'You are so hiding,' Barry said.
'Find me an interview with someone we can trust.'
'There's always Fox. I talked to Chuck Monahand two hours ago, and he would love to have a chat. He's harmless and his numbers are way up.'
'Will he give us the questions ahead of time?'
'Of course he will. He'll do anything.'
'I like it. Wayne?'
Wayne cracked his knuckles with enough force to break them, then said, 'Not so fast. What's the urgency? Sure you're hunkered down, but give it some time. Let's think of where we'll be a week from now.'
'My guess is that we'll be right here,' Barry said. 'With the door locked, pulling our hair out and trying to decide what to do next.'
'But it's such a big moment,' the governor said. 'I hate to let it pass.'
'Let it pass,' Wayne said. 'You look bad right now, Gov, and there's no way to fix that. What we need is time, and lots of it. I say we lie low, dodge the bullets, let the press chew on Koffee and the cops and the court of appeals. Let a month go by. It won't be pleasant, but the clock will not stop.'
'I say we go to Fox,' Barry said.
'And I say we don't,' Wayne shot back. 'I say we cook up a trade mission to China and leave for ten days. Explore foreign markets, more outlets for Texas products, more jobs for our people.'
'I did that three months ago,' Newton said. 'I hate Chinese food.'
'You'll look weak,' Barry said. 'Running away smack in the middle of the biggest story since that last hurricane. Bad idea.'
'I agree. I'm not leaving.'
'Then can I go to China?' Wayne asked.
'No. What time is it?' The governor wore a watch, and there were at least three clocks in his office. When that question was asked late in the afternoon, it meant only one thing. Barry stepped to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon.
The governor sat behind his massive desk and took a sip. 'When is the next execution?' he asked Wayne. His lawyer punched keys, stared at his laptop, and said, 'Sixteen days.'
Barry said, 'Oh, boy.'
'Who is it?' Newton asked.
Wayne said, 'Drifty Tucker. Male, white, fifty-one years old, Panola County, killed his wife when he caught her in bed with the next-door neighbor. Shot the neighbor too, eight times. Had to reload.'
'Is that a crime?' Barry asked.
'Not in my book,' Newton said. 'No claim of innocence?'
'Nope. He claimed insanity, but it looks as if the reloading bit nailed him.'
'Can we get a court somewhere to issue a stay?' Newton asked. 'I'd rather not deal with it.'
'I'll work on it.'
The governor took another sip, shook his head, and mumbled, 'Just what we need right now, another execution.'
Wayne suddenly reacted as if he'd been slapped. 'Get a load of this. Robbie Flak just filed a lawsuit in state court in Chester County, naming a bunch of defendants; one of them is the Honorable Gill Newton, Governor. Fifty million dollars in damages for the wrongful death of Donte Drumm.'
'He can't do that,' the governor said.
'He just did. Looks like he e-mailed a copy of it to all defendants, as well as to every newspaper in the state.'
'I'm immune.'
'Of course you are, but you've been sued anyway.'
Barry sat down and began scratching his hair. The governor closed his eyes and mumbled to himself. Wayne gawked at his laptop, mouth wide open. A bad day just took a turn for the worse.
CHAPTER 38
Keith sat in his office at the church, hands locked behind his head, shoeless feet on the desk, eyes gazing at the ceiling, his thoughts still scrambled after all of it. Once or twice in the past few days, his mind had returned to family and church matters, but those pleasant diversions were always ruined when he thought of Travis Boyette loose on the streets. Keith had reminded himself countless times that he did not help Boyette escape-the man was already roaming the streets of Topeka, a convict who'd served his time and was lawfully reentering society. He, Boyette, had made the decision to leave Anchor House and violate his parole before he convinced Keith to become his chauffeur. But Keith was living with a knot in his stomach, a constant nag that assured him he had done something wrong.
To take a break from Boyette, he yanked his feet off the desk and turned to face his computer. The monitor was showing a Web site for the Kansas chapter of AADP, Americans Against the Death Penalty, and Keith decided to join. Using his credit card, he paid the $25 annual fee, now one of three thousand members and as such entitled to the online newsletter, a monthly magazine with all the latest, and other periodic updates from the staff. The group met once a year in Wichita, details to follow. Outside of the church, it was the first organization he'd ever joined.
Out of curiosity, he looked at the sites of anti-death-penalty groups in Texas, and found plenty. He noticed the names of several groups he'd seen in the news coverage the past two days; the abolitionists down there were making the most of the Drumm execution, and there was no shortage of activity. Execution Watch, Students Against the Death Penalty, Texas Network Moratorium, TALK (Texans Against Legalized Killing), Texans for Alternatives to the Death Penalty. One familiar name was Death Penalty Focus. Keith went to its Web site and was impressed. Membership was only $10. Keith pulled out his credit card and signed up. He was enjoying himself and not thinking about Boyette.
The largest and oldest group in Texas was ATeXX, an acronym for Abolish Texas Executions. It not only published extensively on the subject of capital punishment but also pushed its policies on the legislature, built support groups for the men and women on death row, raised money to defend those charged with capital crimes, networked with dozens of other groups around the country, and, most impressively, at least in Keith's opinion, reached out to both families-those of the victims and those of the condemned. ATeXX had fifteen thousand members and an annual budget of $2 million and offered membership to anyone willing to pay $25. Keith was in the mood, and moments later he joined his third group.
Sixty dollars later, he felt like a certified abolitionist.
His intercom beeped and broke the silence. Charlotte Junger announced, 'There's a reporter on the phone. I think you should talk to her.'
'Where's she from?'
'Houston, and she's not going away.'
'Thanks.' He answered the phone. 'This is the Reverend Keith Schroeder.'
'Reverend Schroeder, my name is Eliza Keene. I'm with the Houston Chronicle.' Her voice was soft, her words unhurried, her accent similar to the twang Keith had heard in Slone. 'I have some questions about Travis Boyette.'
His life flashed before his eyes. Headlines, controversy, handcuffs, jail.
Keith froze long enough to convince Ms. Keene that she was on the right trail. 'Sure,' he said. What was he supposed to say? He would not lie and deny knowing Boyette. For a split second, he thought about refusing to talk to her, but that would set off alarms.
'Do you mind if I record our conversation?' she asked pleasantly.
Yes. No. He had no idea. 'Well, no,' he said.
'Good. It helps me keep things accurate. Just a second.' A pause. 'Now the recorder is on.'
'Okay,' Keith said, but only because it seemed as though something was needed on his end. He decided to stall
