On May 19, an ordinary Sunday afternoon, a troop of plainclothed law-enforcement agents quietly converged on an athletic club in Columbus, Ohio. Their target, a convicted murderer and fugitive, had eluded capture for more than 30 years. As the agents surrounded the perimeter, Tonya Hudkins McCartor, a 53-year-old wife and grandmother, was leaving the club with her husband Daryl. In her arms was a baby boy, her 17-month-old grandson A.J. The boyís parents, Tim Hudkins and his fiancée, walked beside her. They had no reason to notice the quiet team of officers, who had been watching the family for hours.
The McCartors looked no different from any other family. Tim Hudkins, 22, had a shy, sweet smile and a slim, wiry build honed by his high school baseball years. He was Tonyaís son from a previous marriage. Tim and his pretty blond fiancée, Casey, had known each other since they were 13; they later became high school sweethearts. These are not the kind of people who typically find themselves under heavy police surveillance.
Daryl McCartor seemed even less threatening. A Wichita-born truck driver with a calm demeanor, he traded his job as a Pizza Hut supervisor in 1989 for his own business and his own rig in Ohio. Through a telephone dating service, he met an insurance company administrative assistant named Tonya Hudkins. Like Daryl, she had grown tired of the corporate life and wanted good company. They met at a McDonaldís for coffee. Soon they made plans for a real date: a night on the town with dinner and dancing.
On the day the plainclothed agents were scouting them, Daryl and Tonya had been married for nearly two years. Tonya had quit her office job and joined her husband on the road, where they became a driving team. Together, the two would hit the interstate in their white truck and run trips to California hauling paper products. Through lonely stretches of long road in states like Arkansas, Oklahoma and Nebraska, they talked about everything—or nearly everything. The two struggled to balance their checkbook each week, but the happy couple managed to get away occasionally to go horseback riding. And they spent a lot of time with Tonyaís three children and grandchildren.
When the agents stopped the McCartors outside the club, the matter sounded—well, ridiculous. The agents wanted some woman named Margo Freshwater for a crime committed more than 30 years ago.
It had been a brazen, cold-blooded slaying. On Dec. 6, 1966, a Memphis man, Hillman Robbins Sr., the gentlemanly father of a well-known golf pro, was found lying in a pool of blood in a backroom of the Square Deal Liquor Store, located on E.H. Crump Boulevard, one of the cityís busiest streets. Robbins had been shot five times in the head. Sometime that night, a man and his teenage girlfriend left the store with around $600 in cash. The man, a demented genius who confessed on several occasions to pulling the trigger, was declared incompetent to stand trial. But a jury of 12 men found the girl, Margo Freshwater, guilty of murder and sentenced her to 99 years. She testified that she was an unwitting accomplice, frightened into submission by her boozing, unstable—and much older—boyfriend.
Maintaining before and during the trial that she ìnever killed anyone,î the 18-year-old Freshwater escaped from the Tennessee Prison for Women in Nashville in 1970. Along with another female inmate, she outran a guard, scaled a 10-foot fence topped with barbed wire and hitched a ride to Baltimore, Md. Authorities nabbed the other fugitive within a month. Meanwhile, Freshwater went on to live an ordinary and law-abiding life as a wife, mother and grandmother. She even returned to Nashville and Memphis as a tourist.
But not long after she arrived in Baltimore, Tennessee and Ohio authorities began looking for her and never gave up. (Freshwater was from Ohio originally.) Less than a year ago, they got a break in the case when they came across Tonya McCartorís name on a computer database. There they noticed that McCartor had the same birth date as Freshwater and was listed as being nearly the same height and weight. The clincher came when they pulled up Tonya McCartorís Ohio driverís license photo and compared it with Freshwaterís old mug shot from the 1960s.
ìIt was like looking at a mother and a daughter,î says TBI special agent Greg Elliott, whose Internet sleuthing helped break the case.
That discovery helped launch a meticulous investigation, during which authorities looked into McCartorís biography and talked to her former employers.
ìWe did interview a few people, but not friends or family,î Elliott says. ìReally, we had to build a strong enough case against her where we could obtain a search warrant and compel her to give up her fingerprints.î
By May of this year, they believed they had finally built that case. So it was time to locate Tonya McCartor. Agents tried to track her down at her Columbus home, but there was no sign of her for days. She could have been on the road with her husband, or maybe she had been tipped off and fled.
