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The Innocent Man: Murder and Injustice in a Small Town Paperback – Illustrated, November 20, 2007
by
John Grisham
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John Grisham
(Author)
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Print length400 pages
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LanguageEnglish
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PublisherBantam
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Publication dateNovember 20, 2007
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Dimensions5.29 x 1.08 x 7.98 inches
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ISBN-100385340915
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ISBN-13978-0385340915
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“A gritty, harrowing true-crime story.” —Time
“A triumph.” —Seattle Times
“Grisham has crafted a legal thriller every bit as suspenseful and fast-paced as his best-selling fiction.” —Boston Globe
“A triumph.” —Seattle Times
“Grisham has crafted a legal thriller every bit as suspenseful and fast-paced as his best-selling fiction.” —Boston Globe
About the Author
Since first publishing A Time to Kill in 1988, Grisham has written one novel a year (his other books are The Firm, The Pelican Brief, The Client, The Chamber, The Rainmaker, The Runaway Jury, The Partner, The Street Lawyer, The Testament, The Brethren, A Painted House, Skipping Christmas, The Summons, The King of Torts, Bleachers, The Last Juror, and The Broker) and all of them have become international bestsellers. The Innocent Man (October 2006) marks his first foray into non-fiction.
Grisham lives with his wife Renee and their two children Ty and Shea. The family splits their time between their Victorian home on a farm in Mississippi and a plantation near Charlottesville, VA.
Grisham lives with his wife Renee and their two children Ty and Shea. The family splits their time between their Victorian home on a farm in Mississippi and a plantation near Charlottesville, VA.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
The rolling hills of southeast Oklahoma stretch from Norman across to Arkansas and show little evidence of the vast deposits of crude oil that were once beneath them. Some old rigs dot the countryside; the active ones churn on, pumping out a few gallons with each slow turn and prompting a passerby to ask if the effort is really worth it. Many have simply given up, and sit motionless amid the fields as corroding reminders of the glory days of gushers and wildcatters and instant fortunes.
There are rigs scattered through the farmland around Ada, an old oil town of sixteen thousand with a college and a county courthouse. The rigs are idle, though–the oil is gone. Money is now made in Ada by the hour in factories and feed mills and on pecan farms.
Downtown Ada is a busy place. There are no empty or boarded-up buildings on Main Street. The merchants survive, though much of their business has moved to the edge of town. The cafés are crowded at lunch.
The Pontotoc County Courthouse is old and cramped and full of lawyers and their clients. Around it is the usual hodgepodge of county buildings and law offices. The jail, a squat, windowless bomb shelter, was for some forgotten reason built on the courthouse lawn. The methamphetamine scourge keeps it full.
Main Street ends at the campus of East Central University, home to four thousand students, many of them commuters. The school pumps life into the community with a fresh supply of young people and a faculty that adds some diversity to southeastern Oklahoma.
Few things escape the attention of the Ada Evening News, a lively daily that covers the region and works hard to compete with The Oklahoman, the state’s largest paper. There’s usually world and national news on the front page, then state and regional, then the important items–high school sports, local politics, community calendars, and obituaries.
The people of Ada and Pontotoc County are a pleasant blend of small-town southerners and independent westerners. The accent could be from east Texas or Arkansas, with flat i’s and other long vowels. It’s Chickasaw country. Oklahoma has more Native Americans than any other state, and after a hundred years of mixing many of the white folks have Indian blood. The stigma is fading fast; indeed, there is now pride in the heritage.
The Bible Belt runs hard through Ada. The town has fifty churches from a dozen strains of Christianity. They are active places, and not just on Sundays. There is one Catholic church, and one for the Episcopalians, but no temple or synagogue. Most folks are Christians, or claim to be, and belonging to a church is rather expected. A person’s social status is often determined by religious affiliation.
With sixteen thousand people, Ada is considered large for rural Oklahoma, and it attracts factories and discount stores. Workers and shoppers make the drive from several counties. It is eighty miles south and east of Oklahoma City, and three hours north of Dallas. Everybody knows somebody working or living in Texas.
The biggest source of local pride is the quarter-horse “bidness.” Some of the best horses are bred by Ada ranchers. And when the Ada High Cougars win another state title in football, the town struts for years.
It’s a friendly place, filled with people who speak to strangers and always to each other and are anxious to help anyone in need. Kids play on shaded front lawns. Doors are left open during the day. Teenagers cruise through the night causing little trouble.
Had it not been for two notorious murders in the early 1980s, Ada would have gone unnoticed by the world. And that would have been just fine with the good folks of Pontotoc County.
