Chapter 1
1987
My parents believe everything that happens is God’s will. When my father was born with bad lungs, it was God’s will. When my mother had four miscarriages, birthed six girls, and no boys, it was God’s will. When my sister was struck and killed by a car while walking home from school, it was God’s will. So you can imagine how irritating it would be for my devout parents that their youngest daughter wasn’t particularly interested in getting on God’s good side. While all of the other little ducklings fell in line, obediently trailing Momma down the center aisle and humbly kneeling in the middle pew, the last of us bristled under the covers refusing to get out of bed. At the wise age of six I was already questioning “If God wants me to go to church, why don’t I want to go?” or “Why does God plan mass so early in the morning?” Since I was only four when God killed my sister Frances, sending the rest of my family into a tailspin, it didn’t occur to me to be particularly angry with Him. I have no memories of that sister. However, as the years passed and my parents become fearful tyrants, barely letting any of us out of their sight, I became increasingly pissed off at Him. I believed in God back then, and if everything else was God’s will, than it followed that it was God’s will for my parents to become fearful tyrants. See the logic? Sophomore year of college during an Introduction to Philosophy class Dr. Edgar Martin introduced me to a God alternative: a theory called Hard Determinism. According to this theory, God has nothing to do with it. I listened and watched as Dr. Martin explained the theory to the class. It was mid-semester and I hadn’t seen him get this excited about any other theories he’d presented. He obviously believed this one was the theory of all theories. Dr. Martin was an atheist! The first one I’d ever met.
The theory of Hard Determinism states: All events in the material world are governed by cause and effect. All human actions are events. Therefore, all human actions are caused. (NOT BY GOD!)
This explained an awful lot. For example, instead of God killing my sister, I could trace a series of events that caused her death. Let me do that for you now. The clock struck 3:10 p.m. causing the nuns to dismiss the children. Two third grade girls, my sister and her friend, walked out of school down the street toward the crossing guard. The rule: if you live on the other side of the street, cross with the guard or don’t cross at all. The main street through town is a busy thoroughfare with the Catholic school on one side and my house, several blocks down on the other. On that particular day, the two girls were involved in an animated conversation about one Mathew Stahl whose antics earlier that day caused Sister Anne Mary to grab him by the shirt collar and toss him into the coat closet. The girls’ dialogue caused my sister Francis to continue walking with her friend on the wrong side of the street. Realizing she’d be in trouble for disregarding the crossing rule, Frances decided to cross the street two blocks before arriving at our house. Waving goodbye to her friend, head turned away from the street, Frances stepped into the path of a 1967 Chevy. My sister didn’t see the car because she was looking the other way. God didn’t kill her at all. She simply walked in front of a Chevy causing the Chevy to kill her. Since the lady driving the Chevy was controlling the car, it follows the lady killed my sister, not God. It was bound to happen. Not because it was God’s will. According to the theory of hard determinism, it was determined to happen simply through a series of material causes. I wrote a paper using my sister’s death as the perfect example demonstrating the theory of Hard Determinism. I got an A. I became Dr. Martin’s favorite student. Cause and effect: writing a paper espousing the merits of Hard Determinism causes professor to like me. Hard determinism became my God alternative. And, it’s how I’m going to explain the story that I really want to tell. Here is the thing I still haven’t been able to resolve. Get this. If everything that happens is God’s will, it doesn’t seem fair to blame anyone for anything. If, for example it had been God’s will for my sister to die, you couldn’t blame her for disobeying the rules and you couldn’t blame the woman driving the Chevy. If it was Hard determinism, you couldn’t blame anyone either. Hard determinism, it seems, takes away culpability just as much as the God theory. If a series of causes produces some effect and decisions are effects, you can’t really blame anyone for their decisions, can you? Anyway, you can decide for yourself after I tell you the whole story.
Chapter 2
1977
First, a quick summary of the domestic landscape. The brace of female ducklings, all grown, flew off to begin independent lives, leaving their youngest sibling (me) to deal with their overly protective parents. The tragic death of sister number five caused an unnatural gap between sisters one through four and sister number six. Thus, number six was now number five, growing up as both the ‘baby of the family’ and practically an only child.
So there I was, turning out not to be an ugly duckling, though it might have been better for Mom and Dad if I had. Their constant fretting that something bad would happen to me or that I would behave badly caused me to become a skilled liar. The less they knew the better. Most of the time, I wasn’t doing anything different than what my friends were doing with their parents’ approval. Some of the time, however, I was up to no good.
