A Need to Kill

Drawings

INTRODUCTION

The system is supposed to have some finality. It’s time for that finality.

-Ben Nelson

Governor of Nebraska

July 1, 1996

With those words the fate of John Joubert was sealed. Thirteen years after terrorizing the Midwest, he would pay for his crimes in the electric chair.

The wait for justice had been much too long for the good people of Nebraska. They had wanted the serial child killer exterminated quickly, like a dreaded insect that might threaten future crops. Instead his appeals dragged on and on, until patience finally wore thin and the final decision was handed down by the US Supreme Court. There would be no more stays or delays. To make its point, the court even dismissed Joubert’s state-appointed attorney.

As Joubert’s time ran out, I made one last trip to Omaha. I had been invited back by KMTV-3, where I had worked and covered the Joubert case, to do commentary about his execution. There was also a chance I would interview Joubert one last time.

We were only hours away from the scheduled execution as I made the two-hour flight from Atlanta to Omaha. I raced from the airport, looking out the windows of my rental car at the fertile fields that passed with a greenish blur. I wondered whether things would go back to normal once Joubert was executed, or whether innocence had come and gone with the US airman’s brutal harvest of 1983?

I had struggled for days with what to say if I did get to meet with Joubert. What do you ask a man who is about to be executed and, by all rights, deserves to die? We had not parted on the best of terms. Was he still angry at the words printed in earlier editions of this book? Did he hold me responsible for his conviction in Maine?

After arriving at the TV station, I was ushered into an edit room to look at the videotape of the recent Joubert interview with anchorwoman Trina Creighton.

Joubert had changed dramatically since the last time I saw him. His once boyish, fleshy face had been transformed into a hardened likeness only prison can manufacture. Joubert seemed gaunt and weary, his moppish hair now thinning. A patchy beard gave him a sinister air. Finally, John Joubert looked the part of the savage killer he really was.

He greeted Trina awkwardly. As she moved to adjust his microphone, Joubert winced and withdrew. Again I was surprised at how sheepish the infamous killer appeared in person.

My thoughts faded to my first meeting with Joubert. I was a young investigative reporter fascinated with the case. He was the youngest man on death row.

For more than two years, I had fought for permission to interview him, keeping in touch with his attorney, waiting for this court decision then that one. Finally, afraid that he might be executed before I got a chance to talk to him, I wrote the following letter:

30 Jan., 1987

Dear John,

For the past two and a half years I have followed every step in your case. If he hasn’t told you, I have also been in constant contact with your attorney, Owen Giles.

I would very much like to talk to you about the case, life on death row, and the future. Owen has been opposed to such an interview, fearing it might jeopardize your case. I now think we’re past the point of damage and I have decided to contact you myself. I have talked with Supreme Court Chief Justice Norm Krivosha, who says anything you say now would not affect his handling of your appeal. The way the case was tried is in question—not the facts.

I feel you have quite a story to tell and must have a lot bottled up inside you. Rest assured, I would be fair in giving you a chance to talk.

I’m enclosing a pre-postaged envelope and paper. At least write back. I will come to Lincoln without a crew to talk with you in person if you’re interested. We’ll set the ground rules for the interview. In my opinion, you have nothing to lose, but could gain a little understanding from people, who wonder who John Joubert really is.

Robert Hunt (a former death row inmate) gave me his only interview—because, he said, he trusted me.

You can too.

Sincerely,

Mark Pettit, Anchor/Reporter

Frankly, I did not expect a response. But two weeks later the envelope came back. The station logo in the top left-hand corner had been scratched out and another return address printed neatly above it.

As I pulled the letter from my mail slot, I had a gut feeling that my request for an interview would be denied, but I was glad that he’d written back. I walked into an editing room, sat down, and began to read, fascinated by the level of intelligence with which the letter had been written:

(TEXT OF LETTER)

02 Feb., 1987

Dear Mr. Pettit,

This is in response to your letter of 30 Jan., 1987. Since you know that Mr. Giles has been against my participating in an interview in the past, I’m sure you can guess what his advice would be were I to ask it on this occasion. While it may be true that an interview would have no affect on my appeal, one must still consider the possibility of any new trials.

