Chapter 1<\/p>\n
1987<\/p>\n
My parents believe everything that happens is God\u2019s will. When my father was born with bad lungs, it was God\u2019s will. When my mother had four miscarriages, birthed six girls, and no boys, it was God\u2019s will. When my sister was struck and killed by a car while walking home from school, it was God\u2019s will. So you can imagine how irritating it would be for my devout parents that their youngest daughter wasn\u2019t particularly interested in getting on God\u2019s good side.\u2028While 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 \u201cIf God wants me to go to church, why don\u2019t I want to go?\u201d or \u201cWhy does God plan mass so early in the morning?\u201d\u2028Since I was only four when God killed my sister Frances, sending the rest of my family into a tailspin, it didn\u2019t 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\u2019s will, than it followed that it was God\u2019s will for my parents to become fearful tyrants. See the logic?\u2028Sophomore 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\u2019t seen him get this excited about any other theories he\u2019d presented. He obviously believed this one was the theory of all theories. Dr. Martin was an atheist! The first one I\u2019d ever met.<\/p>\n
The theory of Hard Determinism states:\u2028All events in the material world are governed by cause and effect.\u2028All human actions are events.\u2028Therefore, all human actions are caused. (NOT BY GOD!)<\/p>\n
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\u2019t 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\u2019 dialogue caused my sister Francis to continue walking with her friend on the wrong side of the street. Realizing she\u2019d 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\u2019t see the car because she was looking the other way. God didn\u2019t 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.\u2028It was bound to happen. Not because it was God\u2019s will. According to the theory of hard determinism, it was determined to happen simply through a series of material causes.\u2028I wrote a paper using my sister\u2019s death as the perfect example demonstrating the theory of Hard Determinism. I got an A. I became Dr. Martin\u2019s favorite student. Cause and effect: writing a paper espousing the merits of Hard Determinism causes professor to like me.\u2028Hard determinism became my God alternative. And, it\u2019s how I\u2019m going to explain the story that I really want to tell. Here is the thing I still haven\u2019t been able to resolve. Get this. If everything that happens is God\u2019s will, it doesn\u2019t seem fair to blame anyone for anything. If, for example it had been God\u2019s will for my sister to die, you couldn\u2019t blame her for disobeying the rules and you couldn\u2019t blame the woman driving the Chevy. If it was Hard determinism, you couldn\u2019t 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\u2019t really blame anyone for their decisions, can you?\u2028Anyway, you can decide for yourself after I tell you the whole story.<\/p>\n
Chapter 2<\/p>\n
1977<\/p>\n
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<\/em> an unnatural gap between sisters one through four and sister number six. Thus, number six was now number five, growing up as both the \u2018baby of the family\u2019 and practically an only child.<\/p>\n So there I was, turning out not<\/em> 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<\/em> me to become a skilled liar. The less they knew the better. Most of the time, I wasn\u2019t doing anything different than what my friends were doing with their parents\u2019 approval. Some of the time, however, I was up to no good.<\/p>\n By 1977, I was fourteen. I\u2019d already experienced my first cigarette \u2013 more than one. I\u2019d already vomited from too much cherry vodka and I\u2019d been to second base with one or two boys. Naturally<\/em>, 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.<\/p>\n 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\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/em> 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\u2019s exactly what we had in mind.<\/p>\n Shortly after 11:00 p.m., Cathy\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n Crouched behind the truck, wondering if we\u2019d been spotted, we considered abandoning our mission. We\u2019d only been out of the house a little more than 15 minutes so Cathy\u2019s parents were surely still asleep. We wouldn\u2019t get caught if we\u2019d just turn around now. Too bad we didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n Peaking around the side of the truck we spied the taillights of the patrol car as it continued down the street. We\u2019d gone undetected. With renewed bravado, we pressed on.<\/p>\n 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\u2019d be grounded until I was 32.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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\u2019s house instead of my own, which was much closer to the party. This is because you don\u2019t fully understand my parents.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n Finally, we made it to the appointed spot \u2013 the street\u00a0at the edge of the woods where the boys said they would be.<\/p>\n \u201cPssst Pssst. It\u2019s us. Tess and Cathy.\u201d I called out in a loud whisper.