Manifest Injustice (29 page)

The years passed and the first knowledge I had of any of you came from Mr. Hammond’s investigators when they went to talk to your mother in Olympia. They wouldn’t tell me much, only that two of my sons were there and at that time they didn’t know where you were. I wanted so terribly much to write to Steve because they mentioned him specifically. I didn’t because I had no way of knowing how a letter from me would be received. Also I was very fearful of upsetting any of your lives. It was a terrible decision to have to make because I so desperately wanted to know how you were. Your wonderful letter changed all that. You called me Dad and you called me Father.… I thought I would die without ever hearing such wonderful words. Thank God in heaven that will not be the case.

Son, you wrote that as of this point in time you don’t know whether I am guilty or innocent. I can understand that especially in light of your only hearing one side of the story. Your father is not a murderer, Son. I told them I was innocent the day I was arrested and I’ve maintained my innocence every day of my life since.

He wrote seven pages in all, his handwriting sprawling from edge to edge of the sheets, leaving no margins or open space. He told Ron of his several commutation petitions, all denied because he would not admit guilt and show remorse: “If my freedom is dependent on my admitting guilt … then I will die here but I will die an innocent man, Ron.… Truth has been my strength all these years.… I am now an old man. I will be 68 next month. I still walk with my back straight and my head up.” These words, he knew, provided no proof of his innocence, so yes, “of course you have my permission to see any and all of the evidence Mr. Hammond’s group has gathered.” Yet the attorneys might not be able to share this until they file their petition, so “please be patient as I must be.” Bill himself had not been told much, “other than the fact that my palm print was forged.”

Macumber shared highlights of his twenty-eight years in prison and couldn’t help but beam a little—so openly wanting his son’s regard. “I am the only inmate in the history of the United States Jaycees to be chosen President of the Year.… I am a fortunate man in many respects. I have managed to achieve a great deal even though I’ve been in prison.… I don’t want to ramble on forever. I just wanted you to know that I could not sit idly by and let the years pass.… I am well respected by inmates and staff alike and I have walked through these years with honor and with pride.”

He could have kept writing for many more pages, but he made himself stop. This represented a new beginning for them, and one of the happiest moments of his life. He felt like a father again after so many years of living with only memories. He had just one request: Could Ron send him a picture of his family? “I will close this by telling you once more that you and your letter have made me a very happy, proud and grateful man. I love you Son, with all my heart.”

*   *   *

Days later, at his home in Aurora, Ron heard a knock on his door. The mailman had a certified letter for him—really, a thick, bulging package. He sat in his living room chair for one hour, trying to get up the courage to open it. Like his father, Ron worried what words he’d find, what response. Was his dad telling him it’s too late, get lost? That would be rough, after he’d reached out. Ron kept staring at the package. From the kitchen, Deb kept calling out,
Just open it.
Finally, he did. His eyes fell first on “a miracle took place,” then on “I love you.” Words written by his father. Ron struggled to continue reading.

Bill had enclosed some of his poems and essays, and a few letters he’d received from the Justice Project. Ron looked through everything with mounting wonder. He found his father’s overall attitude extraordinary. No bitterness or rage, such incredible faith and conviction—it flat out amazed him. How could someone be so positive and upbeat in his situation? How could his dad have accomplished all he had while in prison? Even more now, Ron wanted to determine the truth about his father. He wanted to see the evidence.

Father and son continued to exchange letters that summer and fall. Ron wrote about his family: Deb and Megan, thirteen now, “the light of my life”; his two stepchildren, James and Sara, who called him “Dad”; and Sara’s two-year-old daughter, Taylor Ann—Ron’s granddaughter. He wrote about his job as a delivery truck driver—“put me behind the wheel of a car or big rig and I am happy as a clam.” He wrote also about his estrangement from his mom, her not approving of his marriage, not attending his wedding, “barely acknowledging” her granddaughter—“I pretty much have given up trying to fix things. With Mom it’s her way or the highway.” He told Bill he wanted to hear his father’s voice. Could Bill send him the needed forms to complete, could they arrange to talk on the phone?

