by Barry Siegel
He first began looking into his dad’s case while in junior high school. They lived in Eugene then, having moved there in the summer of 1979. Ron had no clear idea why; he just started reading some old newspaper stories, local coverage of the trials his grandma had given him. He learned now about the three key prongs of evidence, the prints and the shell casings and Carol’s statement. He also learned about the dispute over the Valenzuela confession. Then, in July 1983, when he was fifteen, Grandma Meryle sent him a news article about Bill Macumber published that month in the Phoenix Gazette. “Jaycee Chapters in Prison Earn Recognition” read the banner headline across the top of the Metro section. Paragraph after paragraph chronicled Bill’s leadership role with the Roadrunner Jaycees. “Jaycees are dedicated to community service,” the article quoted Macumber, “and doing outside projects is our way of contributing to the society most of us will return to one day.” It also, he added, helped dispel the misconception the public had about convicts: “All criminals aren’t total anti-social animals. We’re concerned about people too.”
Ron studied the two photos of his father that accompanied the article. In one, a head shot, he was staring at the camera through dark sunglasses, his eyes invisible, his expression suggesting a tough old cowboy. In the other, he was sitting on top of a picnic table in the visitation area, one leg bent, that foot propped on the table’s bench, the other foot—such long legs—planted on the ground. He wore eyeglasses in this one, his face turned to the left as he talked intently to another inmate about plans for their Jaycee chapter. Bill was forty-eight then, the wrinkles deepening in his drawn cheeks. Man, Ron thought, he sure is old.
Ron’s view of his dad’s case didn’t change. He just wanted more information—he had curiosity, not suspicions. He spoke to his mom about contacting Dad. Okay if you want to, she said, but don’t talk to him about the rest of the family. As he went on into high school, Ron kept looking through the news clippings and thinking more deeply about the case. He wondered why Ernest Valenzuela would confess. And why his father would keep a murder weapon for twelve years. Dad was smart, not a stupid person—Ron did remember that about him. He couldn’t get Scott or his mom to talk about it, though. His mom’s attitude was: They convicted him at two trials—that’s it. Again, Ron brought up the idea of contacting his father—he just wanted to know him, maybe ask him, Why did you do it? This was in 1985 or so, Ron then a high school senior. Again his mom said, That’s fine as long as you don’t talk to him about the rest of the family. Still, Ron hesitated. He felt scared. And he knew his mom and brothers wouldn’t be happy about it.
Ron’s next conversation about Bill came in late 1988 when he started dating Deb, his future wife. Over lunch at a restaurant, Ron, growing serious, said, There’s something I need to tell you. I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me anymore after this. Then he told her: His father was a murderer, in prison for life. Deb didn’t blink. She asked, So what does that have to do with who you are?
They were all living in Vancouver, Washington, then, Ron still in his mom’s house. His mother was not thrilled about Deb, thirteen years Ron’s senior with two kids of her own. Carol had her say about it, but nothing more—until Ron proposed to Deb. Then matters grew tense. Ron moved out of his mom’s home in May 1989, moved in with Deb, and they started planning their wedding. The divide deepened. Carol didn’t attend her son’s wedding. Nor did Ron’s two older brothers. Over the years, there were strained efforts to mend relations. In the spring of 1995, Ron’s family—they had their own daughter now, Megan—moved to Colorado, he looking for a better job market. Two years later, by himself, he visited his mom in Vancouver, and in 1999, Carol visited them in Colorado. That week didn’t go well. It would be the last time Ron saw his mom.
Now, in May 2003, here was Carol calling him, saying Justice Project investigators had been out to the house. That news brought to the forefront some questions Ron already had in the back of his mind. Again those nagging thoughts about Valenzuela’s confession, his father’s gun. Maybe he wanted to build up hope about his father’s innocence. Also, Deb had talked off and on about the case, saying things just didn’t make sense. Once she’d even asked, What if your mom had something to do with this?
After hearing from Carol, Ron stewed. Why was someone looking into the case? Obviously, there must be a reason. This Justice Project sounded like a big deal. Still, he hesitated about opening communication with his father. He worried about the impact on his family if he let that man into their lives. He worried particularly about the impact on their daughter, Megan, just turning thirteen. He also feared a break beyond repair with his mom and brothers. On the other hand, if there was something to this, Ron wanted to know.
Indecision crippled him for a time. He couldn’t sort it out, couldn’t say what exactly he wanted. Still: There must be a reason for the Justice Project’s extended involvement. A reason why they’d sent investigators to find his mother. A reason why they were looking for him now, too. A reason why they’d taken on his father’s case despite two trials, two convictions.
In July 2003, some two months after hearing from Carol, Ron finally picked up the phone and called directory assistance in Phoenix—he had only Larry Hammond’s name from his mother. Moments later, he punched in Hammond’s number. At Osborn Maledon, Larry’s assistant, Donna Toland, took the call, hearing a man identify himself as Ron Kempfert, Carol’s son. Soon after, Hammond came on the line. Are you Bill Macumber’s son? he asked. Yes I am, Ron said.