\u2028One of the boys whose name I probably shouldn\u2019t mention emerged from the woods. Surprised we\u2019d actually followed through with the crazy plan, he led us back to their camp. Literally \u2013 and I\u2019m not exaggerating about this \u2013 the minute we were at the camp greeting the other boys, police sirens began blaring in the distance.<\/p>\n We all froze. Cathy and I looked at each other, eyes bulging, hearts racing. We\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n 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\u2019s when it happened. That\u2019s when we knew we hadn\u2019t been caught.<\/p>\n 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, \u201cShhh.\u201d 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.<\/p>\n We were breathing easier, first because we were sure the sirens were not for us and second because we\u2019d skirted through the chaos without drawing attention to ourselves. We were close to home now with only about a mile to go.<\/p>\n 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\u2019s 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<\/em> there, must have been crouched behind the tires. I straightened up and looked at Cathy, who appeared ready to vomit.<\/p>\n I had to think fast. It was a stand off. I knew that he knew we were on the other side. But he didn\u2019t know that we were two young girls. And he wasn\u2019t moving. Did he intend to jump us as we passed or was he actually trying to avoid us? I couldn\u2019t be sure, but it didn\u2019t seem to matter since we only had one option. I grabbed Cathy\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n Several yards beyond the truck, I couldn\u2019t help myself. I turned to see if we were being pursued. That\u2019s when I saw him clear as day. Standing in the place where I\u2019d 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\u2019t move.<\/p>\n We made it back to Cathy\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n Safely in her bed, stripped down to t-shirts, too wound up to sleep I asked, \u201cDid you see\u00a0him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d She replied, \u201cDid you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d I lied.<\/p>\n Chapter 3<\/p>\n 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. \u201cWhat\u2019s that junk on your fingernails?\u201d He asked quietly. He never yelled. He didn\u2019t have to.<\/p>\n I looked down at my freshly painted pink nails then curled my fingers underneath my palms saying nothing.<\/p>\n \u201cGet it off before you go anywhere and don\u2019t let me see it again.\u201d Then turning toward Mother, he scowled silently blaming her for my impropriety.<\/p>\n 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\u00a0about all of the bad things that might happen to me, yet\u00a0never letting me hear or read about the awful events actually happening right in our own town.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n \u201cTess, Cathy\u2019s on the phone for you.\u201d Mom called up the steps.<\/p>\n I walked into my parent\u2019s bedroom. Dad had gone out to check on his garden by then, and I lifted the receiver. \u201cI\u2019ve got it Mom. Thanks.\u201d I yelled down the stairs, not wanting Cathy to start talking until I heard the click of the other receiver. No click. \u201cMom, I\u2019ve got it.\u201d I said again.<\/p>\n Cathy waited understanding my cue.<\/p>\n Finally the phone clicked. At least I thought it did, but one cannot be too careful. \u201cHey Cathy, I\u2019m in the middle of something can I call you back in five minutes?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n My strategy: never talk on the telephone when a parent has the potential to quietly listen in.<\/em><\/p>\n 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\u2019s number.<\/p>\n \u201cHello.\u201d Cathy answered.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s me.\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cDid you hear?\u201d She asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d I knew what she was referring to. It was certainly all we both thought about for the\u00a0past two days.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s all over the local news.\u201d Cathy whispered excitedly. \u201cWe missed a murder by about half an hour. Freaky, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat else do you know about it?\u201d I asked, whispering as well.<\/p>\n \u201cIt was a double murder. Sickening actually.\u201d She began recounting what she\u2019d seen on the local television news. Obviously her<\/em> parents didn\u2019t censor. \u201cThis 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. \u00a0You know that cute football player, Freddie Fullmer.\u201d She paused catching her breath.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen did they catch him?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cRight away I guess. They found him crouched behind some garbage cans only a block away.\u201d<\/p>\n Just then Mom walked into the room so I switched topics, \u201cI don\u2019t know if I can go to the pool today. Let me ask.\u201d I said in a normal tone looking questioningly over toward my Mom, knowing she was eavesdropping. Mom nodded her permission.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, I can go. I\u2019ll see you at 1 o\u2019clock. OK?