and that the van was very similar to the one owned by Donte Drumm. There are a lot more details, but we don't have time for details. Are you with me, Joey?'
'Yes.' His eyes were covered, and he appeared to be crying.
'You now recant that testimony and swear that it was not true. You're saying that you lied at trial. Got that, Joey?'
He nodded his head in the affirmative.
'And it goes on to say that you made the anonymous phone call to Detective Drew Kerber in which you informed him that Donte Drumm was the killer. Again, lots of details, but I'll spare you. I think you understand all this, Joey, don't you?'
He uncovered his face, wiped tears, and said, 'I've lived with this for a long time.'
'Then fix it, Joey.' She slapped the affidavit on the table and thrust a pen at him. 'Page five, bottom right. Quickly.'
He signed the affidavit, and after it was notarized, it was scanned and e-mailed to the Defender Group office in Austin. Agnes Tanner waited for a confirmation, but it bounced back. She called a lawyer at the Defender Group-it had not been received. There had been some problems with their Internet server. Agnes sent it again, and again it was not received. She barked at a clerk who began faxing the five pages.
Joey, suddenly neglected, left the office without being noticed. He at least expected someone to say thanks. – The prison in Huntsville is called the Walls Unit. It's the oldest prison in Texas, built the old way with tall, thick brick walls, thus the name. Its storied history includes the incarcerations of once-famous outlaws and gunslingers. Its death chamber has been used to execute more men and women than any other state. The Walls Unit is proud of its history. A block of the oldest cells has been preserved and presents a step back in time. Tours can be arranged.
Robbie had been there twice before, always hurried and burdened and disinterested in the history of the Walls Unit. When he and Keith walked in the front door, they were met by Ben Jeter, who managed a smile. 'Hello, Mr. Flak,' he said.
'Hello, Warden,' Robbie said grimly, grabbing his wallet. 'This is Donte's spiritual adviser, the Reverend Keith Schroeder.' The warden shook hands cautiously. 'Wasn't aware that Drumm had a spiritual adviser.'
'Well, he does now.'
'Okay. Give me some ID.'
They handed Jeter their driver's licenses, and he gave them to a guard behind a counter. 'Follow me,' he said.
Jeter had been the warden at Walls Unit for eleven years, and every execution belonged to him. It was a duty he assumed but didn't ask for; it was just part of the job. He was noted for his detachment and professionalism. All movements were precise, all details followed without variation. Texas was so efficient in its death work that other states sent over prison officials for consultation. Ben Jeter could show them precisely how it should be done.
He had asked 298 men and 3 women if they had any last words. Fifteen minutes later, he declared them all dead.
'What about the appeals?' he asked, one step ahead of Robbie, two ahead of Keith, who was still in a daze. They were zipping down a hallway, its walls lined with fading black and whites of former wardens and dead governors.
'Doesn't look good,' Robbie said. 'Couple of balls in the air, but nothing much.'
'So you think we'll go at six?'
'I don't know,' Robbie said, unwilling to offer much.
'Go at six,' Keith said to himself. As if they were catching a flight or waiting for a kickoff.
They stopped at a door and Jeter waved a card. It opened and they stepped outside, walked twenty feet, then entered the death house. Keith's heart was pounding, and he was so dizzy he needed to sit down. Inside, he saw bars, rows of bars in a dimly lit block of cells. There were guards in the way, two men in bad suits, the warden, all looking at the holding cell.
'Donte, your lawyer is here,' Jeter announced, as if he were delivering a gift. Donte rose to his feet and smiled. Metal clanged, the door slid open, and Donte took a step. Robbie grabbed him, clutched him, whispered something in his ear. Donte squeezed his lawyer, the first real human contact in almost a decade. Both were crying when they separated.
Next to the holding cell was the visiting cell, a space identical except for a wall of glass behind the bars that allowed privacy as the lawyer met with his client for the last time. The rules allowed one hour of visitation. Most condemned men saved a few minutes for the last prayer with the prison chaplain. The rules stated that the hour of visitation ran from 4:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m., leaving the inmate all alone at the end. Warden Jeter, though a stickler for the rules, knew when to bend them. He also knew that Donte Drumm had been a model prisoner, unlike many, and that meant a lot in his business.
Jeter tapped his watch and said, 'It's 4:45, Mr. Flak, you have sixty minutes.'
'Thank you.'
Donte entered the visiting cell and sat on the edge of the bed. Robbie followed him and sat on a stool. A guard closed the glass door, then rolled the bars in place.
They were alone, knees touching; Robbie put a hand on Donte's shoulder and worked to keep his composure. He had agonized over whether he should bring up Boyette. On the one hand, Donte had probably accepted the inevitable and, with an hour to go, was ready for whatever stood beyond. He certainly seemed to be at peace. Why upset him with a wild new story? On the other hand, Donte might appreciate knowing that the truth would finally be known. His name would be cleared, even though posthumously. The truth, though, was far from certain, and Robbie decided not to mention Boyette.
'Thanks for coming, Robbie,' Donte said in a whisper.
'I promised I'd be here until the end. I'm sorry I couldn't stop this, Donte, I'm truly sorry.'
'Come on, Robbie, you did the best you could. You're still fighting, aren't you?'
'Oh yes. We have some last-minute appeals still out there, so there's a chance.'
'How much of a chance, Robbie?'
'A chance. Joey Gamble has admitted he lied at trial. He got drunk last night in a strip club and admitted everything. We secretly recorded it, and filed a petition this morning. The court turned us down. Then around 3:30 this afternoon, Joey contacted us and said he wants to admit everything.'
Donte's only reaction was to slowly shake his head in disbelief.
'We're trying to file another petition, one that includes his sworn affidavit, and it gives us a chance.'
They were hunched over, their heads almost touching, speaking in whispers. There was so much to say, and so little. Robbie was bitter at the system, angry to the point of violence, burdened by his lack of success in defending Donte, but most of all he was, at that moment, just sad.
For Donte, the brief stay in the holding cell was confusing. Ahead, not thirty feet away, was a door that led to death, a door he preferred not to open. Behind him was death row and the maddening existence of isolation in a cell he preferred to never see again. He thought he was ready for the door, but he was not. Nor did he wish to ever see Polunsky again.
'Don't beat yourself up, Robbie. I'll be all right.'
Keith, with permission, stepped outside and tried to breathe. It had snowed Monday morning in Topeka; now it felt like eighty degrees in Texas. He leaned against a fence and stared at the razor wire above him.
He called Dana and told her where he was, what he was doing, what he was thinking. She seemed as astonished as he was. – With the Drumm matter out of the way, Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe left his office and hurried to the Rolling Creek Country Club in west-central Austin. He had a 5:00 p.m. tennis match with a major contributor to his last, and next, campaigns. In traffic, his cell phone rang. The clerk of the court informed him that they had received a call from the Defender Group, and that another petition was in the works.
'What time do you have?' Prudlowe demanded.
'Four forty-nine.'
'I get so tired of this crap,' Prudlowe said. 'We close at five, and everybody knows it.'
'Yes, sir,' the clerk said. The clerk knew quite well that Justice Prudlowe despised the last-minute Hail Marys thrown by desperate defense lawyers. The cases drag on for years with little activity, then with hours to go, the