As if by some unwritten city ordinance, most of the nightclubs and watering holes in Ada were on the periphery of the town, banished to the edges to keep the riffraff and their mischief away from the better folks. The Coachlight was one such place, a cavernous metal building with bad lighting, cheap beer, jukeboxes, a weekend band, a dance floor, and outside a sprawling gravel parking lot where dusty pickups greatly outnumbered sedans. Its regulars were what you would expect–factory workers looking for a drink before heading home, country boys looking for fun, late-night twenty-somethings, and the dance and party crowd there to listen to live music. Vince Gill and Randy Travis passed through early in their careers.
It was a popular and busy place, employing many part-time bartenders and bouncers and cocktail waitresses. One was Debbie Carter, a twenty-one-year-old local girl who’d graduated from Ada High School a few years earlier and was enjoying the single life. She held two other part-time jobs and also worked occasionally as a babysitter. Debbie had her own car and lived by herself in a three-room apartment above a garage on Eighth Street, near East Central University. She was a pretty girl, darkhaired, slender, athletic, popular with the boys, and very independent.
Her mother, Peggy Stillwell, worried that she was spending too much time at the Coachlight and other clubs. She had not raised her daughter to live such a life; in fact, Debbie had been raised in the church. After high school, though, she began partying and keeping later hours. Peggy objected and they fought occasionally over the new lifestyle. Debbie became determined to have her independence. She found an apartment, left home, but remained very close to her mother.
On the night of December 7, 1982, Debbie was working at the Coachlight, serving drinks and watching the clock. It was a slow night, and she asked her boss if she could go off-duty and hang out with some friends. He did not object, and she was soon sitting at a table having a drink with Gina Vietta, a close friend from high school, and some others. Another friend from high school, Glen Gore, stopped by and asked Debbie to dance. She did, but halfway through the song she suddenly stopped and angrily walked away from Gore. Later, in the ladies’ restroom, she said she would feel safer if one of her girlfriends would spend the night at her place, but she did not say what worried her.
The Coachlight began closing early, around 12:30 a.m., and Gina Vietta invited several of their group to have another drink at her apartment. Most said yes; Debbie, though, was tired and hungry and just wanted to go home. They drifted out of the club, in no particular hurry.
Several people saw Debbie in the parking lot chatting with Glen Gore as the Coachlight was shutting down. Tommy Glover knew Debbie well because he worked with her at a local glass company. He also knew Gore. As he was getting in his pickup truck to leave, he saw Debbie open the driver’s door of her car. Gore appeared from nowhere, they talked for a few seconds, then she pushed him away.
Mike and Terri Carpenter both worked at the Coachlight, he as a bouncer, she as a waitress. As they were walking to their car, they passed Debbie’s. She was in the driver’s seat, talking to Glen Gore, who was standing beside her door. The Carpenters waved good-bye and kept walking. A month earlier Debbie had told Mike that she was afraid of Gore because of his temper.
Toni Ramsey worked at the club as a shoe-shine girl. The oil business was still booming in Oklahoma in 1982. There were plenty of nice boots being worn around Ada. Someone had to shine them, and Toni picked up some much-needed cash. She knew Gore well. As Toni left that night, she saw Debbie sitting behind the wheel of her car. Gore was on the passenger’s side, crouching by the open door, outside the car. They were talking in what seemed to be a civilized manner. Nothing appeared to be wrong.
Gore, who didn’t own a car, had bummed a ride to the Coachlight with an acquaintance named Ron West, arriving there around 11:30. West ordered beers and settled in to relax while Gore made the rounds. He seemed to know everyone. When last call was announced, West grabbed Gore and asked him if he still needed a ride. Yes, Gore said, so West went to the parking lot and waited for him. A few minutes passed, then Gore appeared in a rush and got in.
They decided they were hungry, so West drove to a downtown café called the Waffler, where they ordered a quick breakfast. West paid for the meal, just as he’d paid for the drinks at the Coachlight. He had started the night at Harold’s, another club where he’d gone looking for some business associates. Instead, he bumped into Gore, who worked there as an occasional bartender and disc jockey. The two hardly knew each oher, but when Gore asked for a ride to the Coachlight, West couldn’t say no.
West was a happily married father with two young daughters and didn’t routinely keep late hours in bars. He wanted to go home but was stuck with Gore, who was becoming more expensive by the hour. When they left the café, West asked his passenger where he wanted to go. To his mother’s house, Gore said, on Oak Street, just a few blocks to the north. West knew the town well and headed that way, but before they made it to Oak Street, Gore suddenly changed his mind. After riding around with West for several hours, Gore wanted to walk. The temperature was frigid and falling, with a raw wind. A cold front was moving in.
They stopped near the Oak Avenue Baptist Church, not far from where Gore said his mother lived. He jumped out, said thanks for everything, and began walking west.
The Oak Avenue Baptist Church was about a mile from Debbie Carter’s apartment.