\u201d<\/p>\n Chapter 4<\/p>\n August 12, 1978<\/p>\n 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\u2019t 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\u2019s when I saw the bold headline: One Year Later: Raymond Johnson Awaits Appeal.<\/strong> 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 \u2013 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<\/em> face remained on the inside of my eyelids.<\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t the first time I\u2019d seen his picture. Despite my parents\u2019 efforts to shield me from this sort of news, they weren\u2019t by my side 24\/7. I\u2019d managed to catch a glimpse of him when a commercial for the evening news interrupted \u201cThe Love Boat\u201d. \u00a0During the past year, I\u2019d easily pieced together the story since everybody in town was talking about it.<\/p>\n 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\u2019s 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\u2019s prints on the handle.<\/em><\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n If my sister Frances had been alive, she and Fred would have been classmates and I\u2019m sure they would have been friends \u2013 maybe even boyfriend and girlfriend. He was very handsome and popular.<\/p>\n You get the picture. Raymond Johnson was going to pay for his ghastly crimes. Anything short of the death penalty just wouldn\u2019t do.<\/p>\n The problem: Raymond Johnson was innocent. And I was the only one who seemed to know.<\/em><\/p>\n Chapter 5<\/p>\n June, 1979<\/p>\n 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\u2019t 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\u2019s 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.<\/em><\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n As it turned out, convincing Mom and Dad was much easier than I\u2019d anticipated. They\u2019d seemed pleased I wanted to work and that I\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n I know what you\u2019re thinking. No way. Why would she do that? Why would she put herself in this situation knowing what she knows?<\/em><\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n My first day<\/em>. I arrived at the store 15 minutes early as instructed and was greeted at the cash register by a bustling Mrs. Fullmer. \u201cGood morning Tess, come on back here, I\u2019ve got some paperwork for you to complete and a smock for you to try on.\u201d<\/p>\n 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\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n She noticed of course. \u201cHe was a handsome one, that boy of mine.\u201d She said matter-of-fact. \u201cDid you know my Freddie?\u201d She asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d I replied awkwardly. \u201cI\u2019m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Fullmer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRule #1 around here Tess: call me June. Everyone calls me June.\u201d She instructed. \u201cAnd, thank you. My Freddie was a good boy. He\u2019s in a good place now.\u201d Then, handing me a W-4 form, she was back in business mode, \u201cYou\u2019ll have to fill this out and return it to me tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n As I reached out for the form June noticed my trembling hands. \u201cOh my, honey, don\u2019t be nervous. We have a lot of fun here. Janet\u2019s coming in this morning and she\u2019ll show you the ropes. You\u2019re a smart girl, so I\u2019m sure you\u2019ll catch on quickly.\u201d She said reassuring me \u2013 utterly unaware of the true cause of my jitters.<\/p>\n \u201cMrs. Fullmer \u2013 June, I – –\u201c 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\u2019s office. What was I going to say anyway, I wondered later.<\/p>\n Chapter 6<\/p>\n October 1982<\/p>\n Autumn Saturdays on campus were all about football. As an eager freshman, I\u2019d 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\u2019d grown very fond of Mrs. Fullmer \u2013 June \u2013 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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\u2019t 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\u2019s name was Doug.<\/p>\n Engrossed in Ayn Rand\u2019s \u201cAtlas Shrugged,\u201d Doug didn\u2019t look up at first. I coughed attempting to get his attention, but he still didn\u2019t lift his eyes from the page. Instead, he raised an index finger indicating I\u2019d 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, \u201cWhat can I help you with?\u201d<\/p>\n I flashed him the same flirtatious smile that had worked many times in the past and said, \u201cI\u2019m writing a paper for my criminal justice class, but I don\u2019t know how to use the microfiche. Can you help me?\u201d<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n \u201cI took that class my freshman year. Who\u2019s teaching it now? Still Dr. Gardener?\u201d Doug asked as he stood from his chair. Then waving me toward some filing cabinets, he added, \u201cHe\u2019s kind of a bore, but he\u2019s a nice guy. Pretty easy grader.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah Dr. Gardener.\u201d I replied, thinking I had been rather dumb to make up this story. Why didn\u2019t I just say I was doing research? I didn\u2019t 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\u2019t.<\/p>\n \u201cSo what case are you looking for?\u201d Doug asked, but before I could answer he probed, further \u201cWhich paper are you writing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe one about the death penalty.