Feb. 17 TEXAS: >From Criminal Lawyer to Criminal (Editor's note: The following is the 1st of 2 articles profiling one lawyer's battle with addiction. The 2nd article will published onNYLawyer.com on Wednesday, February 23, 2005.) Keith Jagmin stood behind the counsel table in the 68th District Court of Dallas County sporting a blue suit, red patterned tie and closely cropped beard -- looking every inch the lawyer. The only problem was he wasn't. He hadn't been an attorney since the day he resigned from the practice of law in 1998, with a State Bar of Texas disciplinary committee nipping at his law license. His face was flush, evidence of the anxiety that marked the importance of the day. To ease his angst before the hearing began, he seized the opportunity to chat with friends who had gathered in court on Jan. 21 to support him in his petition to get his law license reinstated. Some of those assembled were recovering addicts just like him, lawyers who had gone through hell and back, fighting the ravages of addiction and a grievance committee, hoping to keep their practices together and their lives together -- some succeeding better than others. Jagmin hoped, certainly prayed, that his would be a success story, and that Judge Charles Stokes would rule that Jagmin had satisfied the legal standard found in 11.03 of the Texas Rules of Disciplinary Procedure that "the best interests of the public and the profession, as well as the ends of justice would be served" by his reinstatement to the bar. Representing Jagmin was Dan Garrigan, an associate with the Law Offices of Brett B. Stalcup in Dallas. The white-haired Garrigan made an opening statement that was more of an outline sketching the details of Jagmin's journey to addiction and back. In 1987, Jagmin was a highly respected member of the Dallas criminal bar and board certified in criminal law by the Texas Board of Legal Specialization. By 1995, he was addicted to pain pills as well as crack-cocaine, drawing the concern of the Texas Lawyers Assistance Program and the scorn of the District 6A Grievance Committee. Five of Jagmin's clients complained he had taken their money without performing legal work in return. On Jan. 2, 1996, the committee suspended his license for 90 days, tacking on an additional 3-year probated suspension. But this ethical slap wasn't enough to keep him from spiraling down still further until he was sentenced to six years in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice for obtaining a controlled substance by fraud. Only behind bars did he hit bottom, losing his freedom along with his 3 children. Only in prison did he start his recovery, beginning his clean time while doing his hard time. Facing sobriety in the structured environment of a prison cell was one thing. After his release in February 2000, he confronted the toughest challenge for any recovering addict: daily life. But Lawyers Concerned for Lawyers (LCL), a 12-step support group for impaired attorneys, gave Jagmin a new sense of belonging and purpose. He spent the next 6 years trying to convince his children that he would no longer disappoint them and the legal community that he no longer needed its discipline. But the State Bar remained unconvinced. Before Judge Stokes, assistant disciplinary counsel David Jones opened his case by stating, "The State Bar feels it is early. We are not certain that he [Jagmin] has touched all his bases and should be reinstated at this time." Even though Jagmin had been told that the Bar nearly always fights reinstatement, he grew fearful he wouldn't get a 2nd chance. And even if he was reinstated, disciplinary rules required him to re-take the bar exam -- a daunting task for someone at 24 years of age, much less the 53 he was now. "There really wasn't any basis in law to oppose our petition," Jagmin says. "The whole thing came down to, "Was I ever going to be fit again?'" Jagmin's story is a cautionary tale for the legal profession. According to numerous studies, attorneys have a higher incidence of depression, alcoholism and chemical dependency than the general population. Like so many lawyers, Jagmin was a perfectionist, driven to succeed in a profession premised on winning and losing. What he claims was his addictive personality had found mostly healthy expression in his criminal law practice, as he gained self-esteem, not from a job well done, but from winning in trial. And in the area of criminal law, where defense attorneys maintain that nine out of 10 of their clients are factually guilty, the wins are hard to come by. Like many good lawyers, Jagmin's personal identity was wrapped up in his professional identity. He says he had no problems with drugs until after he tried a death penalty case in Dallas, representing Ricky Morrow, a career criminal who had shot and