On April 4, 1990, John Sill went to Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary in Petros, Tennessee, to chat with James Earl Ray.

John Sill drove from his hotel in Knoxville the forty miles up Brushy Mountain to the prison. The huge gray notched-roof affair looked more like a prison than any building he had ever seen. The facility had what they called a storied past, but he had no interest in that story at all. He checked in at a desk manned by a chinless, thick-necked guard, having arranged the interview weeks earlier, greasing a number of palms to make it happen. The guard looked at his clipboard, nodded his large head, and spoke into his ancient microphone. “Bring up James Earl.”

Sill sat at a small table in a room full of small tables. Women sat waiting for prisoners to come occupy the chairs across from them. The men filed in, Black and White, and sat. There was no touching allowed, as the guard in the room announced over and over, “There will be no touching, there will be no contact of skin of one individual with that of another individual, in any manner, there will be no rubbing of feet, unshod or otherwise, under the tables or on top, there will be no accidental knocking of knuckles, nails, or fingers. Any touching in the ways I have described or any other in some way that I may have failed to indicate will result in termination of the visit and a cancellation for one month of any subsequent visits.” Deep breath. “There will be no touching …”

James Earl Ray was the last prisoner to enter the room. He looked around and his cruel eyes landed heavily on John Sill. He walked over and sat. “They didn’t tell me you was a nigger.”

“Probably didn’t want to scare you.”

Ray froze for a moment. “What do you want? You want to know if I was really the one that shot King.”

Sill shook his head. “Do you remember a man who saw you talking to a policeman outside the boardinghouse? A Black man.”

“Shit, Memphis is full of Black men.”

“This Black man saw you with your rifle and you were talking to Sinbad Willis.”

“Whatever happened to Willis?” Ray asked.

“He’s the chief of police.”

“Well, fuck me. He done all right.”

Sill watched Ray. He was a small man. In many ways. Before the meeting Sill thought that he would be intimidated in the presence of a murderer, that he would be nervous and afraid of talking to a hard man, but he wasn’t. He was only twenty-two and he felt no fear. “The man outside the rooming house.”

“You know it was Willis who shot that preacher. I bought the gun. But, hell, I ain’t a good shot.”

“The man,” Sill said.

“Yeah, I killed him. He seen us. He had to die. What, was he your daddy or something?” Ray chuckled.

“Yes.” Sill looked at the tall, barred window across the way. “Why didn’t you tell anyone about Willis and get yourself out of here?”