\u201d I replied. More lies.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t remember that one.\u201d 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, \u201cI guess he changed the syllabus since I took the class.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t exactly know the name of the case, just the defendant\u2019s name, Raymond Johnson.\u201d I replied ignoring his other remarks.<\/p>\n \u201cOK, that\u2019s good enough to start, but when you write the paper for Gardener, make sure you use the official name of the case. He\u2019s a stickler about that sort of thing. Trust me.\u201d How sweet of Doug to be giving me advice.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cThanks.\u201d I replied. \u201cHow do I find it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s actually kind of a pain if it\u2019s 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?\u201d He asked, again trying to be helpful.<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d I replied a little too abruptly. \u201cI\u2019m doing this case. It is<\/em> a famous case from my hometown so I\u2019m doing this one. I understand the library has a large collection of local newspapers.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOk, ok. Sure. Let\u2019s see what we can find.\u201d He said agreeably. Then he asked, \u201cYou\u2019re from around here?\u201d<\/p>\n 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\u20192\u201d and quite thin \u2013 lanky actually. The tail of his oxford had escaped from his thin-whaled navy cords; a detail to which he gave no attention.<\/p>\n \u201cYes, just up the road a bit. You?\u201d I asked, then before he could respond I said, \u201cWait, let me guess, you\u2019re a Jersey boy right?\u201d I grinned teasingly losing my focus just a little, remember I do<\/em> like boys.<\/p>\n \u201cNoooo.\u201d He droned back. \u201cI\u2019m actually from Connecticut.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, that was my second guess.\u201d I joked.<\/p>\n Doug taught me how to search the files by date but didn\u2019t 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. \u201cWow, that case does look interesting.\u201d He said.<\/p>\n As cute as he was, my attention was back on my mission. \u201cThanks for your help.\u201d I said dismissively.<\/p>\n Doug received my message loud and clear. \u201cSure.\u201d He said. \u201cBack to my book.\u201d<\/p>\n 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\u2019s 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\u2019s 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\u2019t pay him. Sandra Martin said she wished she could have helped her brother come up with the money. As if that wasn\u2019t enough, the blood stains on Johnson\u2019s 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.<\/em><\/p>\n Immediately thereafter, an automatic appeal was filed on Johnson\u2019s behalf and Johnson continued to proclaim his innocence.\u00a0\u00a0 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\u2019s 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.<\/em><\/p>\n I stood, ready to ask Doug\u2019s help with returning the microfiche to the proper cabinet but seeing my movement, he jumped from his chair and rushed over. \u201cAll finished?\u201d He asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYes. Thanks.\u201d I replied. \u201cCould you \u2013 \u201c I began but before I could ask he insisted \u201cLet me do it, that way I can make sure it gets put back where it belongs.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThanks. I\u2019d better get going. I\u2019ve got to start writing my paper.\u201d More lies.<\/p>\n \u201cGood luck.\u201d Then handing me a tiny piece of the yellow legal paper he added, \u201cIf you get stuck writing the paper, give me a call.\u201d It was his dorm room extension. Doug was hitting on me.<\/p>\n ~~~<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/em><\/p>\n The envelope: Public Defender Peter Smith, no return address.<\/em><\/p>\n Chapter 7<\/p>\n April 1985<\/p>\n \u201cI still don\u2019t understand why you won\u2019t move up to Danbury with me for the summer.\u201d Doug pouted. \u201cMy parents are cool with it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSeriously, have you met my parents? You know they\u2019ll never go for it.\u201d 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\u2019s parents\u2019 house four months before we were to be married.<\/p>\n \u201cJesus Christ. It makes total sense. We\u2019re adults and can make our own decisions. You need to start job hunting. What better place to do it?\u201d He pressed.<\/p>\n \u201cI need to finish our wedding plans \u2013 a wedding my parents are paying for,\u201d I reminded him. \u201cAnd besides, June said I could work as long as I want. If I get any interviews, I\u2019ll just have to drive up.\u201d I wasn\u2019t backing down. There was no point anyway. Mom and Dad would have a cow at the thought of me living in sin with my fianc\u00e9 and his liberal parents. Not gonna happen. Period.<\/p>\n \u201cOk, but I\u2019m not driving down every time you call me crying about how much you miss me.\u201d He said firmly.<\/p>\n 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\u2019d be sleeping at a friend\u2019s 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\u2019t going to be the one to inform them otherwise.