Gore’s mother actually lived on the other side of town, nowhere near the church.
Around 2:30 a.m., Gina Vietta was in her apartment with some friends when she received two unusual phone calls, both from Debbie Carter. In the first call, Debbie asked Gina to drive over and pick her up because someone, a visitor, was in her apartment and he was making her feel uncomfortable. Gina asked who it was, who was there? The conversation was cut short by muffled voices and the sounds of a struggle over the use of the phone. Gina was rightfully worried and thought the request strange. Debbie had her own car, a 1975 Oldsmobile, and could certainly drive herself anywhere. As Gina was hurriedly leaving her apartment, the phone rang again. It was Debbie, saying that she had changed her mind, things were fine on her end, don’t bother. Gina again asked who the visitor was, but Debbie changed the subject and would not give his name. She asked Gina to call her in the morning, to wake her so she wouldn’t be late for work. It was an odd request, one Debbie had never made before.
Gina started to drive over anyway, but had second thoughts. She had guests in her apartment. It was very late. Debbie Carter could take care of herself, and besides, if she had a guy in her room, Gina didn’t want to intrude. Gina went to bed and forgot to call Debbie a few hours later.
Around 11:00 a.m. on December 8, Donna Johnson stopped by to say hello to Debbie. The two had been close in high school before Donna moved to Shawnee, an hour away. She was in town for the day to see her parents and catch up with some friends. As she bounced up the narrow outdoor staircase to Debbie’s garage apartment, she slowed when she realized she was stepping on broken glass. The small window in the door was broken. For some reason, her first thought was that Debbie had locked her keys inside and been forced to break a window to get in.
Donna knocked on the door. There was no answer. Then she heard music from a radio inside. When she turned the knob, she realized the door was not locked. One step inside, and she knew something was wrong.
The small den was a wreck–sofa cushions thrown on the floor, clothing scattered about. Across the wall to the right someone had scrawled, with some type of reddish liquid, the words “Jim Smith next will die.”
Donna yelled Debbie’s name; no response. She had been in the apartment once before, so she moved quickly to the bedroom, still calling for her friend. The bed had been moved, yanked out of place, all the covers pulled off. She saw a foot, then on the floor on the other side of the bed she saw Debbie–facedown, nude, bloody, with something written on her back.
Donna froze in horror, unable to step forward, instead staring at her friend and waiting for her to breathe. Maybe it was just a dream, she thought.
She backed away and stepped into the kitchen, where, on a small white table, she saw more words scribbled and left behind by the killer. He could still be there, she suddenly thought, then ran from the apartment to her car. She sped down the street to a convenience store where she found a phone and called Debbie’s mother.
Peggy Stillwell heard the words, but could not believe them. Her daughter was lying on the floor nude, bloodied, not moving. She made Donna repeat what she had said, then ran to her car. The battery was dead. Numb with fear, she ran back inside and called Charlie Carter, Debbie’s father and her ex-husband. The divorce a few years earlier had not been amicable, and the two rarely spoke.
No one answered at Charlie Carter’s. A friend named Carol Edwards lived across the street from Debbie. Peggy called her, told her something was terribly wrong, and asked her to run and check on her daughter. Then Peggy waited and waited. Finally she called Charlie again, and he answered the phone.
Carol Edwards ran down the street to the apartment, noticed the same broken glass and the open front door. She stepped inside and saw the body.
Charlie Carter was a thick-chested brick mason who occasionally worked as a bouncer at the Coachlight. He jumped in his pickup and raced toward his daughter’s apartment, along the way thinking every horrible thought a father could have. The scene was worse than anything he could have imagined.
When he saw her body, he called her name twice. He knelt beside her, gently lifted her shoulder so he could see her face. A bloody washcloth was stuck in her mouth. He was certain his daughter was dead, but he waited anyway, hoping for some sign of life. When there was none, he stood slowly and looked around. The bed had been moved, shoved away from the wall, the covers were missing, the room was in disarray. Obviously, there had been a struggle. He walked to the den and saw the words on the wall, then he went to the kitchen and looked around. It was a crime scene now. Charlie stuffed his hands in his pockets and left.
Donna Johnson and Carol Edwards were on the landing outside the front door, crying and waiting. They heard Charlie say good-bye to his daughter and tell her how sorry he was for what had happened to her. When he stumbled outside, he was crying, too.
“Should I call an ambulance?” Donna asked.
“No,” he said. “Ambulance won’t do no good. Call the police.”
The rolling hills of southeast Oklahoma stretch from Norman across to Arkansas and show little evidence of the vast deposits of crude oil that were once beneath them. Some old rigs dot the countryside; the active ones churn on, pumping out a few gallons with each slow turn and prompting a passerby to ask if the effort is really worth it. Many have simply given up, and sit motionless amid the fields as corroding reminders of the glory days of gushers and wildcatters and instant fortunes.