I’m not sure that I know just what story you feel I could tell, however I would not be opposed to your coming out here to present your questions if, and only if, this could be done with the understanding that I would be under no obligation to participate in an interview.

In the event that you choose not to come to Lincoln, I have two questions for you. There is no need to respond.

1) Do you see any need to air a piece which will only serve to amplify the hurt of the victims’ families?

2) Do you really believe that people could watch such a piece and come away with an understanding of who John Joubert really is? Would they not say, rather, "It is only an act to gain our sympathy?

Sincerely,

John J. Joubert

Two days later I was waiting in a conference room at the Nebraska State Penitentiary for John Joubert to arrive. I’d worried the night before about how to greet him. I despised his brutal crime and was very much aware of the community’s hostility toward him. Still, it’s hard to talk to a person who knows you hate him. So I decided, as I’d said in my letter, neither to condemn nor condone; I would treat him like a human being. I would shake his hand.

To my surprise no guards accompanied him. Many would expect a killer to be a huge, overbearing type, but standing before me was a small, ragged-looking man in khaki prison wear, his reddish-brown hair tossed about his face. A thought ran through my mind: how small he is compared to the size of his crime. But he had indeed grown since he committed those crimes. He’d put on about fifty pounds and no longer looked like the young boy who had been arrested three years before; prison had taken away the youthful softness of his face.

We now stood eye to eye. Without hesitation, I reached out and shook the hand that had stabbed two and possibly three young boys to death.

As I did in most interviews, I tried to break the ice with a few questions about his background. We discussed his childhood, the broken home, his turning to the service for direction in life. He seemed glad just to have someone to talk to, but when I began questioning him about the Eberle/Walden murders, his mood changed. His movements and speech became mechanical; he talked about what he had done in the way he might recite a poem he’d never wanted to memorize.

I listened quietly, tuning out the echoes of voices and phones down the hall. I recalled what the guard who had walked me down the corridor had said:

Are you nervous?

Just a little, I’d said.

It’s not that bad. Once you get past his eyes.

Now I knew what he meant.

Joubert’s eyes were a cold, gray color. Uncaring, piercing eyes. Like the eyes of a shark. There was no getting behind them, no door into his mind. And I sensed no remorse.

I hadn’t expected it to turn into a full interview, but that’s what it became. We talked in detail about his fantasies, which had started as a young boy. Most boys that age might have dreamed of going to Disney World; John Joubert had dreamed of killing. For two solid hours we relived his life, his crimes, and we discussed his future.

Before I left, I asked for a similar interview for television. I gave him several reasons why he should do it. Again, I left him a self-addressed stamped envelope.

I’ll think about it, he said.

The guard led John Joubert away, and again I was alone. I sat back in the leather box-like chair and sorted the notebooks and papers in my briefcase. Even if he said no to the television interview I had at least satisfied some of my questions about his case.

I still could not believe that no guard had remained in the room while we talked. Occasionally a guard would peek through the small window in the heavy wooden door, but not once were we interrupted. If I’d wanted to hurt him there would have been nothing to stop me. I wondered what the parents of his victims would have done given the same chance.

I stuffed the rest of the papers in my briefcase and closed the lid with a click. Then I walked out of the room, pausing briefly at the guard’s desk just outside.

Thanks, guys, I said to the two men standing there. Hopefully, I’ll see you again.

Take it easy, one of them said.

Almost two weeks later, the letter arrived. As before, Joubert had scratched out the return address and replaced it with his own. But this time the news was not what I had hoped:

(TEXT OF LETTER)

16 Feb. 87

Dear Mark,

Please accept my apology for not answering sooner, but you left me with a lot to consider. Your reasons, particularly that of possibly preventing another from attempting murder, are most admirable (although as I mentioned when we spoke, I don’t believe that such a person would admit he had a problem), but I don’t think now is the proper time for an interview.