By 1977, I was fourteen. I’d already experienced my first cigarette – more than one. I’d already vomited from too much cherry vodka and I’d been to second base with one or two boys. Naturally, I liked boys a lot, as did most of my friends. And liking boys is really what caused this whole mess, so let me get on with it.
I remember the date well because it was in all of the newspapers: August 12, 1977. A few boys I knew decided to camp out in the woods and had invited the clique of popular girls to come hang out with them. As was often the case when other parents didn’t want to fulfill their parental responsibilities, the verdict was left to my parents. If Tess was allowed to go, the others could go too. Since my parents almost always said no, the other parents were off the hook. As a result, none of the girls were permitted to go that night.
Whispering on the telephone with my friend Cathy, we schemed and plotted. The plan: I would sleep over at her house and we would sneak out and walk to the party. My parents granted permission for the sleepover, not for a minute suspicious of our conniving. It never occurred to them we might walk six miles round trip just to see some boys and let them cop a feel for a few sips of beer, but that’s exactly what we had in mind.
Shortly after 11:00 p.m., Cathy’s parents passed out from one too many martinis. Wanting to ensure the backdoor would remain unlocked for our return, I placed a piece of masking tape over the door lock then we slipped out, setting our plan in motion. Dressed in jeans and hooded sweatshirts on a night that was too hot for both, we tiptoed across the pebbled driveway and entered the narrow berm along the river road. Infrequent street lamps lined the eerie highway causing occasional passing drivers to use their blinding high beams. The river on the other side, low from a dry summer, flowed at a lazy pace, in sharp contrast with our rapid gait.
About a mile into the journey, we approached the bowling alley, still buzzing with activity both inside and out in the parking lot. As we approached the well-lit intersection, a patrol car cruised by. The officer focused his attention on the folks leaving the bowling alley giving us a moment to duck behind an 18-wheeler cab parked across the street in the trucking company parking lot.
Crouched behind the truck, wondering if we’d been spotted, we considered abandoning our mission. We’d only been out of the house a little more than 15 minutes so Cathy’s parents were surely still asleep. We wouldn’t get caught if we’d just turn around now. Too bad we didn’t.
Peaking around the side of the truck we spied the taillights of the patrol car as it continued down the street. We’d gone undetected. With renewed bravado, we pressed on.
Finally off the river road, we zigzagged through dark alleys and poorly lit side streets making our way through town. We walked and we walked hardly saying a word to each other, both knowing what would happen if we got caught. Cathy would get a good talking to and I’d be grounded until I was 32.
We reached a section of town unfamiliar to both of us. If our town had a ghetto, this was it. The neighborhood whose streets were lined with rundown duplexes appeared to be sleeping, but just in case anyone was lurking in the shadows we pulled the hoods over our heads and walked arm in arm pretending to be a couple rather than two young vulnerable females. Sweat gathered under my armpits and my shoulder length hair stuck to the back of my neck. Halfway there, we were committed to the plan.
A direct route to the woods would include passing by my house, but I was certain if I came within a few blocks of the place, my parents would sense my presence, so I charted a course to circumvent the area. You might be wondering at this point why we chose to stay at Cathy’s house instead of my own, which was much closer to the party. This is because you don’t fully understand my parents.
The last quarter mile of the journey was the most physically challenging. The hill just before the woods felt like Kilimanjaro. My jeans rubbed at my skinny, damp inner thighs and my feet hurt. We panted as we reached the peak and started back downhill anticipating the merriment ahead.
Finally, we made it to the appointed spot – the street at the edge of the woods where the boys said they would be.
“Pssst Pssst. It’s us. Tess and Cathy.” I called out in a loud whisper. One of the boys whose name I probably shouldn’t mention emerged from the woods. Surprised we’d actually followed through with the crazy plan, he led us back to their camp. Literally – and I’m not exaggerating about this – the minute we were at the camp greeting the other boys, police sirens began blaring in the distance.
We all froze. Cathy and I looked at each other, eyes bulging, hearts racing. We’d been caught. We knew it. Her parents must have awakened, discovered our empty beds and called my parents who called the police. We were dead meat. Shit! Shit! Shit! The boys were thinking the same thing. They wanted us gone just as much as we wanted to be gone.
We retraced our path exactly the way we had come. Up and down the hill. Even faster this time. Once again we circumvented my house, though tempted for a moment to sneak by to see if any lights were on. Then, we started through the ghetto. Almost running now. And that’s when it happened. That’s when we knew we hadn’t been caught.