There are rigs scattered through the farmland around Ada, an old oil town of sixteen thousand with a college and a county courthouse. The rigs are idle, though–the oil is gone. Money is now made in Ada by the hour in factories and feed mills and on pecan farms.
Downtown Ada is a busy place. There are no empty or boarded-up buildings on Main Street. The merchants survive, though much of their business has moved to the edge of town. The cafés are crowded at lunch.
The Pontotoc County Courthouse is old and cramped and full of lawyers and their clients. Around it is the usual hodgepodge of county buildings and law offices. The jail, a squat, windowless bomb shelter, was for some forgotten reason built on the courthouse lawn. The methamphetamine scourge keeps it full.
Main Street ends at the campus of East Central University, home to four thousand students, many of them commuters. The school pumps life into the community with a fresh supply of young people and a faculty that adds some diversity to southeastern Oklahoma.
Few things escape the attention of the Ada Evening News, a lively daily that covers the region and works hard to compete with The Oklahoman, the state’s largest paper. There’s usually world and national news on the front page, then state and regional, then the important items–high school sports, local politics, community calendars, and obituaries.
The people of Ada and Pontotoc County are a pleasant blend of small-town southerners and independent westerners. The accent could be from east Texas or Arkansas, with flat i’s and other long vowels. It’s Chickasaw country. Oklahoma has more Native Americans than any other state, and after a hundred years of mixing many of the white folks have Indian blood. The stigma is fading fast; indeed, there is now pride in the heritage.
The Bible Belt runs hard through Ada. The town has fifty churches from a dozen strains of Christianity. They are active places, and not just on Sundays. There is one Catholic church, and one for the Episcopalians, but no temple or synagogue. Most folks are Christians, or claim to be, and belonging to a church is rather expected. A person’s social status is often determined by religious affiliation.
With sixteen thousand people, Ada is considered large for rural Oklahoma, and it attracts factories and discount stores. Workers and shoppers make the drive from several counties. It is eighty miles south and east of Oklahoma City, and three hours north of Dallas. Everybody knows somebody working or living in Texas.
The biggest source of local pride is the quarter-horse “bidness.” Some of the best horses are bred by Ada ranchers. And when the Ada High Cougars win another state title in football, the town struts for years.
It’s a friendly place, filled with people who speak to strangers and always to each other and are anxious to help anyone in need. Kids play on shaded front lawns. Doors are left open during the day. Teenagers cruise through the night causing little trouble.
Had it not been for two notorious murders in the early 1980s, Ada would have gone unnoticed by the world. And that would have been just fine with the good folks of Pontotoc County.
As if by some unwritten city ordinance, most of the nightclubs and watering holes in Ada were on the periphery of the town, banished to the edges to keep the riffraff and their mischief away from the better folks. The Coachlight was one such place, a cavernous metal building with bad lighting, cheap beer, jukeboxes, a weekend band, a dance floor, and outside a sprawling gravel parking lot where dusty pickups greatly outnumbered sedans. Its regulars were what you would expect–factory workers looking for a drink before heading home, country boys looking for fun, late-night twenty-somethings, and the dance and party crowd there to listen to live music. Vince Gill and Randy Travis passed through early in their careers.
It was a popular and busy place, employing many part-time bartenders and bouncers and cocktail waitresses. One was Debbie Carter, a twenty-one-year-old local girl who’d graduated from Ada High School a few years earlier and was enjoying the single life. She held two other part-time jobs and also worked occasionally as a babysitter. Debbie had her own car and lived by herself in a three-room apartment above a garage on Eighth Street, near East Central University. She was a pretty girl, darkhaired, slender, athletic, popular with the boys, and very independent.
Her mother, Peggy Stillwell, worried that she was spending too much time at the Coachlight and other clubs. She had not raised her daughter to live such a life; in fact, Debbie had been raised in the church. After high school, though, she began partying and keeping later hours. Peggy objected and they fought occasionally over the new lifestyle. Debbie became determined to have her independence. She found an apartment, left home, but remained very close to her mother.
On the night of December 7, 1982, Debbie was working at the Coachlight, serving drinks and watching the clock. It was a slow night, and she asked her boss if she could go off-duty and hang out with some friends. He did not object, and she was soon sitting at a table having a drink with Gina Vietta, a close friend from high school, and some others. Another friend from high school, Glen Gore, stopped by and asked Debbie to dance. She did, but halfway through the song she suddenly stopped and angrily walked away from Gore. Later, in the ladies’ restroom, she said she would feel safer if one of her girlfriends would spend the night at her place, but she did not say what worried her.