killed a bank teller. Jagmin says he was so consumed by the case that the normal professional distance between attorney and client somehow collapsed. To Jagmin, it felt as though he was the one on trial. When the case was lost, so was Jagmin. He grew deeply depressed from the feelings of loss the case engendered, and he turned to pain pills to medicate himself. How a sophisticated attorney could slide (from prescription pills to crack-cocaine and (abandon his family and his law practice is more (than a chronicle of tragedy and redemption. It also (is a self-help primer on how to avoid being ensnared (by the occupational traps that unwittingly stalk the legal profession. Performance Anxiety When Jagmin is asked to reflect upon his life, he views it through the prism of his own recovery. He recalls himself as a 10-year-old boy who had too many parents to please and too many rules to follow. He says his mother was smothering, involving herself in other people's problems, trying to fix them as a way of fixing herself. "She still has no clue what it means to draw a boundary between her business and someone else's. It's her way of controlling people. I learned that really well." His dad was emotionally distant, but when he did make himself available, Jagmin says, he was "entirely performance-oriented." But his performance standards could never be met -- at least not by his son, who felt as though he was never good enough. "He demanded perfection," Jagmin insists. If his father was a tough taskmaster, his paternal grandfather -- the patriarch of the family -- was even more demanding. His grandfather helped raise him, Jagmin says, seeing him as the son he never had. "My father dropped out of college and was a big disappointment to my grandfather. I was the wunderkind who was going to do it all. But make a mistake and it meant great ridicule." Jagmin says that it was his grandfather's spiritual message that resonated the loudest with him. "From the time I was 5 years old, I got the same lecture from him," he says. "God was only for the weak-willed and the uneducated. People who were highly educated didn't need God. They had money, success; they could control their lives by the strength of their will." In recovery, Jagmin would learn just how wrong his grandfather was. Attempting to meet impossible expectations, Jagmin attained three advanced degrees, flipping from music to political science and English to law. He married his Dallas high school sweetheart and divorced her two years later. He became a government professor at Southwest Texas State University but not before he had met his 2nd wife, a legal secretary. But he seldom seemed content, needing more money, more recognition, more meaning in his life. Nothing seemed to fill the emptiness that he says was fostered by parents who demanded perfection and bred self-doubt. So he returned to Dallas in 1979 to attend law school at SMU (now Southern Methodist University Dedman School of Law). "He always seemed easygoing and very intelligent," says John Creuzot, one of Jagmin's law school classmates. Creuzot now is judge of Criminal District Court No. 4 in Dallas County. "I knew him as a mature guy and a good student." Already 28 when he entered law school, Jagmin decided to fast track his legal education. He says he made law review and clerked for Jackson Walker, getting a taste of big-firm life. But he knew it wasn't for him. "I identified with the downtrodden and wanted to help them," he recalls. "That is why I gravitated to criminal-defense work." After completing 60 hours of law school courses, he convinced Richard Anderson, a highly regarded Dallas criminal-defense attorney, to act as his supervisor, giving Jagmin what he calls "a learner's permit" to practice law. Anderson continued to be his mentor even after Jagmin received his license in 1982, when they began sharing office space. Anderson did not return 2 telephone calls seeking comment before presstime on Feb. 10. Legitimized by Anderson's imprimatur, Jagmin says he gained an early foothold in the courthouse. A lesser lawyer might feel he lacked the skill to handle a hard-core felony. But a lesser lawyer might not feel he had as much to prove. "I believed in him as a young lawyer," says Dallas County Judge Richard Mays, who retired from the 204th District Court in 1993. "He was well prepared, articulate and knew how to analyze a case." Mays appointed Jagmin to Jagmin's first jury trial, an aggravated sexual abuse case. "I got a little nauseous in the bathroom before the trial," Jagmin recalls. "Then I jumped into the case with both feet but got hammered anyway." For a brief time after the trial, the emptiness was gone, he says. He had done something to help somebody whose liberty was on the line. And it felt good. State v. Morrow There is a