What’s in a name?
On May 21st at 1:45 PM, I sat in a court room with wood paneling from floor to ceiling. The judge entered the room, and everybody sprung to attention. I felt nervous. Nothing that was about to happen in that room was unexpected. I had already walked through the event in my mind, but my stomach was still in knots. The 14 months since my grandfather had been shot in cold blood through his temple had prepared me. And yet I still dreaded the sight of his murderer.
Charles Johnston was called into the court room. I know that so many people affected by this tragedy wanted to stand and yell at him or end his life right there. But no one did. Squeaky theater seats made the only sounds. His face was aged but attractive. Mr. Johnson did not appear to be an exceptional man. He looked like someone you would say hello to in the grocery store, someone who helped count the offering at the local church, or someone who was a neighbor of your parents. Mr. Johnson answered the judge’s questions concisely.
I found it hard to wrap my mind around what I knew to be true. This man had gunned down three people. It, even now, is extremely difficult for me to conceptualize what that actually means.
The families of the deceased had a chance to say something. There were so many accounts of the lives that had been stolen. It was as if they wanted Mr. Johnson to understand the gravity of his actions. These people had been more than someone who was in his way. They had wives, children and friends. Their lives were valuable. The way that Mr. Johnson had acted implied that they were not. Whether the people who spoke dealt with the tragedy through forgiveness or anger, they were all forever changed by the decision of Mr. Johnson to become a murderer. All of us in the room were changed. When the grief had almost risen to the ceiling, the families were done.
The judge gave the accused the chance to speak before sentencing. He said that his crimes had been misrepresented. He detailed his actions of that day.
He told how he had woken up that morning missing his mother. She was an elderly woman who had died of diabetes at the hospital in Columbus. He felt as if a nurse at the hospital had not served her properly, so he decided that he would exact his revenge on that nurse. He went to the hospital twice and could not find the nurse. Finally, the third time, he heard someone say the name Pete. So he followed that person and shot him in the chest then the back. On his way back to his car, he shot someone who came between him and the elevator. Then, finally, he shot someone who was parked beside his car in the parking deck. That someone was my grandfather. I think Mr. Johnson actually used the words “hit him real quick” with the flick of his wrist to indicate a shot with a pistol.
Throughout his account of the day’s events, Mr. Johnson couldn’t even remember two of the people’s names he killed. He pointed to the families and said “their relatives.” How can you shoot someone in the head, spend 14 months in jail and not know their names? There was no remorse. He still felt fully justified for killing the first man. As for the other two, he said, “I never intended to hurt the other two.” But you did Mr. Johnson. You killed them. Now there is a 14 year old girl whose father will not walk her down the isle. There is a father whose heart is marred by bitterness that he will carry to his grave. There is a grandson who has no male role model in his life now. There is a wife of 56 years who sleeps alone. And you can’t even do them the respect of knowing their names?
Peter Wright
Leslie Harris
James David Baker
Mr. Johnson those are the names of the people you murdered. But those names only represent the sum of their lives. And that, Mr. Johnson, is something that your selfish, illogical, ignorant mind will never understand.
