NOTHING BUT CARRUTH
Before there was Aaron Hernandez, there was the story of Rae Carruth
Before Aaron Hernandez, there was the murder orchestrated by the former Panthers WR Kevin Armstrong,
TERRELL, N.C. — Charles Lamm, a white-haired retiree with two decades’ worth of rulings from the judge’s bench, sits in a chair by a fireplace in the stone house he had built 14 years ago. His King Charles Spaniel, Windsor, lies in his lap, and barks loudly, but Lamm calms him with belly rubs and requests for silence on Thursday morning.
Lamm, a North Carolina product, speaks deliberately in a Southern drawl and details the most intense period of his career.
It was 2000, and Lamm accepted a unique assignment from Shirley Fulton, then the senior resident Superior Court judge. Lamm was to preside over the trial of Rae Wiggins, the former Carolina Panthers wideout the football world knew as Rae Carruth. Prosecutors alleged that Carruth had masterminded the ambush slaying of Cherica Adams, the girlfriend who was eight months pregnant with Carruth’s child, on a twisting, two-lane Charlotte road past midnight. The prosecution was pursuing the death penalty in light of the first-degree murder charge. To Lamm’s knowledge, no other judges in Mecklenburg County wanted to take the case. “Maybe it was too close to election time,” Lamm says in his first interview since the trial ended in January of 2001.
A fellow justice offered Lamm advice on what to do in the face of increased scrutiny from Court TV and onlookers throughout the legal community. The proceedings were expected to receive attention similar to that of the O.J. Simpson murder case, which Judge Lance Ito had presided over five years earlier in Los Angeles. Simpson was acquitted. Legal scholars wondered about Ito’s judicial compass and oscillations. “T his may sound a little f lippant ,
bu t it’s not intended to be,” Lamm says. “One of my colleagues, an old south Louisiana boy, told me, and I’ll clean it up a little bit, but he said, ‘Don’t screw it up like Ito.’ See the case as if it were any other case.”
A Charlotte jury of seven men and five women convicted Carruth of plotting the homicide. Lamm sentenced him to no fewer than 18 years, 11 months in state prison.
Today, Lamm maintains that it was “a fair sentence for what occurred,” and will root for the Panthers against the 49ers, the last team Carruth suited up against in the NFL, on Sunday afternoon in a divisional playoff game. Carruth, meanwhile, will turn 40 years old on Jan. 20, now 14 years into the prison term Lamm meted out.
Carruth is officially identified as Offender No. 0712822 at the Harnett Correctional Institution, a medium-security prison by the banks of Cape Fear River in Lillington, N.C. His fall from first-round draft choice to ward of the state is held up as a cautionary tale for young NFL players, one that was ignored by former Patriots tight end Aaron Hernandez last June. Hernandez’s Patriots continue to play on without him in Foxborough, Mass., as he prepares to face a first-degree murder charge and five weapons charges at trial, just as the Panthers once distanced themselves from Carruth.
Fifteen years on, many who knew Carruth wonder about No. 89 in black, silver and blue.
“It was really difficult,” says Bill Polian, the former Panthers general manager who selected Carruth with the 27th pick in the 1997 draft. “We had no inkling there was anything like this in his future. We did pretty extensive research on him. It was pretty shocking. You feel terrible for the young lady, the child, and, of course, Rae.”
Carruth’s sentence carries no possibility for parole. His most recent transfer between prisons occurred on July 16, and his next custody review will be conducted on Oct. 1. His release remains scheduled for Oct. 22, 2018. He’s been cited for four infractions in prison, ranging from fighting to provoking assault to misuse of an unauthorized phone or email. There has been no misconduct listed since 2004.
“I don’t think of him as much as I do the kid,” Lamm says.
Carruth’s child, Chancellor Lee, was delivered by emergency Caesarean section and survived, but Cherica Adams, shot through a lung, bowel, stomach, pancreas, diaphragm, liver, and neck, went into a coma and died a month later. She was 24, and her mother, Saundra Kay Adams, assumed maternal duties. One bullet burrowed through Cherica, within an inch of Cherica’s fetus. Chancellor’s brain was deprived of oxygen in the aftermath of the shooting, resulting in cerebral palsy. He is 14 now, able to walk, lighting up rooms he visits, from his middle school class to church and beyond. He was scheduled to go horseback riding on Friday afternoon after school.
“It was meant for him to be the blessing to the world that he is,” says Judy Williams, a caretaker for Chancellor. “Miracle child.”
Lamm smiles at the thought of the boy growing into a man. He leans back in his chair and talks about his path since. He had lived at his in-laws’ house during the trial to shorten his commute and moved into his home with the three-car garage following the verdict. A few months later he invited the bailiffs, court reporters and court clerk over for a barbecue to thank them for their work at the trial. He looks out toward the patio where they gathered. He relaxes in a serene setting as Carruth continues his rehabilitation in prison.
“It’s been fine, except for getting old,” Lamm says. “It’s not for sissies.”
Williams, a notary public, apartment manager and co-founder of Mothers of Murdered Offspring, a resource for families victimized by homicide, likes to consider herself “the real Judge Judy.”
She helped start MOM-O in 1993, and reached out to Saundra Adams right after Cherica’s murder. Williams spoke at Cherica’s funeral, hosted a balloon release at her grave and welcomed Chancellor into her home every morning during the two-month trial. Saundra dropped him off around 8 a.m. and returned each afternoon. Chancellor, all of a year old at the time, couldn’t do much. Williams watched Court TV with her maintenance workers as Chancellor sat in his playpen.
Eight miles away, in the Mecklenburg County Courthouse, Lamm oversaw jury selection with the lawyers. It was difficult at times, lasting more than a month.
