The Innocent Man (17 page)

The doorbell rang, and when he opened the door, two plainclothes cops grabbed him, pulled him outside, and demanded to know, “Are you Dennis Fritz?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you’re under arrest for first-degree murder,” one growled while the other slapped on the handcuffs.

“What murder are you talking about?” Dennis asked, then had a quick thought: How many Dennis Fritzes are there in Kansas City? Surely they’ve got the wrong one.

His aunt appeared at the door, saw the SWAT team advancing on Dennis, submachine guns aimed and ready, and became hysterical. His mother ran from her bedroom as the police entered the house to “secure” it, though, when questioned, they were unclear as to whom and what they wished to secure. Dennis did not own a firearm. There were no other known or suspected murderers on the premises, but the SWAT boys had their procedures.

Just as Dennis was convinced he was about to be gunned down at the front door, he glanced up and saw a white Stetson hat moving his way. Two nightmares from his past were approaching on the driveway. Dennis Smith and Gary Rogers happily joined the fracas, with “shit-eating grins” from ear to ear.

Oh, that murder, Dennis thought. In their finest hour, the two small-town cowboys had conned the Kansas City Fugitive Apprehension Unit into conducting the dramatic but senseless raid.

“Can I get my shoes?” Dennis asked, and the cops reluctantly agreed.

Fritz was placed in the backseat of a police car, where he was joined by an ecstatic Dennis Smith. One of the K.C. detectives did the driving. As they left, Fritz looked at the heavily armed SWAT boys and thought,
How stupid. Any part-time deputy could’ve made the arrest at the local grocery store. As stunned as he was by the arrest, he had to chuckle as he noticed how dejected the K.C. police looked.

His last image was of his mother, standing in the front door, with her hands over her mouth.

They took him to a small interrogation room at a police station in Kansas City. Smith and Rogers went through the
Miranda
warnings, then announced that they intended to get a confession. Dennis kept thinking of Ward and Fontenot and was determined to give them nothing. Smith became the nice guy, his pal who really wanted to help. Rogers was instantly abusive—cursing, threatening, poking Dennis in the chest repeatedly.

Four years had passed since their last session. In June 1983, after Fritz had “severely flunked” the second polygraph, Smith, Rogers, and Featherstone had kept him in the basement of the Ada Police Department for three hours and badgered him. They got nothing then, and they were getting nothing now.

Rogers was furious. The cops had known for years that Fritz and Williamson raped and murdered Debbie Carter, and now the crime had been solved. All they needed was a confession. “I have nothing to confess,” Fritz said over and over. What evidence do you have? Show me the evidence.

One of Rogers’s favorite lines was, “You’re insulting my intelligence.” And each time Fritz was tempted to say, “What intelligence?” But he did not want to get slapped.

After two hours of abuse, Fritz finally said, “All right, I’ll confess.” The cops were relieved; since they had no proof, they were about to crack the case with a
confession. Smith hustled out to find a tape recorder. Rogers quickly arranged his notepad and pens. Let’s have it.

When they were all set, Fritz looked directly at the tape recorder and said, “Here’s the truth. I did not kill Debbie Carter and know nothing about her murder.”

Smith and Rogers went ballistic—more threats, more verbal abuse. Fritz was rattled and frightened, but he held firm. He maintained his innocence, and they finally called off the interrogation. He refused extradition to Oklahoma and waited in jail for the process to run its course.

Later that day, Saturday, Ron was led from the jail to the police station for another interview. Smith and Rogers, back from their thrilling arrest of Fritz, were waiting. Their goal was to make him talk.

The interrogation had been planned since the day before the arrest.
The Dreams of Ada
had just been published, and there was criticism of the methods of Smith and Rogers. They decided that Smith, who lived in Ada, should be replaced by Rusty Featherstone, who lived in Oklahoma City. They also decided not to use video.

Dennis Smith was in the building but stayed away from the interview room. After leading the investigation for over four years, and believing for much of that time that Williamson was guilty, he nonetheless avoided the crucial interrogation.