Then on May 18, a Saturday night, Ohio Bureau of Investigation agent Gregg Costas was finishing up a narcotics case when he decided to drop by McCartorís Columbus apartment, located just a mile from the local airport. There, Costas, who had been tracking leads on the Freshwater case for nearly 10 years, saw a car that he had never seen before. Freshwater was home.
Immediately, Costas contacted Elliott in Nashville, who flew up that night. The next morning, Costas and Elliott, along with other law enforcement officials, followed the couple as they went about their day, watching them stop at a donut shop and a grocery store. When Tonya and Daryl, oblivious to their clandestine onlookers, arrived at the athletic club, Elliott and Costas visited a local judge to obtain the search warrant theyíd need to take Tonyaís fingerprints. During the time the two agents were away, another agent watched the happy family swimming inside the club. Several other agents remained outside, no doubt trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.
When Tonya McCartor walked out of the club with her family, agents from the Ohio Bureau of Investigation and the Columbus Police Department quietly surrounded the middle-aged woman and told her: ìWe have reason to believe you are not Tonya McCartor but Margo Freshwater.î
If Tonya was shocked that her long run from the law had drawn to a close, she didnít show it. She handed her grandson to the babyís mother. She gave her son a hearty, long embrace and told him, ìEverything is going to be OK.î She hugged her husband and said, ìI always knew this day would happen.î Then the agents led her to the police car. Within a few minutes, police matched Tonyaís fingerprints to the prints obtained from Margo Freshwater more than 35 years earlier.
ìShe was emotionless,î says Elliott, who has been with the bureau for 17 years. ìShe was very calm and quiet. She wasnít upset.î
The family, however, was stunned. ìI started laughing,î Tim says. ìI thought it was a case of mistaken identity.î Her husband had the same feeling. ìI just thought they had the wrong person, and Iíd have her home that evening,î Daryl McCartor says.
Her husband may never have her home again. Tonya McCartor is back at the Tennessee Prison for Women, from which she escaped more than three decades ago. And unless sheís given a new trial or is granted clemency—a doubtful prospect for a convicted murderer—she will remain behind bars until she is an old woman, if not longer. Meanwhile, the man who confessed to the killing probably will die a free man.
ìSheís telling us to be strong and stick together, and thatís what weíre doing,î her son Tim says. ìThis is a tough situation. But what happened doesnít make any difference. She is still our mother.î
But the relatives of Hillman Robbins Sr., the man who was murdered that evening in Memphis, feel that Margo Freshwaterís day of reckoning has at last arrived. ìI think she should spend the rest of her life behind bars,î says Susan Robbins West, who was just 7 years old when her grandfather was killed. She remembers that her grandfather loved to spend time with his family and especially enjoyed taking everyone to church. His slaying devastated her father, an accomplished golfer who had been very close to his father. ìIt ruined my dad; it killed my dad,î she says. ìHe had to go to the hospital and identify the body, and he never could get that picture out of his mind. He was never close to being the same. He was haunted by that until the day he died.î
ìMy dad didnít talk about it a lot,î says Rick Robbins, the deceasedís grandson. ìIt tore his heart out.î
In the fall of 1966, Margo Freshwater came to Memphis as a troubled teenager with a habit of attracting no-good boyfriends. Earlier that year, as a junior, Freshwater dropped out of Worthington High School in Ohio. She had found herself pregnant, then tried to commit suicide, in part because of how the father of the baby reacted.
Freshwater grew up in a three-bedroom house in a working-class neighborhood of Worthington, a suburb of Columbus. When she was 5 years old, her father walked out on the family, leaving her alone with her mother and two brothers—one older, one younger. Freshwaterís mother, friends recall, was a caring, loving woman and did her best to raise the family as a single mom. She sold real estate and kept a roof over the familyís head. But Margoís mother drank too much and was sometimes spotted driving in her convertible with the top down in the middle of winter, wearing a halter top.
