Innocent, But Behind Bars
Another man confessed to murder. Why is this retarded man in prison?
But picking up where he left off may not be easy in Aurora, where the question of Wilson's guilt or innocence has transcended legal niceties and turned into a matter for intense personal and political feuding. Two men have kept Wilson's hopes alive. Warren Ormsby is a bail bondsman, with a craggy scar across his left elbow from the blast of a shotgun fired at him while he was in pursuit of a bail jumper. Dean Rodgers owns a real-estate company and knew Wilson as the timid 8-year-old next door whom he taught to ride a bicycle.
Image-conscious residents were displeased, to say the least, when the two men erected a billboard on the outskirts of town that said, "Aurora Home Of ... Johnny Lee Wilson The Boy in Prison Without a Trial!" It was firebombed. Nor did it help when in 1990, seeking money for Wilson's defense, the two men and Wilson sold their story for a TV movie that, if produced, may pay as much as $100,000. The stateattorney general, however, quickly claimed any money under the state's "Son of Sam" law. Rodgers now calls the deal a "mistake," since it let critics charge that Wilson's supporters were simply looking for a cash bonanza.
Susan Wilson and Nellie Maples have moved to a new house but keep a room ready for Johnny. They blame themselves for failing him, for not getting a lawyer when he confessed and for encouraging him to accept the plea bargain. "We knew nothing about the law," says Maples. "We, and Johnny, had never been in trouble. But half the things we done was wrong."
Perhaps the biggest remaining mystery is why Brownfield would open himself to further prosecution--possibly even execution--by confessing to the Martz crime. Apparently, greed was his original motive. He had asked a cellmate to write to Tatum with a vague tip, thinking the two men could then split any reward. But the sheriff's department proved uninterested. Brownfield says his discovery that a retarded man had confessed changed his heart--and gave him a cause by which to seek his own redemption. He thought of his first wife's retarded cousin, "who used to follow me around" and how he was easily influenced by those around him. Now he worries about how prison life may change Wilson. "He's innocent. I'm not talking so much about the crime. He's innocent of everything." Until last week, Wilson had spent seven months in a lock-down unit as protection after witnessing the knifing of another inmate.
How, Brownfield is asked, could he care so much about Wilson when he showed no conscience about the elderly victims of his involvement in, by his own count, two murders and a score of robberies? The refusal of police and prosecutors to admit they may be wrong in the Wilson case, Brownfield says, "gave me insight into my reaction when I robbed. I didn't care about those people. You don't want to dwell on it when you do a robbery or burglary. When you leave, it's out of your system." Brownfield believes Lawrence County officials similarly know they are wrong but don't want to dwell on Wilson's case.
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