The Coachlight began closing early, around 12:30 a.m., and Gina Vietta invited several of their group to have another drink at her apartment. Most said yes; Debbie, though, was tired and hungry and just wanted to go home. They drifted out of the club, in no particular hurry.
Several people saw Debbie in the parking lot chatting with Glen Gore as the Coachlight was shutting down. Tommy Glover knew Debbie well because he worked with her at a local glass company. He also knew Gore. As he was getting in his pickup truck to leave, he saw Debbie open the driver’s door of her car. Gore appeared from nowhere, they talked for a few seconds, then she pushed him away.
Mike and Terri Carpenter both worked at the Coachlight, he as a bouncer, she as a waitress. As they were walking to their car, they passed Debbie’s. She was in the driver’s seat, talking to Glen Gore, who was standing beside her door. The Carpenters waved good-bye and kept walking. A month earlier Debbie had told Mike that she was afraid of Gore because of his temper.
Toni Ramsey worked at the club as a shoe-shine girl. The oil business was still booming in Oklahoma in 1982. There were plenty of nice boots being worn around Ada. Someone had to shine them, and Toni picked up some much-needed cash. She knew Gore well. As Toni left that night, she saw Debbie sitting behind the wheel of her car. Gore was on the passenger’s side, crouching by the open door, outside the car. They were talking in what seemed to be a civilized manner. Nothing appeared to be wrong.
Gore, who didn’t own a car, had bummed a ride to the Coachlight with an acquaintance named Ron West, arriving there around 11:30. West ordered beers and settled in to relax while Gore made the rounds. He seemed to know everyone. When last call was announced, West grabbed Gore and asked him if he still needed a ride. Yes, Gore said, so West went to the parking lot and waited for him. A few minutes passed, then Gore appeared in a rush and got in.
They decided they were hungry, so West drove to a downtown café called the Waffler, where they ordered a quick breakfast. West paid for the meal, just as he’d paid for the drinks at the Coachlight. He had started the night at Harold’s, another club where he’d gone looking for some business associates. Instead, he bumped into Gore, who worked there as an occasional bartender and disc jockey. The two hardly knew each oher, but when Gore asked for a ride to the Coachlight, West couldn’t say no.
West was a happily married father with two young daughters and didn’t routinely keep late hours in bars. He wanted to go home but was stuck with Gore, who was becoming more expensive by the hour. When they left the café, West asked his passenger where he wanted to go. To his mother’s house, Gore said, on Oak Street, just a few blocks to the north. West knew the town well and headed that way, but before they made it to Oak Street, Gore suddenly changed his mind. After riding around with West for several hours, Gore wanted to walk. The temperature was frigid and falling, with a raw wind. A cold front was moving in.
They stopped near the Oak Avenue Baptist Church, not far from where Gore said his mother lived. He jumped out, said thanks for everything, and began walking west.
The Oak Avenue Baptist Church was about a mile from Debbie Carter’s apartment.
Gore’s mother actually lived on the other side of town, nowhere near the church.
Around 2:30 a.m., Gina Vietta was in her apartment with some friends when she received two unusual phone calls, both from Debbie Carter. In the first call, Debbie asked Gina to drive over and pick her up because someone, a visitor, was in her apartment and he was making her feel uncomfortable. Gina asked who it was, who was there? The conversation was cut short by muffled voices and the sounds of a struggle over the use of the phone. Gina was rightfully worried and thought the request strange. Debbie had her own car, a 1975 Oldsmobile, and could certainly drive herself anywhere. As Gina was hurriedly leaving her apartment, the phone rang again. It was Debbie, saying that she had changed her mind, things were fine on her end, don’t bother. Gina again asked who the visitor was, but Debbie changed the subject and would not give his name. She asked Gina to call her in the morning, to wake her so she wouldn’t be late for work. It was an odd request, one Debbie had never made before.
Gina started to drive over anyway, but had second thoughts. She had guests in her apartment. It was very late. Debbie Carter could take care of herself, and besides, if she had a guy in her room, Gina didn’t want to intrude. Gina went to bed and forgot to call Debbie a few hours later.
Around 11:00 a.m. on December 8, Donna Johnson stopped by to say hello to Debbie. The two had been close in high school before Donna moved to Shawnee, an hour away. She was in town for the day to see her parents and catch up with some friends. As she bounced up the narrow outdoor staircase to Debbie’s garage apartment, she slowed when she realized she was stepping on broken glass. The small window in the door was broken. For some reason, her first thought was that Debbie had locked her keys inside and been forced to break a window to get in.
Donna knocked on the door. There was no answer. Then she heard music from a radio inside. When she turned the knob, she realized the door was not locked. One step inside, and she knew something was wrong.