“Picking a jury always takes a long time in Charlotte for a serious case,” Lamm says. “Hate to say it, I guess, but because of the level of intelligence in the jurors, you get into an esoteric discussion about the meaning of reasonable doubt and have to take a potential juror off before he poisons the rest of the room.”
Heads turned after opening arguments in the packed room. Once court was in session, there was a parade of Carruth’s former girlfriends testifying for the defendant. One girlfriend spoke well of her time with Carruth, telling of his charity and good nature. Then her mother was called to the stand and did the same. As the mother departed the witness stand, she mouthed, “I love you” to Carruth, seated in his suit and tie at the defendant’s table next to his attorneys. Lamm and others raised an eyebrow at that. “Not typical around here,” he says. Lamm was alert to more violent witnesses, too. No moment called for the bailiff’s attention more than when Van Brett Watkins, a New Yorker who once threatened his wife with a meat cleaver, testified. Watkins was charged as the triggerman in the case, and was later convicted. Defense attorney David Rudolf attempted to draw out Watkins’ fiery side with repeated questioning during cross-examination. Watkins told Rudolf, “I could kill you with my hands. . . . I’m 286 pounds. I would rip you like a rag doll. OK?”
Lamm requested Rudolf refrain from being argumentative as Watkins grew upset.
James Dunbar, the bailiff, was positioned between the jury and Watkins. Another officer stood between Watkins and Lamm. There were irons on Watkins’ legs, beneath his pants, that would lock if he lunged at anyone, but Lamm took no chances.
“Pretty big fella,” Lamm says. “The bailiffs told me he was ‘running hot and cold on us.’ He’d be calm, then almost go into a rage. They were concerned. This way they could just shove him down on the shoulders if he started to cause a scene. I told the other bailiff not to wait for me, to just get the jury out of the box, but it never got that far.”
Carruth, known for a bright smile beforehand, was stoic while Watkins fingered him as the orchestrator. Carruth never changed expressions in court.
“I’ve seen that in serious cases before,” Lamm says. “Maybe it’s because they’re scared to death.”
Many believe the most convincing evidence was Cherica’s 911 call. It was played to the court, and her moaning as she bled was also played during the closing arguments.
DISPATCHER: 911 Baker. Do you need police, fire or medic?
CHERICA: Police. I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot.
MEDIC: OK. How did this happen?
CHERICA: I was following my baby’s daddy, Rae Carruth, the football player. ... He was in the car in front of me and
he slowed down and somebody pulled up beside me and did this.
Carruth escaped the death penalty when the jury returned a not-guilty decision regarding his first-degree murder charge. He was found culpable of shooting a firearm into occupied property, conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder and using an instrument or other means to destroy an unborn child.
“I can’t hate Rae Carruth, because he is part of my grandson,” Saundra Adams told the court before sentencing. “But in no way, Judge Lamm, do I think he should get off easy for what he has done. He’s already gotten the greatest of mercy. His life is spared. And I’m asking you, Judge Lamm, for these three charges he has been charged on, please sentence him to the greatest extent. Don’t let this be a little smack on the wrist like, ‘Oh, you’re a bad boy.’ ”
Her words carried weight during Lamm’s deliberation. “Some of the most powerful testimony I’ve ever heard in court,” he says.
He followed her advice, and Carruth remains incarcerated, rotating around the state’s prison system while memories of his trial fade into Charlotte’s history. The old courthouse is gone, but witness lists and evidence logs from the case are kept tidily in a brown box in the new justice center’s basement. Two sides of the box are labeled with Carruth’s given name, alias and each charge. His appeals are in manila folders.
Buried in between orders of the court and lawyer correspondences is a request from Carruth’s attorney for a speedy trial. The ability to support family members, including a son, Rae Jr., is among the reasons given. No. 9 on that list was the urgency with which Carruth wanted to return to the field. He was to make $750,000 in 2000, and would then be a free agent. His lawyer insisted negotiating leverage would allow Carruth to earn “millions of dollars in signing bonus and salary over the next few years.”
Rudolf wrote to Lamm and the court in the most optimistic terms.
“Following an acquittal, Mr. Carruth intends to pursue his professional football career. Since he has been released by the Panthers, he will be eligible for free agency as soon as the trial is concluded. Given the fact that a player’s earning career is necessarily short, any further delay in scheduling this case for trial will have a disproportionate impact on Mr. Carruth’s ability to provide for his family and himself in the future.”
Carruth will be no younger than 44 years old when released, far past his prime. Lamm shakes his head at the opportunities lost.
“So much potential,” he says. “He just kinda threw it all away.”
Lamm never heard from family members on either side of the decision once he left Carruth in the sheriff’s custody, but he came across one juror in a Lowe’s hardware shop soon afterward and another in a grocery store. They exchanged pleasantries. The judge retired four years later, and now lives by Lake Norman, fishing for trout in his 17-foot center console, 45 miles north of Charlotte’s Rea Road, where Adams was murdered.
Orange cones and large cranes line the stretch of pavement that Carruth once stopped his white Ford Expedition on, and where Watkins pulled up beside Adams’ black BMW in a gold Nissan Maxima rental. The shooting occurred in a hollow between two hills, in the dark of night. Five bullets were fired, only one missed Adams.
The surrounding area and its subdivisions are more populated than they were back then. Lives have changed, and so have traffic patterns. Arrows point to new paths being forged beneath the tall pine trees. Bright traffic signs flash alerts to oncoming drivers: SLOWDOWNS LOWDOWN SLOWDOWN
One sign welcomes all who turn off Rea Road onto MacAndrew Drive, where Adams made her final call for help. It reads: Community Watch Police 911