The previously sleepy neighborhood was ablaze with flashing lights from four police cars converged in the parking lot of the small neighborhood grocery store. I halted abruptly, lifting my arm, blocking Cathy from advancing into the chaos. We looked at each other and I placed my finger over my lips, “Shhh.” Slowly and quietly, on tiptoes we backed up and turned around. Retracing our steps, we turned into an alley paralleling the commotion-filled area. To our right, the houses and trees were flickering silhouettes created by the unsynchronized cruiser lights two blocks over. Residents now awake, emerged onto their back porches, curious about the hubbub. Arm in arm once again, hoods back over our heads, we acted as though we too, were nosy onlookers. All the while making our way out of the ghetto.
We were breathing easier, first because we were sure the sirens were not for us and second because we’d skirted through the chaos without drawing attention to ourselves. We were close to home now with only about a mile to go.
The bowling alley was no longer a flurry of activity, having closed at midnight. Cutting through the empty parking lot, we crossed into the trucking company lot closing in on the same truck that had provided us cover earlier that night. As we approached the 18- wheeler cab, I heard a shuffling sound, stones on sneakers, coming from the other side of the truck. Again, I threw my arm in front of Cathy’s body stopping her from forward motion. We looked at each other, listening intently with knitted eyebrows and expanded chests, holding our breath. Slowly hunching over, I peered under the cab. The space between the tires was empty. Whoever was behind that truck, and I was positive someone was there, must have been crouched behind the tires. I straightened up and looked at Cathy, who appeared ready to vomit.
I had to think fast. It was a stand off. I knew that he knew we were on the other side. But he didn’t know that we were two young girls. And he wasn’t moving. Did he intend to jump us as we passed or was he actually trying to avoid us? I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t seem to matter since we only had one option. I grabbed Cathy’s hand and raised my other hand into a fist. Slowly and deliberately I lifted one finger, than another. One. Two. On three we bolted past the truck and onto the river road.
Several yards beyond the truck, I couldn’t help myself. I turned to see if we were being pursued. That’s when I saw him clear as day. Standing in the place where I’d pictured him moments earlier. Leaning against the large cab tires, illuminated by the streetlight above, he looked relieved. That is, he looked relieved until our eyes locked. For a split second, a flash in time, a frozen moment, I saw him plain as day. And I saw something else too. His shirt was ripped and there were dark stains down the front. Abruptly, I skidded to a halt causing Cathy, who was still gripping my hand, to stumble. She quickly regained her balance, grabbed the corner of my sweatshirt and pulled me back into a sprint. The man didn’t move.
We made it back to Cathy’s driveway at record speed. At least it felt that way. The house remained completely dark. Avoiding the stones covering the driveway, we tiptoed through the grass, and up to the unlocked backdoor. A single floorboard creaked as we crept up the stairs to her bedroom.
Safely in her bed, stripped down to t-shirts, too wound up to sleep I asked, “Did you see him?”
“No.” She replied, “Did you?”
“No.” I lied.
Chapter 3
My parents were in the kitchen, Mom standing over the stove lifting the last batch of peaches from the canner and Dad sitting at the table reading aloud from the daily newspaper. It was Saturday morning, two days after my sleepover. Dad stopped reading mid-sentence when I walked in and sat down beside him. Placing the newspaper on the table, he glanced over at me, his face instantly registering the familiar look of disapproval. “What’s that junk on your fingernails?” He asked quietly. He never yelled. He didn’t have to.
I looked down at my freshly painted pink nails then curled my fingers underneath my palms saying nothing.
“Get it off before you go anywhere and don’t let me see it again.” Then turning toward Mother, he scowled silently blaming her for my impropriety.
I sat quietly eating the Cheerios Mom had poured for me trying to catch a glimpse of the front page. Dad caught on, picked up the newspaper and departed for his bedroom. It was just like them – fretting about all of the bad things that might happen to me, yet never letting me hear or read about the awful events actually happening right in our own town.
Later that morning while I was in the bathroom restoring my fingernails to their pure God-given status, I heard the faint sound of the ringing telephone.
“Tess, Cathy’s on the phone for you.” Mom called up the steps.
I walked into my parent’s bedroom. Dad had gone out to check on his garden by then, and I lifted the receiver. “I’ve got it Mom. Thanks.” I yelled down the stairs, not wanting Cathy to start talking until I heard the click of the other receiver. No click. “Mom, I’ve got it.” I said again.
Cathy waited understanding my cue.
Finally the phone clicked. At least I thought it did, but one cannot be too careful. “Hey Cathy, I’m in the middle of something can I call you back in five minutes?” I asked.
“Sure.”
My strategy: never talk on the telephone when a parent has the potential to quietly listen in.
I tinkered for a minute back in the bathroom, cleaning up the nail polish remover and cotton balls; then I proceeded down to the dining room and dialed Cathy’s number.