The small den was a wreck–sofa cushions thrown on the floor, clothing scattered about. Across the wall to the right someone had scrawled, with some type of reddish liquid, the words “Jim Smith next will die.”
Donna yelled Debbie’s name; no response. She had been in the apartment once before, so she moved quickly to the bedroom, still calling for her friend. The bed had been moved, yanked out of place, all the covers pulled off. She saw a foot, then on the floor on the other side of the bed she saw Debbie–facedown, nude, bloody, with something written on her back.
Donna froze in horror, unable to step forward, instead staring at her friend and waiting for her to breathe. Maybe it was just a dream, she thought.
She backed away and stepped into the kitchen, where, on a small white table, she saw more words scribbled and left behind by the killer. He could still be there, she suddenly thought, then ran from the apartment to her car. She sped down the street to a convenience store where she found a phone and called Debbie’s mother.
Peggy Stillwell heard the words, but could not believe them. Her daughter was lying on the floor nude, bloodied, not moving. She made Donna repeat what she had said, then ran to her car. The battery was dead. Numb with fear, she ran back inside and called Charlie Carter, Debbie’s father and her ex-husband. The divorce a few years earlier had not been amicable, and the two rarely spoke.
No one answered at Charlie Carter’s. A friend named Carol Edwards lived across the street from Debbie. Peggy called her, told her something was terribly wrong, and asked her to run and check on her daughter. Then Peggy waited and waited. Finally she called Charlie again, and he answered the phone.
Carol Edwards ran down the street to the apartment, noticed the same broken glass and the open front door. She stepped inside and saw the body.
Charlie Carter was a thick-chested brick mason who occasionally worked as a bouncer at the Coachlight. He jumped in his pickup and raced toward his daughter’s apartment, along the way thinking every horrible thought a father could have. The scene was worse than anything he could have imagined.
When he saw her body, he called her name twice. He knelt beside her, gently lifted her shoulder so he could see her face. A bloody washcloth was stuck in her mouth. He was certain his daughter was dead, but he waited anyway, hoping for some sign of life. When there was none, he stood slowly and looked around. The bed had been moved, shoved away from the wall, the covers were missing, the room was in disarray. Obviously, there had been a struggle. He walked to the den and saw the words on the wall, then he went to the kitchen and looked around. It was a crime scene now. Charlie stuffed his hands in his pockets and left.
Donna Johnson and Carol Edwards were on the landing outside the front door, crying and waiting. They heard Charlie say good-bye to his daughter and tell her how sorry he was for what had happened to her. When he stumbled outside, he was crying, too.
“Should I call an ambulance?” Donna asked.
“No,” he said. “Ambulance won’t do no good. Call the police.”
Product details
- Publisher : Bantam (November 20, 2007)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 400 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0385340915
- ISBN-13 : 978-0385340915
- Item Weight : 12.5 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.29 x 1.08 x 7.98 inches
- Customer Reviews:
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Customer reviews
4.4 out of 5 stars
4.4 out of 5
3,855 global ratings
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Reviewed in the United States on February 12, 2016
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The Innocent Man is the true story of Ron Williamson, who spent 18 years in prison for a crime he didn't commit. Ron was a severely troubled man, whose early dreams of playing professional baseball were trashed and he spent most of his adult life battling mental illness and addiction, as well as being behind bars for the majority of it. While I did not find this work of non-fiction nearly as riveting as Grisham's fiction novels, I think the author did a good job of not only highlighting the injustices in our so-called justice system, but also the failure in America to adequately treat mental illness and addiction, as well as calling into question the ethicality of employing capital punishment when so many wrongful convictions are given out. Generally when I read true crime, I'm there more for the details of the case than the personal story. I found it to be the opposite with this book. I don't think Grisham is quite "there" yet, with his handling of the more technical aspects of the case. At times I really had to plod through. But Ron's story hooked me from the beginning and I was compelled to finish it out for him. My only other complaint is that I personally feel the author revealed too much too soon. Going in, all I knew was that an innocent man was sentenced to death for a crime he didn't commit. I did not know if he ever got out or was actually killed on death row, I didn't know if the real killer(s) was ever found or convicted. It is my opinion that Grisham could have revealed these points in a different way and at a different time, to make the book more interesting. Stay away from the pictures if you don't want spoilers! But overall this is a decent book, and Ron's story is worth knowing, so read it for that alone.
52 people found this helpful
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Reviewed in the United States on October 12, 2017
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In this book, John Grisham abandoned his usual novel-writing and focused on one unfortunate man in a small city in Oklahoma. Already stigmatized as the town "burnout," once he was accused of murder there seemed to be no getting out of it, though the evidence for the crime was sketchy at best. While this book lacks the homeric intensity of Grisham's best fictions, it has a lot to say about how law enforcement can be used -- and misused -- to indict and persecute those whose chief sin seems to have been an ability to serve as a convenient scapegoat. Those of us who have seen documentaries and news reports about Steven Avery and his nephew, Brendan Dassey, in central Wisconsin will see the same sorry process at work in small-town Oklahoma. Now what, if anything, can be done about it?
