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.