“Hello.” Cathy answered.
“It’s me.” I said.
“Did you hear?” She asked.
“No.” I knew what she was referring to. It was certainly all we both thought about for the past two days.
“It’s all over the local news.” Cathy whispered excitedly. “We missed a murder by about half an hour. Freaky, isn’t it?”
“What else do you know about it?” I asked, whispering as well.
“It was a double murder. Sickening actually.” She began recounting what she’d seen on the local television news. Obviously her parents didn’t censor. “This druggie killed two guys in the neighborhood. One of them was the son of that lady who owns the small grocery store where we saw the police cars. You know that cute football player, Freddie Fullmer.” She paused catching her breath.
“When did they catch him?” I asked.
“Right away I guess. They found him crouched behind some garbage cans only a block away.”
Just then Mom walked into the room so I switched topics, “I don’t know if I can go to the pool today. Let me ask.” I said in a normal tone looking questioningly over toward my Mom, knowing she was eavesdropping. Mom nodded her permission.
“Yeah, I can go. I’ll see you at 1 o’clock. OK?”
Chapter 4
August 12, 1978
The daily newspaper was already on the burn pile by the time I woke up and made my way downstairs for breakfast. Mother had decided at 15 I was old enough to make my own breakfast, particularly since I wasn’t out of bed until she had already begun thinking about lunch and dinner. I emptied a carton of 2% milk into my bowl of Cheerios and walked out to the back porch tossing the cardboard container onto the burn stack. That’s when I saw the bold headline: One Year Later: Raymond Johnson Awaits Appeal. My stomach tightened as the haunting photograph of Raymond Johnson jumped off the page. Abruptly, I turned away and hurried back into the kitchen. I took one look at the milk-soaked Cheerios and nearly puked into the bowl. Leaving breakfast on the table, I darted through the living room and up the stairs into my bedroom. Closing the door with a bit too much momentum – damnit, Dad hates that sort of thing – I crawled back into bed, pulled the covers over my head and squeezed my eyes closed. But his face, that ugly, black, druggie, pitiful, innocent face remained on the inside of my eyelids.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen his picture. Despite my parents’ efforts to shield me from this sort of news, they weren’t by my side 24/7. I’d managed to catch a glimpse of him when a commercial for the evening news interrupted “The Love Boat”. During the past year, I’d easily pieced together the story since everybody in town was talking about it.
The story: On August 12, 1977 at approximately 12:05 a.m. 24 year old Raymond Johnson, a known drug dealer and overall drain on society, stabbed and killed James Martin and Fred Fullmer. Martin 27, an African American allegedly owed Johnson money and Johnson got tired of waiting for repayment. As the prosecution presented it, the two men got into a ruckus in the parking lot at the corner grocery store where Johnson repeatedly stabbed Martin. Returning from his girlfriend’s house, 19 year old Fullmer, pulled his car into the parking lot, encountering the two men fighting. He and his mother lived above the store. Fullmer, an all-state football player, home for the summer from college, exited his vehicle and apparently attempted to run into his house to call the police when Johnson ran up behind him and inflicted multiple fatal stab wounds into his back. Both Martin and Fullmer were pronounced dead at the scene. Police quickly found Johnson hidden behind a dumpster in the rear of the parking lot, covered in blood and partially incoherent. Investigators found the murder weapon in the dumpster with Johnson’s prints on the handle.
This was a slam dunk case for the prosecution. The community was calling for justice. Few people seemed worried about the death of Martin, but Fred Fullmer was the town hero. The son of a single, hardworking mother, Fullmer was both an outstanding student and athlete. He and his mother, the minorities in that area of town, were constantly working to clean up the neighborhood and lend a hand to anyone who needed it.
If my sister Frances had been alive, she and Fred would have been classmates and I’m sure they would have been friends – maybe even boyfriend and girlfriend. He was very handsome and popular.
You get the picture. Raymond Johnson was going to pay for his ghastly crimes. Anything short of the death penalty just wouldn’t do.
The problem: Raymond Johnson was innocent. And I was the only one who seemed to know.
Chapter 5
June, 1979
I managed to make it through my first year of high school wearing the clothes my parents provided for me, but I desperately wanted to create my own style. I needed a job. Although all of my sisters had previously spent their summers working at the community pool, I didn’t want the income stream to end in August, so I sought something different. With no car available to me, I had to find employment within walking distance of my house. One of my classmates, Janet, worked at Fullmer’s grocery store and had mentioned that Mrs. Fullmer was looking for more part-time help. A week before the end of the school year, I stopped by the store on my way home. My plan: Get the job first. Convince Mom and Dad to let me work there second.