<\/p>\n The tiny piece of legal paper with Doug\u2019s 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\u2019t taking. Instead, Doug tracked me down. First, he checked the class schedule to discover where and when Dr. Gardener\u2019s criminal justice class was being held. He spent a week perusing the halls near the classroom. When he didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n \u201cHey!\u201d He whispered.<\/p>\n \u201cHi Doug.\u201d I smiled.<\/p>\n \u201cI never got your name.\u201d He said, more of a question than a statement.<\/p>\n \u201cTess.\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n \u201cWell Tess, how\u2019d you make out with that paper?\u201d He asked knowing full well there was no paper.<\/p>\n \u201cI got a B.\u201d I lied; unaware he was on to me.<\/p>\n \u201cNot bad.\u201d He continued the pretense. \u201cAre you ready for the end of the semester?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI guess so. Lots of exams for me next week.\u201d I replied. \u201cHow about you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMostly papers for me, I\u2019m a Humanities guy. You know, Philosophy and English.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m taking Introduction to Philosophy next semester.\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cCool. Maybe I can help you with it, if you\u2019d like.\u201d He said. \u201cI\u2019m sure you\u2019re taking Dr. Martin, right?\u201d He asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYep. How did you know?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cThe philosophy department is pretty small. Easy guess.\u201d He said.<\/p>\n I glanced down at my book, hoping Doug would get the hint I wanted to study.<\/p>\n He did and said, \u201cWell, I\u2019ll let you get back to it. Want to meet for coffee later?\u201d<\/p>\n I hesitated. What if he asked me more about my criminal justice class? I didn\u2019t know if I could continue the deception. Throwing caution to the wind, I replied, \u201cSure, at the student union?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGreat. Let\u2019s say 8 o\u2019 clock. I\u2019ll meet you there.\u201d He suggested.<\/p>\n 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<\/em> each other to tell the truth<\/em>? 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 \u2013 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.<\/p>\n The decision: I lied.<\/em><\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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, \u201cCan you help me find information about the Johnson case?\u201d He pressed. \u201cBecause I was in a college library and it seemed like the right thing to say at the time.\u201d I said. \u201cWell that\u2019s just weird.\u201d He concluded. Have you ever lied to me about anything else? He asked. I lied and said no.<\/em><\/p>\n Chapter 8<\/p>\n 1987<\/p>\n The first episode of Thirtysomething<\/em> played on my television while I sat waiting for my cherry red nail polish to dry. Doug wouldn\u2019t be home for another hour. His Tuesday nights were spent in class followed by a beer with his cohort. I didn\u2019t mind. He studied tirelessly and I enjoyed the time home alone. As Doug pursued his Ph.D. in English \u2013 receiving a full-ride and a small research stipend \u2013 I was the main breadwinner. I\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n We celebrated our second anniversary last week and I couldn\u2019t be happier. My parents love Doug. Even though he\u2019s 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 \u00a0red lace thong to please myself – and my new husband.<\/p>\n 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\u2019 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.<\/p>\n 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\u2019s public defender, I began closely following the case. For the past five years, I\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n I don\u2019t think about it everyday. In fact, I hadn\u2019t thought about it for almost a month. And, frankly, I\u2019d rather not be thinking about it right now. But I am and here\u2019s why.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n \u201cRemember that case you were researching when we were in college \u2013 the Raymond Johnson case?\u201d He asked, slightly breathless.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t 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. \u201cSure.\u201d I replied nonchalantly. \u201cWhat about it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI just heard on NPR, he\u2019s going to be executed next month.\u201d He said. \u201cI can\u2019t believe it\u2019s been 10 years since he killed those guys. What a fucked up system.\u201d My husband ranted.<\/p>\n 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, \u201cIf only we were in charge\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c\u2014Tess, did you hear me?\u201d I guess I\u2019d stopped listening. \u201cHon, I think the casserole is mixed. You can stop stirring.\u201d He walked up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist and asked, \u201cWhere did you go just now?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh sorry, I was just thinking about whether I added the garlic powder to the mix.