The Innocent Man (14 page)

C H A P T E R  6

R
on Williamson was well aware of the Haraway case. He had the best seat in the house—a bed in the Pontotoc County jail. After serving ten months of his three-year sentence, he was paroled back to Ada and placed under house arrest, a rather loose arrangement that severely restricted his movements. Not surprisingly, it didn’t work. Ron was unmedicated and unable to keep track of time and dates or anything else.

In November, while living at home, he was charged with “willfully and wrongfully, having been sentenced to confinement with the Department of Corrections for the crime of Uttering a Forged Instrument, and while on house arrest status did escape from such status and confinement by leaving his house during a time not consented to by the D.O.C.”

Ron’s version was that he walked down the street to buy a pack of cigarettes and returned home thirty minutes later than expected. He was arrested, jailed, and
four days later charged with the felony of escape from a penal institution. He made a pauper’s oath and requested court-appointed counsel.

The jail was buzzing with the Haraway matter. Tommy Ward and Karl Fontenot were already there. The inmates, with absolutely nothing to do, talked and talked. Ward and Fontenot had center stage because their crime was the most recent and certainly the most sensational. Tommy described the dream confession and the tactics used by Smith, Rogers, and Featherstone. The detectives were well known to his audience.

Tommy insisted over and over that he had nothing to do with Denice Haraway, that the real killers were out there laughing at the two stupid boys who confessed and the cops who tricked them into it.

Without the body of Denice Haraway, Bill Peterson had an enormous legal challenge. His case consisted of the two taped confessions, with absolutely no physical evidence as a foundation. Indeed, the truth contradicted virtually everything on the tapes, and the confessions clearly contradicted each other. Peterson had the two sketches of the suspects, but even they were problematic. Arguably, one favored Tommy Ward, but no one had suggested that the other drawing even remotely resembled Karl Fontenot.

Thanksgiving came and went with no body. Then Christmas. In January 1985, Bill Peterson convinced a judge that there was sufficient evidence that Denice Haraway was dead. During a preliminary hearing, the confessions were played to a packed courtroom. The reaction was generally one of shock, though many noted
the glaring discrepancies between Ward’s account and Fontenot’s. Nevertheless, it was time for a trial, with or without a dead body.

But the legal wrangling went on and on. Two judges recused themselves. The search lost steam and was finally called off a year after Denice disappeared. Most of Ada was convinced Ward and Fontenot were guilty—why else would they confess?—but there was also speculation about the lack of evidence. Why was it taking so long for a trial?

In April 1985, a year after the disappearance of Denice Haraway, the
Ada Evening News
ran a story by Dorothy Hogue about the town’s frustration with the pace of the investigations. “Unsolved, Violent Crimes Haunt Ada” was the headline, and Hogue summarized both. On Haraway, she wrote: “Although authorities have searched many local areas, both before and after the arrests of Ward and Fontenot, no trace of Haraway has ever been found. However, Detective Dennis Smith said he is convinced the case is solved.” The alleged confessions were not mentioned.

On the Carter case, Hogue wrote: “Evidence found at the murder scene and evidence concerning the suspect were sent to the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation laboratory less than two years ago and the police said they are still waiting for results.” The backlog at the OSBI was noted. Dennis Smith said, “The police have narrowed their focus to one suspect in the case but no one has ever been arrested in connection with the crime.”

In February 1985, Ron was in court on the escape charge. His court-appointed lawyer was David Morris, a
man who knew the Williamson family well. Ron entered a plea of guilty to the escape charge and received a two-year sentence, most of which would be suspended if Ron (1) completed some mental health counseling, (2) stayed out of trouble, (3) stayed in Pontotoc County, and (4) refrained from using alcohol.

A few months later he was arrested for public drunkenness in Pottawatomie County. Bill Peterson filed a motion to revoke his suspended sentence and to require him to serve the remainder of his sentence. David Morris was again appointed by the court to represent him. A revocation hearing was held on July 26 before the special district judge John David Miller; or at least it was attempted. Ron, unmedicated, wouldn’t shut up. He argued with Morris, Judge Miller, and the deputies, and he became so disruptive that the hearing was postponed.

