Tag: innocence

Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, 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

Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 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.

Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 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.

Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 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.