ìThe mother had problems,î says Bob Briggs, who went to high school with Freshwater and her younger brother Tommy. ìWe knew she had a problem, and everybody was pretty much aware of it.î
Tommy Freshwater, who now lives in Chillicothe, Ohio, in the shadow of the Appalachian Mountains, says that his mother tried her best to give the family a good life. After a troubled youth himself, Tommy went on to get two masterís degrees in social and behavioral sciences. With a tattoo on his left shoulder, a scraggly mustache and an unkempt mop of thinning gray hair, Tommy doesnít fit the part of the stereotypical academic, but he is very smart—cagey, in fact. ìThere were dysfunctions in our family,î he says without elaboration.
Still, Margo managed to live what appeared to be a normal life—at least up until the time she got pregnant. Her brother says she was a good swimmer and an excellent sprinter for the school track team—an athletic gift that she relied on years later when she outran prison guards. A tomboy even in high school, Margo was neither popular nor unpopular, choosing to spend her time with a small circle of friends. ìI think Margo was too smart for high school,î her brother says. ìThatís why she dropped out.î
Freshwater rarely seemed like she was enjoying her teenage years. ìShe did not smile that much,î says her former classmate Bob Briggs, who now works as a letter carrier in an Ohio suburb. ìYou could tell that she had some burdens, but when she smiled it was a very gentle smile with very gentle eyes.î
Freshwater kept her baby boy for two weeks before reluctantly giving him up for adoption. Soon after, she began seeing a new boyfriend, who would change the course of her life forever.
Having already served time for robbery in the Ohio state prison, Al Schlereth was not the kind of guy youíd want to bring home for dinner. Tommy Freshwater describes him succinctly as a ìthug.î He also liked to gamble. But Tonya cared deeply for him, and when he got himself arrested for armed robbery in Memphis, she took a 15-hour bus trip to come to his aid.
ìI knew when she went to Memphis there would be trouble,î her brother recalls.
He was right. When she arrived in the Bluff City, Freshwater hired a chain-smoking, hard-drinking attorney named Glenn Nash to represent her boyfriend. A plain-looking man with brown hair and pale skin, Nash, 38, had been cleared earlier that year of two federal charges involving theft of money orders and treasury bonds. His law practice was in jeopardy—he had nearly been disbarred years earlier—and he was having money problems. As a way to help make ends meet, Nash also worked as a karate instructor.
Nash met with her at the Hotel Claridge, where she was staying. Freshwater later recalled on the stand that when he arrived, he was already drunk. She tried to talk about the case, but the married attorney ordered a pint of whiskey and started to flirt with her. She shrugged him off, and he passed out on the bed.
Freshwater went home to Columbus but returned to Memphis within weeks—after Nash told her that he needed her help in a rather convoluted ploy that he promised would free her incarcerated boyfriend. He picked her up from the bus station and found her a baby-sitting job with a married couple who would, in turn, provide her with room and board. Within one week of her return to Memphis, she and Nash became intimate, she later testified in court. While it might have been an odd turn of events for the young, attractive girl to start sleeping with her boyfriendís lawyer, she was only 18 years old. She was living in a new city and getting over an unwanted pregnancy. She clearly was vulnerable to the advances of an older man.
As it turned out, Nash didnít need Freshwaterís help with the case, and she decided to return to Columbus. But Nash wouldnít let her go.
Only two people really know what happened the night of Dec. 6, 1966—when Hillman Robbinsí life ended with a rapid series of gunshots to his head. One of those people, Glenn Nash, has been found to be, more or less, insane. The other person is Margo Freshwater. The state Correction Department is not allowing Freshwater to talk to the media, given the security restrictions imposed on former escapees, so her trial testimony about what happened that night is all there is.
That afternoon, Nash had gone to visit Freshwater at the house where she was baby-sitting. Ever since she had tried to leave Memphis, the attorney had begun regularly checking up on his young lover, making sure that she was home. When he arrived at the apartment that day, Nash asked her if she had any whiskey. When she said she didnít, he scoured the apartment, opening and closing cabinets. He didnít find any and told her that he was going to go get some. Freshwater wanted to get out of the house for a while and asked him if she could join him. He said yes, and she brought the baby with them.
The two visited the Square Deal Liquor store on E.H. Crump Boulevard, where the brutal murder occurred hours later. Prosecutors later alleged that Nash and Freshwater were casing the joint in preparation for a burglary later that evening. Freshwater testified that when she went to the bathroom at the liquor store, Nash purchased some whiskey and they returned to the apartment. Simple as that.