Three days later they tried again. Judge Miller asked the jailers and deputies to warn Ron about his behavior, but he entered the courtroom yelling and cursing. The judge warned him repeatedly, and he repeatedly rebuked the judge. He demanded a new lawyer, but when the judge asked for a reason, he had none.

His conduct was repulsive, but even in the midst of the turmoil it was obvious that he needed help. At times he seemed connected to what was happening, then a moment later his rantings were incoherent. He was angry, bitter, and lashing out at the world.

After several warnings, Judge Miller ordered him back to the jail, and the hearing was postponed again. The next day David Morris filed a motion requesting a hearing into Ron’s mental competency. He also filed a motion to withdraw as counsel.

In his twisted world, Ron saw himself as perfectly
normal. He was insulted by the fact that his lawyer would question his mental stability, so he stopped speaking to him. Morris was fed up.

The motion for a competency hearing was granted. The motion to withdraw was denied.

Two weeks later the hearing was initiated, and quickly called off. Ron was even crazier than before. Judge Miller ordered a psychiatric evaluation.

Early in 1985, Juanita Williamson was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and it progressed rapidly. For two and a half years she had lived with the constant rumors that her son killed Debbie Carter, and she wanted to settle the issue before she passed away.

Juanita was fastidious about paperwork. She had kept a detailed daily journal for decades. Her business records were perfect; give her a minute, and she could tell any customer the dates of her last five appointments. She threw away nothing—paid bills, canceled checks, receipts, her children’s report cards, and other mementos.

She had checked her diary a hundred times and knew that on the night of December 7, 1982, Ron had been at home with her. She had shared this with the police on more than one occasion. Their theory was that he could easily have sneaked out of the house, darted through a back alley, committed the crime, then returned home. Forget motive. Forget Glen Gore’s lies about seeing Ron at the Coachlight that night harassing Debbie Carter. Minor points; the cops had their man.

But the cops also knew that Juanita Williamson was highly respected. She was devout in her Christian faith and well known throughout the Pentecostal
churches. She had hundreds of customers at her beauty shop and treated them all like close friends. If Juanita took the witness stand and said Ronnie was at home on the night of the murder, the jury would believe her. Maybe her son was having problems, but he’d certainly been raised better.

Now Juanita remembered something else. In 1982, videocassette rentals were becoming popular. A store down the street had discovered the business. On December 7, Juanita rented a VCR unit and five of her favorite movies, which she and Ron watched until early the next morning. He was there at home that night, in the den, on the sofa, having a wonderful time watching old movies with his mother. And Juanita had the rental receipt.

David Morris had always tended to the light legal matters Juanita needed. He admired her greatly, and as a favor he occasionally represented Ron in some of his escapades, though he was far from an ideal client. Morris listened to her story, looked at the receipt, and had no doubt she was telling the truth. He was also relieved, because he, like most folks in town, had heard the constant rumors about Ron’s involvement in the Carter murder.

Most of Morris’s work was criminal defense, and he had little respect for the Ada police. But he knew them, and he arranged a meeting with Dennis Smith and Juanita. He even drove her down to the police station and sat with her while she explained things to Dennis Smith. The detective listened carefully, studied the rental record, and asked her if she would video a statement. Certainly.

David Morris watched through a window as
Juanita was placed in a chair, faced the camera, and answered Smith’s questions. Driving home, she was relieved and certain that she had laid the matter to rest.

If the video camera was loaded with a tape, it was never seen. If Detective Smith made a report of the interview, it was never produced in the legal proceedings that followed.

Sitting in jail, killing days and weeks, Ron worried about his mother. By August, she was dying in the hospital, and he was not allowed to see her.