Macumber wanted to hear Ron’s voice, too, but he asked if they could wait just a little while. He didn’t want to cry in front of the other prisoners. “I still find tears in my eyes just thinking of the miracle that has taken place.… There is no privacy when we use the phones here and right now I don’t trust my own emotions so please bear with me for the time being.” He didn’t yet have the photos Ron had sent because they’d arrived inside of an album, judged “contraband” by the prison authorities. He had, though, received a letter from his granddaughter, Megan, the first of many she’d send him. (“Hi! It’s me, Megan! How are you? I would like to congratulate you on all the books, novels and poetry you have written! I am a typical teenager! I love music, I love boys, I am obsessed with clothes! I love junk food! I would really like to know more about you!”) The letters from Ron and Megan had opened “a whole new wonderful world for me. I now have a family. People who care.” If Ron wanted to read any of his books—Ron had asked—he could get copies of the manuscripts from Bill’s cousin Jackie Kelley. Meanwhile, here were photos of Bill’s parents, Ron’s grandparents. “They loved you three boys so very much. Your grandpa helped you land your first fish. It was a rainbow trout and a real monster. Your grandmother used to feed the three of you homemade chocolate chip cookies all day and then wonder why none of you were ever hungry at mealtime.”

By late September, Ron was holding in his hands one of Bill’s books. His admiration deepened. “Most people might have just given up, but you have done so many special things. I have read your letters over and over and am just blown away by them. The love and caring that you have shown means more to me than you will ever know. You are my Father. I am proud of you. I respect you and I love you. Regardless of the outcome I love you, Dad.” He had, as well, come to a conclusion: “Could my mother do something like this? I believe that she could.… I do not trust my mother.… Finally to the big question. Do I believe my father is a murderer? NO. I believe an innocent man is now sitting in prison.… There is too much pointing to that conclusion. The confession of Ernest Valenzuela is the biggest piece of evidence. Also, Mom had access to the files, the cards and to the shell casings.… You should not be there and I will do everything I can to get you out.” Ron wanted his father to know one other thing: “I do have memories of you. I remember hunting in the desert for dove and quail. I remember jasper hunting and the belt and belt buckles you made for us. I remember racing BMX and the time I split my finger in the sprocket of the bike. You patched me up and I went back to racing. I remember the space capsule you made for us. I remember a lot. I have never forgotten you.”

Macumber, flooded that fall and winter of 2003 by letters from Ron, Megan and Deb, walked through the Douglas complex’s Mohave Unit as if on a cloud. Later, he wrote: “I had suddenly gone from a lonely old man to once again being a father, with the wonderful addition of being a grandfather. I can honestly say that even though I was still in prison, I had to be one of the happiest men in this world.”

He and Ron finally heard each other’s voices on December 7. As arranged, following prison protocol, Bill called collect. They had only fifteen minutes to talk, the prison’s limit. Later, Ron would not remember much of what they said, other than “hello” and “I love you.” He recalled the feelings, not the words, and the sound of his father’s voice, so oddly like his own deep baritone. Mainly, he recalled trying to hold it together. He hadn’t felt nervous ahead of this call, as he had with the first letters, but he had wondered, What will we say after all this time? In the end, it didn’t really matter. Happiness, the eerie voice just like his, the struggle to not break down—that’s what filled the fifteen minutes.

On his end, Bill, despite delaying this first call to prepare, could not hold back his tears. “I have not cried many times in this place,” he wrote Ron and Deb that evening, “but I did today.… Megan, never in his life has this old man ever heard a sweeter voice.… What a wonderful day this has been.”

*   *   *

It took a good while, but there came another, even more wonderful day. After exchanging letters and phone calls regularly all through 2004, talking at least once every two weeks, Ron finally made plans to visit his father in the spring of 2005. His work schedule and the family’s budget had presented obstacles, but he’d fixed on a weekend when he could make the long drive from Colorado. Deb would stay home to take care of their menagerie of animals, which included two dogs and two cats. Megan, fourteen then, would join him. He and his daughter left on Thursday, March 31, with plans for a two-day journey, Ron stopping to show Megan Phoenix, Tombstone and Bisbee. That first night, they stayed at a Super 8 motel in Phoenix. When they reached Douglas, late in the afternoon on Friday, they drove out to the prison just to make sure of its location. They did not want to get lost the next morning.