His mother had called him a couple of months ago, Ron explained. She’d told him that two Justice Project investigators came to their home in Washington and tried to speak to her, but she’d thrown them off the property. So he understood the Justice Project was investigating his father’s case. Why, he wondered. That’s what he asked Hammond: Why?
Hammond started by describing the Justice Project, who its workers were, what they did, their history. He walked Ron step by step through their involvement with the Macumber case. He said they had reason to think his father innocent. He tried to be careful here, saying that they expected to make certain claims in their petition but it would be up to a court, ultimately, to determine whether they had sufficient proof.
At moments in their conversation, Hammond found himself pausing, because he could hear Ron softly sobbing. Ron was alone in his home in Aurora, just outside Denver, his family away on vacation in Oregon. Larry’s words shocked him. He’d been pacing when they’d begun to talk, but he’d had to sit down. Hammond offered to postpone the rest of their conversation, saying, I know this is hard to hear. But Ron urged him on and began asking questions: What do you have? Why do you think this? Hammond, concerned about client confidentiality, tried to be careful and noncommittal. Still, he told Ron about Valenzuela’s confession. He told him more about the problems with the ballistics and the palm print—that print matching so perfectly, a virtual impossibility. He told him about his mother having access to the case file and the evidence. He told him about his mom’s fingerprint classes.
Their conversation continued for forty-five minutes. By the end, Hammond, too, felt drained and deeply moved. Something in Ron’s tone suggested an end or a purpose of its own for the Justice Project’s endeavors, a purpose worth recalling when working other cases: Even if they couldn’t gain freedom for Macumber, maybe they could at least open the door between Bill and his sons. That, in a way, represented one of the best things they did at the Justice Project, where so often their legal appeals met abject denial. They could make people aware that this man—Ron’s father—merited dignity. They couldn’t get every client out of prison, but they could give them back their self-respect, and a sense that someone cared about their situation. That, Hammond believed, was a major part of what they did at the Justice Project.
Before hanging up, Hammond gave Ron his father’s address. Bill would love to hear from you, Hammond said. Whenever we speak to your dad, he talks about you. He talks about his boys all the time.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Ron called Deb in Oregon. Are you sitting down? he began. On her end, she only wished that he’d waited until she was there to make such a call to Larry Hammond. Hold on now, she said. She’d be home in three days.
Ron again agonized over what to do. He feared crossing Carol. He would be lying if he said his mother didn’t intimidate him. If he made the next move, that surely would be the end of the road for any connection with his mother and brothers.
Deb’s return helped him decide. No matter what he’s done, she told Ron, Bill is your father. You should reach out to him. He’s getting older, and you need questions answered.
One week passed. On July 14, steeling himself, Ron sat down to write his father a letter. He went through multiple drafts, trying to sort out what he wanted to say. He’d never been good at putting words on paper, so this took a while. Ron knew he didn’t want it to be too long. At first, he started to write about all the things he missed, what he wished his father had been there for. Then he decided against that approach. Ron wanted his dad to know that once they opened a line of communication, it would stay open. But Ron also wanted him to know that he had questions, that he’d been looking into the case. The confession, the gun, the things that didn’t make sense. He hadn’t decided anything, didn’t know whether his dad was guilty or innocent, but he wondered. So how to begin? Ron drew a breath. “Father,” he typed. “This is very hard for me after 25 plus years and I know it has been hard on you too.” He read those words. Yes, that sounded right. He’d keep going now, he’d finish this, he’d put it in the mail. A desire to hear his father’s response drove him, at least in part. Yet at the same time, Ron feared that response. He feared that his father would reject him. He feared that his father would say, Where the hell have you been?
* * *
At the Douglas state prison early in the evening on Friday, July 18, Bill Macumber picked up his mail, a single envelope, and carried it back to the cubicle he called home. There he sat down on his bed. He’d taken his glasses off, so he had trouble making out the return address. He squinted and held it up to the light. Then he saw it, small letters in the top left corner: “R Kempfert.” He sat still, hardly breathing, not quite believing, just staring at the envelope. He’d been prepared, at least: Four days before, he’d received a letter from Larry Hammond, reporting on his phone conversation with Ronnie. But after all these years, to hold in his hand an envelope bearing his son’s handwriting! Macumber recalled that sparkling morning long ago, drawn from those memories of days now gone: the boys swimming across a lake, tied to inner tubes, Ronnie tiring and rolling over, Bill pulling him the rest of the way. Macumber hesitated, fearing the words he might find inside this envelope. He thought Ronnie might be lashing out. Carefully he pulled from the envelope one sheet of paper. He began to read the typed, single-spaced lines.
Father—
This is very hard for me after 25 plus years and I know it has been hard on you too. I’ve tried many times to contact you or to write but I just could not do it. I don’t know if it was the fact that I never really got to know you or that I have thought of you as a murderer all these years, but the thought of talking to you scared me. I’ve gone over in my head time after time what I would say to you and now I find it difficult. I’ve missed having a father in my life. I missed being taught the things a father teaches his son. I missed the opportunity to share the important events in my life. My wedding to my wonderful wife. The birth of my daughter, your granddaughter. I want you to know that I think of you often. I have not forgotten you. I just did not know how to deal with it. Now all of that changes.
