Having spent 15 years in prison, James Newsome knows how far the tentacles of the Illinois Department of Corrections extend. So when he decides to respond to a prisoner on death row who’s trying to reach him, he doesn’t just call the Pontiac Correctional Center and leave a message. Instead he gets a third party to call and leave a message for a fourth party, another death-row prisoner who happens to be the brother of a friend. Prison staff then deliver the message–instructions for the fourth party to call a certain number at a certain time. When the fourth party calls, Newsome answers, accepts the reverse charges, and then asks him to put “that guy” on the phone. It’s the best way to ensure that nobody knows about their conversation.
Judge Thomas Fitzgerald granted Newsome a new trial and released him to his mother’s home, where he was confined with an electric monitor. Prosecutors elected not to retry him, and on January 4, 1995, he was released from custody. Six months later Governor Jim Edgar pardoned him and ordered his record expunged, clearing the way for him to seek financial compensation from the state through the Illinois Court of Claims.
But prosecutors pursued charges against him for only one of the murders, the August 1979 killing of Delinda Byrd. He was found guilty, sentenced to die, and imprisoned. He expected to be brought back to court to face charges for the other murder, but months passed and no one mentioned it. So in early 1981, unsure if charges were pending against him, he filed a motion for a speedy trial, which gave prosecutors 120 days to bring him to trial. There’s no statute of limitations on murder cases, and he hoped the motion would either propel prosecutors to act on the case or prevent them from doing so down the road. To his surprise, Emerson says, nothing came of it.
Given what Newsome has learned in the months since their conversation, his belief that there was some kind of conspiracy has only grown stronger. But he concedes that while malfeasance might have landed him in the courtroom, it probably wasn’t what landed him behind bars. At his trial the safeguards that prevent an innocent person from going to prison were in place. His defense counsel, though no dream team, put forth a defense, offered pretrial motions, raised objections, and argued the truth–that Newsome hadn’t killed anyone. Yet the jury deliberated and found him guilty.
Newsome rarely strayed from the neighborhood, much less the block. But as he grew older he became restless, wanted to see something of the world. At 18 he moved to Denver and then California, and in 1977, when he was 22, he ventured to Hawaii with his girlfriend and daughter in the hope of starting a business. He wanted to become independent of the unpredictable work he’d been doing on and off for years–mostly manual labor and some freelance photography. He didn’t want to struggle as his mother had. He wanted his family to have some luxury. But after two years in Hawaii he wasn’t having much luck.
Speaking over a microphone, a police officer ordered them to show their hands while stepping out of the car, an olive green Ford belonging to Newsome’s brother that police told them had been the getaway vehicle in a purse snatching the previous morning. A swarm of backup squads soon surrounded Newsome and White, and the next thing Newsome knew he was pushed against the hood of the Ford, the cool barrel of a gun on the nape of his neck. Silently Newsome begged himself not to twitch.
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Cohen told him the drink mix cost 35 cents for two packets. I only want one, the man said, but he put two on the counter anyway. He then walked around the store, collecting a bottle of pop, a banana, and a Hostess snack cake, which he set on the counter beside the Kool-Aid. Cohen rang up and bagged the groceries, but the man continued browsing, picking up a box of Hamburger Helper and quickly returning it to the shelf. He handed a bunch of grapes to Nash, who weighed them and passed them along to Cohen, who rang them up and put them in a paper bag.