rule of thumb among criminal-defense attorneys that, if the state can't get your client to trial, it can't convict him. But Jagmin says he forced cases to trial before their time, because he believed if he announced "not ready," he might appear weak. "I acted out of my own pride," he says. "Sure, I wanted to help my clients, but it was the process of defending them that made me feel better about myself." "We see this in many professionals, and it's called a success cure," says Dr. Edwin Nace, a clinical professor of psychiatry at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center and author of "Achievement and Addiction." "A person is trying to fix something about themselves through more and more achievement. It works for a while, but it doesn't fix what's wrong in their lives." Unlike his father, Jagmin developed close relationships with his three children -- his oldest son, now 22, and his twins, a boy and a girl now 19. Because of his perfectionism, it wasn't enough that he was there for his children. "If I wasn't in trial I was available on a 24-hour basis," he says. His perfectionism kept him on schedule, compulsively arriving at the office at 7 a.m., going to docket call at 8:45, returning to the office by noon. It also kept him in shape. "For the years I practiced, I weighed 152.5 pounds. If I woke up at 153.5, by God, a pound was going away that day." Jagmin's compulsive personality traits are not uncommon among lawyers who are highly motivated to achieve, Dr. Nace says. For the most part, traits such as diligence and precision are useful. But the downside is what Nace describes as the compulsive triad -- an exaggerated sense of responsibility, guilt and self-doubt. "Obviously you want professionals to feel responsible, but the increased stress can lead to anxiety, depression and addiction." Nevertheless, Jagmin built a reputation as a fine trial lawyer and legal scholar. "He became prominent in criminal-defense circles," Judge Creuzot recalls. "I thought he was one of the best lawyers in town." In 1988, Judge Mays thought Jagmin was ready to handle a capital case. He appointed Jagmin to represent Ricky Morrow after the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals reversed Morrow's death sentence for the same offense and remanded the case for a new trial. Morrow was a habitual criminal who had served a 25-year sentence for aggravated robbery. In the capital case, prosecutors alleged that Morrow had gone on a bank robbery spree, slaying a bank teller without provocation and fleeing to a motel where he surrendered after a shoot-out with police. Jagmin saw representing Morrow as "a great honor." For a criminal-defense lawyer, the stakes couldn't be any higher, and the judge who appointed him, he says, "was like my father in the courthouse system." And for his father, he needed to perform. >From the date of his appointment, the case consumed his practice and his life. First he had to gain the trust of his client who, Mays says, was "a black hole of manipulation." "I wanted to do the best job I could for Ricky," Jagmin says. "But maybe the best job didn't require me to do his laundry." Jagmin says he bought Morrow suits to wear at trial, his lunchtime meals and made him copies of every document Jagmin filed. "I wanted his trust. It was my way of controlling him and the case." Turns out it was Morrow who controlled Jagmin. "My understanding is that they were telling each other about their personal problems -- and that's not what you do," Mays says. "It's a perfect example of Morrow bringing Keith into his web." Jagmin educated himself on every aspect of capital punishment law. But his most notable trial skill was his voir dire examination, asking open-ended questions that encouraged prospective jurors to share their true feelings about how strongly they supported or opposed the death penalty. "We weren't just going to talk about law," he says. "We were going to talk about life." "Keith was unbelievable," recalls Larry Mitchell, a Dallas solo. "Other lawyers would come into the courtroom just to watch him work." But the process also was exhausting. Jagmin felt he left part of himself on the courtroom floor every night. He kept the selection process going for 14 weeks -- the 1st time. In June 1989, the U.S. Supreme Court delivered its first decision in Penry v. Lynaugh, which reversed a Texas case on Eighth and 14th Amendment grounds, because the jury was not instructed that it could consider mitigating evidence in imposing Penry's death sentence. Although the judge had seated 11 jurors, Morrow insisted Jagmin move for a mistrial. "I had been disallowed from asking prospective jurors whether they were willing to fully consider evidence of mitigation," Jagmin says. "That violated Penry, and Mays granted a mistrial." This