It wasn’t much of an interview. Mrs. Fullmer knew my family and since I knew Janet, she pretty much asked me when I could start, how many hours I could work and how I would get home after dark.
As it turned out, convincing Mom and Dad was much easier than I’d anticipated. They’d seemed pleased I wanted to work and that I’d taken the initiative to find employment at a location other than the public pool. They said they had a lot of respect for Mrs. Fullmer. Dad even offered to pick me up on those nights when I would have to close the store, eliminating any concern for my safety.
I know what you’re thinking. No way. Why would she do that? Why would she put herself in this situation knowing what she knows?
Two answers: 1. There were no other jobs within walking distance of my house. 2. I was drawn there. You decide which one you like better.
My first day. I arrived at the store 15 minutes early as instructed and was greeted at the cash register by a bustling Mrs. Fullmer. “Good morning Tess, come on back here, I’ve got some paperwork for you to complete and a smock for you to try on.”
I followed Mrs. Fullmer to the back of the store where we entered a cramped closet she called her office. The space, just large enough for a desk and two chairs, was so cluttered that I didn’t immediately notice the framed picture of her son, Freddie, hanging above her desk. But when it did catch my eye, an involuntary gasp escaped me.
She noticed of course. “He was a handsome one, that boy of mine.” She said matter-of-fact. “Did you know my Freddie?” She asked.
“No.” I replied awkwardly. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Fullmer.”
“Rule #1 around here Tess: call me June. Everyone calls me June.” She instructed. “And, thank you. My Freddie was a good boy. He’s in a good place now.” Then, handing me a W-4 form, she was back in business mode, “You’ll have to fill this out and return it to me tomorrow.”
As I reached out for the form June noticed my trembling hands. “Oh my, honey, don’t be nervous. We have a lot of fun here. Janet’s coming in this morning and she’ll show you the ropes. You’re a smart girl, so I’m sure you’ll catch on quickly.” She said reassuring me – utterly unaware of the true cause of my jitters.
“Mrs. Fullmer – June, I – –“ I began, but was interrupted by the tinkling of bells. Janet had just come through the front door and was making her way back to June’s office. What was I going to say anyway, I wondered later.
Chapter 6
October 1982
Autumn Saturdays on campus were all about football. As an eager freshman, I’d attended all home games with the girls from my dorm. By sophomore year, 1982, I was over the thrill and spent many weekends either in the library or commuting back home to work at the grocery store. I’d grown very fond of Mrs. Fullmer – June – and Janet. Janet, because she was so grounded and confident, knowing exactly what she wanted out of life and Mrs. Fullmer because of her unwavering strength.
With midterms approaching June encouraged me to stay on campus and study. Thus, on one chilly fall afternoon, while the cheers roared from the stadium, I found myself among the microfiche cabinets searching for newspaper articles about the Raymond Johnson murder trial.
It was the first time I actually had the nerve to investigate the case. I wanted to read about how the prosecution gained a conviction. Unfortunately I didn’t know how to use microfiche so I approached the student sitting at the help desk. The makeshift nameplate propped in front of him, a piece of yellow legal paper ripped, folded and inserted into a plastic nameplate indicated the attendant’s name was Doug.
Engrossed in Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged,” Doug didn’t look up at first. I coughed attempting to get his attention, but he still didn’t lift his eyes from the page. Instead, he raised an index finger indicating I’d have to wait until he finished reading. Then, taking his good old time, he flipped the book over to hold its place, looked up and said, “What can I help you with?”
I flashed him the same flirtatious smile that had worked many times in the past and said, “I’m writing a paper for my criminal justice class, but I don’t know how to use the microfiche. Can you help me?”
My smile worked, I suppose, because he started moving a little more quickly and seemed to want to impress me with his mad library skills.
“I took that class my freshman year. Who’s teaching it now? Still Dr. Gardener?” Doug asked as he stood from his chair. Then waving me toward some filing cabinets, he added, “He’s kind of a bore, but he’s a nice guy. Pretty easy grader.”
“Yeah Dr. Gardener.” I replied, thinking I had been rather dumb to make up this story. Why didn’t I just say I was doing research? I didn’t have to get myself into this round of deception. I mean this boy Doug, would have no idea I was looking up information about a case for which I seemed to be the only one to have the truth. Why did I feel the need to lie? Anyway, I wish I hadn’t.
“So what case are you looking for?” Doug asked, but before I could answer he probed, further “Which paper are you writing?”
“The one about the death penalty.” I replied. More lies.
“I don’t remember that one.” He said looking up at the ceiling searching for the memory of that paper and failing to do so he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I guess he changed the syllabus since I took the class.”
