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Far be it from me to criticize people who are trying to sell their books. It's something I do for my own writing, every chance I get.
So it doesn't bother me that John and Patsy Ramsey are featured in the newsweeklies of late, or that they're on the tube frequently, and when they're not on, that we see Gov. Bill Owens grabbing whatever collateral attention he can muster.
Just as the Ramseys want to sell books, Owens is certainly aware that there aren't many opportunities for the chief executive of the Centennial State to appear on national television, and when the chance comes, he's got to seize the moment. Carpe diem and all that. Besides, journalists criticize politicians all the time, and if a politician wants to criticize Barbara Walters, who must be a journalist at least in theory, then fine by me.
But there's something that has disturbed me for a long time about the Ramsey case, and it isn't the question of who murdered JonBenet Ramsey. Like all Americans, John and Patsy are entitled to the presumption of innocence, and like all Americans, the rest of us are entitled to speculate as much as we want to, even if the Ministry of Public Information in the People's Republic of Boulder once issued a declaration that told us not to speculate.
And it isn't how the Ramseys were treated by the Boulder police that disturbs me. As someone who used to cover his share of crime stories in the less economically developed regions of Colorado, I'm disturbed by how differently most other suspects -- suspects who don't live in big houses -- get treated.
Try this scenario. Assume that on the day after Christmas in 1996, the dispatcher gets a 911 call from a distraught mother in a mobile-home park somewhere outside of Lafayette in Boulder County.
She says her daughter is missing, and that the kidnappers left a note.
The police soon arrive at the skirted 14'x70' home of Jack and Patsy. This is his second marriage. They've got two kids -- the missing girl, and her older brother, who's 10.
After a glance at the note, and then seeing that the paper apparently came from a notepad on the counter, the cop in charge decides that something seems fishy here. The kidnappers don't call, and he orders a search of the premises.
Under the mobile home, they find the girl's body. She's been beaten and strangled, and there's no obvious evidence of an intruder.
The first call from the police goes, not to the coroner, but to the county department of social services, to haul the brother away and put him in foster care, for his own protection, of course.
Then the evidence technicians arrive, as the parents are hauled away to headquarters to be questioned separately. They will be told that while they have the right to remain silent and to call an attorney, the chances of seeing their son ever again will be a lot better if they'll just answer some questions.
They will be told that it's illegal to lie to the police, but they won't be told that it's legal for the police to lie to them.
By late afternoon, the investigators will have assembled
a quick theory of the crime, which will be passed on to the
interrogators. They'll decide one parent actually did it,
and they'll work on turning the other with a mixture of
threats (If you don't tell us what you know, then you're
part of the murder, and there's a big needle in
Cañon City with your name on it
) and promises
(Just tell us what set this off -- was it bed-wetting?
-- and we'll let you see your son.
)
By early evening, as exhaustion adds to the horror of a murdered child, one parent or the other has confirmed the police theory of the crime, and charges will soon be filed. It will get less than two minutes on that night's TV news in Denver -- it's a slow time of year, or a trailer-park murder in Boulder County might not get on at all -- and the Denver papers each give it four paragraphs.
Most people don't notice. Charges are filed as soon as the courthouse opens, there's a plea bargain negotiated by an overworked attorney from the public defender's office, and one of the parents gets a few years for manslaughter.
That's what happens to people who can't afford lawyers, public-relations advisors and private jets. The police and prosecutors generally still play by the rules, but the rules aren't quite the same when $118,000 represents more money than you'll ever see at one time in your life, rather than one year's bonus.
And you wonder how anyone still has the audacity to
carve Equal justice under law
over any courthouse
door. Wouldn't All the justice you can afford
be
more appropriate?
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