When they got back, Nash started drinking and quickly became drunk. Although she was still making plans to visit her boyfriend in prison the next day, Freshwater was going on a date with her neighbor, Bill, that evening. Unaware of her plans, Nash drove Freshwater back to her apartment, but two minutes later he was still parked outside, honking his horn. She got back in the car, and they argued about his wife, who had learned of the affair.
Nash then wanted to get some more whiskey, and when Freshwater asked to get out of the white Ford Fairlane, he wouldnít let her. Shortly after, he turned the corner and clipped a telephone pole. She then told him, ìIíll drive before you kill us both.î
They drove back to the Square Deal Liquor Store, and Freshwater followed him in, hoping to get the drunk Nash in and out quickly so she could go back home and get ready for her date with Bill. But Nash had other plans. Not long after he walked into the store, Nash told Hillman Robbins, who was manning the register, to hold up his hands. ìThis is a holdup,î he said. Freshwater testified that she was stunned. Nash told Robbins to put the money in a bag, and the three of them went into a back room. She said that she argued with Nash, telling him that this was ìinsane.î A customer walked in, and Nash ordered his teenage lover to pretend she was an employee. She waited on the customer, and when there wasnít any change in the register, she went back and got some change from Nash.
Under cross-examination, Freshwater was asked why she didnít tip off the customer. She replied, ìI didnít want to die.î
After she waited on the customer, she returned to the back room, and Nash walked to the front of the store. She noticed that Robbins was tied up. She testified that she tried to free him. But Nash foiled her efforts, slapped her around a few times and said, ìDidnít I tell you I would kill you if I caught you trying to do something I told you not to do?î Freshwaterís reply, according to her testimony: ìYes, but please donít kill me.î
Nash then had Freshwater walk out the door to the car, and as soon as she got out, she heard a series of loud noises. ìWhen it finally registered in my head what it might be, I tried to decide whether I should run, whether I could get away from him or not,î she later testified. ìHe came out and told me to get in the car behind the wheel.î Freshwater testified that she began to cry and that he warned her that if she left him and went to the cops, the customer that she waited on would be a witness against her. He also told her that he used two guns to implicate her, something that Nash has corroborated.
The couple fled to Olive Branch, Miss., where they stopped at a hotel. The two had sex, which the prosecution later used as evidence that she was in on the robbery and that she was never afraid of Nash. For the next three weeks, they drove throughout the southeast, including Nashville, spending nights in motels or in their car, often telling people they were husband and wife. When the two were in Chattanooga, she tried to escape, but he found her and let her know that he still had a gun.
Two more people were murdered while Freshwater and Nash were on the run. On Dec. 18, the two checked into the Holiday Inn in Ft. Lauderdale, Fla. Later that evening, Nash allegedly shot and killed Ester Bouyea, a convenience store clerk, putting a bullet through her neck. His fingerprints were found on a grocery cart. Freshwater was seen at the store as well, but Florida authorities had no interest in prosecuting her for the murder. They only wanted Nash.
Just over a week later, the two were spotted walking in the rain without an umbrella in the town of Millington, Tenn., just 12 miles north of Memphis. They called a cab, and the driver, C.C. Surratt, took them across the state line into Mississippi. The driver was later found dead, shot in the back of the head.
Later that day, the two were arrested after boarding a bus in Greenville, Miss. The police had finally gotten a report that the pair were seen in the area. According to newspaper reports, they were smiling at each other shortly after they were handcuffed.
Later, Nash confided to inmates at the county jail that he killed Robbins, Bouyea and Surratt. Nash also later told a physician treating him that he killed all three people because he needed the money. Subsequently, he told the psychiatric staff at a Mississippi hospital that he went on his killing spree because the victims were members of the bar association or a law enforcement agency. In fact, Nash had been under investigation by the Memphis and Shelby County Bar Association.
Nash ultimately was found incompetent to stand trial in Tennessee, Mississippi and Florida. He spent 15 years in a series of mental institutions. But in the early 1980s, a Florida facility released him, and he returned to his modest home in West Memphis, Ark. Nash was deemed no longer to be a danger to himself or others. But a court never ruled that he was competent to stand trial for any of the three murders for which he had confessed. He remains free to this day and probably always will be.