The Ada Police Department was well stocked with audio and video equipment, and it was frequently used. Interrogations, and especially confessions, were almost
always recorded on tape. The police were quite aware of the powerful impact of showing a confession to a jury. Ask Ward and Fontenot. Ron’s second polygraph four years earlier had been taped by Featherstone at the Ada Police Department.

When confessions were not recorded on video, they were often taken by audio. The police had plenty of tape recorders.

And when neither audio nor video was used, the suspect was usually asked to write, if he could in fact read and write, his own version of what happened. If the suspect happened to be illiterate, then a detective would write the statement, read it back to the defendant, and ask him to sign it.

None of these methods were used on May 9. Williamson, who was quite literate and had a much wider vocabulary than either of his two interrogators, watched as Featherstone took notes. He said he understood his
Miranda
rights and agreed to talk.

The police version reads as follows:

WILLIAMSON said, “Okay, December the 8th, 1982, I was hanging out at the Coachlight frequently and I was there one night looking at a girl, a pretty girl, and thought I should follow her home.”

WILLIAMSON paused, then acted as if he wished to say something that started with the letter F, but then paused again. Then he continued, “Thought what if something bad would happen that night, and followed her home.”

WILLIAMSON then paused and talked about when he stole a stereo. WILLIAMSON then said, “I was with
DENNIS, and we went to the Holiday Inn, and told a girl that we had a bar in our car, and got her and she jumped.”

WILLIAMSON talked in sporadic phrases and Agent ROGERS asked WILLIAMSON to concentrate and get back to talking about the DEBBIE CARTER case.

WILLIAMSON said, “Okay, I had a dream about killing DEBBIE, was on her, had a cord around her neck, stabbed her, frequently, pulled the rope tight around her neck.”

WILLIAMSON said, “I am worried about what this will do to my family,” and then he said, “My mother is dead now.”

Agent ROGERS asked WILLIAMSON if he and DENNIS were there that night and WILLIAMSON answered “yes.” Agent FEATHERSTONE asked WILLIAMSON, “Did you go there with the intention to kill her?” WILLIAMSON responded, “Probably.”

Agent FEATHERSTONE asked, “Why?”

WILLIAMSON responded, “She made me mad.”

Agent FEATHERSTONE asked, “How do you mean? Mean to you? A bitch?”

WILLIAMSON responded, “No.”

WILLIAMSON paused briefly then said, “Oh my God you can’t expect me to confess, I’ve got my family, I’ve got my nephew to protect. My sister, it will tear her up. It can’t hurt my mother now since she is dead. It’s been on my mind since it happened.”

At about 1938 hours, WILLIAMSON said, “If you’re going to try me on this, I want TANNER in Tulsa. No, I want DAVID MORRIS.”

The mention of a lawyer spooked the detectives, and they stopped the confession. They called David Morris, who instructed them to stop interrogating Ron immediately.

The statement was not signed by Ron. It was never shown to him.

Armed with another dream confession, the case was coming together nicely for the cops and prosecutors. They had learned with Ward and Fontenot that a lack of physical evidence should not get in the way of an urgent prosecution. The fact that Debbie Carter was not stabbed was of little consequence. Juries will convict if they can be adequately shocked.

If one dream confession could nail Williamson, then another could put him away. A few days later, a jailer named John Christian stopped by Ron’s cell. He and Ron had grown up in the same neighborhood. The Christian household was full of boys, one the same age as Ron, and he was often included in lunch and dinner. They played baseball together in the streets and the leagues and attended Byng Junior High.

Untreated and unmedicated, Ron was far from a model inmate. The Pontotoc County jail is a windowless concrete bunker, for some reason built on the west side of the courthouse lawn. The ceilings are low, the atmosphere cramped and claustrophobic, and when someone screams, everyone hears it. Ron screamed often. When he wasn’t yelling, he was singing, crying, wailing, complaining, or either protesting his innocence or ranting on about Debbie Carter. He was placed in one of the two solitary cells, as far away from the crowded bullpen
as possible, but the jail was so small that Ron could disrupt it from anywhere.