25 people found this helpful
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Reviewed in the United States on October 18, 2015
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Reading this book has been a watershed moment for me. I knew the writings of John Grisham well, having read several of his earlier books. That this book was non-fiction I hadn't heard until I actually started reading it. All I knew when I bought it was that it concerned a criminal case that employees of my own former employer were involved in (the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation, or OSBI). I felt a strong attraction to read any book that concerned the OSBI as I worked there nearly 19 years in the 1980s and 90s. I vaguely remember the criminal case in question, a the murder happened almost immediately after I began work there. Now that I have finished the book, my mind is at unrest. Every OSBI employee the book mentioned I knew, and some of them I saw on almost a daily basis. I always thought that from knowing them that way, I could guess their working style. If this book is to be believed, I didn't know them at all. The agents were all law enforcement agents through and through, but if their behavior in interrogating suspects is accurate, I am sadly disappointed in my friendships. Due to the two "main" suspects in the case who finally after many years of being locked up in prison for something it was eventually proven they didn't do (and one actually facing the death penalty) I am in the process of possibly reconsidering my views on the death penalty itself. I always approved before, what with working so long alongside law enforcement (I worked in a clerical capacity as administrative support and finally in the Human Resources Unit) but if false confessions are indeed taken as gospel and the confessor or suspect is found guilty in a death penalty case, we are knowingly leading an innocent person to die, while letting the actual perpetrator go free. During the numerous appeals that automatically come after a guilty verdict, most of the time those are sped through and none of the physical evidence is rechecked to ensure accuracy. This book is making me reconsider old friendships also, and I don't know how to ask anyone if the behavior is close to being accurate.
55 people found this helpful
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Reviewed in the United States on January 2, 2019
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Grisham is just the best... this book keeps you on the edge of your seat and makes you want to go slap some crooked cops around. I love that this is his first nonfiction and he slams it out of the park, absolute home run. I got this book because of the Netflix series based on the infamous Ada cases (in my opinion, the book is better than the series). JUST SAYIN!
15 people found this helpful
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Reviewed in the United States on September 23, 2018
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This book woke me up! I never realized how many people are on death row or in prisons who are there based on lies, laziness, not caring, or egos. There are serious problems with our justice system when this is allowed to continue. What happened to Ron Williamson and Dennis Fritz in Ada, Oklahoma based on untruths is beyond comprehension. As I read the book, I could tell who the real murderer was. It wasn't until DNA testing was available, did they finally know the truth. The wrong men had their lives ruined for something they did not do! How many others are sitting in prisons this very moment with the same problem? Read this book and your eyes will be opened to the truth!
10 people found this helpful
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Reviewed in the United States on March 10, 2019
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Sorry John Grisham! I usually love your books, and was excited when I saw this one, but...WAY too much description of Ron's life, and other characters....boring. I'm finishing this book, only because I bought it☹️👎
10 people found this helpful
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Top reviews from other countries

Lisa G
5.0 out of 5 stars
Real life Miscarriage of justice
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on March 14, 2017Verified Purchase
I didn't realise this was a true story until I was noticed that the style of writing was very different from the fictional stories that Grisham has written. This is a eye opening account of an utter miscarriage of justice where two men were sentenced to death for a murder they did not commit. The death penalty culture in the US is exposed as encouraging a conviction at all costs - to the point of ignoring other evidence as it does not correlate with the orifinal supposition of the investigators. This is dated - e.g. DNA were not available at the time of this conviction however, even in the absence of this it really does show how vulnerable people can be totally let down by system and egos. It was all the more relevant to me as I actually have a pen friend who is on death row - and whilst his conviction is presumably safe e.g. DNa evidence used this book allows us to question what motivations there are for having a a death penalty and for the treatment of those who are subject to a death sentence.
17 people found this helpful
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Dave
5.0 out of 5 stars
Must read
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on February 12, 2017Verified Purchase
A true story mainly about a failed baseball player, Ron Williamson, from the small Oklahoma town Of Ada who is suspected of murdering a young waitress.
This book was heavy going in parts but nevertheless I think it is an important book as it does show the way in which ordinary people can not only be let down by the American legal system but to be so poorly represented as to be near unbelievable with maybe the death sentence as a result.
The book was not necessarily about race as various races suffered equally at the hands of overzealous prosecutors, poor defenders, inadequate judges and stooge witnesses who would say anything for a reduced sentence.
