'Based on the complete lack of physical evidence; based on the fact that he had an alibi, he was somewhere else; based on the fact that his confession is as bogus as a three-dollar bill; based on the fact that he's passed at least four polygraph tests; based on the fact that he has always denied any involvement. And, Joey, for purposes of this discussion, based on the fact that your testimony at trial was completely unbelievable. You didn't see a green van in the parking lot in the vicinity of Nicole's car. It was impossible. You left the mall through the entrance to the cinema. She was parked on the west side, on the other side of the mall. You fabricated the testimony to help the cops nail their suspect.'
There was no eruption, no anger. He took it well, much like a child caught red-handed with a stolen coin and unable to utter words.
'Keep going,' Joey said.
'You want to hear it?'
'I'm sure I've heard it before.'
'Indeed you have. You heard it at trial, eight years ago. Mr. Flak explained it to the jury. You were crazy about Nicole, but she wasn't crazy about you. Typical high school drama. You dated off and on, no sex, a rather stormy relationship, and at some point you suspected that she was seeing someone else. Turned out this was Donte Drumm, which, of course, in Slone and in a lot of other small towns, could lead to real problems. No one knew for sure, but the gossip was out of control. Maybe she tried to break it off with him. He denies this. He denies everything. Then she disappeared, and you saw the opportunity to nail the guy. Nail him you did. You sent him to death row, and now you're about to be responsible for killing him.'
'So, I'm gettin' all the blame here?'
'Yes, sir. Your testimony placed him at the scene of the crime, or at least the jury thought so. It was almost laughable because it was so inconsistent, but the jury was anxious to believe you. You didn't see a green van. You lied. You fabricated. You also called Detective Kerber with the anonymous tip, and the rest is history.'
'I did not call Kerber.'
'Of course you did. We have the experts to prove it. You didn't even try to disguise your voice. According to our analysis, you had been drinking but weren't drunk. There was a slight slur in a few of your words. You want to see the report?'
'No. It was never admitted in court.'
'That's because we didn't know about your phone call until after the trial, and that's because the cops and prosecutors concealed it, which should have led to a reversal, which, of course, is pretty rare here in Texas.'
The waitress arrived with a platter of sizzling quesadillas, all for Joey. Pryor took his taco salad and asked for more tea. After a few generous bites, Joey said, 'So who killed her?'
'Who knows? There's no proof she's even dead.'
'They found her gym card and student ID.'
'Yeah, but they didn't find her body. She could be alive for all we know.'
'You don't believe that.' A gulp of the margarita to wash things down.
'No, I don't. I'm sure she's dead. Right now it doesn't matter. We're racing against time here, Joey, and we need your help.'
'What am I supposed to do?'
'Recant, recant, recant. Sign an affidavit telling the truth. Tell us what you really saw that night, which was nothing.'
'I saw a green van.'
'Your friend didn't see a green van, and he walked out of the mall with you. You didn't mention anything to him. In fact, you didn't say anything to anybody for over two weeks, then you heard the rumor that her gym card and student ID had been found in the river. That's when you put together your fiction, Joey, that's when you decided to nail Donte. You were outraged because she would prefer a black guy to you. You called Kerber with the anonymous tip, and all hell broke loose. The cops were desperate and stupid and couldn't wait to pursue your fiction. It worked perfectly. They beat a confession out of him, only took them fifteen hours, and, bingo! it's front- page news-'Donte Drumm Confesses.' Then your memory works a miracle. You suddenly remember that you saw a green van, just like the Drumms', moving suspiciously around the mall that night. What was it, Joey, three weeks later when you finally told the cops about the van?'
'I saw a green van.'
'Was it a Ford, Joey, or did you just decide it was a Ford because that's what the Drumms owned? Did you really see a black guy driving it, or was that just your imagination?'
To keep from responding, Joey stuffed half a quesadilla into his mouth and chewed slowly. As he did so, he watched the other diners, unable or unwilling to make eye contact. Pryor took a bite, then pressed on. His thirty minutes would be gone soon enough.
'Look, Joey,' he said in a much softer tone, 'we can argue the case for hours. I'm not here to do that. I'm here to talk about Donte. You guys were friends, you grew up together, you were teammates for, what, five years? You spent hours together on the football field. You won together; you lost together. Hell, you were co-captains your senior year. Think of his family, his mother and brothers and sister. Think of the town, Joey, think how bad things will get if he's executed. You gotta help us, Joey. Donte didn't kill anybody. He's been railroaded from the beginning.'
'Didn't realize I had this much power.'
'Oh, it's a long shot. Appeals courts are not too impressed with witnesses who suddenly change their minds years after the trial and hours before the execution. You give us the affidavit, we'll run to court and scream as loud as possible, but the odds are against us. We gotta try, though. At this point, we'll try anything.'
Joey stirred his drink with the straw, then took a sip. He rubbed his mouth with a paper napkin and said, 'You know, this is not the first time I've had this conversation. Mr. Flak called me years ago, asked me to stop by his office. This was long after the trial. I think he was working on the appeals. He begged me to change my story, tell his version of the truth. Told him to go to hell.'
'I know. I've been working on the case for a long time.'
After demolishing half of the quesadillas, Joey suddenly lost interest in lunch. He shoved the platter away and pulled the drink in front of him. He stirred it slowly and watched the liquid spin around the glass.
'Things are a lot different now, Joey,' Pryor said softly, pressing. 'It's late in the fourth quarter, the game's almost over for Donte.' – The thick maroon fountain pen clipped inside Pryor's shirt pocket was in fact a microphone. It was entirely visible, and next to it was a real pen with ink and a ballpoint in case writing was required. A tiny, hidden wire ran from Pryor's shirt pocket to the left front pocket of his slacks, where he kept his cell phone.
Two hundred miles away, Robbie was listening. He was in his office with the door locked, alone, on a speakerphone that also recorded everything.
'You ever see him play football?' Joey asked.
'No,' Pryor answered. Their voices were clear.
'He was something. He roamed the field like Lawrence Taylor. Fast, fearless, he could wreck an offense all by himself. We won ten games when we were sophomores and juniors, but we could never beat Marshall.'
'Why didn't the bigger schools recruit him?' Pryor asked. Keep him talking, Robbie said to himself.
'Size. He stopped growing in the tenth grade, and he could never get his weight above 220. That's not big enough for the Longhorns.'
'You should see him now,' Pryor said without missing a beat. 'He weighs about 150, gaunt and skinny, shaves his head, and he's locked up in a tiny cell twenty-three hours a day. I think he's lost his marbles.'
'He wrote me a couple of letters, did you know that?'
'No.'
Robbie leaned closer to the speakerphone. He'd never heard this.
'Not long after he was sent away, when I was still living in Slone, he wrote to me. Two, maybe three letters. Long ones. He went on about death row and how awful it is-the food, the noise, the heat, the isolation, and so on. He swore he never touched Nikki, never got involved with her. He swore he was nowhere near the mall when she disappeared. He begged me to tell the truth, to help him win his appeal and get out of prison. I never wrote him back.'
'You still have the letters?' Pryor asked.