resulted in a second protracted voir dire process, which lasted 16 weeks. "Jagmin holds the record for the longest-running voir dire in Dallas County history," Mitchell says. Penry also gave Jagmin a reason to try his case wide open. The 1st time around, Morrow did not testify -- his lawyers tried a minimalist case. During the guilt-innocence phase of the trial, the jury deliberations were "very brief," Jagmin says. So, he felt he had little to lose by putting his client on the witness stand and offering mitigating evidence of Morrow's history of substance abuse and the physical abuse he suffered as a child, hoping the jury might save his life because he had lived a disadvantaged one. Jagmin says there hadn't been a life sentence in a death penalty case in Dallas County since the U.S. Supreme Court reinstituted capital punishment in 1976. "And by God, I was going to get one," he recounts. "It was like I was the one on trial. I had everything to prove about my value as a lawyer, and this was going to be the case that was going to make me OK." Nine weeks of testimony took its toll on Jagmin. "Every morning Keith came in with new motions an inch thick that he had thought up in his office the night before," Mays recalls. "These weren't canned motions. I was as mad as a wet hen." Mays also worried that Jagmin was going too far. Whether it was the huge responsibility of trying to save a man's life, Morrow's manipulation or both, the roles of lawyer and client seemed to blur. Mays had seen this once before. "It's like the lawyer is the one who is going to get the lethal injection," he says. On Dec. 6, 1990, at 8 p.m., Mays brought Jagmin and Morrow before the bench. The jury had found Morrow guilty of capital murder and had answered "yes" to the 3 special issues that would result in a punishment of death. When Mays pronounced the death sentence, Morrow didn't flinch, but Jagmin collapsed in a heap. Morrow picked his lawyer up off the floor. "I have never in my life felt that I had one more in the bag than this one," Jagmin says. "I was stunned." When he went home that night, he says his sense of failure was complete. His wife told him he had abandoned his family; she would never understand how he could forsake them for a cold-hearted killer. His back ached from the trial, and he used it as an excuse to get some pain medicine -- something to dull the overwhelming sense of loss he was feeling. An orthopedic surgeon prescribed hydrocodone, an opiate derivative. It didn't just relieve his back pain, it made him feel "euphoric," he says. For him it was the ideal working drug; on it, he felt invincible. Morrow had been his drug of choice. Now it was Vicodin, Lortab. They were the fix that would numb his pain and lead to the ruin of his practice, his relationships and his life. (source: Texas Lawyer) ****************** Texas juries should be given ability to give life-without-parole sentence We see no reason why Texas lawmakers should oppose giving juries the option of sentencing criminals to life without the possibility of parole. A bill that would give juries that option, however, is not a sure bet in this legislative session. Sen. Eddie Lucio Jr., D-Brownsville, has pushed such a bill for the past three sessions, with no success. He has reintroduced the bill in this session. Senate Bill 60 seems logical, and doesnt weaken existing laws or jury options. Rather, it would merely offer another option for juries to consider when determining the proper punishment for someone convicted of a capital crime, such as premeditated murder or killing a peace officer or a child. Currently, juries in capital cases have two options: they can sentence a person to death or life. The life sentence, however, allows a convict to appeal for parole. Any juror who doesnt like the prospect of a criminal ending up out of prison at some future date is now compelled to recommend execution. Some jurors, and state residents responding to various polls, have expressed support for putting someone away for life, but not killing him. SB 60 is the only way to provide that option. Opponents of the bill suggest that refraining from killing those convicted of capital crimes would add more violent inmates to the population. History, however, doesnt support that argument. Texas is one of only three states that dont offer life without the possibility of parole, and the other states have not reported that their capital criminals are any more violent or harder to control than the rest of the prison population. The biggest argument for such an option is what we call the "oops factor." More than 100 people on death row across the country have later been released after their innocence was proven. Sometimes that process has taken more than a decade. The fact that so much time can pass before a persons