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"We Have No Damn Clue, Please Help: A St. James Police Op-Ed"

You see, a man claiming to be Connie Franklin showed up very much alive after the supposed murder. He said he had gotten drunk with his wife and the four defendants the night of the wedding and had fallen off his mule, which was a perfectly acceptable alibi in rural Arkansas in 1929. The following morning, Ruminer allegedly told him she didn't want to get married anymore, so he left town voluntarily.

Normally, a man testifying in the trial of his murder would be very strong evidence that everyone should go free, barring some Weekend At Bernie's-type scenario. But this was 1929, an era before every human being had a cellphone full of identity-verifying photographs and a lifetime of documentation backing them up. Proving that you are who you say you are used to be a much more Kafkaesque undertaking, not dissimilar from Sandra Bullock's struggle in The Net. The prosecution therefore maintained that the newly discovered (and decidedly un-murdered) Connie Franklin was an impostor. They were at least half right.

Memphis Evening Appeal

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And wholly left the jury confused.

The court ordered a fingerprint check, which revealed that the newly alive "Connie Franklin" was actually a guy named Marion Franklin Rogers, who had escaped from a mental hospital years earlier. Now, this in no way proved that he wasn't also the Connie Franklin in question, but it didn't prove that he was, so the trial went forward. As you might imagine, this was a lot to take in for people 50 years before Matlock. The jury wasn't sure what to make of the multiple claims about who was or was not the man Ruminer didn't want to marry, and were getting ready to suggest the case be retried.