“I don’t exactly know the name of the case, just the defendant’s name, Raymond Johnson.” I replied ignoring his other remarks.
“OK, that’s good enough to start, but when you write the paper for Gardener, make sure you use the official name of the case. He’s a stickler about that sort of thing. Trust me.” How sweet of Doug to be giving me advice.
“Thanks.” I replied. “How do I find it?”
“It’s actually kind of a pain if it’s not a famous case. It could be hard to find. Any particular reason you picked this one, because if not we might be able to find another one with more information for you to analyze?” He asked, again trying to be helpful.
“No.” I replied a little too abruptly. “I’m doing this case. It is a famous case from my hometown so I’m doing this one. I understand the library has a large collection of local newspapers.”
“Ok, ok. Sure. Let’s see what we can find.” He said agreeably. Then he asked, “You’re from around here?”
Doug was rather cute in a nerdy way. He had brown curly hair and green eyes covered by wire-framed glasses. He was taller than me, about 6’2” and quite thin – lanky actually. The tail of his oxford had escaped from his thin-whaled navy cords; a detail to which he gave no attention.
“Yes, just up the road a bit. You?” I asked, then before he could respond I said, “Wait, let me guess, you’re a Jersey boy right?” I grinned teasingly losing my focus just a little, remember I do like boys.
“Noooo.” He droned back. “I’m actually from Connecticut.”
“Oh, that was my second guess.” I joked.
Doug taught me how to search the files by date but didn’t leave my side until we located three articles on the fiche. Next he escorted me over to the fiche reader and demonstrated how to load and view them. With the first article focused, Doug who was leaning over my shoulder, began reading along with me. “Wow, that case does look interesting.” He said.
As cute as he was, my attention was back on my mission. “Thanks for your help.” I said dismissively.
Doug received my message loud and clear. “Sure.” He said. “Back to my book.”
The Case: December 18, 1977 Raymond Johnson, a 24-year-old African American male was convicted by a jury of his peers on two counts of first-degree murder and sentenced to death by electric chair. Public defender, Robert Derr, was unable to clear Johnson given the preponderance of evidence against him. Prosecutors, Wayne Ness and John Winters, connected all of the necessary dots for guilt beyond reasonable doubt. Calling James Martin’s sister and several neighborhood residents to the stand, some of whom were obviously given immunity in exchange for their testimony, the Ness/Winters duo, easily demonstrated Johnson was a known drug dealer, drug user, and overall violent man. The emotional testimony of victim James Martin’s sister Sandra added fuel to the already blazing fire. With tears streaming down her face, she recounted several conversations she had with her brother who had confided in her. Martin owed Johnson money and was scared of what Johnson was going to do to him since he couldn’t pay him. Sandra Martin said she wished she could have helped her brother come up with the money. As if that wasn’t enough, the blood stains on Johnson’s shirt and his fingerprints on the murder weapon sealed his fate. The jury unanimously found Raymond Johnson guilty of fatally stabbing James Martin and Freddy Fullmer.
Immediately thereafter, an automatic appeal was filed on Johnson’s behalf and Johnson continued to proclaim his innocence. By 1980 public defender Derr had moved on to greener pastures leaving Johnson with two failed appeals and a new guy, young Peter Smith, fresh out of law school and keen on proving Johnson’s innocence. His strategy included an appeal based on improper allowance of hearsay testimony by the neighbors and sister during the trial. This appeal had not yet made it to the Appellate Court.
I stood, ready to ask Doug’s help with returning the microfiche to the proper cabinet but seeing my movement, he jumped from his chair and rushed over. “All finished?” He asked.
“Yes. Thanks.” I replied. “Could you – “ I began but before I could ask he insisted “Let me do it, that way I can make sure it gets put back where it belongs.”
“Thanks. I’d better get going. I’ve got to start writing my paper.” More lies.
“Good luck.” Then handing me a tiny piece of the yellow legal paper he added, “If you get stuck writing the paper, give me a call.” It was his dorm room extension. Doug was hitting on me.
~~~
Alone in my dorm room, my roommate Linda was at the football game, I pulled the little yellow paper out of my jeans pocket and tacked it onto the corkboard above my desk. Then I sat down, pulled out a piece of paper and envelop from the top drawer. I rolled the blank sheet into my green Electra typewriter and began typing.
The letter: RJ is innocent. There is no way, in his drug-induced state, he could have caught up with Freddie Fullmer, a star running back. Someone else killed FF and JM. Check the angle of the fingerprints on the weapon. RJ is innocent.
The envelope: Public Defender Peter Smith, no return address.