errant conviction is discovered raises the likelihood that innocent people have been wrongly executed. A person sentenced to life can pursue appeals that can acquit him, while some prosecutors and advocates suggest that many convicts who know theyre guilty will choose not to appeal their convictions if they arent sentenced to death. Currently the legal costs of such appeals makes the drain on taxpayers greater for every death row inmate than for someone who spends the rest of his life behind bars - even though the time spent caring for the death row inmate is shorter. One high-profile case that illustrates the benefits of a life-without-parole option is that of Karla Fay Tucker, who was executed in 1998 for the gruesome pickax murder of Jerry Dean and Deborah Thorton. Tucker, a drug addict and prostitute at the time of the crimes, was rehabilitated in prison and became a Christian advocate. Her case brought calls for clemency from around the world, including the pope and ministers in the religious right who ordinarily support capital punishment. But with no option for commutation, then-Gov. George Bush approved her execution. Clearly, another sentencing option could give juries and officials more freedom to ensure that true justice is done. At the same time, juries who are convinced that a person should die for his crimes still have the same ability to recommend capital punishment. Texas by far conducts more government-sanctioned executions than any global political entity this side of communist China. Thats a dubious honor. Providing life without parole could bring more humanity to Texas justice without lessening this states reputation for being tough on crime. SB 60 should be a no-brainer. (source: Editorial, The Brownsville Herald, Feb. 16) ************************ Hall To Testify Justen Grant Hall wants to talk to the jury to plead for his life. Newschannel Nine has learned, Hall will take the stand tomorrow to tell the jury himself why he should not be sentenced to death. Newschannel Nine was first to tell you that Hall is expected to take the stand. This afternoon his attorneys were busy consulting with him getting ready for tomorrow. A doctor testifed for the state today that Hall poses a future threat to society. But the defense later questioned a man who lives next door to where hall and his friends were hanging out the night Melanie was killed. Outside the presence of the jury, he said it was unlikely that Hall killed Melanie. Hall's attorney's continue to argue another man, Ted Murgatoy, killed her. they tell me Hall believes strongly in his own innocence, and that's why he wants to testify -- even though they don't recommend it. Hall faces the death penalty or life in prison. He would be the last witness for the defense tomorrow, and the case is expected to go to the jury by the afternoon. (source: NewsChannel 9) ********************** Jurors hear tape describing killing---No body, weapon or witnesses ever found in '95 case Jurors heard a tape on Tuesday of a defendant telling a Colorado police officer he beat a Corpus Christi man to death with a steel bar after the man tried to pull out his eyeball. George Doyle, 48, appeared in 94th District Court to be retried in the December 1995 killing of Carl Alexander, a fellow homeless man also known as "Crazy Carl." A jury convicted Doyle in September 2003, but visiting Judge Robert Pate declared a mistrial because Doyle's attorney died of a heart attack before the jury could assess punishment. On Tuesday, defense attorney Mark Stolley recounted the events of the police investigation that yielded no body, murder weapon or witnesses to corroborate Doyle's statements that he killed Alexander. Prosecutors played the tape of Doyle in which he described hitting Alexander three times with a three-quarter-inch steel bar. Doyle also said he buried Alexander's body about 300 yards from the Wal-Mart in Flour Bluff, near a homeless camp, and then jumped in - a nearby swimming pool _to rinse the blood off his clothes. He said he told his wife and daughter about the crime. Prosecution witness testimony came from Firestone, Colo., and Castle Rock, Colo., police who arrested Doyle in connection with unrelated crimes in December 2001. Firestone Police Chief David Montgomery said he arrested Doyle Dec. 24, 2001, on public intoxication. Montgomery said Doyle told him about the death of Alexander and that his body was buried in Flour Bluff under a paved area. Doyle told Montgomery he didn't kill Alexander. Officer Michael Auxier with the Castle Rock Police Department, testified Doyle claimed the killing. Auxier said he arrested Doyle 2 days after the arrest in Firestone on suspicion of driving a stolen vehicle. Auxier testified Doyle told him he murdered someone - in Corpus Christi, which Auxier said he