I’m at Cat Socrates @ Bras Basah Complex, enjoying an otherwise boring afternoon at home. I’ve already had two cups of Earl Grey Latte + more sugar, and I’m relishing in it.
I’ve just finished reading this book, and I kinda thought I’d write something about it :)
My thoughts on John Grisham – The Confession
I understand that it’s been a really long time since I last wrote a blog entry; but I guess I should follow Yu Jie’s advice – to only write when I feel like :) I mean, that is the idea of a blog, isn’t it?
Anyways, John Grisham prompted me to write a blog entry detailing my thoughts on this book. The last book I read from his repertoire – The Cilent – was pretty good, and to me, The Confession did do the author some justice, pun intended, in showcasing his ability to grip his readers in one way or another. I for one found myself unable to unglue myself from the pages many times, the most notable being at the bicycle stand. Normally, I would simply have closed any other book, placed it in my bag and then proceed to unlock my bicycle from its day-long prison before cycling off back home. However, this book made me want to finish the chapter I was reading on the way home from camp and – with some level of frustration and impatience as to how the story would proceed further – put it in my bag and then cycle off home.
This book had me wanting to turn the page more, and in the process, stopping myself from involuntarily falling asleep from fatigue in the middle of a chapter. I was particularly gripped, not just by Travis Boyette’s sloppy drive to confess his mistake to Keith Schroeder (a Lutheran minister) – but moreso at how Donté Drumm suffered in the midst of innocent, un-guilty incarceration. In jail (pages 117 – 121 were quite poignant for those of you who have the book), on death row – and eventually facing the lethal injection when he was so obviously innocent.
There was a cliché albeit particularly gripping moment – the first time Rev. Keith met with the innocently convicted Donté Drumm a few moments before he was killed by the state:
(From pages 282 – 283)
‘I know the legend of Darrell Clark. His final words were “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” Luke 23, verse 46, the last words of Jesus before he dies on the cross, according to Luke anyway. But you’re missing something here, Keith. Clark killed three people, execution style, and after they convicted him, he never made a serious claim of innocence. He was guilty. I am not. Clark deserved to be punished, not to be killed, but imprisoned for life. Me, I am innocent.’
‘True, but death is death, and in the end nothing else matters except your relationship with God.’
‘So, you’re trying to convince me that I should go running back to God here at the last minute, and just sort of forget the past nine years.’
‘You blame God for the past nine years?’
‘Yes, I do. This is what happened to me, Keith. I was eighteen years old, a longtime Christian, still active in church, but also doing some things that most kids do, nothing bad, but, hell, when you grow up in a house as strict as mine, you’re gonna rebel a little. I was a good student, the football thing was on hold, but I wasn’t running drugs and beating people. I stayed off the streets. I was looking forward to college. Then, for some reason I guess I’ll never understand, a bolt of lightning hits me square in the forehead. I’m wearing handcuffs. I’m in jail. My picture is on the front page. I’m declared guilty long before the trial. My fate is determined by twelve white people, half of them were good, solid Baptists. The prosecutor was a Methodist, the judge was Presbyterian, or at least their names were on church rolls somewhere. They were also (literally) screwing each other, but I guess we all have a weakness for the flesh. Most of us anyway. Screwing each other, yet pretending to give me a fair trial. The jury was a bunch of rednecks. I remember sitting in the courtroom, looking at their faces as they condemned me to death – hard, unforgiving Christian faces – and thinking to myself, “We don’t worship the same God.” And we don’t. How can God allow His people to kill so often? Answer that, please.’
‘God’s people are often wrong, Donté, but God is never wrong. You can’t blame Him.’
The fight left him (Keith). The weight of the moment returned. Donté leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and hung his head. ‘I was a faithful servant, Keith, and look what I get.”
Alright alright, try not to convict me too badly of pushing this blog entry for length. As I read more and more of Donté’s struggles in incarceration, I couldn’t help but feel sheer and utter injustice for him. Tortured into giving a confession and with no one in this self-righteous (albeit somewhat warped) legal system of Texas to give him a chance, I literally watched it in my head as a poor, innocent man was executed “lawfully” and by the state. It made me wonder – fictitious though this book may be – why God allows suffering and the incarceration of innocents; and then there’s this other ethereal, wicked celestial entity called the devil. Bargh. But I’m not really here to talk about my own views :p Pardon me for that off-track outburst.
When I came to realize that Donté was to die anyway – and I as I read his execution by lethal injection feeling a blend of injustice and frustration with the book – I actually marveled at how John Grisham allowed him to die.
In the middle of the book, after reading through the moment of Donté’s execution, I remember promising myself that the only way the story could save itself was that the masterminds behind Donté’s wrongful conviction – the detective Drew Kerber and the District Attorney Paul Koffee – should be imprisoned or somehow banished from their careers. I also hoped that the governor and his two minions (of whom the latter quietly kept the confession video from the former) would have been punished.
As expected, I got my deserved wish, although the governor and his cronies escaped by virtue of standing. The book concluded with the (damnably recalcitrant) killer, Travis Boyette, getting caught trying to rape and silence another girl. As if wrongfully convicting Donté for HIS crime of sexually assaulting and killing Nicole Yarber weren’t enough!
Amidst the judgmental Christian masses who supported Donté’s execution or the unwavering spirit of Robbie Flak (Donté’s defence lawyer) – the biggest takeaway for me from this book was, ironically, the funeral of Donté Drumm.
I watched it all in my head, Roberta Drumm cradling the body of her dead son and giving him his final rites before his burial, as well as the scene at his funeral. I imagined people there weeping and crying for the death of an innocent, good young man. I heard the cries of the masses, wailing for solitude from anguish and pain at having lost Donté. I dramaticized the experience further by reflecting upon a funeral that I’d been to earlier this year – and it touched a heartstring there and then.
I remember watching the faces of anguished family members, as well as the family of the deceased trying hard to stay strong for their guests. I saw people trying to keep themselves busy so that anguish couldn’t touch them as much. I watched the eyes of the girls who managed to suppress their sadness until the cremation. Last but certainly not least, I remember feeling an intense but hidden pain as I was at the side of my close friend who tried to reconcile his emotions with God. He succeeded, and I remember feeling both bemused and thankful to God at the same time.
I also came to realize that – no matter what others say about “understanding how you feel” and all that cliché but necessary fluff – no one, absolutely no one can fully comprehend the emotions of the family closest to the deceased. We can only watch, and pray to ourselves that we are of some semblance of support. I’m however, not saying that we are completely unimportant to the family of the deceased at any funeral but, you get what I mean.
*sigh*
Well, my thoughts have grown haphazard from the chatter and movement of other guests on my left – and I’m ending here. Can’t believed I managed to focus myself enough to finish this entry.
The point between rage and serenity? Lol.
‘drew out.
