'I'm guilty of something, Simon. I did it, plain and simple. My lawyer thinks that I may one day find it necessary to plead guilty to some vague obstruction of justice charge. No jail. Small fine. Record to be expunged later. There.'
The Monk ate the last of his croissant with one savage bite and chewed on matters for a while. He washed it down with a slug of coffee. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and, when everything was properly cleared, said, 'Assume you plead guilty to something, Keith, what would you expect from the church?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'I had two choices, Simon. Play it safe, stay in Kansas, and hope for the best. Or I could do what I did. Imagine for a moment, Simon, if I had done otherwise, if I had known the truth about who killed the girl and I had been too timid to move. They execute the wrong man, they find the body, and for the rest of my life I carry the guilt of not trying to intervene. What would you have done, Simon?'
'We admire you, Keith, honestly,' the Monk replied softly, completely ducking the question. 'What concerns us, though, is the prospect of a prosecution, one of our ministers accused of a crime, and in a very public way.'
The Monk often used the word 'us' when driving home a point, as if all the important leaders in the Christian world were focused on whatever pressing matter the Monk had on his agenda.
'And if I plead guilty?' Keith asked.
'That should be avoided, if at all possible.'
'And if I'm forced to?'
The Monk shifted his sizable frame, yanked on the sagging lobe of his left ear, then re-clasped his hands, as if ready to pray. 'Our synodical policies would require the initiating of a disciplinary procedure. Any criminal conviction would mandate this, Keith, I'm sure you understand. We can't have our ministers going to court with their lawyers, standing before judges, pleading guilty, getting sentenced, with the media stumbling all over themselves. Especially in a case like this. Think about the church, Keith.'
'How would I be punished?'
'It's all premature, Keith. Let's worry about it later. I just wanted to have the first conversation, that's all.'
'I want to get this straight, Simon. I stand a very good chance of being disciplined, whether suspended, placed on leave, perhaps defrocked, for doing something that you deem admirable and the church is very proud of. Right?'
'Right, Keith, but let's not jump the gun here. If you can avoid prosecution, the problem is averted.'
'Happily ever after.'
'Something like that. Just keep us in the loop. We prefer to hear the news from you, not the newspaper.'
Keith nodded, his mind already drifting away. – Classes resumed without incident Thursday morning at the high school. When the students arrived, they were greeted by the football team, again wearing their home jerseys. The coaches and cheerleaders were there too, at the main entrance, smiling and shaking hands and trying to set a mood of reconciliation. Inside, in the lobby, Roberta, Cedric, Marvin, and Andrea chatted with the students and teachers. – Nicole Yarber was buried in a private ceremony at 4:00 on Thursday afternoon, almost exactly one week after the execution of Donte Drumm. There was no formal funeral or memorial service; Reeva simply wasn't up to it. She was advised by two close friends that a large, showy service would not be well attended, unless reporters were allowed. Besides, the First Baptist Church had no sanctuary, and the thought of borrowing one from a rival denomination was not appealing.
A strong police presence kept the cameras far away. Reeva was sick of those people. For the first time in nine years, she ran from publicity. She and Wallis invited close to a hundred family members and friends, and virtually all showed up. There were a few prominent no-shows. Nicole's father was excluded because he had not bothered to witness the execution, though, as Reeva was forced to admit to herself in hindsight, she wished that she had not witnessed it either. Things had become quite complicated in Reeva's world, and not inviting Cliff Yarber seemed appropriate at that moment. She would regret it later. She would not regret excluding Drew Kerber and Paul Koffee, two men she now loathed. They had misled her, betrayed her, and wounded her so deeply that she would never recover.
As the architects of the wrongful conviction, Kerber and Koffee had a list of victims that was growing steadily. Reeva and her family had been added.
Brother Ronnie, who was as weary of Reeva as he was of the media, presided with a subdued dignity that fitted the occasion. He spoke and read scripture, and as he did so, he noticed the perplexed and stunned faces of those in attendance. All were white, and all had been convinced beyond any doubt that the remains in the bronze coffin before them had been swept away by the Red River years earlier. If any had ever felt the slightest sympathy for Donte Drumm and his family, they had kept it from their pastor. They had relished the thought of retribution and execution, as had he. Brother Ronnie was trying to make peace with God and find forgiveness. He wondered how many of those present were doing the same. However, he did not wish to offend anyone, especially Reeva, so his message was on the lighter side. He had never known Nicole, but he managed to recount her life with stories shared by her friends. He assured everyone that Nicole had been with her Father in heaven all these years. In heaven, there is no sorrow, so she was oblivious to the suffering of the loved ones she left behind.
A hymn, a solo, another reading of scripture, and the service ended in less than an hour. Nicole Yarber finally received a proper burial. – Paul Koffee waited until after dark to slip into his office. He typed a terse letter of resignation and e-mailed it to Judge Henry, with a copy to the clerk of the court. He typed a slightly longer explanation to his staff and e-mailed it without bothering to check for typos. He hurriedly dumped the contents of his center desk drawer into a box, then grabbed whatever valuables he could carry. An hour later, he walked out of his office for the last time.
His car was packed and he was headed west, a long road trip with Alaska as the likely destination. He had no itinerary, no real plans, no desire to return to Slone in the near future. Ideally, he would never return, but with Flak breathing fire down his neck he knew that was not possible. He would be dragged back for all manner of abuse-an arduous deposition that would go on for days, a likely date with a disciplinary committee from the state bar, perhaps a punishing ordeal with federal investigators. His future would not be pretty. He was fairly certain he would not face the prospect of jail, but he also knew he could not survive financially and professionally.
Paul Koffee was ruined, and he knew it.
CHAPTER 42
Every store in the mall closed at 9:00 p.m., and by 9:15 Lilly Reed had turned off the registers, punched the time clock, engaged the alarm system, and locked both doors of the ladies' boutique where she worked as an assistant manager. She left the mall through a service door and walked quickly to her car, a VW Beetle, which was parked in an area designated for employees. She was in a hurry, her boyfriend was waiting at a sports bar half a mile away. As she was opening the door to her car, she felt something move behind her and heard a footstep. Then a strange male voice said, 'Hey, Lilly.' In a split second, Lilly knew she was in trouble. She turned, got a glimpse of the black handgun, saw a face she would never forget, and tried to scream. With astonishing speed, he slapped a hand over her mouth, said, 'Get in the car,' and shoved her inside. He slammed the driver's door, slapped her hard across the face, then stuck the gun barrel in her left ear. 'Not a sound,' he hissed. 'And get your head down.' Almost too horrified to move, she did as she was told. He started the engine.
Enrico Munez had been napping on and off for half an hour as he waited for his wife to finish her shift at a family restaurant in the mall's food court. He was parked between two other cars in a row of empty vehicles. He was still half-asleep, and he was sitting low in the seat when he saw the attack. The man seemed to appear from nowhere and knew what he was doing. He displayed the gun, but didn't wave it around. He overwhelmed the girl, who was too stunned to react. As soon as the Beetle lurched forward, with the attacker at the wheel, Enrico reacted instinctively. He started the engine of his pickup truck, lunged into reverse, backed up, then sped forward. He caught the Beetle as it was turning at the end of the row and, understanding the gravity of the situation, did not hesitate to crash into it. He managed to avoid the passenger door, where the girl was, and plowed into the right front tire. Immediately upon impact, Enrico thought about the pistol and realized he had left his at home. He reached under his seat, grabbed a sawed-off baseball bat he kept just in case, jumped across the top of the
