The Confession (27 page)

In 2000, soon after Donté arrived on death row, the inmates were moved from Huntsville to Polunsky. The inmates were moved; the death chamber was not. For seven years and two hundred executions, it had been necessary to haul the condemned men from Polunsky to Huntsville. Elaborate movements were planned and used, but after a few dozen transfers, with no ambushes, no heroic efforts to rescue the condemned, without a hitch of any kind, the authorities realized that no one was watching. No one really cared. The elaborate plans were discarded, and the same route was used with every transfer. They left the prison at 1:00 p.m., turned left on 350, turned left again on 190, a four-lane road with plenty of traffic, and an hour later the trip was over.

Inmates were placed in the rear of an unmarked passenger van, surrounded by enough muscle and weaponry to protect the president, and escorted, for good measure, by an identical van filled with another squad of bored guards hoping for a little excitement.

The last execution had been on September 25, when Michael Richard was injected. Ten students, all members of Operation Detour, used five vehicles and plenty of cell phones to track the movements of the two white vans from Polunsky to Huntsville. The students were not detected. No one suspected them. No one was looking for them. By early November, their plan was complete, and their operatives were itching for trouble.

At 12:50 p.m., a guard, a black one sympathetic to Donté, tipped off a member of Detour. The two white vans were being loaded; the transfer had begun. At 1:00 p.m., the vans left the prison for a service road near the maximum security unit. They turned onto Route 350 and headed for Livingston. There was little traffic. Two miles from the prison, the traffic increased, became heavy, then stopped completely. Ahead of the vans, a car had stalled in the right lane. Oddly, one had stalled in the left lane, and another on the shoulder. The three cars blocked any passage. Their drivers were out checking under their hoods. Then, behind the three cars, there were three more, all stalled in a neat line across the road. The vans did not move, and seemed to be in no hurry. Behind them, in the right lane, another car came to a stop. Its driver, a young
black woman, popped the hood, got out, feigned exasperation because her Nissan had quit on her. A Volkswagen Beetle pulled beside her in the left lane, suffered a mechanical failure on cue, and the hood went up. More vehicles materialized from nowhere and bunched together behind the first wave, thoroughly blocking the road, its shoulders, and all exits and entrances to it. Within five minutes, a traffic jam of at least twenty vehicles had occurred. The white vans were surrounded by disabled cars and SUVs, all with their hoods up, the drivers loitering about, talking, laughing, chatting on cell phones. Several of the male students went from car to car, disabling each by pulling the wires to the distributor caps.

The state and local police arrived in minutes, dozens of marked cars with sirens screaming. They were followed by a brigade of tow trucks, all of which had been rounded up in Livingston on short notice. Operation Detour had briefed its volunteers well. Each driver was adamant that his or her car had quit, and under Texas law this was not a crime. Citations would certainly be written for blocking traffic, but Detour had found a lawyer who would fight those in court. Officers did not have the right to take keys and check the engines for themselves. And if they tried, the engines were dead. The students had been told to resist searches of their vehicles; to peacefully resist any attempts at being arrested; to threaten legal action in the face of an arrest; and, if arrested, consider it an honor, a badge of courage in the fight against injustice. Detour had other lawyers who would handle their cases. The students relished the thought of being locked up, an act of defiance in their minds. Something they could talk about for years.

As the police cars and wreckers parked haphazardly near the traffic jam, and as the first troopers were approaching the students, the second phase of the plan fell beautifully into place. Another wave of students in cars turned onto Route 350 from Livingston and were soon approaching the melee. They parked three abreast and three deep behind the tow trucks. All hoods popped open, more roadside breakdowns. Since the tow truck drivers were expected to react with anger and maybe violence to being penned in, the second wave of drivers remained in their
cars with the windows up and doors locked. Most cars were full of students, and many were healthy young men who could take care of themselves. They wouldn’t mind a fight. They were angry to begin with.

A tow truck driver approached the first car parked behind him, realized it was full of blacks, and began swearing and making threats. A state trooper yelled at him and told him to shut up. The trooper was Sergeant Inman, and he took charge of a truly unique situation, one that included, so far, eight police cars, seven tow trucks, at least thirty “disabled” vehicles, and two prison vans, one of which was transporting a man to his death. To make matters worse, the locals who routinely used Route 350 were backing up, unaware they had chosen the wrong time to get from one place to another. The road was hopelessly clogged.