That month, by court order, he was examined again by Dr. Charles Amos, who planned to administer some tests. During the first one, though, he noted that Ron was simply marking “True” for all the answers. When Amos quizzed him, he replied, “What’s more important, this test or my mother?” The evaluation was called off, but Amos did note, “It should be pointed out that this examiner’s interview with Mr. Williamson shows a marked deterioration of emotional function since our last encounter in 1982.”

Ron begged the police to allow him to see his mother before she died. Annette pleaded, too. Over the years, she had become acquainted with the officers at the jail. When she took Ronnie cookies and brownies, she took enough for all the inmates and all the jailers. She even cooked entire meals for them in the jail’s kitchen.

The hospital was not far away, she reasoned. It was a small town; everybody knew Ron and his family. He was unlikely to somehow get a weapon and hurt people. Finally a deal was made and Ron was led out of jail after midnight, handcuffed and chained, surrounded by
heavily armed deputies, and driven to the hospital, where he was placed in a wheelchair and rolled down the hallway.

Juanita had been clear that she did not want to see her son in handcuffs. Annette had begged the police to comply, and they had reluctantly agreed. But somewhere along the way the agreement was forgotten. The cuffs and leg chains were not removed. Ron pleaded with the cops—just remove the handcuffs for a few minutes while he saw his mother for the last time. It couldn’t be done. He was told to remain seated in the wheelchair.

Ron asked for a blanket to hide the handcuffs and shackles. The cops hesitated—could be a security risk—then relented. They wheeled him into Juanita’s room and insisted that Annette and Renee leave. They asked to stay so the family could be together one last time. Too risky, the cops said. Go wait in the hall.

Ron told his mother how much he loved her, how sorry he was for the mess he’d made of his life, sorry for all the disappointments. He cried and begged her to forgive him, and of course she did. He quoted some Scripture. Intimacy, though, was somewhat difficult because the cops stayed in the room, hovering over Ron so he couldn’t jump out a window or harm someone.

The farewell was brief. The cops cut it off after a few minutes, saying they had to get back to the jail. Annette and Renee could hear their brother crying as they rolled him away.

Juanita died on August 31, 1985. Initially, the police declined the family’s request to allow Ron to attend the funeral. They relented only after Annette’s husband offered to pay two former deputies, two of his cousins, to help guard Ron throughout the service.

For dramatic effect, the police treated his presence at the funeral as a major security event. They insisted that everyone be seated first, before the criminal could enter. And they refused to unshackle him.

Such precautions were obviously needed for a felon who forged a $300 check.

The sanctuary was packed. The open casket was in place in front of the altar so that everyone could see Juanita’s gaunt profile. The rear doors opened, and her son was escorted down the aisle by his guards. His ankles were chained together, as were his wrists, with both chains secured to a belly chain around his waist. As he shuffled along in half steps, the clinking and rattling of the hardware frayed whatever nerves were left in the crowd. When he saw his mother in the open casket, Ron began sobbing and saying, “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m so sorry.” The sobbing turned to wailing as he neared the casket.

They settled him into his seat, guards on both sides, chains clattering with every move. He was nervous, upset, manic, and unable to be still and quiet.

Ron sat in the First Pentecostal Holiness Church, in the sanctuary where he had worshipped as a boy, where Annette still played the organ every Sunday morning, where his mother had seldom missed a meeting, and wept as he stared at her withered face.

A lunch was served in the church’s fellowship hall after the service. Ron shuffled over to it, guards within striking distance. He’d been living off jail food for almost a year, and the potluck spread before him was a feast. Annette asked the cop in charge to remove his handcuffs so he could eat. The request was refused. She quietly pleaded. No, came the answer.

Family and friends watched with pity as his sisters, Annette and Renee, took turns feeding him.

At the grave site, after some Scripture and a prayer, the mourners filed past Annette, Renee, and Ron and offered their condolences and kind thoughts. There were polite hugs and warm embraces, but not from Ron. Unable to lift his arms, he was forced to respond with awkward pecks on the cheeks for the women and clumsy, chain-rattling handshakes for the men. It was September, still very hot, and sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped onto his cheeks. He was unable to wipe his face, so Annette and Renee did it for him.