The Burden of Witness | A Murder Trial, a Wrongful Conviction, and the Weight of Memory

 One night on patrol led to a murder trial, a guilty verdict, and years later, the shocking truth that my testimony had played a part in both a wrongful conviction — and a man’s release. 

In 1986, a routine night on patrol turned into a case that would follow me for decades. My partner and I watched a young woman step into a vehicle — not knowing it would be the last time she was seen alive.

What came next was a murder trial, four hours of testimony, a guilty verdict, and the feeling that justice had been served. But years later, new evidence revealed the story wasn’t what it seemed. And I found myself back in court — this time, testifying for the defense.

This is the story of how one memory… one moment… can change lives forever.
 It’s not just about what you see. It’s about the burden of carrying it.

Music Credit
“Epic Cinematic” by Scott Holmes Music
Licensed under CC BY-NC 4.0 (Attribution–NonCommercial)
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/

How Did We Get Here? — real stories about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.

Transcript

Every life has turning points. This is where we talk about the choices, cracks, and crossroads to shape us. Welcome to How Did We Get Here. I'm Jim Richmond. Let's begin. It was just another night on patrol in northeast Louisiana. Like always, my partner and I started with a nightly briefing from the sergeant. We loaded our gear, slid into the cruiser, and rolled out into the dark, ready to do what we were sworn to do, protect and serve. It was close to 11 when we hit the streets, and the night felt unusually still, quieter than normal. In our line of work, that usually meant one of two things. Either it's going to stay quiet, or something big is waiting just around the corner. Around two in the morning dispatch came across the radio. Reported a stolen two-tone Ford Bronco. They write off the plate number. And as luck would have it, my partner and I were already behind a Bronco that fit that exact description. For a second, we thought we had it. I keyed up the mic and asked dispatch to repeat the plate number but by the third digit I knew it wasn't the same vehicle. Relief maybe or just the slow come down over adrenaline when you realize it's nothing. of adrenaline when you realize it's nothing. Still, we followed it a little longer just to see where it went. We watched as it pulled into an empty parking lot. A blonde woman walked up to the passenger side, opened the door, and climbed in. I didn't know at the time, but my partner recognized her straight away. This was her turf. She worked that stretched off it. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another moment, on a long night. My 4 a.m. my shift was done, I clocked out and headed home, while my partner stayed on for the last two hours. At around seven that morning my phone rang. It was my partner. His voice was heavy. I immediately thought, "Oh no, something terrible has happened." He asked me if I remembered seeing that woman get into the Bronco. I told them, "Of course yes, I remember." She was found murdered. He said in a school parking lot, just up the road. The details I won't repeat here, but I will say this, what happened to her was exceptionally cruel. And that's when the "what ifs" started. What if I called the plate in anyway, even after realizing it wasn't just stolen Bronco? What if we circled back around just to make our presence known? Would she still be alive? My partner took it especially hard. He knew her. That personally, but from the street, he crossed paths was heard before. Maybe that made it feel more personal. But we both carried the same weight, a sense of guilt that maybe just maybe we could have prevented her death. That's the thing about being a witness. It's not always what you did. Sometimes it's about what you didn't do. And that weight doesn't go away. The morning she was found, everything shifted. What started is just another slow night on a patrol has suddenly become evidence in a murder case. Detectives were everywhere, crime scene tape, flashing lights, that eerie stillness that hangs in the air when something terrible has happened. My partner and I weren't just officers on duty anymore. We were witnesses, and that met questions. A lot of them. What time did you see her? What was she wearing? Who is driving the Bronco? Did you notice anything unusual? We're just a few of those. The truth was, we hadn't. At the time had been just another moment, a woman getting into a car. But in the light of day, was her body found in that school parking lot, every detail suddenly felt like it could matter. And the spotlight quickly turned to the Bronco, rightfully so, as it was the vehicle we saw her climb into. The driver either needed to be confirmed as a suspect or cleared. The problem was neither of us had written down that plate number. We didn't have probable cause, and at the time it didn't seem like more than a coincidence. Still, I remembered looking straight at it, my partner did too. We both stared at that plate for what felt like at least 30 to 45 seconds. We should be able to remember when it was, right? Just a day after. You would think it was long enough that it would stick. But it didn't. We were both put under hypnosis and separate sessions to try and draw out the number of our memories. The results were unsettling to say the least. I came up with a partial plate, just a few letters and numbers. My partner did too. But they weren't the same. Water two numbers matched, but they weren't in sequence. Two different fragments of what should have been the same memory. And that kind of shook me because at that moment, I realized just how fragile memory really is. You can stare at something, swear you'll remember it, replay it a thousand times in your head and still come up short. And yet the system wanted certainty. They needed answers. They needed the truth, clean and simple. But the truth, at least the one I had, wasn't clean at all. So the search was on. Detectives began the painstaking task of trying to find that Bronco, the one she climbed into. Every lead