Manifest Injustice (35 page)

At the end of the week, after mailing this, she received Hammond’s letter of March 12, with its invitation to give him a call. She did so on Friday evening. They still had never met, though their relationship had endured and evolved for ten and a half sometimes contentious years. They talked at length, sharing more than usual. Since their last contact, she told him, her husband had passed away, so she was alone now. She explained the living situation on her ranch, reminding him of her Colorado mailing address and lack of a landline. At least she had perfect cell phone coverage, she explained—an Alltel tower stood a mile from her house. She kept her cell phone with her at all times, so they could always reach her. And there might come a day when she’d be closer to them; she was trying to sell her land, though like many out there, she had received no serious offers. If she found a buyer, she’d move to Tucson. Wherever she lived, she would do anything within her power to help in the commutation process. After some discussion, Jackie and Larry agreed that she would try her best to attend the Phase II hearing, and there, before the board, she would offer to have Bill come live with her. “I would love nothing more,” she told Hammond, “than to end my days sharing my home with my cousin Bill.”

*   *   *

Three weeks later, in mid-April, Hammond and Bartels talked by phone to Macumber, with Katie on the line as well. This was Katie’s first contact with Bill—“I had never had the pleasure of meeting this young lady,” he would say later, “but she was to become a very important figure in my life.” Hammond had thought Katie “might enjoy” working on this case, and she did indeed. Larry’s letter to the board ahead of the Phase I hearing had galvanized her. She was twenty-six then, ready to tackle a worthy challenge. Ever since the Phase I hearing, she’d been recruiting law students, making assignments, and calling in the past generations of volunteers—Karen Killion and Sharon Sargent-Flack chief among them—to help prepare the Phase II memo.
My God
, she kept saying to everyone,
we need to do something
.

During the phone conference, she took copious notes. Hammond began by confirming to Bill that the Board of Executive Clemency had indeed passed him to a Phase II hearing—for some reason, Macumber had still not received official notice. The hearing, Larry explained, would be in Phoenix. They’d have Bill arrive a day before to talk to the Justice Project team. Or the team might instead travel to Douglas before he came to Phoenix. Hammond next recounted his conversation with Jackie, how she’d volunteered to assist throughout the proceedings and attend the hearing. They all talked, as well, about Bill’s living arrangements upon his release, how Jackie had offered her home, how Jackie might move to Tucson. Macumber’s preference, he let them know, would be to live at the ranch because he’d feel “free” there.

Macumber had another matter to discuss: his deep concern that the board might grant parole rather than release for time served. He worried mostly about how parole would affect his family. They had been dealing with his conviction and incarceration for thirty-five years, and he believed they had suffered too much already; he did not want to open the lives of his family to a parole officer, he did not want to sacrifice his relatives’ privacy to gain his freedom. Bartels tried to ease his concern: Parole supervision might not be overly invasive, he pointed out. No, Bill said, he didn’t want to risk even one visit to his family from a parole officer. Bartels suggested that Bill talk to his family members about this—they had stood by him for thirty-five years and might very well not mind the visits. Hammond added that the board might consider straight release for time served rather than parole; they could raise this with Duane Belcher. Okay, Bill said. He was willing to wait until the problem arose.

They were way ahead of themselves, of course, as Hammond pointed out. First they had to prevail at the Phase II hearing, where only a fraction of prisoners won a favorable ruling. That would require lots of preparation, both for the oral presentation and for the written letter to the board.

At the end of the conversation, as the others hung up, Katie found herself alone on the phone with Bill. Good-bye, take care, she told him.
Okay
, he said in his gravelly cowboy voice.
Okeydoke
. This phone conference left Katie fired up. They’d identified a number of factors that the board might look at favorably, including Bill’s age, his stellar record, and the high regard other inmates and prison staffers held for him. But “the factor I see to be the most significant,” Katie opined to the team in a memo that day, “is his persistent claim of innocence and the fact that a man by the name of Ernest Valenzuela confessed to the crime.”