\u201d Then, turning to face him, I wrapped my arms around his neck, leaned in, nibbled at his ear and whispered, \u201cWe have half an hour while this bakes. Let\u2019s go upstairs.\u201d<\/p>\n Yes. My husband Doug was an idealist. And, he was still curious about my interest in the Johnson case. And, he still didn\u2019t know the truth. And, he was still only 24 years old. And, I still knew exactly how to distract him.<\/p>\n I know what you\u2019re thinking.<\/p>\n DO SOMETHING!<\/p>\n TELL SOMEONE!<\/p>\n STOP WORRYING ABOUT YOUR NAIL POLISH AND GROW A CONSCIENCE!<\/p>\n Am I close?<\/p>\n 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\u2019s side of the bed. 11:05 p.m. Doug would be home by 11:30.<\/p>\n Removing the lid, I pulled out the latest article I\u2019d clipped on the Johnson case and read it for the nth<\/em> time.<\/p>\n 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\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n Chapter 9 The End<\/p>\n October 25, 1987<\/p>\n Autumn in New England. The air feels crisp. I need more than a sweater to sit here by the lake. It\u2019s 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\u2019m 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\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n 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\u2019m 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\u2019Holbach\u2019s \u201cA Defense of Determinism.\u201d<\/p>\n 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\u2026”<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n It\u2019s not an easy read and I\u2019m unpracticed, unlike my husband who reads this sort of thing every day. I haven\u2019t actually read this, or anything like this since I graduated. And, although I hadn\u2019t memorized it word for word by any means, I knew the gist of it. More than that, I lived by it. Remember it\u2019s my God alternative. I wasn\u2019t kidding about that.<\/p>\n The gist of it: We humans seem to think we have free will, it feels like we have free will, so we must, mustn\u2019t we? Hell no, according to d\u2019Holbach. 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 \u2013 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\u2019t ask to be born into our particular family. We didn\u2019t 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.<\/em><\/p>\n Get it?<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n The filter pile increases to four by the time I finish the article. My Bible.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n Surprised? You shouldn\u2019t be. Did you expect me to simply decide to change everything about myself \u2013 all of those causes that created me \u2013 and become someone different at the end of the story? I\u2019ve carried the lie for 10 years. There was no choice. My inaction comes from deep within me. It\u2019s who I am.<\/p>\n Go ahead, judge me. Go ahead, blame me.<\/p>\n Say it.\u00a0\u00a0 Raymond Johnson is dead and it\u2019s YOUR FAULT.<\/p>\n I light another cigarette. My ass is numb from sitting so long in one spot. I\u2019d 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\u2019s over. Extending my arm, dangling the newspaper in front of me, I touch my lit cigarette to its corner. Light damnit. But it doesn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n Acknowledgements<\/em><\/strong>: \u00a0Special thanks to Kathleen Lucas Executive Director padp.org<\/a> for helping me with background on the death penalty and proofreading and to Gerard Raus for proofreading and encouragement. \u00a0Much appreciation to my readers and those of you who cheered me on. \u00a0Your words of support mean the world to me!<\/em><\/p>\n For further reading see d’Holbach’s entire argument on determinism. \u00a0http:\/\/www.gutenberg.org\/files\/8909\/8909-h\/8909-h.htm#link2H_4_0018<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Chapter 1 1987 My parents believe everything that happens is God\u2019s will. When my father was born with bad lungs, it was God\u2019s will. When my mother had four miscarriages, birthed six girls, and no boys, it was God\u2019s will. When my sister was struck and killed by a car while walking home from school, … Continue reading Cause and Effect The Entire Story<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":461,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[89,3,2],"tags":[107,95,94,97,110,111],"class_list":["post-503","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-short-stories","category-writing","tag-bible","tag-death-penalty","tag-hard-determinism","tag-justice","tag-lies","tag-theory"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"aioseo_notices":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/www.trishmcgee.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/02\/dominos.jpg?fit=5800%2C4600&ssl=1","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/503","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=503"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/503\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":504,"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/503\/revisions\/504"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/461"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=503"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=503"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.trishmcgee.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=503"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}