mattered. Every call, every tip. Every report with two tone Ford Bronco had to be checked. And there were a lot of them. The process took months. And each time I heard about another possible lead, I wondered, is this the one? Is this the man who was behind the wheel that night? And every time I left my house, I was always on the search for a two-tone, four-and-bronco. Months after months, the questions hung heavier, and the longer it dragged on the more I realized at what I'd seen or thought I'd seen could end up carrying more weight than I was ready for. Eventually the investigation narrowed on a suspect a man was arrested charged in the case moved toward trial. That's when the spotlight turned on me again. I wasn't just an officer anymore. I was a key witness. I never forget the first time I walked into the courtroom. Not my first time testifying. This was my first time ever inside a courtroom. Period. The weight of it hit me all at once. The smell of the wood, the shuffle of the papers, the defendant sitting on only feet away, the judge up in his tower looking down on everyone. The twelve jurors staring back at me, ready to measure every word I said. The prosecutor had tried to prepare us. He walked us through the questions the defense would ask. The doubts they would try to plant. But no amount of preparation could have gotten me ready for what I endured that day. Because I wasn't on the stand for 30 minutes, not an hour. I testified for four hours, four hours of questions, four hours of reliving the same night, four hours of defense attorneys circling like sharks, picking apart every detail, every hesitation, every inconsistency. What time exactly did you see her? Are you sure it was her? Why didn't you write down the plate number? How do you explain to hypnosis results? They pushed, they prodded, they tried to make me doubt my own memory. And at times, I did. I lost count of how many times I had to ask them to please repeat the question. I answered as honestly as I could. I told them what I saw, the truth, at is honestly as I could, I told them what I saw, the truth, at least the truth as I remembered it. But I walked away from the stand drained and shaken because I realized something in those four hours at no academy class, no field training and no briefing it ever prepared me for. Justice doesn't just rest on evidence. Sometimes it rests on memory. And memory is fragile. After days of testimony, arguments and evidence, the trial finally drew to a close. The jury had heard it all, and now it was time to decide. When the foreman stood and delivered the verdict guilty, it felt like the right outcome. The prosecution had proven their case beyond a doubt. The man sitting at the table had been convicted and murder, and he was sentenced to life. At the time there was no hesitation in my mind, no second guessing. We'd done our jobs, detectives had run down the leads, the prosecutor had presented the evidence, and my partner and I had testified to what we saw. Justice had been served. There was a sense of accomplishment in the air, a hard case closed, a dangerous man taken off the streets, a grieving family given an answer, even if it couldn't bring their loved one back. For me it was validation. I was still young in my career. This was the biggest case I'd ever been part of. To know that my testimony helped put the man away. It felt like I'd done something that mattered. The investigation was over, the case was solved, and we could all move forward believing justice had been done. At least that's how it seemed back then. But even in those days there were cracks I didn't fully understand. Strange things happening in the background. Chief of Police called us in and made it clear we were not to discuss the case with anyone outside the department, not even the media. And then in the middle of it all, maybe before the verdict, maybe just after, I honestly can't remember anymore, someone tried to break into our house in the early morning hours. At the time I was concerned, but looking back now I think I had every reason to be, because the truth behind the case was darker and more complicated than I ever could have imagined. For years I carried that case as one of the big ones. We had done our job, the system had worked, and Justice had been served. But then came the shock. About three years after the conviction, I was called back into the same courtroom. Only this time, I was testifying for the prosecution. I was there for the defense. The man who had been convicted was still behind bars serving a life sentence, but new evidence had surfaced. Evidence had pointed to a very different story. A darker story. One that involved someone in power, someone who wanted the victim silenced. Walking back into that courtroom was surreal. To look at the same man I had once helped convict and now known that my testimony might be the very thing that could help set him free. It was a wait I had never carried before. I told the truth as I knew it, just like I had the first time, but this time the truth was being used in a way I never imagined. It took another five years after that before he was finally released in the mid-1990s, almost a decade had passed since that night my partner and I saw her climb into the Bronco, a decade of grief for her family, a decade stolen from a man who hadn't committed to crime, and a decade of me carrying the weight of being tied to both his conviction and his release. That's the burden of witness. It's not just what you see or what you remember. It's the ripple effect of your words. The lives they touch. The lives they change. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes not. Looking back now, I still carry that night with me. I still see her walking up to that Bronco. Still see her climbing inside. I still hear the gavel. But also, carry the lesson. The truth isn't always clean. The memory can be fragile. And justice, the kind we all hope for is far more complicated than we like to believe. Being a witness doesn't end when you have to leave the stand. The burden follows, follows you for years. Maybe forever. This is How Did We Get Here? My name is Jim Richmond. I'm here for a reason. Maybe you are too.