Chapter 7
April 1985
“I still don’t understand why you won’t move up to Danbury with me for the summer.” Doug pouted. “My parents are cool with it.”
“Seriously, have you met my parents? You know they’ll never go for it.” I replied frustrated by his lack of comprehension. There is no way in the world my parents would approve of me moving to Danbury, Connecticut into my fiance’s parents’ house four months before we were to be married.
“Jesus Christ. It makes total sense. We’re adults and can make our own decisions. You need to start job hunting. What better place to do it?” He pressed.
“I need to finish our wedding plans – a wedding my parents are paying for,” I reminded him. “And besides, June said I could work as long as I want. If I get any interviews, I’ll just have to drive up.” I wasn’t backing down. There was no point anyway. Mom and Dad would have a cow at the thought of me living in sin with my fiancé and his liberal parents. Not gonna happen. Period.
“Ok, but I’m not driving down every time you call me crying about how much you miss me.” He said firmly.
I knew he would though, just like he did the summer before. Doug was vulnerable to my pleas. He had a car, a frat house to stay in, and the testosterone level of a 22 year old. During the summer between our junior and senior years, I cried and he came. I lied to my parents telling them I’d be sleeping at a friend’s house all the while I was staying with Doug at the smelly fraternity house. Unfortunately, this summer would be more of the same. I was pretty sure my parents thought I was still a virgin, despite dating Doug since sophmore year; and I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to inform them otherwise.
The tiny piece of legal paper with Doug’s phone number remained tacked on my corkboard. I would never have called the cute library assistant for help with the Johnson case since I had no intention of writing a paper for a class I wasn’t taking. Instead, Doug tracked me down. First, he checked the class schedule to discover where and when Dr. Gardener’s criminal justice class was being held. He spent a week perusing the halls near the classroom. When he didn’t find me there he started altering his dining schedule hoping to find me in the cafeteria. No luck. Next, he lingered around the dorms where most of the sophomores lived. No luck. Finally, one week before Fall semester finals I was back in the library studying on the second floor mezzanine overlooking the periodical department. Doug, who was sitting at the help desk, happened to look up and see me. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of him rising from his seat and walking out the door. Moments later he appeared in the mezzanine.
“Hey!” He whispered.
“Hi Doug.” I smiled.
“I never got your name.” He said, more of a question than a statement.
“Tess.” I replied.
“Well Tess, how’d you make out with that paper?” He asked knowing full well there was no paper.
“I got a B.” I lied; unaware he was on to me.
“Not bad.” He continued the pretense. “Are you ready for the end of the semester?”
“I guess so. Lots of exams for me next week.” I replied. “How about you?”
“Mostly papers for me, I’m a Humanities guy. You know, Philosophy and English.”
“I’m taking Introduction to Philosophy next semester.” I said.
“Cool. Maybe I can help you with it, if you’d like.” He said. “I’m sure you’re taking Dr. Martin, right?” He asked.
“Yep. How did you know?” I asked.
“The philosophy department is pretty small. Easy guess.” He said.
I glanced down at my book, hoping Doug would get the hint I wanted to study.
He did and said, “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Want to meet for coffee later?”
I hesitated. What if he asked me more about my criminal justice class? I didn’t know if I could continue the deception. Throwing caution to the wind, I replied, “Sure, at the student union?”
“Great. Let’s say 8 o’ clock. I’ll meet you there.” He suggested.
We dated the entire Spring semester before he asked me about the criminal justice class. It was May. Finals were just around the corner and with summer break approaching we had to come up with a plan. Were we serious about each other? Would we choose to date others during our time apart? Could we trust each other to tell the truth? I thought I knew the answers to all of those questions. I was serious about Doug. I had no intention of dating anyone else during the three-month separation. And, I completely trusted Doug to be honest with me. So I was a little confused by the whole conversation. In fact, I was more than a little put off by even having the conversation – that is until he told me the story about how he tried to track me down. Then, I understood. And, I had a decision to make. Come clean with my boyfriend about why I was researching the Johnson case or continue with the lies.
The decision: I lied.
I had to. How could I admit to him a man was on death row because of me? What kind of person would he think I am? So, I lied. It went like this.
The lie: I wanted to know about the Johnson case because Raymond Johnson killed the son of my boss. Since I was young when it happened and my parents protected me from such things, I finally had to read about it myself. But why did I lie to him about it that day at the library? He asked me. I said because it was easier than explaining the whole thing. But why not just say, “Can you help me find information about the Johnson case?” He pressed. “Because I was in a college library and it seemed like the right thing to say at the time.” I said. “Well that’s just weird.” He concluded. Have you ever lied to me about anything else? He asked. I lied and said no.