Inman was a cool professional, and he knew something the students didn’t. As he walked through the jam, headed for the vans, he nodded politely at the students, smiled, asked if they were having a nice day. At the vans, security details for Donté unloaded, thick men in blue SWAT-style uniforms with automatic weapons. Most of the students made their way close to the vans. One seemed to lead the pack. Inman approached him, extended a hand, and politely said, “I’m Sergeant Inman. May I ask your name?”

“Quincy Mooney.” He reluctantly shook Inman’s hand.

“Mr. Mooney, I’m sorry about your car breaking down.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Inman looked around, smiled at the other students. “All these folks friends of yours?”

“I’ve never seen ’em before.”

Inman smiled. “Look, Mr. Mooney, we need to get these cars off the road. Traffic is backing up. Everything is blocked.”

“Guess we need to call some mechanics.”

“No, we’re just gonna tow ’em, Quincy. Unless, of course, ya’ll would like to save a hundred bucks and drive away. If you chose to do so, then we wouldn’t be forced to write a bunch of tickets. That’s another hundred bucks a car.”

“So, it’s against the law for your car to break down?”

“No, sir, it’s not. But you and I both know why you’re here. The judge will know too.”

“I know why I’m here. Why are you here?”

“I’m doing my job, Quincy. Traffic control and keeping the peace.” Inman nodded his head and said, “Come with me.” Quincy followed him to the first van. Its double side doors were open. Inman looked inside, then invited Quincy to do the same. The van was empty. They walked to the second van. Both looked inside. It, too, was empty. The security guards were snickering. The whirling thump-thump of a helicopter could be heard.

“Where’s Donté Drumm?” Quincy asked, stunned.

“He ain’t here, is he?” Inman asked with a smirk. Quincy stared at the darkened windows of the empty van. They walked back to the front of the first one. Inman looked to the sky, in the direction of Polunsky. Everyone waited and waited, and seconds later a helicopter roared directly over them.

Inman pointed at it and said, “There goes Donté.”

Quincy’s jaw dropped, his shoulders slumped. Word spread through the students, and there were looks of shock and disbelief. A perfect operation had been compromised. Donté Drumm would arrive at the death chamber ahead of schedule.

“Too much Internet chatter,” Inman said. “Here’s the deal, Quincy. You guys have fifteen minutes to clear this road and get outta here. In fifteen minutes, we start writing tickets and towing. And, just so you know, there won’t be any arrests, so don’t provoke us. Got it?”

Quincy walked away, thoroughly defeated.

———

Boyette, after a sandwich and three cups of coffee, was feeling better. He was at the table, lights on, shades opened. Robbie and Keith were staring at him, and no one was smiling. Evidently, the issue of money had been put aside by Boyette, at least for the moment.

“So if I tell you what happened with Nicole, what happens to me?” he asked, looking at Robbie.

“Nothing, at least nothing for a long time. The cops and prosecutors have their man. If he’s killed tonight, then they’ll never consider pursuing someone else. If Donté gets a stay, I’m not sure what they’ll do, but it’ll be a long time before they admit that anybody but Donté killed Nicole. They have far too much invested in their wrongful conviction.”

“So I won’t be arrested today or tomorrow or the next day?”

“I can’t speak for these clowns, Mr. Boyette. I don’t know what they’ll do. As a general rule, the cops here are stupid, and Detective Kerber is a moron. But to arrest you is to admit they were wrong about Donté, and that’s not going to happen. If you walked into the police station right now, swore on a Bible, and gave them every detail of the abduction, rape, and murder, they would dismiss you outright as a lunatic. They’ll have no desire to believe you, Mr. Boyette. Your admission destroys them.”

The tic, the pause. Robbie leaned forward and glared at him. “Time’s up, Mr. Boyette. I want to hear it. Tell me the truth. Did you kill the girl?”

“Yes, just like I’ve told Keith here. I grabbed her, raped her for two days, then choked her and hid the body.”

