'We're giving that some thought,' Koffee said while staring out a window to his left. Eye contact was difficult for Koffee, but not for Judge Henry.
'Perhaps I can help here, Paul. You and I, and the rest of the world at this moment, know full well that such a ridiculous theory is nothing but a sick, lame, desperate attempt to save your ass. Paul, listen to me, your ass cannot be saved. Nothing can save you. And if you trot out this co-defendant theory, you will be laughed out of town. Worse, it will only create more tension. It's not going to fly, Paul. Don't pursue it. Don't file anything, because if you do, I'll dismiss it immediately. Forget about it, Paul. Forget about everything in your office right now.'
'Are you telling me to quit?'
'Yes. Immediately. Your career will end in disgrace; get it over with, Paul. Until you step down, the blacks will be in the streets.'
'Suppose I don't want to resign?'
'I can't make you, but I can make you wish you had. I'm your judge, Paul, I rule on every motion in every case. I preside over every trial. As long as you are the district attorney, your office gets nothing out of me. Don't even file a motion, because I won't consider it. Don't indict anyone; I'll quash the indictments. Don't ask for a trial, because I'm busy that week. Nothing, Paul, nothing. You and your staff will be able to do nothing.'
Koffee was breathing through his mouth, frowning at the judge, trying to digest what he'd just heard. 'That's pretty severe, Judge.'
'If that's what it takes to get you out of office.'
'I could file a complaint.'
Judge Henry laughed. 'I'm eighty-one years old and retiring. I don't care.'
Koffee slowly got to his feet and walked to a window. He spoke with his back to the judge. 'I don't care either, Elias, to be honest. I just want to get outta here, take a break, run away. I'm only fifty-six, still young enough to do something else.' A long pause as Koffee rubbed a pane of glass with a finger. 'God, I can't believe this, Judge. How did this happen?'
'Everybody got careless. Bad police work. When there's no evidence, the easiest way to solve a crime is to get a confession.'
Koffee turned around and took a few steps to the edge of the desk. His eyes were moist, his hands trembled. 'I can't lie, Judge. I feel rotten.'
'I understand. I'm sure I would too, under the circumstances.'
Koffee stared at his feet for a long time. Finally, he said, 'I'll quit, Elias, if that's what it takes. I guess that means a special election.'
'Eventually, but I have a suggestion. When you resign, put Grimshaw in charge, he's the best of your assistants. Call in the grand jury and indict Boyette for the crime. The faster, the better. It's a wonderfully symbolic act-we, the judicial system, in effect admit our mistake, and we are now trying to rectify it by prosecuting the real killer. Our admission will do much to soothe feelings in Slone.'
Koffee nodded and shook the judge's hand. – Keith's office at St. Mark's received numerous calls throughout the day. Charlotte Junger fielded them all, explaining that the reverend was unavailable for comment. Keith finally arrived, late in the afternoon. He had been hiding at the hospital all day, visiting the sick, far away from phones and nosy reporters.
At his request, Charlotte had kept a log of all callers, and Keith studied it in his office, door locked, phone unplugged. The reporters were from everywhere, from San Diego to Boston, Miami to Portland. Six of the thirty- nine were from European papers, eleven from Texas. One reporter said he was from Chile, though Charlotte wasn't sure because of the accent. Three members of St. Mark's had called to complain. They did not like the fact that their pastor was accused of violating the law; indeed, he seemed to be admitting it. Two members called to express their admiration and support. The story, though, had not yet made it to the Topeka morning paper. That would happen the next day, and Keith expected the same photo to be splashed all over his hometown.
Luke, the six-year-old, had a soccer game under the lights, and since it was Tuesday, the Schroeder family ate at their favorite pizza place. The boys were in bed by 9:30, Keith and Dana by 10:00. They debated whether to keep the phones silent, but in the end agreed to remove the 'Do Not Disturb' hold and hope for the best. If one reporter called, they would silence the phones. At 11:12, the phone rang. Keith, still awake, grabbed it and said, 'Hello.'
'Pastor, Pastor, how are we?' It was Travis Boyette. In anticipation of this unlikely event, Keith had rigged a small recorder to his phone. He pushed 'Record' and said, 'Hello, Travis,' and Dana came to life. She scrambled out of bed, flipped on a light switch, grabbed her cell phone, and began punching the number of a Detective Lang, a man they had met with twice.
'What are you doing these days?' Keith asked. Just a couple of old friends. Lang had told him to keep Boyette on the line as long as possible.
'Moving around, can't stay in one place too long.' His tongue was thick, his words slow.
'Still in Missouri?'
'Naw, I left Missouri before you did, Pastor. I'm here and there.'
'You forgot your cane, Travis. Left it on the bed. Why did you do that?'
'Don't need it, never did. I exaggerated a little bit, Pastor, please forgive me. I got a tumor, but it's been with me for a long time. Meningioma, not a glioblastoma. Grade one. Benign little fella. It acts up every now and then, but I doubt if it will kill me. The cane was a weapon, Pastor, something I used for self-defense. You live with a bunch of thugs in a halfway house, and you just never know when you might need a weapon.' Country music was in the background; he was probably in a seedy lounge.
'But you had a limp.'
'Well, come on, Pastor, if you're using a cane, you need a little limp, don't you think?'
'I wouldn't know, Travis. You got some folks looking for you.'
'The story of my life. They'll never find me. Just like they never found Nicole. Have they buried her yet, Pastor?'
'No. Her funeral is Thursday. Donte's is tomorrow.'
'I might sneak around and watch Nicole's, whatta you think about that, Pastor?'
Great idea. They would not only catch him but probably beat him. 'I think you should, Travis. You're the reason for the funeral. Seems fitting.'
'How's that cute little wife of yours, Pastor? Bet you guys are having fun. She's so fine.'
'Knock it off, Travis.' Keep him on the line. 'You thought much about Donte Drumm?'
'Not really. We should've known those people down there wouldn't listen to us.'
'They would have, Travis, if you had come forward earlier. If we had found the body first, the execution would not have happened.'
'Still blaming me, huh?'
'Who else, Travis? I guess you're still the victim, right?'
'I don't know what I am. Tell you what, though, Pastor. I gotta find a woman, know what I mean?'
'Listen to me, Travis. Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you and bring you back to Topeka. I'll leave right now. We'll do another road trip, just the two of us. I don't care where you are. You'll be locked up here, and then they'll extradite you to Missouri. Do what's right for once, Travis, and nobody else will get hurt. Let's do it, pal.'
'I don't like prison, Pastor. I've seen enough to know.'
'But you're tired of hurting people, Travis. I know you are. You told me so.'
'I guess. I gotta go, Pastor.'
'Call me anytime, Travis. I'm not tracing these calls. I just want to talk to you.'
The phone line was dead.
An hour later, Detective Lang was at the house, listening to the recording. They had been able to trace the call to the owner of a stolen cell phone in Lincoln, Nebraska.
CHAPTER 40
