A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about the things that matter"—Martin Luther King, Jr.
"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about the things that matter"—Martin Luther King, Jr.
The individuals whose stories appear in Execution's Doorstep were sentenced to death for crimes they did not commit. They spent from two to seventeen years incarcerated in a cell smaller than the standard size dog pen at a boarding kennel.
A circuitous path led me to these men. I have always opposed capital punishment, but my reasons were vague and poorly defined until five years ago when I authored an article investigating the movement to declare a moratorium on executions in Tennessee. Stunned by what I learned, convinced no reasonable person could be in favor of the death penalty if they knew the facts, I soon found myself addressing civic and faith based groups, encouraging them to support a moratorium on executions, as a steppingstone toward abolishing capital punishment.
My "facts" were no match for questions like, What about that monster Scott Peterson who murdered his pregnant wife, Laci? What if Laci Peterson was your daughter, how would you feel? Statistics showing that execution did not deter crime and cost far more than confining the offender for life paled against the faces of innocent victims.1 Then, in the Spring of 2004, through my affiliation with the Tennessee Coalition to Abolish State Killing, I arranged for death row exonerated Ray Krone to speak at the University of the South, in Sewanee, Tennessee. You could feel the emotional barometer in the room rising as Ray told his story, how he was convicted and sentenced to death on the basis of a bite mark on the victim that allegedly matched his teeth. The prosecution concealed evidence that hair and footprints at the crime scene were not his. The dental expert who testified to the bite-mark match received fees in excess of $50,000. Ray's court appointed attorney was paid $5000 and had a total budget of $2500 for expert witness fees. Ray appealed his conviction, won a new trial, and was found guilty a second time. Harboring doubts about his guilt, the judge reduced his sentence to life. After ten years in Arizona penitentiaries, DNA evidence conclusively proved his innocence. The gazes that followed Ray as he walked slowly back to his front row seat were a mixed lot—some members of the audience were weeping; others were wide-eyed and incredulous; still others scowled, their expressions locked in an angry, clenched-teeth grimace, enraged by what they had just heard. I was told afterwards that several ardent supporters of capital punishment reversed their position as a consequence of hearing Ray Krone speak.
Ray Krone's presentation compelled me to pen a collection of narratives, adhering to the literary maxim, "Don’t tell me, show me," recounting the experiences of men like him, stories inviting the reader to stand in the shoes of the accused and, at the same time, to have a bird’s eye view of the legal proceedings and crime. My purpose was twofold: to give the wrongfully accused a voice and face—to make them real for the reader—and to school readers in the workings of the capital conviction process so they could better understand how and why wrongful convictions occur. A study conducted by Professor James Liebman of the Columbia University School of Law, at the request of the U.S. Senate Committee of the Judiciary, reported that for capital convictions reviewed on appeal from1973-1995, the courts found "reversible error" in 68% of the cases—that is, error in the trial or pre-trial procedures which sufficiently distorted information available to the jury to make the verdict and/or sentence subject to being reversed.2 Although the doctrine innocent until proven guilty is firmly embedded in the tradition of Anglo-American jurisprudence, in actuality the investigative team and prosecution often presume guilt based on a shred of suspicion and then set out to prove their hunch correct. The five men whose stories appear in Execution's Doorstep’s—Michael Ray Graham, Jr., Ron Keine, Juan Melendez, Madison Hobley, and Randal Padgett—were not sentenced to death by virtue of some honest mistake. In all instances, individuals directly responsible for their conviction—police, sheriff's officials, and/or prosecuting attorneys—concealed evidence pointing to their innocence. All five men would likely have been executed were it not for fortuitous quirks of fate—an appellate attorney's chance encounter with a former law enforcement official who revealed previously undisclosed information about the disappearance of a rifle that was likely the murder weapon; a transcript of the real killer's tape recorded confession discovered among files stored in a garage; the actual killer's religious conversion which compelled him to turn himself in to police. None of the five were exonerated by DNA evidence.
Since the death penalty was reinstated after a brief hiatus in the mid 1970s,3 128 individuals sentenced to death have been found innocent of the crimes for which they were convicted. Virtually all of the exonerated suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder. After long years in a cell, in isolation, where someone else scheduled every aspect of their day in a routine over which they had no control, autonomous self-directed behavior and decision-making pose Herculean challenges. Many exonerated turn to alcohol and drugs. Some commit suicide. In the vast majority of cases, the exonerated are released into the free world with no money, no job, and no support system. Although innocent, they are tainted. Says Ron Keine, "One guy told me he couldn't hire me, because I would scare the women who worked there." The allure to resort to crime to survive is strong. Preliminary to writing the book, I reviewed the one hundred plus documented cases of innocence since the death penalty's reinstatement and talked with a number of the exonerated or their legal representatives. In selecting subjects, I held to two criteria: that the candidate had remained crime free since being released, and that the candidate was willing and able to participate in a series of interviews. Of the men whose stories are included, three are Caucasian, one African American, and one Hispanic.4 Prior to their sojourn on death row, three had attended college and one held a bachelor’s degree. Only one of the five had a previous arrest for a violent crime.
