Gill Newton had been the governor of Texas for five years, and though polls showed an enviable level of approval among the electorate, the polls were dwarfed by his own estimation of his popularity. He was from Laredo, far down in South Texas, where he'd been raised on a ranch that had been owned by his grandfather, who'd once been a sheriff. Gill had scratched his way through college and law school, and when no firm would hire him, he became an assistant prosecutor in El Paso. At the age of twenty-nine, he was elected district attorney in the first of many successful campaigns. He had never lost one. By the age of forty, he'd sent five men to death row. As governor, he'd watched two of them die, explaining that it was his duty since he'd prosecuted them. Though records were sketchy, it was widely believed that Newton was the only sitting governor of Texas to witness an execution. This was certainly true for the modern era. In interviews, he claimed that watching the men die had given him a sense of closure. "I remember the victims," he said. "I kept thinking about the victims. These were horrible crimes."

Newton seldom passed on a chance to be interviewed.

Brash, loud, vulgar (in private), he was wildly popular because of his antigovernment rhetoric, his unwavering beliefs, his outrageous comments that he never apologized for, and his love of Texas and its history of fierce independence. The vast majority of voters also shared his fondness for the death penalty.

With his second and final term secured, Newton was already gazing across the borders of Texas and contemplating a larger stage, something bigger. He was needed.

Late Wednesday afternoon he met with his two closest advisers, two old friends from law school who had helped with every major decision and most of the minor ones as well. Wayne Wallcott was the lawyer, or chief counsel, as his letterhead proclaimed, and Barry Ringfield was the mouthpiece, or director of communications. On a routine day in Austin, the three met in the governor's office at precisely 5:15 p.m. They took off their coats, dismissed the secretaries, locked the door, and at 5:30 p.m. poured the bourbon. Then they got down to business.

"This Drumm thing could get messy tomorrow," Barry was saying. "Blacks are pissed, and they got demonstrations scheduled all over the state tomorrow."

"Where?" the governor asked.

"Well, here, for starters. On the south lawn of the Capitol. Rumor has it that the Right Reverend Jeremiah Mays is flying in on his fancy jet to get the natives good and agitated."

"I love it," the governor said.

"The request for a reprieve has been filed and is on record," Wayne said, looking at some paperwork. He took a sip. The bourbon, Knob Creek, was poured each time into a heavy crystal Waterford glass with the state's seal on it.

"Definitely more interest in this one," Barry said. "Lots of calls, letters, e-mails."

"Who's calling?" Newton asked.

"The usual chorus. The Pope. President of France. Two members of the Dutch parliament. Prime minister of Kenya, Jimmy Carter, Amnesty International, that loudmouth from California who runs the Black Caucus in Washington. Lots of folks."

"Anybody important?"

"Not really. The circuit judge in Chester County, Elias Henry, has called twice and sent an e-mail. He's in favor of a reprieve, says he has grave doubts about the jury's verdict. Most of the noise from Slone, though, is gung ho in favor of the execution. They think the boy's guilty. The mayor called and expressed some concerns about trouble in Slone tomorrow night, says he might be calling for help."

"The National Guard?" Newton asked.

"I suppose so."

"I love it."

All three took a sip. The governor looked at Barry, who was not only his mouthpiece but also his most trusted, and most devious, adviser. "You got a plan?"

Barry always had a plan. "Sure, but it's a work in progress. I like the demonstration tomorrow, hopefully with Reverend Jeremiah stoking the fires. Big crowd. Tons of Africans. A real tense situation. And you take the podium, stare down the crowd, talk about the orderly flow of justice in this state, the usual spiel, then, right out there on the steps, with cameras rolling and the crowd booing and hissing and maybe throwing rocks at you, right then and there, you deny the request for a reprieve. The crowd erupts, you make your escape. It'll take some balls, but it's priceless."

"Wow," Newton said.

Wayne actually laughed.

Barry continued. "Three hours later they nuke him, but the front page will be taking on the mob of angry blacks. For the record, you got 4 percent of the black vote, Governor, 4 percent." A pause, a sip, but he wasn't finished. "I like the National Guard angle too. Later in the afternoon, but before the execution, hold a quick press conference and announce that you're sending in the Guard to quell the uprising in Slone."

"The numbers in Chester County?"

"You got 71 percent, Gill. They love you there. You protect them by sending in the Guard."

"But is the Guard necessary?" Wayne asked. "If we overreact, then it could backfire."

"It's fluid. Let's monitor the situation and decide later."

"Let's do that," the governor said, and the decision was made. "Any chance of some court issuing a last-minute stay?"

Wayne tossed some papers on the governor's desk and said, "I doubt it. Drumm's lawyers filed an appeal this morning claiming the boy's gone crazy and doesn't appreciate the gravity of what's coming. It's bullshit. I talked to Baker at the AG's office an hour ago, and they see nothing in the pipeline. It's all green lights."

"Should be fun," the governor said.

At Reeva's suggestion, or insistence, the Wednesday night prayer meeting at the First Baptist Church was canceled. This had happened only three times in the history of the church, once for an ice storm, once for a tornado, and once for a power outage. Brother Ronnie could not bring himself to use the word "canceled," so the prayer meeting was simply reclassified as a "prayer vigil" and was "moved" to another location. The weather cooperated. The sky was clear, and the temperature was almost seventy degrees.

They met at sunset, under a reserved pavilion at Rush Point State Park, on the edge of the Red River, as close to Nicole as they could possibly get. The pavilion was on a small bluff, with the river below, and about a hundred yards away was the sandbar that came and went with the level of water. Her gym card and student ID had been found there. In the minds of those who loved her, this had long been the spot of Nicole's final resting place.

During her many visits to Rush Point, Reeva had always ............