Rickie Johnson - Innocent

 

It's 2008. I'm in Angola State Penitentiary for a crime I didn't commit. Had been there for 24 years. I was convicted for aggravated rape, and I was exonerated. Well, one day, I was coming in from work, went through the dormitory, stopped by there, and picked up my mail. I looked at it, read it. It says Lakeisha Butts. I'm saying, "Who is Lakeisha Butts? I don't know who’s Lakeisha Butts." And [chuckles] I see. I opened it up, and it started off like this. It said, "Dear Mr. Rickie Johnson, my name is Lakeisha Butts. I'm looking for my father. I haven't saw him since I was a baby." 

 

She said, "Now, my uncle told me that he was in prison in Louisiana for a crime he didn't commit. I've been searching for my father for X amount of years, and used to own a Rickie Johnson in Louisiana State Penitentiary. Now, if you think I'm some kind of freak or something, just looking to write a prisoner, that's not so. I'm trying to find my father. So, if you will, write me back and let me know." She said, "And only my father would know these questions. You answer these questions and I know you’re my father.” Okay. She said, "My father gave me a nickname. What is it? My father had a brother that passed away while he's in prison. What was his name? My father and my grandfather were real good friends. What was his name?" She went on asking questions. "What about this? What is this? What is this? What is this?" I said, "Okay." 

 

I put the letter down. Now, ever since I've been in prison, I've been thinking about my baby girl. She was two years old when I left. Her mother got married a year after I was gone. And so, she married a guy in the military. So, they traveled all over the world. I didn't know where she was. Now, this is my baby girl. We used to ride in the car. She'd stand up in the car seat, holding me around my neck. We did things together when she was just a little girl. I haven't seen her since she was two years old. I put the letter down, and I walked on. She touched me that time. I went and talked to one of my partners about it. I said, "Man, I think I found my baby girl." He said, "Okay." I went back and got the letter.

 

Now, in Angola State Penitentiary, the bloody prison of the nation, you can't have no feelings for nobody. My mother passed away, and I went to her funeral and I couldn't cry. And this little letter from my baby, she touched me. That's the first time I realized I had feelings in the prison, because she really touched me. That's my baby. Okay. I wrote her back. I answered questions. “Yes, your name is Kesalisa. I gave you a nickname, Kesalisa. My brother named Michael, or your daddy named this and all that there.” I answered all that. I was planning on just answering the question. But when I got through, I had wrote a little magazine. [audience laughter]

 

So, I folded it up. Had to get about three, four stamps to slam across. One stamp wasn't going to do it. I had to get about three or four stamps slamming in the mail. I'm waiting. Okay, I get a letter back, a magazine about that thick. I opened it up. The first thing she said was, "Dad, I found you. Dad, I found you. How can I get you out of there? Here's my phone number. Call me," and all that stuff like that there. Okay. Now, I said, "Man, I found my baby. This must be the happiest day of my life." But it wasn't a happy day of my life, until the Innocence Project exonerated me in 2008. We went to Baton Rouge, had a press conference, and I met my daughter for the first time since she was a little baby. She was 30-some years old then. I hugged her, she hugged me, and she said, "Daddy, now, my life is complete. I got you." Yeah.