John Grisham - The Innocent Man

The source went on: "Elimination of the possibility that the bloody palm print was someone other than the victim was crucial to the investigation. "

"I do feel better about the case," Peterson said.

He obtained warrants for the arrests of Ron Williamson and Dennis Fritz.

On Friday morning, May 8, Kick Carson saw Ron pushing the lawn mower with three wheels along a street on the west side of town. The two talked for a moment. Ron, with long hair, no shirt, ragged jeans, and sneakers, looked as rough as always. He wanted to get a job with the city, and Rick promised to stop by and pick up an application. Ron said he would wait at home that night.

Carson then informed his lieutenant that he knew their suspect would in fact be hanging around his apartment on West Twelfth later in the evening. The arrest was planned, and Rick asked to be involved. If Ron turned violent, Rick wanted to make sure no one got hurt. Instead, four other policemen were sent, including Detective Mike Baskin.

Ron was taken into custody without incident. He was wearing the same jeans and sneakers and was still shirtless. At the jail, Mike Baskin read him his Miranda rights and asked if he would like to talk. Sure, why not. Detective James Fox joined the interview. Ron repeatedly said he had never met Debbie Carter, had never been in her apartment, and to the best of his knowledge had never seen her. He never wavered, in spite of some yelling and bullying from the cops, who said over and over that they knew Ron was guilty.

Ron was placed in the county jail. At least a month had passed since he had taken any medications.

Dennis Fritz was living with his mother and an aunt in Kansas City, keeping busy by painting houses. He'd left Ada a few months earlier. His friendship with Ron Williamson was a distant memory. He hadn't talked to a detective in four years and had almost forgotten about the Carter murder.

Late on the evening of May 8, he was watching television by himself. He had worked all day and was still wearing his dirty painters' whites. The night was warm, the windows were open. The phone rang, and an unidentified female voice asked, "Is Dennis Fritz there?"

"I'm Dennis Fritz," he answered, and she hung up. Perhaps it was a wrong number, or perhaps his ex-wife was up to something. He settled back in front of the television. His mother and aunt were already asleep in the rear of the house. It was almost 11:30. Fifteen minutes later he heard a series of car doors slam nearby. He got up, barefoot, and was walking to the front door when he saw a small army of combat-ready troops, dressed in black and heavily armed, moving across the lawn. What the hell? he thought. For a split second he considered calling the police.

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 ofAda 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.