as a small boy wearing a choir robe in church; various poses of Donte the linebacker; a mug shot, front page of the Slone Daily News; Donte being led in handcuffs into the courthouse; more photos from the trial; and the annual file photos from prison, beginning in 1999 with a cocky glare at the camera and ending in 2007 with a thin- faced, aging man of twenty-seven.
When the auditor was done, Keith walked to the outer room and sat down across from his wife. She was sorting through the copies he'd printed, scanning them as she went. 'Did you read this?' she asked, waving a stack of papers.
'Read what? There are hundreds of pages.'
'Listen,' she said, and began to read: 'The body of Nicole Yarber has never been found, and while this might thwart prosecutions in some jurisdictions, it did not slow things in Texas. In fact, Texas is one of several states with a well-developed case law allowing prosecutions in murder cases where there is no definitive proof that a murder has indeed taken place. A dead body is not always required.'
'No, I did not get that far,' he said.
'Can you believe it?'
'I'm not sure what to believe.'
The phone rang. Dana snatched it and abruptly informed the caller that the minister was unavailable. When she hung up, she said, 'Okay, Pastor. What's the plan?'
'There is no plan. The next step, the only step I can think of right now, is to have another talk with Travis Boyette. If he admits he knows where the body is, or was, then I'll press him to admit the murder.'
'And if he does? What then?'
'I have no idea.'
CHAPTER 4
The investigator trailed Joey Gamble for three days before he made contact. Gamble wasn't hiding, nor was he hard to find. He was an assistant manager at a mammoth auto parts discount warehouse in the Houston suburb of Mission Bend, his third job in the past four years. He had one divorce under his belt and perhaps another on the way. He and his second wife were not living together and had retreated to neutral corners where the lawyers were waiting. There wasn't much to fight over, at least not in assets. There was one child, a little boy with autism, and neither parent truly wanted custody. So they fought anyway.
The file on Gamble was as old as the case itself, and the investigator knew it by heart. After high school, the kid played one year of football at a junior college, then dropped out. He hung around Slone for a few years working at various jobs and spending most of his spare time in the gym, where he ate steroids and built himself into a hulking specimen. He boasted of becoming a professional bodybuilder, but eventually grew tired of the work. He married a local girl, divorced her, moved to Dallas, and then drifted to Houston. According to the high school yearbook, Class of 1999, he planned to own a cattle ranch if the NFL thing didn't work out.
It did not, nor did the ranch, and Joey was holding a clipboard and frowning at a display of windshield wipers when the investigator made his move. The long aisle was empty. It was almost noon, a Monday, and the store was practically empty.
'Are you Joey?' the investigator asked with a tight smile just under a thick mustache.
Joey glanced down at the plastic name badge pinned above his shirt pocket. 'That's me.' He tried to return the smile. This was, after all, retail, and the customer must be adored. However, this guy did not appear to be a customer.
'My name's Fred Pryor.' The right hand shot out like a boxing punch bound for the gut. 'I'm a private investigator.' Joey grabbed it, almost in self-defense, and they shook hands for a few awkward seconds. 'Nice to meet you.'
'A pleasure,' Joey said, his radar at full alert. Mr. Pryor was about fifty years old, thick in the chest, with a round tough face topped with gray hair that required work each morning. He wore a standard navy blazer, tan polyester slacks that were straining at the waist, and, of course, a pair of well-shined, pointed-toe boots.
'What kind of investigator?' Joey asked.
'I'm not a cop, Joey. I'm a private investigator, duly licensed by the State of Texas.'
'You got a gun?'
'Yep.' Pryor flung open his blazer to reveal a 9-millimeter Glock strapped under his left armpit. 'You wanna see the permit?' he asked.
'No. Who are you working for?'
'Donte Drumm's defense team.'
The shoulders sagged a bit, the eyes rolled, the air escaped in one quick sigh of frustration, as if to say, 'Not that again.' But Pryor expected this and moved in quickly. 'I'll buy you lunch, Joey. We can't talk here. There's a Mexican place around the corner. Meet me there. Give me thirty minutes, okay? That's all I ask. You get lunch. I get some face time. Then maybe you'll never see me again.'
The Monday special was quesadillas, all you can eat for $6.50. The doctor told him to lose some weight, but he craved Mexican food, especially the greased-up, flash-fried, American version.
'What do you want?' he asked.
Pryor glanced around as if others were listening. 'Thirty minutes. Look, Joey, I'm not a cop. I have no authority, no warrant, no right to ask for anything. But you know the history better than me.'
Pryor would later report to Robbie Flak that at that point the kid lost his edge, stopped smiling, and his eyes half closed in a look of submission and sadness. It was as if he knew this day would eventually arrive. At that moment, Pryor was certain they would catch a break.
Joey glanced at his watch and said, 'I'll be there in twenty minutes. Order me one of their house margaritas.'
'You got it.' Pryor thought that drinking at lunch could be problematic, at least for Joey. But then, the alcohol might help.
The house margarita was served in a clear, bowl-shaped pitcher of some sort and was enough of a beverage for several thirsty men. As the minutes passed, condensation formed on the glass and the ice began to melt. Pryor sipped iced tea with lemon and sent a message to Flak: 'Meeting JG for lunch now. Later.'
Joey arrived on time and managed to squeeze his sizable frame into the booth. He slid the glass over, took the straw, and inhaled an impressive quantity of the booze. Pryor made some small talk until the waiter took their orders and disappeared, then he moved in closer and got to the point.
'Donte will be executed Thursday. Did you know that?'
Joey nodded slowly. Affirmative. 'I saw it in the paper. Plus, I talked to my mother last night and she said the town is buzzing.'
The mother was still in Slone. The father was working in Oklahoma, maybe separated. An older brother was in Slone. A younger sister had moved to California.
'We're trying to stop the execution, Joey, and we need your help.'
'Who's we?'
'I'm working for Robbie Flak.'
Joey almost spit. 'Is that nut still around?'
'Of course he is. He'll always be around. He's represented Donte from day one, and I'm sure he'll be in Huntsville Thursday night at the bitter end. That is, if we can't stop the execution.'
'The paper said the appeals have run out. There's nothing left to do.'
'Maybe, but you never quit. A man's life is at stake, how can you quit?'
Another pull on the straw. Pryor hoped the guy was one of those passive drunks who take the booze and sort of melt into the furnishings, as opposed to the hell-raisers who knock back two drinks and try to clear out the bar.
Joey smacked his lips and said, 'I guess you're convinced he's innocent, right?'
'I am. Always have been.'
'Based on what?'