Inside the Shelby County district attorneyís office in downtown Memphis, there is a voluminous file on Glenn Nash stuffed with relevant newspaper clippings and court documents. In brief after brief, state prosecutors tried to make a case against the confessed murderer, but they could never convince a court that Nash was competent to stand trial. Even after he was released from a mental hospital into society, prosecutors couldnít take Nash before a jury. And the fact that Freshwater is back in prison hasnít changed the fact that Nash will continue to enjoy his freedom.
ìWe canít make a case; weíve already made a case,î says James Challen, a deputy district attorney in Shelby County. ìWe went forward with the case over 30 years ago, and he was indicted, but it was decided that he wasnít competent to stand trial.î Challen says he knows of no new plans for the state to attempt prosecution.
In the í70s, when Tennessee prosecutors tried in vain to prosecute Nash, they stated in court papers that they believed the homicidal lawyer had concocted the bizarre motive about the victims being members of the bar association just to make people think he was insane. They also said that Nash was extraordinarily intelligent. In fact, he had such a formidable mind that while incarcerated in the months after his arrest, Nash carried on seven games of chess simultaneously by mail—even though he did not have access to a board or chess pieces. He was able to remember where the pieces were in his head to all of the games.
ìIt is simply the Stateís theory that Nash is a very clever individual who, through his reading and observations while confined in the mental institution, can convincingly present himself as insane,î a state brief against the lawyer read.
Although Nash confessed to the murder of the cab driver and the two others, Freshwater was tried in Mississippi for the driverís killing. Two separate trials, however, resulted in hung juries. She was then released to stand trial in Memphis for the murder of Hillman Robbins Sr. (Florida authorities, meanwhile, never prosecuted Freshwater for the murder of the grocery store clerk there.)
When Freshwater was arrested in December 1966, newspapers reported her sexual escapades during her incarceration in the county jail, accompanied by photos of her flashing a coy smile. She was photographed wearing skirts and colorful sweaters, looking more like a young movie starlet than an accused murderer. But by the time Freshwaterís Memphis trial began in February 1969, she had gained more than 30 pounds and, judging from newspaper photos, she looked sullen, bitter and full of despair.
Twelve men sat on the jury and once again heard stories of her sexual promiscuity, some of which were foolishly introduced by her own lawyer. All that accomplished was to paint the defendant as a calculating accomplice, not a scared and frightened victim. But the trial seemed to be going all right for the defendant. In fact, state prosecutors didnít challenge Freshwaterís testimony that Nash was the triggerman—if anything, they substantiated it. Even a star witness for the prosecution, a barely literate ex-con by the name of Johnny Box, testified that when he and Freshwater were in jail together, she confided to him that she was scared of Nash. He then asked her if she shot Robbins, and she told him ìno.î
The stateís case basically rested on the fact that Nash and Freshwater were lovers. Based on that, the state argued, she was clearly a motivated and willing accomplice. It didnít matter whether she pulled the trigger. According to the law, an accomplice in the course of a murder is considered to be just as guilty as the triggerman. The prosecutor even referred to Freshwater as ìBonnie,î an obvious reference to the infamous gangster Bonnie Parker of Bonnie and Clyde fame. And the 12 men on the jury no doubt had difficulty sympathizing with her troubled life and how it led to her exploitation by the likes of Glenn Nash.
On Friday, Feb. 6, 1969, that jury found Freshwater guilty of first-degree murder and handed her a sentence of 99 years in prison. According to the Memphis Commercial Appeal, the verdict stunned Freshwater. After all, the two Mississippi juries, both hung, were dealing with essentially the same kind of trial as the Memphis jury. This was an arbitrary criminal justice system at work. As she was led to the Shelby County jail, she wept. Her lawyer assured his client, ìThis is not over by a long shot.î A year later, the Tennessee Court of Criminal Appeals upheld her conviction. A few months after that, Freshwater managed to escape from prison and begin a new life.
At the time Freshwater escaped from the Tennessee Prison for Women, it was relatively easy for someone to walk off the street and apply for a Social Security card—even without identification. According to the TBIís Greg Elliott, McCartor took advantage of such lax safeguards and obtained a Social Security number shortly after becoming a fugitive. With that, she was able to establish the new life she thought the Memphis jury should have given her in the first place.
