Wilfredo Ramos, a poor, young, illiterate Latino man with an
I.Q., of under 72, sent to Pennsylvania's death row.
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
To make any sense of this murder case would require
the reader to become a reluctant eyewitness on a tour
through "The Badlands", one of the most crime-riddled,
drug-infested areas in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
It is a maze of long thin streets that snakes through the
seedy bowels of the kensington Section of the city,
densely populated with mostly Latino and black
residents.
Here, a squadron of drug dealers work their corners in
shifts, or operate their profitable drug businesses from
the dark shadows of gutted out abandoned buildings.
The children are warned to never play in the streets.
Gun shots ring out all day long over disputes -- large or
small -- between rival drug dealers or dissatisfied
customers.
The decent, law-abiding residents huddle in fear behind
heavily fortified two or three story tenement buildings.
They peek through the slits of barred windows and
doors. Sirens scream hauntingly down these mean,
lawless streets as the police make drug sweeps -- but
the dealers always cane back.
In this vicious cycle of violence and crime and drugs -- it
is so easy for a _young Latino man to get caught up in a
crime that would send him to Pennsylvania's death row.
It was October 11, 1998, and on or around 2:30am., in
the morning, Wilfredo Ramos, 22, made his way through
the Badlands as he headed towards his girlfriend's
house, a beautiful young Puerto Rican girl who was also
the mother of his three children. He needed to make one
stop first. A little something he had to pick up that always
put his woman in the mood for sex.
Suddenly the sharp, insistent sound of a car horn
tooting followed by an explosion of white light behind him
shattered his thoughts.
"Yo, Freddie! Para donde vas?"(1)
Wilfredo turned. It was his uncle Michael Centeno,
asking him where he was going. Fred told him he was
going to see his Mujer, (2) but first he needed to pick up
sane reefer for her and a little coca(3) for himself. His
uncle told him he was going by that way. He needed
sane more crack himself. Can he join him? he asked.
In the car, Centeno admitted that he needed some cash.
He was "looking for a dealer to stick up." Then he pulled
a large gun fran his jacket waved it menacingly.
Something told young Wilfredo that he should get away
from his uncle -- as far, far away as he could -- because
he was acting crazy. He knew he was a violent, abusive
man. And the crack cocaine he smoked all day made
him even more dangerous and psychotic.
His eyes were deep black pools swimming with wild
desperation.
Centeno turned onto Lawrence and Indiana street, the
stronghold of James Crawford, a notorious crack dealer.
He parked his car in the middle of the Leithgow street
and slammed on the brakes. They asked Robert
Kennedy, a drug runner, who had dope for sale.
Kennedy pointed towards a darkened abandoned
building behind them, then yelled for his boss, James
Cradford, who came ......................................
Moments later, Crawford yelled, "Yo, man, give me my s !"
He reached for his gun stuffed in his baggy pants.
A witness heard one of the perpetrators command Crawford to
"Back up! Back up!"
A single gunshot rang out. The drug dealer, hit point blank in the
chest, fell to the ground, dead.
Young Wilfredo Ramos was arrested over a Month later, on
November 17, 1998. Detective Richard Reinhold and his partner
grilled him hard. One was tall and husky, the other cop short and
compact, Ramos remembers. They kept shoving their stiff fingers
in his chest, saying, "If you don't talk, you're not going home to
your wife and kids! Ever!" Freddie asked for a lawyer several
times but they ignored him. Five long, grueling hours passed. The
interrogators wore him down. Freddie told the cops that he was
indeed present, but he had no idea his uncle Centeno was going
to shoot anyone. The drug dealer wasn't supposed to die.
At his murder trial, the prosecution's main witness was Jeanine
Ramona Davis, a filthy, spaced out crack addict, who identified
him as the shooter, though it was pitch black inside the crack
house, where she was standing. Robert Kennedy, claimed the
Detectives pressured and coerced him to identify Ramos as the
shooter, though he really didn't see anything. When he and
another alleged eyewitness, Nick Cruz, refused to testify against
young Wilfredo Ramos, the court allowed Detective Reinhold to
read their un sworn, and unsigned statements to the jury -- clearly
a 6th and 14th Amendment violation of the defendant's rights to
face his accusers.
This warrants nothing less than a new trial!
(See: Commonwealth Vs. Kevin Lively, 530 Pa. 464, 610 A.2d 7).
Moreover, his pitifully ineffective court-appointed lawyer didn't
even object. He put forth no defense. Is the murder of a violent,
dangerous drug dealer a heinous enough crime to qualify anyone
to be sentenced to death? And should anyone be convicted on
the unreliable testimony of a sick, delusional crack addict?
In closing argument, the Prosecution told the jury that the Uncle,
Michael Centeno, could have, indeed, been the actual shooter --
yet he only received 15 years, while Wilfredo Ramos, a poor,
young, illiterate Latino man with an I.Q., of under 72, was sent to
Pennsylvania's death row.
Copyright 2003 Reginald S. Lewis
f#AY-2902 175 Progress Drive, Waynesburg, PA.15370
Fred welcomes letters from anyone willing to write to him to offer
support. Wri te to:
Wilfreda Ramos,
1#ED-0081,
175 Progress Drive,
Waynesburg
Pennsylvania
15370-8089.
USA.
Notes:
(1). "Where are you going?" (2). "Woman."
(3). "Cocaine."