didn't "put a lot - of credence" in at first, but then decided to look into further. Testimony will resume at 9 a.m. today. (source: Corpus Christi Caller-Times) ********************* Testimony continues in Thomas trial In the 2nd day of Andre Thomas' capital murder trial, his former girlfriend Carmen Hayes returned to the stand. Thomas, 21, is on trial at Grayson County Courthouse for the killing 13-month-old Leyha Marie Hughes. Thomas was married to, but separated from her mother, Laura Christine (Boren) Thomas, at the time the child was found stabbed to death at her Sherman apartment complex last March. Mrs. Thomas and her son, Andre Lee Boren, were also found dead in the apartment. Although Thomas faces capital murder charges in each of the deaths, Grayson County District Attorney Joe Brown said this trial will focus on the death of little Leyha. During testimony Wednesday morning, Hayes told the jury about instances in which Thomas would put tape over his mouth in order to prevent himself from talking for 24 hours. She said that he did that because he believed he was the devil, and if he stopped speaking, God would forgive him and all would be right with the world. She said that was one instance of his taking religiosity to extremes. First Assistant Grayson County District Attorney Kerye Ashmore asked her if Thomas' putting tape over his mouth prevented him from using drugs or drinking, and Hayes said no. She said he would remove the tape to smoke marijuana and drink. Defense Attorney Bobbie Peterson asked Hayes if she had referred to Thomas in her journals as being insane, crazy, way out there and needing help. Hayes said yes, she had. She agreed that she wrote in the journal that Thomas would not have done what he did had he been in his right mind. She said he was talking about killing his son. Hayes continues on the stand until noon. (source: Herald Democrat) NEW YORK: N.Y. High Court Sees No Time Bar to DNA Motions In a victory for convicts seeking to prove their innocence through DNA testing, the New York Court of Appeals said Tuesday there is no time bar to bringing a post-conviction DNA motion and -- critically -- that it is not the defendant's burden to establish that such evidence exists. The court unanimously overturned the Appellate Division, 4th Department, and gave hope to convicts who claim they were wrongly convicted. It specifically rejected the contention that Criminal Procedure Law 440.30 (1-a), which provides for post-conviction DNA testing, imposes a due diligence requirement on the defendant. "To the contrary, it is the People, as the gatekeeper of the evidence, who must show what evidence exists and whether the evidence is available for testing," Judge George Bundy Smith wrote for the court in People v. Pitts, 9, and People v. Barnwell, 10. The common issues in the appeals were whether there is a time limit in making a CPL 440.30 (1-a) motion and whether a defendant seeking DNA testing must make a threshold showing that potential DNA evidence exists and that it exists in quantities sufficient to analyze. Tuesday, the Court of Appeals said there is no time restriction and the defendant has no burden to show that the evidence he or she seeks to test still exists. "A defendant may move for DNA testing pursuant to CPL 440.30 (1-a) at any time," Smith wrote. "We further hold that the defendant does not bear the burden of showing that the specified DNA evidence exits and is available in suitable quantities to make testing feasible." The appeals decided Tuesday involved 2 men convicted of sex crimes in Monroe County, N.Y. Anthony Barnwell was convicted of first-degree rape in 1987 and sentenced to a 7 to 15-year term. His appeals were exhausted by 1990, four years before Criminal Procedure Law 440.30 (1-a) was enacted to provide for post-conviction DNA testing. In 2000, Barnwell petitioned pro se for DNA testing of the evidence that resulted in his conviction. Bernard Pitts was convicted of 1st-degree rape in 1995 and sentenced to an 8 1/3 to 25-year term. After exhausting his appeals in 1996, he later moved for DNA testing under CPL 440.30. The Appellate Division, 4th Department held that the prosecution was under no obligation to retain evidence after the direct appeals were exhausted. It also said the defendants were not entitled to a CPL 440.30 hearing unless they could show that the evidence they sought to test was available and sufficient for analysis. Smith granted leave to Pitts and Chief Judge Judith S. Kaye granted leave to Barnwell. Tuesday, the court upheld Pitts' conviction because "no reasonable probability exists that the verdict would have been more favorable ... had the results of DNA testing been introduced at trial." But in Barnwell's case, the court remitted the matter to the Supreme Court for an inquiry