Only John Christian could settle him down, and the other inmates came to appreciate the changing of the guard. When Christian arrived, he immediately went to Ron’s cell and calmed him. They would talk about the old days, growing up, playing ball, friends they had known back then. They talked about the Carter case and how unfair it was for Ron to be charged. For eight hours Ron was quiet. His solitary cell was a rat hole, but he managed to sleep and read. Before Christian punched out, he checked on Ron, who was usually pacing, smoking, getting himself psyched up to begin the racket as soon as the new guard arrived.

Late in the evening of May 22, Ron was awake and knew Christian was at the front desk. Ron called him back and wanted to talk about the murder. He had a copy of
The Dreams of Ada
and said he might have a dream confession of his own. According to Christian, Ron said, “Now just imagine this, I dreamed this is what took place. Just imagine that I was living in Tulsa, and I’d been drinking and taking quaaludes all day, and I drove to Buzzy’s Club (Coachlight Club), and just imagine that I drank some more and got a bit drunker. Just suppose that I ended up at Debbie Carter’s door and knocked on the door and she said just a minute I’m on the phone. Just imagine I busted the door in and I raped and killed her.”

Williamson then said, “Don’t you think if I was the person that killed her, that I would have gotten some money from my friends and left town?”

Christian thought little of the conversation, but did repeat it to a fellow officer. It was repeated again and
again, and finally made it to Gary Rogers. The detective saw an opportunity for additional evidence against their killer. Two months later, he asked Christian to repeat what Ron had told him. Rogers typed up a report, added quotation marks where he thought appropriate, and the police and prosecutor then had their second dream confession. Not a single word was included to reflect Ron’s many denials of involvement in the crime.

As usual, the facts were not important. Ron was not living in Tulsa at the time of the murder. He possessed neither a vehicle nor a driver’s license.

C H A P T E R  7

F
or Annette Hudson and Renee Simmons, the news that their brother had been arrested and charged with murder was overwhelming. Since his release from prison the previous October, they had been deeply concerned about his deteriorating mental health and his physical well-being, but they had no idea murder charges were looming. The rumors had been around for years, but so much time had passed, the family had assumed the police were busy with other suspects and other cases. When Juanita died two years earlier, she was confident she had given Dennis Smith clear evidence that Ron was not involved. Annette and Renee believed this, too.

Both were living frugally—raising their families, working occasionally, paying the bills, and saving money when possible. They did not have the cash to hire a criminal defense lawyer. Annette talked to David Morris, but
he had no interest in the case. John Tanner was in Tulsa, too far away and too expensive.

Though Ron had dragged them through the court system many times, they were still unprepared for his sudden arrest and the allegations of murder. Friends backed away. The stares and whispers began. An acquaintance said to Annette, “It’s not your fault. You can’t help what your brother did.”

“My brother is not guilty,” Annette shot back. She and Renee repeated this continually, but few people wanted to hear it. Forget the presumption of innocence. The cops had their man; why would they have arrested Ron if he wasn’t guilty?

Annette’s son, Michael, then a fifteen-year-old sophomore, suffered through a class discussion on current local events, the principal one being the arrest of Ron Williamson and Dennis Fritz for the murder. Since his last name was Hudson, none of his classmates knew that Michael’s uncle was the accused killer. Sentiments in the class ran strongly against the two men. Annette was at the school the following morning and got the matter resolved. The teacher apologized profusely and promised to redirect class discussions.

Renee and Gary Simmons were living in Chickasha, about ninety miles away, and the distance gave them some relief. Annette, though, had never left Ada, and though she now desperately wanted to flee, she had to stay and support her little brother.

The Sunday, May 10, edition of
the Ada Evening News
ran a front-page story about the arrests with a photo of
Debbie Carter. Bill Peterson provided most of the details. He confirmed that the body had been exhumed and that the mysterious print in fact belonged to the victim. He claimed that both Fritz and Williamson had been suspects for more than a year but did not explain why. As to the investigation itself, he said, “We came to the end of our rope in this investigation about six months ago and began to decide how to approach these things.”