Using the alias Tonya Myers, she met and moved in with Phillip Zimmerman, and the two of them wound up in her home state of Ohio. Nine months and one day after Freshwater found herself on the other side of a prison fence, she had a son, whom she named Phil Zimmerman. According to a story about Freshwater in the Memphis Commercial Appeal, an Ohio prosecutor wondered about the timing of the birth. Did Freshwater exchange sexual favors with a guard in return for help in her escape? Or did she engage in a quick tryst almost immediately after she jumped the fence?
Freshwater and Zimmerman later had a daughter, Angela. Much like Freshwaterís own father, Zimmerman left his family in the mid-í70s and lost contact with both children. Single once again, Freshwater and her two young children moved around Ohio, with Freshwater taking whatever jobs she could find—waiting tables, managing a country club bar, working as a plant secretary for a plastics company.
When she worked as a housekeeper, she brought her children along because she couldnít afford a baby-sitter. It was a struggle for the family to pay the bills, and yet her children say that their mom did what she could to give them a normal childhood. She took them camping, helped them raise Great Danes and made sure she never missed her childrenís softball and baseball games. And like all good parents, she knew her childrenís friends.
ìYou know when youíre a kid and you say, êI wish so-and-so was our momí î says Angela Hudkins. ìWell that was our mom. All of our friends loved her.î
Freshwaterís oldest son, Phil, lives in an assisted living home because of a disability. School wasnít easy for him, but she made sure he graduated. ìShe was our best friend, and she was our mom,î Phil says. ìI feel like Iím kind of lost. She has always been there for us.î
In 1979, Freshwater married Joe Hudkins, a truck driver who had three children of his own. He was perhaps the first good man in her life, and together they had a son, Tim. Hudkins adopted Angie and Phil as well. Together, the two raised six children and, by all accounts, enjoyed a happy marriage and lived a regular, all-American life. He promised that one day heíd teach his wife how to drive a rig, but he died of cancer in 1988, before he could make good on that deal.
A little more than two years ago, in her hometown of Columbus, Ohio, Freshwater married Daryl McCartor, with whom she made a pact. Tonya, an excellent ballroom dancer, would teach him how to cut a rug, and heíd show her how to drive a truck.
After they were married, she took to the road with Daryl as a truck-driving team. The two talked about retiring to the country and building a cabin. If they were lucky, theyíd have a horse or two. Freshwater loved riding horses, a longtime passion she once talked about with reporters during an informal jailhouse interview shortly after she was first arrested.
After Freshwaterís past life as a convicted murderer-turned-fugitive came to light, her friends and family expressed amazement, if not outright incredulity, that this loving woman they had known had such a dark past. Naturally, they insist that the person they know could never have been involved in a murder and simply must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. ìI would have never guessed anything about this. Never,î says Tina Carter, Freshwaterís maid of honor during her wedding to McCartor.
Carter, who lives in Rhode Island, met Freshwater when the two worked for Metropolitan Life Insurance Co. (MetLife). ìAt the time, I was a single mother raising my children and she was a single mother raising her kids, and we just hit it off,î Carter says. ìShe was always willing to listen. She didnít throw around advice. She just listened.î
Jerome Woods worked at MetLife with Freshwater as a property and casualty specialist. He recalls that when he found himself in a rather contentious divorce, she helped him cope. ìI didnít have anything in my condo after my divorce, and she gave me plates and dishes and she lent me her mattress,î Woods recalls, adding that he told her not to go out of her way but that she insisted. ìShe claimed that she had some issues with her back and that sleeping on the floor would help her anyway.î
Like her other friends, Woods says that he still supports the woman he knew as Tonya. ìEven now, Iím still in shock,î he says. ìTonya never came across to me as a con artist or liar. Everything about her is very genuine and sincere. I never even saw her argue with anyone in the office.î
Even though Freshwater is unable to discuss her murder conviction in any detail with anybody other than her attorneys, she does talk to her family by phone. ìI had the opportunity to ask her if she killed anybody and she said, ênoí î her husband says. ìThatís all I needed to know.î
Knoxville lawyer Robert Ritchie enjoys a reputation as one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the state and as one of the professionís few gentlemen. But the Freshwater case, which he took on shortly after her arrest, may be one of his toughest challenges. Not only did a jury find Freshwater guilty of murder, but the state Court of Criminal Appeals upheld that conviction. And since her original defense conceded that she was at the scene of the crime, itís not clear what sort of new evidence Ritchie could collect to corroborate her assertion that she was an unwitting accomplice in the brutal slaying of Hillman Robbins. For example, she testified that she tried to help the victim, going so far as to untie him. But no one alive can corroborate that claim, other than the man who actually pulled the trigger.