As you probably know by now I have been in contact with Larry Hammond. He has told me the basis of your appeal. I cannot say I am fully convinced, but the information he gave me confirms a few of my suspicions. I have only the newspapers and what Mom has told us over the years. But I wondered why a confession was never admitted and why would you tell of the murders to keep a marriage together. I think the thing that bothered me the most is that you would have been dumb enough to keep the gun for all those years. For some reason I just can’t see you doing that. Something is very wrong with the way your case was handled. I have asked Larry to keep me informed as to any developments in your case. Mom has no idea that I have written you and for now it needs to stay that way.
Dad, as of right now I don’t know whether you are guilty or innocent, but I need to know for sure. I am asking you to give Larry permission to allow me to see the evidence. I know after all these years I may not have the right to ask anything of you, but if you were framed I want to see you released from prison. I know this is a short letter, but I hope you will understand that this is very hard on me. I want to open a line of communication with you. To let you know that I am still here. Please write back. I promise the next letter I send will give you more information about my family and me. Also, I typed this because my handwriting is very, very bad and you would most likely have a hard time reading it. I would eventually like to talk to you on the phone or maybe even see you. I think for now that writing will do.
Father, I hope that this could be a new beginning for us. I know that mom, Scott and Steve will not speak with you, but I want you to know I am out here and thinking of you. I will write again soon and I look forward to hearing from you.
Your Son,
Ron Kempfert
Bill studied those last words, “Your Son,” and the signature under it. Ron Kempfert. Yes, his youngest boy’s handwriting, if not the Macumber last name. He held the sheet of paper lightly in his hand, reading and rereading. He had not thought he could feel such absolute joy. This was, he believed, the most important document he had ever received in his life.
Later that evening, Macumber sat down to write a response. He did not want to attempt a defense. Ron would have to arrive at his own conclusions, based on the evidence and his feelings. Mostly, Macumber wanted to convey his love. He also wanted to tell his son that he’d written him many times, every letter returned marked “Refused.” Ron had a right to know that, ought to know that. “Dear Son,” he began. “I had all but given up ever putting those two words to paper in my lifetime. Tonight a miracle took place in my life and made this day the happiest, most wonderful day I have known in the past twenty-nine years…” He continued:
I guess some fathers might have a difficult time starting a letter to a son they have not seen nor heard from in almost thirty years. I have no problem with that whatsoever. I’ll start it by simply saying I love you, Ronald Paul, as I have always loved you from those first precious moments I held you in my arms.… It has never changed nor will it change so long as I live. You always remember that, Son, no matter what the future holds.…
I tried so very hard to stay in touch with the three of you after I came to prison. I can’t even recall how many letters I wrote to you and your brothers. I do vividly remember each one of them coming back to me with “Refused” stamped across them. After a time they came back with a “Moved” stamp and no forwarding address. I had no idea where you were and I finally quit writing.…
The years passed and the first knowledge I had of any of you came from Mr. Hammond’s investigators when they went to talk to your mother in Olympia. They wouldn’t tell me much, only that two of my sons were there and at that time they didn’t know where you were. I wanted so terribly much to write to Steve because they mentioned him specifically. I didn’t because I had no way of knowing how a letter from me would be received. Also I was very fearful of upsetting any of your lives. It was a terrible decision to have to make because I so desperately wanted to know how you were. Your wonderful letter changed all that. You called me Dad and you called me Father.… I thought I would die without ever hearing such wonderful words. Thank God in heaven that will not be the case.
Son, you wrote that as of this point in time you don’t know whether I am guilty or innocent. I can understand that especially in light of your only hearing one side
of the story. Your father is not a murderer, Son. I told them I was innocent the day I was arrested and I’ve maintained my innocence every day of my life since.
He wrote seven pages in all, his handwriting sprawling from edge to edge of the sheets, leaving no margins or open space. He told Ron of his several commutation petitions, all denied because he would not admit guilt and show remorse: “If my freedom is dependent on my admitting guilt … then I will die here but I will die an innocent man, Ron.… Truth has been my strength all these years.… I am now an old man. I will be 68 next month. I still walk with my back straight and my head up.” These words, he knew, provided no proof of his innocence, so yes, “of course you have my permission to see any and all of the evidence Mr. Hammond’s group has gathered.” Yet the attorneys might not be able to share this until they file their petition, so “please be patient as I must be.” Bill himself had not been told much, “other than the fact that my palm print was forged.”
Macumber shared highlights of his twenty-eight years in prison and couldn’t help but beam a little—so openly wanting his son’s regard. “I am the only inmate in the history of the United States Jaycees to be chosen President of the Year.… I am a fortunate man in many respects. I have managed to achieve a great deal even though I’ve been in prison.… I don’t want to ramble on forever. I just wanted you to know that I could not sit idly by and let the years pass.… I am well respected by inmates and staff alike and I have walked through these years with honor and with pride.”
