1987
The first episode of Thirtysomething played on my television while I sat waiting for my cherry red nail polish to dry. Doug wouldn’t be home for another hour. His Tuesday nights were spent in class followed by a beer with his cohort. I didn’t mind. He studied tirelessly and I enjoyed the time home alone. As Doug pursued his Ph.D. in English – receiving a full-ride and a small research stipend – I was the main breadwinner. I’d landed a job by late August after graduation and only two years into it, I was managing the pre-press department at a large printing company near Hartford. A quiet night alone, painting my nails, sipping a glass of wine and watching TV was just what I needed after a fast-paced day in the office.
We celebrated our second anniversary last week and I couldn’t be happier. My parents love Doug. Even though he’s not Catholic, he and his family went along with all of the rigmarole required to marry in the Church. My parents graciously threw a lovely wedding for us without blinking an eye at the bottom line. I wore a conservative gown and very little makeup to please them and a red lace thong to please myself – and my new husband.
Settled into our sweet life, our days melded together one after the other. And, much to my relief, there was no need to lie to anyone about anything anymore. Adulthood and marriage had set me free from the chains of my parents’ fears. I no longer needed to deceive and it felt good. Mostly. There was that one thing still hanging over my head. Nagging at my conscience. Preventing me from restful sleep.
An innocent man was still on death row. All of his appeals had failed and his execution date was set for next month. I know all of this because after I sent the anonymous letter to Peter Smith, Johnson’s public defender, I began closely following the case. For the past five years, I’d pored over articles looking for evidence that Smith had received my letter and was using the information to exonerate Johnson. One appeal mentioned how unlikely it would have been for Johnson to overtake the athletic Fullmer as he ran for home; but this alone was not enough to overturn the guilty verdict or the death sentence. Furthermore, nothing was ever mentioned about the fingerprint placement on the weapon so my speculation about that must have been wrong. During interviews with various journalists, Johnson continued to proclaim his innocence.
I don’t think about it everyday. In fact, I hadn’t thought about it for almost a month. And, frankly, I’d rather not be thinking about it right now. But I am and here’s why.
Two days ago I was preparing a chicken and broccoli casserole for dinner when Doug burst through the front door to our townhouse eager to tell me about a story he heard on his drive home from school.
“Remember that case you were researching when we were in college – the Raymond Johnson case?” He asked, slightly breathless.
I didn’t turn around to look at him. Instead I tightened my grip on the wooden spoon I was using to mix the casserole and continued stirring. “Sure.” I replied nonchalantly. “What about it?”
“I just heard on NPR, he’s going to be executed next month.” He said. “I can’t believe it’s been 10 years since he killed those guys. What a fucked up system.” My husband ranted.
He did that sometimes. Still an idealist. A humanities guy. My Doug, immersed in academe, immune to the realities of the world. He had spoken against the death penalty on more than one occasion. Sitting around late at night with his buddies pontificating and solving the problems caused by the human condition, “If only we were in charge…”
“—Tess, did you hear me?” I guess I’d stopped listening. “Hon, I think the casserole is mixed. You can stop stirring.” He walked up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist and asked, “Where did you go just now?”
“Oh sorry, I was just thinking about whether I added the garlic powder to the mix.” Then, turning to face him, I wrapped my arms around his neck, leaned in, nibbled at his ear and whispered, “We have half an hour while this bakes. Let’s go upstairs.”
Yes. My husband Doug was an idealist. And, he was still curious about my interest in the Johnson case. And, he still didn’t know the truth. And, he was still only 24 years old. And, I still knew exactly how to distract him.
I know what you’re thinking.
DO SOMETHING!
TELL SOMEONE!
STOP WORRYING ABOUT YOUR NAIL POLISH AND GROW A CONSCIENCE!
Am I close?
The credits rolled over the screen, my wine glass was empty and my nails were dry. I turned off the TV, carefully deposited my wine glass into the dishwasher, and made my way upstairs to my bedroom. Sliding the closet door open, I reached to the far back corner for a rectangular memory box. I carried the floral print box over to my bed, propped my pillows and snuggled in. I looked over at the digital alarm clock on Doug’s side of the bed. 11:05 p.m. Doug would be home by 11:30.
Removing the lid, I pulled out the latest article I’d clipped on the Johnson case and read it for the nth time.
The Article: The execution date is set for death row inmate Raymond Johnson. Department of Corrections Secretary John Winters, signed the Notice of Execution setting October 24 for the execution of Raymond Johnson. Johnson was convicted on two counts of first-degree murder on December 18, 1977 and the same jury handed the death penalty December 23, 1977…
I finished reading the article, placed it back into the box and noticed a black smudge of newspaper ink across my freshly painted red thumbnail . Damnit.
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