Free The Confession by John Grisham Page B

tech crew managed to successfully hide a tiny camera in the frame of a pair of eyeglasses worn by the father of a young boy who was murdered in Alabama. For the first time, the world saw an execution, and Sean Fordyce owned the footage. He played it and played it and, with each showing, commented on how simple it was, how peaceful and painless and much too easy for such a violent killer.
    He was indicted in Alabama, sued by the dead man’s family, and threatened with death and censure, but he survived it. The charges didn’t stick—they couldn’t nail down a specific crime. The lawsuit was thrown out. Three years after the stunt, he was not only standing but standing at the top of the cable garbage heap. Now he was in Slone, preparing for another episode. Rumor was that he’d paid Reeva $50,000 for the exclusive.
    “Please reconsider, Reeva,” Koffee said.
    “No, Paul. The answer is no. I’m doing it for Nicole, for my family, and for the other victims out there. The world needs to see what this monster has done to us.”
    “What’s the benefit?” Koffee said. Both he and Kerber had ignored phone calls from Fordyce’s production team.
    “Maybe the laws can be changed.”
    “But the laws are working here, Reeva. Sure, it’s taken longer than we wanted, but in the scheme of things nine years is not bad.”
    “Oh my God, Paul, I can’t believe you just said that. You haven’t lived our nightmare for the past nine years.”
    “No, I haven’t, and I don’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through. But the nightmare won’t end Thursday night.” And it certainly would not, not if Reeva had anything to do with it.
    “You have no idea, Paul. I can’t believe this. The answer is no. No, no, no. I’m doing the interview and the show will run. The world will see what it’s like.”
    They had not expected to be successful, so they were not surprised.When Reeva Pike made up her mind, the conversation was over. They shifted gears.
    “So be it,” Koffee said. “Do you and Wallis feel safe?”
    She smiled, and almost chuckled. “Of course, Paul. We got a houseful of guns and the neighbors are on high alert. Every car that comes down this street is watched through rifle scopes. We are not expecting trouble.”
    “There were phone calls at the station today,” Kerber said. “The usual anonymous stuff, vague threats about this and that if the boy is executed.”
    “I’m sure you guys can deal with it,” she said with no concern whatsoever. After waging such a relentless war of her own, Reeva had forgotten how to be afraid.
    “I think we should have a patrol car parked outside for the rest of the week,” Kerber said.
    “Do as you wish. It doesn’t matter to me. If the blacks start trouble, they won’t do it over here. Don’t they normally burn their own buildings first?”
    Both men shrugged. They’d had no experience with riots. Slone had an unremarkable history with race relations. What little they knew had been learned from the television news. Yes, it did seem as if the riots were confined to the ghettos.
    They talked about this for a few minutes, then it was time to leave. They hugged again at the front door and promised to see each other after the execution. What a great moment it would be. The end of the ordeal. Justice at last.
    ———
    Robbie Flak parked at the curb in front of the Drumm home and braced himself for another meeting.
    “How many times have you been here?” his passenger asked.
    “I don’t know. Dozens and dozens.” He opened the door, climbed out, and she did the same.
    Her name was Martha Handler. She was an investigative journalist, a freelancer who worked for no one but was paid occasionally by the big magazines. She had first visited Slone two years earlier when the Paul Koffee scandal broke and after that had developed a fascination with the Drumm case. She and Robbie had spent hours together, professionally, and things might have degenerated from there, but