. It was owned by a wealthy lawyer friend of Robbie's who was an avid pilot. He got them on board, locked the door, made them fasten their seat belts, then strapped himself in and began flipping switches.
Keith had not talked to his wife in several hours, and things were happening so fast he wasn't sure where to begin. Dana answered during the first beep, as if she'd been staring at her cell phone. The engines started, and the cabin was suddenly loud and shaking. 'Where are you?' she asked.
'In an airplane, leaving Slone, flying to Huntsville to meet Donte Drumm.'
'I can barely hear you. Whose airplane?'
'A friend of Robbie Flak's. Look, Dana, I can't hear you either. I'll call you when we land in Huntsville.'
'Please be careful, Keith.'
'Love you.'
Keith was facing the front of the plane, his knees almost touching Martha Handler's. He watched the pilot run through the checklist as they taxied away to the runway. Robbie, Martha, and Aaron were all on the phone, and Keith wondered how they could carry on a conversation amid the racket. At the end of the runway, the King Air did a 180 and pointed west. The pilot revved the engines, the plane shook harder and harder as if it might explode, then the pilot yelled, 'Hold on,' and released the brakes. They jerked forward, and all four passengers closed their eyes. Within seconds, they were in the air. The landing gear folded with a thud, but Keith had no idea what he was hearing. In the blur of the moment, he realized that he had never before flown in a small airplane.
Nor had he ever been to Texas, chauffeured a serial rapist and murderer, listened to his chilling confession, witnessed the chaos of a law firm trying to save an innocent man, gone four days with virtually no sleep, picked up a speeding ticket in Oklahoma, or said yes to an invitation to pray with a man minutes before his death.
They flew over Slone at two thousand feet and climbing. The old cotton gin was still burning, thick smoke boiling into a cloud.
Keith closed his eyes again and tried to convince himself that he was where he was and doing what he was doing. He was not convinced. He prayed and asked God to take his hand and guide him now, because he had no idea what to do. He thanked God for this rather unusual situation and acknowledged that only divine intervention could be responsible for it. At five thousand feet, his chin hit his chest, the fatigue finally taking its toll. – The bourbon was usually Knob Creek, but on special occasions the really fine stuff was pulled out of the drawer. A shot each of Pappy Van Winkle's, and all three smacked their lips. They were starting a bit early, but the governor said he needed a stiff one. Barry and Wayne had never said no. They had their coats off, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, busy men with a lot on their minds. They stood near a credenza in a corner, sipping, watching the rally on a small television. If they had opened a window, they could have heard the noise. One long-winded speaker after another delivered scathing attacks on the death penalty, racism, and the Texas judicial system. The term
