John Hollway - Killing Time: An 18-Year Odyssey from Death Row to Freedom

JOHN HOLLWAY
AND
RONALD M. GAUTHIER

Copyright 2010 by John Hollway and Ronald M. Gauthier

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hollway, John.

Killing time : an 18-year odyssey from death row to freedom / John

Hollway and Ronald M. Gauthier.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-60239-974-7 (hbk. : alk. paper)

1. Thompson, John, 1963- 2. Death row inmates--Louisiana--Case studies. 3. Murder--Louisiana--New Orleans--Case studies. 4. Suppression of evidence--Louisiana--New Orleans--Case studies. 5. Trials (Murder)--Louisiana--Case studies. I. Gauthier, Ronald M. II. Title.

HV8701.T58H65 2010

364.66092--dc22

[B]

2009047908

Printed in the United States of America

T HIS IS A true story that we have decided to tell in a narrative style. Some of the dialogue between individuals in conversation has been estimated, though in every instance the substance has been verified by at least one, if not all, of the speakers, through various methods including court transcripts, oral and video depositions given under oath during court proceedings, documents collected during court proceedings, public media reporting, and interviews with the participants themselves. The dialogue from all courtroom scenes is contained in court transcripts, although some grammatical changes have been made, including modifications to spelling and grammar, and exchanging pronouns for proper nouns where it would enhance the readers understanding. Letters written by John Thompson enclosed herein are actual letters, although some have been edited by the authors. We are indebted to Nancy Wohl, Johns spiritual advisor, both for keeping these letters over the years and for sharing them with us.

DECEMBER 6, 1984

12:39 AM

R AY L IUZZA SLOWED for the stop sign at Josephine, drifting slowly through it into a left turn, and scanning up ahead to Baronne for a parking space. The steering wheel slid through his fingers as he swung left from Brainard, the BMWs blinker clicking off as he gently accelerated down the one-way street. He was tired, and he had work tomorrow. He wasnt drunk, but he drove carefully anyway. He and Susan had made the roundsthe 4141, a couple of drinks at Lenfants. No point in asking for trouble.

Hed tried to get Susan to let him stay, or maybe bring her back to his place. She didnt like coming back to his placedidnt like the neighborhood. Sure, it wasnt a gated community in the Garden District, but it wasnt a bad place to live, right in the center of the city, close to restaurants and bars and shops, close to work. He thought the place was real, with good working people.

Hed lived here for about two years, since his friend Frank had renovated the place. They had been friends at Tulane, and Frank had given him a pretty good deal on the nicest apartment in the building. Hed also let Ray help design it during the construction, so it had a little bit of Rays style. It looked good and fit his personality.

Ray was a guy who paid attention to looks. Looking good was important. Hed lived in New Orleans his whole life, and New Orleans had style. Ray tried to bring a little of his style to the city, too. He had run a mens clothing boutique for a few years, bringing European fashions to town. Even though hed gone on to join the family hotel business, he still kept up his European fashion sense. Anyone with an eye would see not just the silver BMW and the Italian suit, but the Cartier watch and the custom-made English shoes. He caught a lot of shit from the guys for those. They cost a small fortune and it took eight weeks for them to arrive, but they were worth it. You see a guy with a nice suit and bad shoes, it registers.

He saw a parking spot on the left side of the street, a couple of cars back from the corner. Luck was on his side. It was fairly cool, even for December, so close was good. He backed into the space and straightened out the car, turned off the lights, got out, locked the door, and started walking across the street to his apartment.

12:40 AM

P AMELA S TAAB WAS in bed. She had been trying to finish a book shed been reading, but sleep got the better of heruntil now.

Her apartment, on the corner of Josephine and Baronne, was on the ground floor. It had been renovated pretty recently and was in good shape, but the walls were made of wood, and you could hear the street conversations pretty clearly as people walked by. Shed get this life by Doppler effect sort of thing, and sometimes shed sit in her room and try to figure out whatever she could about peoples lives as the volume rose, peaked, and faded as they walked by.

The noise she heard now, though, was different. The voices had a sense of urgency and brought her out of her sleep. She lay in bed, eyes open, listening.

A man was yelling at another man, but it wasnt aggressive yelling or catcalling, or a too-loud drunken story from someone walking home from a bar. This had a different tone to itit was pleading.

She didnt make a sound. Whoever it was, they must have been right outside her window. With her blinds down she couldnt see anything, but one of the guys kept repeating something, his voice rising. Take my watch! Thats what the man was repeatingTake my watch!

She heard another mans voice respond but couldnt make out his words. The first voice said it again. Please, go ahead, take my watch. Please. Here, you can have my wallet. The other man replied, audibly this time: No, man, Ive got to shoot you.

The first man started to say something, and then she heard a pop, like a bottle of champagne, and then there was this silence, this silence that sounded all wrong. Then another pop; then a few more. No more voices now, just the sound of someone running away, feet beating on the pavement.

Pam sat up, listening, and finally realized whom the first voice had belonged to. She got out from under the covers and ran into her roommate Noras room. Nora! Rays been robbed outside! Hes been shot!

12:40 AM

P AUL S CHLIFFKA CLOSED the front door of his apartment and stepped onto the sidewalk. He liked the feeling of the chilly evening, the quiet of the early morning air. He walked through the front yard toward his car parked on Baronne. He had his key in his hand and was about to get into his car when he heard it.

Pop. Pop. Poppop.

It sounded like gunshots, or what he imagined gunshots might sound like. Without thinking about it, he moved toward the sound, toward the corner, unconsciously craning his neck, his car keys still in his hand.