For the subjects I selected and who agreed to work with me, the first leg of my research began with an Internet search, which invariably turned up newspaper articles and an occasional court order, leaving me with more questions than answers. I next conducted a series of in-depth personal interviews with the subject—a rich and emotionally charged experience. Some wept, some became angry, others frustrated. Often times what I had read about their case in the press proved misleading or inaccurate. Committed to understanding how and why justice went awry, I contacted the relevant law enforcement agencies and court authorities for police reports and trial transcripts—some were cooperative, others not, as might be expected since suppression of evidence contributed to the wrongful conviction of all five men.5 Similarly, some defense attorneys declined to speak with me, while others agreed to lengthy interviews, granted me access to transcripts and legal documents in their possession, and directed me to source materials and other individuals knowledgeable about the case. In writing the stories, I used single quotation marks to indicate reported conversation, that is, when the speaker or person credited as the source is quoting someone else. When a person quoted has denied making a statement or remark, I indicate as much. I made best effort to verify reported conversation, as well as reported circumstance.6 For each story I found a legal mentor, the subject's appellate attorney or current legal advocate, who reviewed a draft of the final manuscript, fact checking for accuracy.
Writing Execution’s Doorstep took me into a world I did not know existed. My guides on the journey were the exonerated and the dedicated attorneys who fought to prove their innocence—often pro bono. My worldview has forever changed. Says Juan Melendez of the prosecutor who condemned him to death, knowing that the actual killer had confessed, "I forgive Prosecutor Hardy Pickard, but I do not respect him. For me to respect him, he would need to admit his mistake. The thing about forgiving is that, after forgiving, only then can you start to heal." In working with the five men whose stories appear in the book, although at moments I saw anger, I never saw hate, bitterness, or vengefulness. I strongly sensed that their willingness to help me was an effort on their part to give back, generosity of spirit born of their gratitude for their freedom. Ironically, they have received little or no compensation for the lost years of their lives. Only 14 states pay restitution for wrongful capital convictions, and the laws are such that qualifying for monetary recompense often requires conviction of the actual killer or DNA proof of innocence.
Some of the exonerated have filed civil suits against the officials responsible for their wrongful convictions, but the 1976 U.S. Supreme Court decision Imbler vs. Pachtman set forth the precedent that an official who “acted within the scope of his duties…is absolutely immune from a civil suit for damages” brought by wrongfully accused individuals deprived of their constitutional right to liberty. The burden of proof rests with the accused who must show that officials intentionally acted in bad faith; neglect and ignorance qualify for "scope of duties" immunity. The occasional substantial settlement granted to a wrongfully accused individual rates grandiose media coverage and distorts the picture. Jury awards are extremely uncommon.7
On a personal level, I feel I owe these men a debt I can never repay. I remain eternally grateful.
NOTES
1) Even death penalty advocates acknowledge that capital punishment does not deter crime. Homicide rates are 48%-101% higher in states that practice execution. When Oklahoma and California resumed executions, after a twenty-five year moratorium, homicide rates increased. Fact Sheet: Deterrence, National Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty (NCADP), (retrieved 26 July 2007, www.ncadp.org); Issues, Facts About Deterrence and the Death Penalty, Death Penalty Information Center (DPIC), (retrieved 26 July 2007, www.deathpenaltyinfo.org). Most of the expense in capital cases is incurred during the investigation and original trial, not during the appeals process. In Florida each execution cost the state $3.2 million compared to $600,000 for life imprisonment. Cost, Tennessee Coalition to Abolish State Killing (TCASK), (retrieved 26 July 2007, www.tcask.org).
2) James S. Liebman, Jeffrey Fagan, Valerie West, "A Broken System: Error Rates in Capital Cases, 1973-1995," Studies (Criminal Justice Reform).
3) The U.S. Supreme Court, 1972, Furman v. Georgia cited racial bias and other factors to conclude the death penalty was applied in an arbitrary and unfair manner and, as such, constituted "cruel and unusual punishment" in violation of the U.S. Constitution. Beginning in 1976, cases brought before the Court indicated its approval of revised state statutes that addressed the concerns raised in Furman v. Georgia, bringing the death penalty back into use. Facts, History of the Death Penalty, Constitutionality of the Death Penalty in America (DPIC).
4) Of the individuals executed since the death penalty’s reinstatement, 58% were Caucasian, 34% African American, 7% Hispanic, and 2% other races. Of the individuals currently on death row, 45% are Caucasian, 42% African American, 10% Hispanic, and 2% other races. Women commit 10% of homicides, but receive only 2% of death sentence. Race of Death Row Inmates Executed Since 1976 (DPIC); Women and the Death Penalty (DPIC).
5) The Court Recorder for the Marshall County, Alabama, Circuit Court refused to provide me with Randal Padgett's trial transcript, and the Chicago Police Department refused to release any information on Andre Council, a convicted felon whose testimony against Madison Hobley played a key role in his conviction.