As of yet, I have not discussed this with Owen Giles, but I shall, and when we are both in agreement that an interview would do no harm to either my case or the current death penalty bill we will let you know. For whatever consolation it may afford, you can rest assured that you will be given the first—if not the only—chance of an interview when the time comes.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

John J. Joubert

Disappointed, I folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope, and walked back to my desk in the newsroom. More bad news was to come: Owen Giles, Joubert’s court-appointed attorney, was leaving the case and a new public defender would step in.

Owen was a deeply loyal and passionate man, tireless in his battle against the death penalty. He’d spent countless hours working on the Joubert case, and although he didn’t want me to talk to his client, I very much respected him. Now I felt that my work had been in vain. If I wanted that interview, I’d have to start from scratch with another attorney.

Much to my surprise, Joubert’s new attorney saw things differently than Owen Giles. Tom Garvey believed that his client should make the final decision, and that Joubert would decide by the following Sunday at noon.

Of course I was at home Sunday, and as the morning slipped away I could feel the interview slipping away too.

But at ten to twelve the phone rang. I snatched up the receiver on the second ring.

I have a collect call from John, the operator said, her voice sharp in my ear, will you accept it?

Yes, I will.

The next words caught me off guard:

You set up the time, John Joubert said in his low, gravelly voice, and I’ll do the interview.

I said the first thing that came to my mind. I’ll call the prison first thing tomorrow.

What followed was a series of face-to-face interviews, during which Joubert confessed to me a string of violent crimes leading up to murder.

Interviewing Joubert was a contradiction of emotions. At times he was cold and calculating, and at other times he was joking and jovial. He actually had a good sense of humor. During one of our interviews, Joubert suddenly channeled Dana Carvey’s Church Lady from Saturday Night Live. Well, isn’t that special? he quipped out of the blue when I told him I was planning to play golf the following weekend.

On another occasion he started our conversation with a question: "Did you see what Charlie Sheen told People Magazine? He said he’d rather be in a killing scene than a love-making scene. I’m in prison for that."

Many times I felt as though Joubert and I were playing a lifelike game of chess. He would answer one question, wondering where I was going with the next. He knew that I knew more about the case than anyone besides him, and I believe he enjoyed the back and forth.

Nebraska State Penitentiary, March 1987

Photos by John Haxby/KMTV-3

Now, nine years later, we were writing the final chapter of the Joubert story.

***

Before possibly meeting with Joubert this final time, as I said, I studied Trina Creighton’s interview with him. It was excellent. She drew him in with her concern as a mother, and, once inside his shell, extracted extremely revealing thoughts.

Joubert’s eyes sparkled when he spoke of his fiancée, Teresa O’Brien. They had met as pen pals and had fallen in love. Many who heard the news could not believe it. A woman from Ireland, with three young boys, in love with a man on death row who had killed three other young boys?

Sham or not, there was a definite change in Joubert when he spoke of Teresa. For the first time since I met him, he showed signs of being a human being and not some mad robot.

As I started to feel sorry for him, I thought of Danny Joe, Chris, and Ricky and wondered what their lives might be like today had they not had the misfortune of meeting their killer.

My sorrow for Joubert quickly passed.

Are you afraid to die? Trina asked him.

I’ve been on death row for twelve years and accepted the possibility. I’m anxious, and I don’t think it’s quite time to be sad yet.

Creighton’s interview turned emotional.

Are you really sorry for what you did?

I truly regret what I did, Joubert answered. I’m asking for mercy. I’m asking it because the people of Nebraska aren’t like me.

The interview then turned to the afterlife. Joubert’s comment stunned me.

"People who want me executed will be surprised in fifty years when they