On Saturday, April 2, they rose early in their room at the Douglas Motel 6, Ron feeling impossibly nervous. They followed the same route the Justice Project team had taken two years before, back up Arizona 80, right on Highway 191, then seven miles winding through a barren reach of desert. Going through the initial gates and security process only tightened Ron’s nerves. In the entry area, where they had to show identification and pass through a metal detector, he grew even jumpier. A guard led them down the hallway, into the large visitation room full of round tables. Five steps into the room, Ron heard someone call out his name: “Ronnie?” He turned to see a man he did not know. “I’m your Uncle Bob,” the man said. This was Robert Macumber, Bill’s brother, who’d driven down from Illinois with his wife, Toots. With them were the Macumbers’ cousin Harleen and her husband, Jay, from Apache Junction. They’d all been visiting Bill regularly over the years, often taking their RVs, parking them ten miles from the prison in Double Adobe Campground, staying a whole week there so they could see Bill on two consecutive weekends. Jay and Harleen had even attended the Outlaw Rodeos. Bob Macumber was sixty-seven, two years younger than his brother, a bit shorter and stockier—closer to Ron’s size and build. Apparently Bill had arranged for everyone to meet this weekend. Ron felt weird at first—he didn’t remember these people—but soon they were making introductions.
This is Megan. This is Toots
. Bob told Ron, “You can’t imagine how long we have been waiting for this moment.” They began talking, catching up, sharing reports about their families. Ron had his back turned to the interior door where prisoners entered the visitation area. Megan put her hand on his arm. “Dad,” she said. “He’s here.” She had not seen a picture of Bill; she just knew. Ron turned around. Holy crap, he thought. He’s tall. At six foot four, Ron couldn’t remember ever looking up at anyone. He did now. Father and son said nothing at first, just hugged. Bill was crying, Ron was crying, Megan was crying. Finally, everyone sat down at one of the big round tables. Ron had only an entire lifetime to review for them. The others explained how they’d tried to find him and his brothers. Bill, a natural storyteller, recalled things he and Ron used to do together. He also spoke of his own childhood, his and Bob’s, growing up in Iowa. Bob pitched in with stories, as did Toots and Jay and Harleen.

Eventually, they started talking about the case, started to go over the many questions Ron had. Issues about Carol and her family. All the elements of what had happened. Ron learned about his Uncle Bob dating Carol before Bill. He heard more about the kitchen-window shooting and his mom’s relationship with the sheriff’s department. Bob told of how sheriff’s deputies had picked up both his and Bill’s .45 pistols for testing back in 1962. Sitting and listening, Ron thought, They can’t possibly be here
concocting
this stuff on Bill’s behalf. It had to be true. He’d grown ever more convinced of his father’s innocence. He regretted thinking of his father as such a horrible person for so many years. Ron dreamed of the day he’d be freed.

By Sunday afternoon, the talk had turned back to memories and tall tales. Bob told Ron he had a lot of Bill’s stuff—drafts, writings, photos of great-grandparents, army mementos—that they wanted to give him. Everyone made plans for future visits. Ron vowed to try to get back to Douglas twice a year—at least until they gained Bill’s release. That prospect sounded a gratifying final note. When visitation hours ended at 4:00
P.M.
, they all rose and hugged.

From the visitation area patio, looking through a chain-link fence, Bill Macumber watched Ron and Megan walk across the parking lot toward their car. Then he turned back to his cubicle. He thought he saw a great deal of himself in Ron, and a great deal of both of them in Megan. To him, reconnecting with Ron made everything else shrink to insignificance. He’d be seventy soon. If he died in prison, if he never got out, so what, it didn’t matter. These two days had been the finest and most wonderful he’d known in the past thirty years.

“My friends here have been kidding me for the last two days about coming back down to earth,” he wrote Ron on Tuesday. “I suppose I have been walking a foot off the ground since our visit, but it’s hard not to. I am happier right now than I have been for many, many years, and I’m sure it shows.”

CHAPTER 16

Playing Long Shots