Donte's first helicopter ride was intended to be his last. Courtesy of the Texas Department of Public Safety, he was moving through the air at ninety miles per hour, three thousand feet above the rolling hills, and he could see nothing below. He was wedged between two guards, thick young men scowling out the windows as if Operation Detour might have a surface-to-air missile or two in its arsenal. Up front were the two pilots, grim-faced boys thrilled with the excitement of their mission. The rocky, noisy ride made Donte nauseous, so he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against hard plastic, and tried to think of something pleasant. He could not.

He practiced his last statement, mouthing the words, though with the racket in the helicopter he could have barked them out and no one would have noticed. He thought of other inmates--some friends, some enemies, almost all guilty, but a few who claimed innocence--and how they faced their deaths.

The ride lasted twenty minutes, and when the helicopter landed at the old rodeo grounds inside Huntsville prison, a small army awaited the prisoner. Donte, laden with chains and shackles, was practically carried by his guards to a van. Minutes later, the van pulled into an alley lined with chain-link fencing covered by a thick windscreen and topped with glistening razor wire. Donte was escorted from the van, through a gate, along a short sidewalk to a small, flat, redbrick building where Texas does its killing.

Inside, he squinted and tried to focus on his new surroundings. There were eight cells to his right, each emptying onto a short hallway. On a table, there were several Bibles, including one in Spanish. A dozen guards milled about, some chatting about the weather as if the weather were important at that moment. Donte was positioned in front of a camera and photographed. The handcuffs were removed, and a technician informed him they would now fingerprint him.

"Why?" Donte asked.

"Routine," came the response. He took a finger and rolled it on the ink pad.

"I don't understand why you need to fingerprint a man before you kill him."

The technician did not respond.

"I get it," Donte said. "You wanna make sure you got the right man, right?"

The technician rolled another finger.

"Well, you got the wrong man this time; I can assure you of that."

When the fingerprinting was over, he was led to the holding cell, one of the eight. The other seven were not used. Donte sat on the edge of the bunk. He noticed how shiny the floors were, how clean the sheets were, how pleasant the temperature. On the other side of the bars, in the hallway, were several prison officials. One stepped to the bars and said, "Donte, I'm Ben Jeter, the warden here at Huntsville."

Donte nodded but did not stand. He stared at the floor.

"Our chaplain is Tommy Powell. He's here and he'll stay here all afternoon."

Without looking up, Donte said, "Don't need a chaplain."

"It's your call. Now listen to me because I want to tell you how things happen around here."

"I think I know what happens."

"Well, I'll tell you anyway."

After a round of speeches, each more strident than the one before, the rally lost some steam. A large mob of blacks packed around the front of the courthouse, and even spilled onto Main Street, which had been closed. When no one else took up the bullhorn, the drum corps came to life, and the crowd followed the music down Main Street, heading west, chanting, waving banners, singing "We Shall Overcome." Trey Glover assumed his role as parade master and maneuvered his SUV in front of the drummers. The rap blasted the downtown shops and cafes where the owners, clerks, and customers stood in the windows and doors. Why were the blacks so upset? The boy confessed. He killed Nicole; he said he did it. An eye for an eye.

There was no trouble, but the town seemed ready to erupt.

When Trey and the drummers came to Sisk Avenue, they turned right, not left. A left turn would have routed the march to the south, the general direction of where it started. A turn to the right meant they were headed into the white section. Still, no one had thrown anything. No threats had been made. A few police cars followed well behind, while others shadowed the march from parallel streets. Two blocks north of Main and they were in the older residential section. The noise brought people to their porches, and what they saw sent them back inside, to their gun cabinets. They also went to their phones to call the mayor and the police chief. Surely, this was disturbing the peace. What are these folks so upset about? The boy confessed. Do something.

Civitan Park was a complex of youth baseball and softball fields on Sisk, five blocks north of Main, and Trey Glover decided they had walked far enough. The drums were put aside, and the march came to an end. It was now a gathering, a volatile mix of youth, anger, and a sense of having nothing better to do for the afternoon and evening. A police captain estimated the crowd at twelve hundred, almost all under the age of thirty. Most of the older blacks had fallen aside and returned home. Cell phones confirmed details, and cars full of more young blacks headed for Civitan Park.

Across town, another crowd of angry blacks watched as the fire crews saved what was left of the Mount Sinai Church of God in Christ. Because of the quick 911 call, and the quick response, the damage was not as extensive as that inflicted on the First Baptist Church, but the sanctuary was fairly gutted. The flames had been extinguished, but the smoke still poured from the windows. With no wind, it too lingered over the town and added another layer of tension.

Reeva's departure for Huntsville was properly recorded. She invited some family and friends over for another gut-wrenching performance, and everybody had a good cry for the cameras. Sean Fordyce was on a jet at that moment, zipping in from Florida, and they would hook up in Huntsville for the pre-execution interview.

With Wallis, her other two children, and Brother Ronnie, there were five in her party, and for a three-hour drive that might be uncomfortable. So Reeva had prevailed upon her pastor to borrow one of the church vans, and even suggested that he do the driving. Brother Ronnie was exhausted, and emotionally spent as well, but he was in no position to argue with Reeva, not at that moment, not on "the most important day of her life." They loaded up and pulled away, Brother Ronnie behind the wheel of a ten-passenger van with "First Baptist Church of Slone, Texas" painted boldly on both sides. Everyone waved at the friends and well-wishers. Everyone waved at the camera.

Reeva was crying before they reached the outskirts of town.

After fifteen minutes in the quiet darkness of Robbie's office, Boyette rallied. He stayed on the sofa, his mind numb from pain, his feet and hands still wobbly. When Keith peeked through the door, Boyette said, "I'm here, Pastor. Still alive."

Keith walked closer and asked, "How you doing, Travis?"

"Much better, Pastor."

"Can I get something for you?"

"Some coffee. It seems to help ease the pain."

Keith left and closed the door. He found Robbie and reported that Boyette was still alive. At the moment, the court reporter was transcribing Boyette's statement. Sammie Thomas and both paralegals, Carlos and Bonnie, were frantically putting together a filing that was already known as "the Boyette petition."

Judge Elias Henry walked into the office, past the recep............