into whether the DNA evidence in question is available. James G. Eckert of the Monroe County Public Defenders Office in Rochester, N.Y. argued for both defendants. Monroe County Assistant District Attorney Nancy A. Gilligan appeared for the prosecution. Wendy E. Lehmann, chief of appeals for the Monroe County district attorney, said the evidence in both "old" cases has been destroyed, and the prosecution now needs only to show in Barnwell that it does not have the materials Barnwell seeks. The court said nothing about how long prosecutors should retain evidence in concluded cases, or even if they have any obligation to retain such evidence. FLORIDA: Maintaining innocence from death row, Willie Crain seeks new trial Willie Crain is a name many in Tampa Bay would be happy to forget. He was the pedophile fisherman convicted of kidnapping and murdering 7-year-old Amanda Brown in 1998. In an exclusive death row interview, Crain told Action News anchor Brendan McLaughlin he's working on an appeal. The frightening thing for Amanda's family? It just might work. After 7 years, Roy Brown's pain is as raw as the cold winter wind blowing across Tampa Bay. He still comes to the Courtney Campbell Causeway boat launch to visit the only grave his daughter may ever have. "I work across the bridge, so I come by here every day. I'll stop by here from time to time," he explained as he gazed out over the water. "I just really believe she's right there." On September 11, 1998, the causeway marina was a staging ground for volunteers, detectives, and sheriff's divers -- all searching for little Amanda Brown. The night before, her mother invited a man she had just met to share her bed. In the morning, he and Amanda were gone. "I didn't have any idea -- none whatsoever -- he would take my daughter," Kathryn Hartman sobbed at the time. Amanda Brown was kidnapped and killed in 1998. Willie Crain, a 53-year-old crab fisherman with a history of raping children, quickly became the top suspect in the case. Detectives searched his boat, his truck, and took bags of evidence from his trailer home. Crain vehemently maintained his innocence amid an intense media spotlight, but each new detail cast more suspicion on him: When detectives found him fishing that day, he had long scratches on his arms and back. The strongest evidence was Amanda's blood found on his toilet seat and boxer shorts. And why did he bleach his bathroom floor and wash his rugs that morning? 8 days later, Willie Crain was arrested and charged with kidnapping and murder, still professing no knowledge of the crime. "I don't know nothing about none of that," he told reporters as he was taken into custody. 6 years after his conviction, Brendan talked to Crain at Florida's death row. He has not changed his story. "You're sitting here on death row. Your days are numbered. Before that day comes, wouldn't you want to do something decent and give some peace and closure to Amanda's family?" Brendan asked Crain. "If I was guilty, I would own up to it. But I'm not owning up to something I'm not guilty of," he replied. Willie Crain has no alibi, but he calls the evidence in his case trumped up, and the witnesses liars. >From death row in Starke, Crain discusses his case with Brendan McLaughlin. "Did you ever tell people that you knew how to get rid of a body?" Brendan continued. "No sir, I didn't, and I ain't never said it," Crain insisted. "They said that just to set me up, to get rid of me." Roy Brown hoped his daughter's killer would be dead by now -- "It's a living hell. Crain's name is in our house 7 days a week, 24 hours a day," he said. But he wanted to see the interview for himself. "Do you ever think about Amanda?" Brendan asked Crain. "Yes sir," he answered. "I think about her every day in here, thinking how I wish to God she'd come forward or somebody would recognize her. 'Cause I know she's out there.my freedom's basing on it." Roy Brown had a different take. "I think he spends more time thinking about what he'd do to another kid if he got out. That's what I think," Brown explained. "He's in a private cell all by himself and there's no telling what's on that sick bastard's mind. Excuse my language." Willie Crain may only have a 2nd grade education, but he's not a stupid man. He's gone through every detail of his case file and found statements and depositions that don't square with testimony given in court. It's nothing that would necessarily prove his innocence, but it could cast doubt on key evidence presented in trial. In a pre-trail deposition the jury never saw, the DNA expert admitted stains found on Crain's toilet seat and boxer shorts were not necessarily blood. "Additional tests would have to be done to determine blood. Nobody asked for additional tests. My own attorney sold me out," Crain complained. Crain