Valenzuela’s confession represented a familiar dimension of the case, of course, but Katie Puzauskas brought fresh eyes to a file others had been thumbing through for a decade. She also brought her particular flair—she was a vivacious young woman with an efficient management style, unbounded compassion and an infectious spirit. Raised in Phoenix, she’d majored in psychology at the University of Arizona before enrolling in law school. Her mom was Italian, her father half Italian and half Lithuanian, making her, as she put it, “three-quarters Italian,” with half of the three-quarters being Sicilian—“we like to think of Sicily as its own country.” Her parents and assorted relatives—aunts, uncles, cousins, a grandfather—all lived in Arizona and always had food on the table: “We’re Italian!”

She now threw herself into planning for Bill’s Phase II hearing, Hammond having made her the Macumber case coordinator (she would later be named an overall Justice Project cases and programs coordinator). She arranged meetings, she fielded calls, she counseled family members, she rounded up letters of support, she corralled relatives to attend the hearing. The Justice Project wanted to show the board members that Bill had a support network out there, that they wouldn’t just be sending a lifer out into the world cold.

Hammond heard from Jackie on Saturday, May 2, six days before the hearing. She’d be coming in from New Mexico with her daughter, she reported in a phone call. Robyn had insisted on driving—
There’s snow on the ground and you might hit a cow
, she’d told her mom. They would arrive in Phoenix on Wednesday. Bob Macumber and his son, Mark, would arrive that Wednesday as well, flying in from Illinois. Of the family, only Ron, it turned out, couldn’t be there—work obligations would keep him in Colorado.

The generations of law student volunteers were coming as well. Karen Killion from up near Seattle, Sharon Sargent-Flack from Prescott; Jen Roach, Jenifer Swisher, Pete Rodriguez, Ty Jacobson—they’d all be there. Rich Robertson, too, of course, and Bob Bartels and Donna Toland and Carrie Sperling, who was then serving as the project’s executive director. All the volunteers, from near and far.
What the fuck
, Larry thought. It had suddenly become, for him, just that: an amazing what-the-fuck moment. He couldn’t believe it—hell, this case had been
closed
.

That week, calls from Macumber family members kept flooding the Justice Project and Hammond’s law office. Jackie had the most questions. What should she say at the hearing? What should she do? Where should she stay in Phoenix? Are there freeways in Phoenix? She hoped not, she didn’t like driving on freeways. She didn’t really want to drive at all in Phoenix. Could Larry come get them at their motel, take them to the hearing? These weren’t the sorts of tasks and issues high-priced senior lawyers usually handled, but Hammond found it all quite interesting. He decided everyone should meet at the Osborn Maledon law office at 1:30
P.M.
on Thursday, May 7, the day before the hearing: the Justice Project team and the Macumber clan, together in person for the first time.

*   *   *

First, though, the project lawyers had to complete and deliver their all-important memo to the board, presenting an overview of the Macumber case. They’d blown past their Tuesday, May 5, deadline. The initial draft by Karen and Sharon, working off a core synopsis by Bartels, had come in at thirty pages, but Hammond thought it should be ten maximum—they wanted the board members to read it, after all. Katie, Karen, and Sharon went to work on paring it down, with everyone else contributing, Bartels and Hammond reviewing. They were still polishing it on Thursday morning, two days past the deadline. Not until late that morning did they hand their final version—ten pages, single-spaced, plus Tom O’Toole’s two-page affidavit—to IntelliServe for high-priority delivery to the board’s offices. The messenger gave it to the receptionist there at 12:46
P.M.
—forty-four minutes before Jackie and her relatives were due to arrive at Osborn Maledon, she to meet Larry Hammond for the first time.

*   *   *

Larry wrapped Jackie in his arms, giving her a big hug, when he found her standing at the receptionist’s counter. Jackie felt as if a slowly drawn circle had finally been completed. They liked each other instantly, despite all their difficult exchanges over the years. At 1:30, everyone filed into a conference room on the twentieth floor: Larry and Donna; Jackie and Robyn; Bill’s cousin Harleen and her husband, Jay; Bill’s brother, Bob, and his son, Mark. On speakerphone were Rich Robertson and Katie Puzauskas, who had remained at the Justice Project headquarters. As they began to talk, Katie suddenly thought, Wait, what about Ron? She’d just been on the phone with him, so she called him back and hooked him in. Listening to everyone greet him, she realized Ron was just now “meeting” some of his family—Jackie, Robyn, his first cousin Mark—for the first time since his early childhood. Then Hammond began walking everyone through what would happen the next morning. He and Bob Bartels would make the core presentation. Larry would offer a general overview, Bob would talk about the investigation and evidence. Everyone else would have a chance to speak, too. Karen and Sharon could explain how long they’d been involved with Bill’s case. Pete and Ty could detail Bill’s medical condition and his accomplishments in prison. Jackie could talk of Bill’s plans upon release. Everyone could show their support for Bill.