Chapter 8
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.
Chapter 9 The End
October 25, 1987
Autumn in New England. The air feels crisp. I need more than a sweater to sit here by the lake. It’s 3 in the afternoon. I left the office and drove to my favorite spot. The old patchwork comforter provides a layer between my body and the chilly ground. The sun, at just the right angle, forces the crimson and gold leaved trees to see themselves on the smooth surface of the lake. I’m not close enough to the edge to see my own reflection. A slight breeze crosses over me. I shiver and grab my pea coat, draping it over my shoulders. Reaching into my right pocket I pull out a pack of Marlboro Lights and a Bic lighter. I don’t smoke as much as Doug, who is up to half a pack a day. Shielding the lighter from the mild wind with my cupped hand, I manage to light the cancer stick on the first try. Then, leaning back on my elbows, turning my face toward the sun with closed eyes, I will its rays to warm my cheeks.
I take a deep drag off my cigarette, open my eyes trying to see the smoke rings I blow, but the sunlight blinds me. Abruptly I sit up as if the sun has reminded me what I’m doing here in the first place. Reaching into my left pocket, I pull out a wad of folded papers. Unfolding them, I tuck the newspaper clipping about the Johnson case under my leg and begin reading the photocopied article: Baron Paul Henri d’Holbach’s “A Defense of Determinism.”
The article: “Those who have affirmed that the soul is distinguished from the body, is immaterial, draws its ideas from its own peculiar source, acts by its own energies, without the aid of any exterior object, have, by a consequence of their own system, enfranchised [liberated] it from those physical laws according to which all beings of which we have a knowledge are obliged to act. They have believed that the soul is mistress of its own conduct, is able to regulate its own peculiar operations, has the faculty to determine its will by its own natural energy; in a word, they have pretended that man is a free agent…”
It’s not an easy read and I’m unpracticed, unlike my husband who reads this sort of thing every day. I haven’t actually read this, or anything like this since I graduated. And, although I hadn’t memorized it word for word by any means, I knew the gist of it. More than that, I lived by it. Remember it’s my God alternative. I wasn’t kidding about that.
The gist of it: We humans seem to think we have free will, it feels like we have free will, so we must, mustn’t we? Hell no, according to d’Holbach. We are far from free agents, controlled by mere impulses in our brains, those purely physical things inside of our skulls dictating our every move – including our decisions. We are no more in control of our desire for potato chips than we are for our desire for love, freedom, or nicotine. We didn’t ask to be born into our particular family. We didn’t choose our DNA. We had no control over our own personality development. Our brain does what it does based on competing impulses. The force of each impulse directs our behavior. A decision to do X instead of Y is simply the outcome of a stronger impulse to do X. Cause and effect. Our decisions are all effects of previous causes, none of which are in our control. We are simply slaves to our impulses, and can, therefore not be blamed for our decisions.
Get it?
Distracted with my reading, I let the ashes accumulate on the tip of my cigarette. They grow heavy and drop onto the faded blanket. I smash the butt on the bottom of my shoe and start a pile of extinguished filters. Turning my attention back to the article, page 4, I absent-mindedly light another.
The filter pile increases to four by the time I finish the article. My Bible.
Raymond Johnson is dead. Executed in the electric chair at 10:08 p.m. last night. No more appeals. No stay of execution from the governor. No last minute heroics on my part to save him.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be. Did you expect me to simply decide to change everything about myself – all of those causes that created me – and become someone different at the end of the story? I’ve carried the lie for 10 years. There was no choice. My inaction comes from deep within me. It’s who I am.
Go ahead, judge me. Go ahead, blame me.
Say it. Raymond Johnson is dead and it’s YOUR FAULT.
I light another cigarette. My ass is numb from sitting so long in one spot. I’d better be going soon. Another deep drag. I pull the newspaper article out from underneath my leg and open it. No need to read it again. It’s over. Extending my arm, dangling the newspaper in front of me, I touch my lit cigarette to its corner. Light damnit. But it doesn’t catch. I feel around on the quilt for the Bic. Flick. There. The article burns. I stand, walk over to the lake and toss the small piece still aflame. Close enough to the edge, I see my own reflection. It is me. With no shame.
Acknowledgements: Special thanks to Kathleen Lucas Executive Director padp.org for helping me with background on the death penalty and proofreading and to Gerard Raus for proofreading and encouragement. Much appreciation to my readers and those of you who cheered me on. Your words of support mean the world to me!
For further reading see d’Holbach’s entire argument on determinism. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/8909/8909-h/8909-h.htm#link2H_4_0018