is building a case for a post-conviction appeal, a way to get a new trial by convincing a judge his lawyers did not represent him effectively. Roy Brown looks out over the water at the causeway marina, where he feels closest to his daughter. Former prosecutor Nick Cox believes Crain had top-notch lawyers in his corner, but he's seen the strategy work before. "Post-conviction relief motions? It's not uncommon for them to be granted. It's not uncommon at all for these people to get new trials," he said. Roy Brown is sure that as long as Willie Crain thinks he has a chance at freedom, he'll never say what he did with Amanda's body. "He was found guilty in four hours, sentenced to die in 2 hours. And it's going to take 30 years to kill him? There's something wrong with that picture," Roy observed. "He's a liar, he's a sexual predator. He preys on kids. He's a sick man that needs to die for what he did." So Roy waits, not quite believing that the search for his daughter is over. "I don't know, you keep thinking maybe you'll see something you didn't see the last time," he said as he continued to look at the gray waters off the causeway. Willie Crain's attorney, Danny Hernandez, did not want to go on camera for this story, but told Brendan he's confident his client got a vigorous defense. Amanda's father, Roy Brown, remains active in missing children issues. Her mother, Kathryn Hartman, is currently in prison on drug charges. (source: ABC Action News) WISCONSIN: Ochoa stresses reforms University of Wisconsin law student Christopher Ochoa, who was wrongfully imprisoned for murder, spoke of the necessity to reform the criminal justice system in front of a small group in the Memorial Union Wednesday night as a part of the Capital Punishment portion of the Distinguished Lecture Series. Alongside Ochoa were UW law professors Keith Findley and John Pray, co-directors of the Wisconsin Innocence Project that proved Ochoa's innocence in 2000. Ochoa spent 12 years in prison for a crime he did not commit. The chief reform supported on the night was the need for videotaped confessions. In 1988 in Austin, Texas, Ochoa claims officers harassed him into signing a false confession for the sexual assault and murder of Nancy DePriest, even though there was no evidence linking him to the crime. During the 2 days of interrogation, police officers threatened Ochoa and lied to him about his rights. One officer threw a chair at him and squeezed his arm to show him where Ochoa could receive a lethal injection. "White guys always walk, and the Hispanics always get the needle," Ochoa said the authorities told him. Ochoa said he was shown pictures of death row and DePriest's autopsy, and police officers told him he would not be able to hug his mother or see his family again if he did not sign the confession. "[The interrogations were] psychologically draining," Ochoa said. "Everything I had been taught in school, that you can talk to the police, just went out the window. It is something I still have nightmares about." According to Ochoa, as police recorded his confession, Ochoa guessed about the details of the crime until they matched the report. Finally the detectives typed the statement and Ochoa repeated what they said to him. Ochoa said he understands why people doubt he would confess to a crime he did not commit. "Don't say you wouldn't confess until you sit in the chair I was in," he said. Pray and Findley stressed the benefits of legislation that requires videotaped confessions, such as in Minnesota and Alaska. Findley cited a study of 156 people wrongly convicted of crimes, and nearly 1/4 included false convictions. "It seems counter-intuitive, but Chris' story shows how it can happen," Findley said. The legislation would protect both the suspect and the police officers. It also prevents any information from becoming twisted, Pray said. Even if required video confessionals became legislation, Findley and Pray said there is no such thing as a "foolproof" system. They said as long as the death penalty exists, innocent people could be sentenced to death despite using the best methods available. Findley and Pray praised Wisconsin for its "great statewide [legal] defense system." The death penalty is not legal in Wisconsin, despite some legislators' attempts to reinstate it. Adam Diederich, director of the Distinguished Lecture Series, expressed agreement with the panel's recommendation to tape interrogations. "The one concrete thing that can be done is to record interrogation," Diederich said. "I feel if anyone saw this presentation, they would feel the same." The Wisconsin Innocence Project includes 20 law students who provide legal assistance to inmates with provable claims of a wrongful conviction. Ochoa is now enrolled in this program. (source: Badger Herald)
