Tag: 1970’s

Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 4

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.

 

Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 3

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?”