“Where is the body? Finding the body will stop the execution, I guarantee it. Where is it?”

“In the hills south of Joplin, Missouri. Deep in the hills.”

“Joplin, Missouri, is at least five hours from here.”

“More than that. Nicole and I drove there.”

“So she was alive when you left Texas.”

The tic, the pause, finally, “Yes. I killed her in Missouri. Raped her from here to there.”

“Is it possible to call the authorities in Joplin and tell them how to find the body?”

Boyette managed to laugh at such foolishness. “You think I’m stupid? Why would I bury her where someone could find her? I’m not even sure I can find her after all these years.”

Robbie anticipated this and didn’t miss a beat. “Then we need to take your statement, by video, and quickly.”

“Okay. I’m ready.”

They walked to the conference room, where Carlos was waiting with a camera and a court reporter. Boyette was directed to a chair facing the camera. The court reporter sat to his right, Robbie to his left. Carlos worked the camera. The other members of the firm suddenly materialized—Robbie wanted them as witnesses—and they stood with Keith ten feet away. Boyette looked at them and was suddenly nervous. He felt like a man facing his own, well-attended execution. The court reporter asked him to raise his right hand and swear to tell the truth. He did, and then Robbie began the questioning. Name, place of birth, address, employment, current status as a parolee, and criminal record. He asked if Boyette was giving his statement voluntarily. Nothing had been promised. Was he living in Slone in December 1998? Why? How long?

Robbie’s questions were gentle but efficient. Boyette looked squarely at the camera, no flinching or blinking, and seemed to warm to the task. Oddly, the tic went away.

Tell us about Nicole.

Boyette thought for a second and then launched into his narrative. The football games, the fascination with Nicole, the obsession, the stalking, and finally the abduction outside the mall, not a single witness anywhere. On the floor of his truck, he put a gun to her head and threatened to kill her if she made a sound, then he bound her wrists and ankles with duct tape. He taped her mouth. He drove somewhere into the country, he was not sure where, and after he raped her the first time, he almost dumped her in a ditch, injured but not dead, but wanted to rape her again. They left Slone. The cell phone in her handbag kept ringing and ringing so he finally stopped at a bridge over the Red River. He took her cash, credit card, and driver’s license, then threw the handbag off the bridge. They drifted through southeastern Oklahoma. Just before sunrise, near Fort Smith, he saw a cheap motel he’d stayed in before, alone. He paid cash for a room and, with a gun to her head, got her inside without being seen. He taped her wrists, ankles, and mouth again and told her to go to sleep. He slept a few hours, not sure if she
did. They spent a long day at the motel. He convinced her that if she would cooperate, give him what he wanted, then he would release her. But he already knew the truth. After dark, they moved on, headed north. At daybreak on Sunday, they were south of Joplin, in a heavily wooded, remote area. She begged him, but he killed her anyway. It wasn’t easy, she fought hard, scratched him, drew blood. He stuffed her body in a large toolbox and buried it. No one would ever find her. He drove back to Slone and got drunk.

Robbie was taking notes. The court reporter pressed the keys of her stenotype machine. No one else moved. No one seemed to breathe.

Boyette went silent, his story complete. His detached narration and his command of details were chilling. Martha Handler would later write: “Watching Boyette’s eyes and face as he talked about his crimes left no doubt that we were in the presence of a ruthless killer. The story that we will never know, and perhaps prefer not to know, is the suffering this poor girl endured throughout the ordeal.”

Robbie, calm but also anxious to finish the testimony, pressed on: “Approximately what time on Sunday did you kill her?”

“The sun was barely up. I waited until I could see things, see where I was, and find the best place to hide her.”

“And this was Sunday, December 6, 1998?”

“If you say so. Yes.”

“So sunrise would be around 6:30 a.m.?”

“That sounds about right.”

“And you returned to Slone and went where?”

“I went to my room at the Rebel Motor Inn, after I’d bought a case of beer with the cash I took from Nicole.”

“You got drunk at the Rebel Motor Inn?”

“Yes.”

“How long did you live in Slone after the murder?”

“I don’t know, maybe a month and a half. I was arrested here in January, you got the records. After I got outta jail, I took off.”