Well worthwhile reading and a credit to Mr Grisham for writing it.
This book was heavy going in parts but nevertheless I think it is an important book as it does show the way in which ordinary people can not only be let down by the American legal system but to be so poorly represented as to be near unbelievable with maybe the death sentence as a result.
The book was not necessarily about race as various races suffered equally at the hands of overzealous prosecutors, poor defenders, inadequate judges and stooge witnesses who would say anything for a reduced sentence.
Well worthwhile reading and a credit to Mr Grisham for writing it.
9 people found this helpful
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Crazy 1
4.0 out of 5 stars
Surprised to find out after reading that this story is non-fiction & based on true events
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on January 20, 2016Verified Purchase
I haven't read a John Grisham book for a long time, in fact the last was "the runaway jury", when I was actually doing jury service. I had just finished reading all of Harlan Coben books and was unsure what to read next, when this came up on Amazons kindle deal of the day & I decided to give it a go as I enjoyed previous Grisham books all those years ago (well before the age of Kindles,book readers or the internet as we know it today).
This book from what I remember is a completely different style from those earlier books! I found it fairly slow going at first and almost gave up (glad I didn't) as we follow the story of college sports star Ron Williamson in his pursuit of sporting glory, drinking, drugs & women.
The story starts to gather pace & becomes a page turner when a local cocktail waitress is raped & murdered. After 5 years of dead ends, the police have no leads and are intent on bringing someone/anyone to justice. Despite no physical evidence the police arrest and charge Ron Williamson with murder and set about making a case against him at trial and sending to death row.
It is while Ron Williamson is on death row you really get to feel the anguish & torment he goes through as he awaits the lethal injection. Throughout his time in prison he protests his innocents, yet no one listens as the Oklahoma justice system have their man, however crude their efforts were of "framing" him. I equally found sorrow for Ron, once justice prevailed & he was acquitted of all charges and he returned to his home town of Ada, where most including the church turned there back on poor Ron Williamson who had suffered years of injustice at the hands of corrupt police investigations, the prosecution, witnesses testimonies, evidence and even failed by his own lawyers. Finally he receives little in the way of an apology for his years living in "hell".
This book from what I remember is a completely different style from those earlier books! I found it fairly slow going at first and almost gave up (glad I didn't) as we follow the story of college sports star Ron Williamson in his pursuit of sporting glory, drinking, drugs & women.
The story starts to gather pace & becomes a page turner when a local cocktail waitress is raped & murdered. After 5 years of dead ends, the police have no leads and are intent on bringing someone/anyone to justice. Despite no physical evidence the police arrest and charge Ron Williamson with murder and set about making a case against him at trial and sending to death row.
It is while Ron Williamson is on death row you really get to feel the anguish & torment he goes through as he awaits the lethal injection. Throughout his time in prison he protests his innocents, yet no one listens as the Oklahoma justice system have their man, however crude their efforts were of "framing" him. I equally found sorrow for Ron, once justice prevailed & he was acquitted of all charges and he returned to his home town of Ada, where most including the church turned there back on poor Ron Williamson who had suffered years of injustice at the hands of corrupt police investigations, the prosecution, witnesses testimonies, evidence and even failed by his own lawyers. Finally he receives little in the way of an apology for his years living in "hell".
10 people found this helpful
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joe
5.0 out of 5 stars
Unbelievable incompetence
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on January 31, 2019Verified Purchase
What a read! Unbelievable how the police and public prosecutor conspire to gain a conviction at all cost, mostly to the truth. This is a biography of Ron Williamson who appeared to have a bright future as a baseball star. However life and injury got in the way of him achieving his dream, resulting in him heading down a route of drinking and carousing which led him to be caught in the spotlight of corrupt policemen!!! Then the deterioration of a human being is tragic as he struggles with mental health issues exacerbated by his false conviction. Heroes appear in the form of good honest individuals who collectively acted properly and righted a tremendous wrong. Sadly ultimately a life is cut short broken by a corrupt system yet supported by a loving family and old and new friends alike.
2 people found this helpful
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Ron Robson
4.0 out of 5 stars
A damming indictment on American Justice
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on January 21, 2017Verified Purchase
When I purchased this book I did not realise it was non fiction. However once I got into it I found it an intriguing insight into small town America and the tainted Justice System. The main characters throughout were characterised by a lack of understanding of the ramifications of convicting innocent people and the effect it has on the individuals involved. The over Zealous people serving in the Justice System were unwilling to look at the facts in an unbiased way thus creating and sustaining a web of deceit and lies that, in the end, they became trapped by. Certainly worth reading as it provides a damming indictment on the Justice System of, supposedly, the country where Freedoms for individuals are cherished and nurtured..
6 people found this helpful
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