Ritchie, obviously, wonít detail his legal strategy, but indications are that heís going to either craft another appeal or hope to prove to the state that sheís rehabilitated in an effort to win clemency. ìAt this point, we are reinvestigating the original case,î he says, ìas well as her life—the past 32 years.î Interestingly enough, to date Ritchie hasnít exploited Nashís freedom to gain political favor for his client.
But the man who helped put her back behind bars says thatís exactly where she belongs. ìShe was convicted of first-degree murder, and she did not finish serving her time,î TBIís Elliott says. ìIn my mind, how sheís lived her life since then is irrelevant.î
And the deceasedís family doubts that Freshwater is, in fact, rehabilitated. ìShe lived behind a mask for her husband and kids,î says Rick Robbins, Hillman Robbins Sr.ís grandson. ìShe lied to all the people she loves.î
By some accounts, Freshwater is holding up well at the prison she thought she left behind for good 32 years ago. Her friend Jerome Woods, who has kept in touch with Freshwater since her arrest, depicts her current state as somber and numb. ìStill, I donít detect any signs of bitterness,î he says.
Carter, her maid of honor, talked to her over the phone shortly after she was arrested. She says that her friend is trying to be strong, if only for her family. ìShe called me from jail and said that her spirits were OK. I told her I was there for her, and she kind of broke down crying.î
Earlier this month, her three children and Timís fiancée, Casey, rented a car and drove to Nashville to see their mother. If she was despondent, she did a good job of keeping up appearances. ìShe was beautiful and as always cheerful,î Casey says. ìAnd we told her that we love her and weíre doing everything we can to get her out.î
The day after that visit, Freshwater was allowed to call her family, who had gathered in the kitchen of her Columbus apartment. Sounding more like she was on a business trip than in a penitentiary, Freshwater, who was on speakerphone, calmly arranged with her family who would visit her and when. Like most inmates, Freshwater is restricted to a certain number of visitors each month. Freshwater asked her son Phil about his new job at the state fair. Throughout the conversation, Freshwater remained composed and strong. Toward the end of the call, she said hello to A.J., one of her three grandchildren, telling him that she loves and misses him.
As a former fugitive, Freshwater is being held in ìmaximum security segregationî away from her fellow inmates. If sheís allowed to move into the general population, sheíll have more privileges and might be able to see more visitors.
In the meantime, her family is doing everything they can to free her. Financially strapped, Daryl McCartor is overhauling his life to pay his wifeís extensive legal bills, which include a $60,000 retainer. He has dropped his health insurance, organized car washes with her children and made himself available to media across the country with the hope, he says, of drawing more public attention to his wifeís plight. He also helped develop a Web site (www.geocities.com/mccartorfund) dedicated to telling her story and soliciting donations to her legal fund. He wonít say how much money the site has raised but indicates that itís minuscule.
While his wifeís suddenly exposed history has tested the limits of the coupleís wedding vows, McCartor remains committed. And every indication is that she feels exactly the same way. When the two were married, they each videotaped messages in which they described the flurry of emotions they felt on their wedding day. The purpose was to one day look back at the film, perhaps deriving strength during difficult moments, which are inevitable in any marriage.
McCartor, who starts to cry when he remembers the first time he and his wife danced, reviewed his wedding video a few months after her arrest. In her taped segment, with her blond hair and the tall, thin frame of a former runner, she smiled as she expressed her love to McCartor. ìI just want you to know this is the happiest day of my life. Youíre my best friend, lover and soon-to-be husband. Iím looking forward to the day, and many, many more days of being your friend and your partner. I love you.î
Later in the video, Freshwater looks at McCartor and vows that their love and friendship would remain intact even ìin moments of darkness.î
As Margo Freshwater sits alone in prison, the man who confessed to the killing for which she was sentenced roams free. In 1994, the infamous Glenn Nash gave a brief interview to Michael Kelly of the Memphis Commercial Appeal. ìIím just concentrating on taking the medicine that I have to take at the right time,î he said. Today, people who have kept up with him say that Nash still lives at that same home, with the same woman he was married to at the time he met Margo Freshwater.