Listening on the phone from Colorado, Ron grew increasingly restless and upset. Just three weeks before, in mid-April, he’d taken time off from work to visit his dad. Because of that trip, he couldn’t take more time off this week. But he kicked himself now, listening to them all talk about the plans for the next day. He wanted to be there, he should be there. Across their living room, Deb studied his expression and listened to his tone as he spoke into the phone. In an instant, she turned to her computer screen and began searching for flights to Phoenix. Ron, seeing this, excused himself temporarily from the conference call, hanging up so he could phone his supervisor at Shamrock Foods and arrange for more time off. Deb found him a flight. Ron rejoined the conference call. “I’m flying in tonight,” he announced. “I’ll be there for the hearing.” Around the conference room table, everyone started clapping. Whenever you land, Harleen and Jay offered, we’ll pick you up, and you can stay with us. Bob Macumber said he and Mark would also greet him at the airport. Hammond, for once, tried to warn and discourage: It’s such a long way to come, you might only get to talk for a minute or two. But Ron, determined now, didn’t have time for discussion. His flight was taking off in two hours.

In the conference room, their conversation continued. Robert Macumber had a story to tell—a memory from just after Bill’s arrest in 1974. He and his dad wanted to know more about why Bill had been arrested; they wanted to understand the evidence. So Bill’s appointed lawyer got them in to see it all at the sheriff’s department. When they arrived, the deputies took them into an open area. No red tape, no special arrangements. The evidence just sat there in a couple of short filing boxes. The deputies let them handle everything, including the prints and shell casings. The casings were in a three-by-five-inch box, the prints in one the size of a shoe box. Bob and Harold saw the fingerprint lifts on the cards. Not photos—the actual cards. They touched the items without anyone giving them a second glance.

Bob paused, replaying this moment in his mind, then continued. While looking at this evidence, he said, he noticed something odd: a difference between the palm print card and the other print cards. The fingerprints were mounted on dark tan paper that looked really old, while the palm print was on thicker, manila card stock that seemed newer. The fingerprints were all brown and dated; the palm print had no deterioration at all.

Bob shook his head at the memory. He hadn’t realized the significance then. What a mistake. He wished he’d just slipped that card into his pocket. Sure, they would have arrested him. He would have had to serve two or three years. But he would have saved Bill from a life in prison.

Bob offered the Justice Project team yet another memory from back then. After looking at the shell casings, he suggested to Bill’s lawyer that they view them under the scanning electron microscope at Motorola, where he worked. The sheriff’s department had nothing like that, he pointed out. Maybe they could settle whether the shell casings truly matched Bill’s gun. It took a while, but the sheriff’s department finally said okay. They sent two plainclothes deputies out to Motorola. Bob checked them in at the gate and took them to the SEM lab, where they handed the casings to the lab director. Bob stayed in the lab with the director and the casings, while the deputies stood out in the hallway. The lab director put the casings through the SEM and took pictures. He and Bob could see something, but no distinguishing marks. When they finished, the deputies returned the cartridges and the photos to the department. Those photos were never used at trial, never even mentioned.

Bob Macumber looked around the Osborn Maledon conference room, again shaking his head.

Okay, Hammond said. This is something for you to tell the board tomorrow morning.

*   *   *

Ron’s plane landed at 10:00 that night. A welcoming team—Harleen and Jay, Bob and Mark—greeted him at the airport. Ron had met everyone but Mark at the state prison during his first visit to Douglas. He and his first cousin, a doctor and assistant professor at the Northwestern University medical school in Chicago, had last seen each other when they were four years old. At the curb, Mark came up to introduce himself. Ron put out his hand to shake. Mark said, No, that’s not good enough. They hugged instead. Back at Harleen and Jay’s home in Apache Junction, Ron felt too jumpy to consider sleep. So he and Mark stayed up late, talking. Mark had gotten to know Bill in a way Ron hadn’t, because as a boy, growing up, he’d often visited his uncle in prison. He could tell Ronnie about the father he’d missed knowing all those years.