[Deathpenalty] death penalty news----TEXAS, N.C., FLA., ILL., ARIZ., USA

[Rick Halperin]

November 26




TEXAS:

An exonerated death row inmate fulfills a mission



14 years ago, I reviewed the innocence claim of Texas death row inmate Anthony 
Graves for the Judicial Process Commission in Rochester. I concluded that 
Graves' claim was meritorious. I wrote about his case in "Justicia," Graves 
also asked me to help get his case more national attention. "I want this case 
of injustice exposed on a national stage to bring attention to the serious 
flaws with the death penalty," he said. "I feel very strongly that this is why 
I've been chosen to experience such injustice."

On March 8, 2006, Graves wrote to me again: "I don't know if you've heard, but 
the courts have overturned my conviction, and ordered the state to retry me or 
turn me loose. I'm totally speechless for the past several days. I've never 
prepared myself for a favorable ruling because I've been so used to receiving 
negative news. But they have finally gotten it right. And the opinion they've 
written speaks volumes about the prosecution's conduct. I can't believe it. My 
attorney said that the opinion is pretty much air tight and there's no way the 
courts would ever accept an appeal from the state to review it. This is so mind 
boggling! It's like a dream that I'm afraid to wake up to."

On an August night in 1982, in Somerville, Texas, 6 people including 5 children 
were beaten, stabbed, shot and left to die in a burning house. 1 of the 
children was the son of Robert Earl Carter. F4 days earlier, Carter learned the 
child's mother had filed a patrimony suit against him. The police investigation 
focused on Carter after he attended the victims' funerals with bandages on his 
ears, face and hand, all concealing burns.

After failing a polygraph test, Carter admitted guilt. Not wanting to implicate 
his wife - who had a burn on her neck immediately after the fire - and pressed 
by police who doubted Carter committed the crime alone, Carter said Anthony 
Graves, his wife's cousin, had helped him.

Carter, his wife, and Graves all were indicted. Shortly before Graves' trial, 
police had Carter undergo another polygraph test. Afterwards, Carter told the 
district attorney that his wife was his accomplice and Graves was not involved. 
Nevertheless, Carter was warned that if he refused to testify against Graves, 
the wife would be tried for murder. The withholding of this information by 
prosecutors prompted the U.S. Court of Appeals, Fifth Circuit, to overturn 
Graves' conviction and to conclude that Graves would likely have been acquitted 
had the jury been given this information.

Although at trial Carter testified that Graves was his accomplice, Carter told 
many people before and after Graves' trial that Graves was innocent. He said he 
testified against Graves to protect his wife. In his final statement before he 
was executed, Carter said, "Anthony Graves had nothing to do with it. I lied on 
him in court."

Carter's wife was not put on trial. Graves was convicted and given a death 
penalty.

It was later shown that wounds prosecutors claimed were inflicted by a knife 
like one owned by Graves could have come from any single-edged knife. Also, 
investigation by Graves' appellate lawyers cast doubt on the credibility of 
jailhouse informants and guards who testified they overheard Graves make 
inculpatory statements to Carter.

Charles Sebesta, the Burleson County district attorney who prosecuted Graves, 
offered no plausible motive for Graves' participation in the murders. An alibi 
witness for Graves didn't testify because she received a threat she would be 
prosecuted as an accomplice if she testified on Graves' behalf.

My own review of his case also revealed that Graves consented to a polygraph 
test. Sebesta claimed Graves failed it. But authorities refused to give the 
polygraph charts of Graves or Carter to Graves' attorneys. Warren Holmes, a 
highly respected criminologist and polygraph expert, offered to evaluate these 
charts after I appraised Holmes of Graves' case. I concluded that the most 
plausible explanation for the unwillingness of Texas officials to relinquish 
the polygraph charts was new concern the charts would support Graves' claim of 
actual innocence.

In his book "Executed on a Technicality," David Dow wrote, "The Texas Innocence 
Network, which I direct, has been working with Graves' lawyers to establish his 
innocence. The dogged team of students is led by Nicole Casarez, a lawyer and 
journalism professor." I had several phone conversations with Casarez, who 
shared with me the trials and tribulations of endeavors to save Graves from 
execution, and her joy with the Court of Appeals decision.

After 12 years on death row, Graves remained incarcerated at the Burleson 
County Jail while the state would repeatedly set and reset trial dates. 
Finally, the state acknowledged Graves' actual innocence, dropped all charges, 
and awarded Graves $1.4 million for the years he spent wrongfully imprisoned.

Graves used the money to establish the Anthony Graves Foundation to help other 
wrongly convicted prisoners and to provide re-entry services for people 
released from prison. He also opened a small health clinic to provide free or 
low-cost care to people released from prison and their families. Graves' 
grievance against the DA, whose prosecutorial misconduct led to Graves' 
wrongful conviction, resulted in his being disbarred, prohibiting him from 
practicing law in Texas.

Since his exoneration in 2010, Graves has testified before the U.S. Senate 
Judiciary Committee about the harms of solitary confinement, has sat on panels 
hosted by the American Bar Association and the American Civil Liberties Union 
that focused on criminal justice reforming and has been a keynote speaker for 
events hosted by organizations including the Anti-Defamation League, Amnesty 
International, the Texas Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty, the American 
Academy of Psychiatry and Law, and the Houston Forensic Science Center. Graves' 
story was featured on "48 Hours" in an episode titled "Grave Injustice," which 
won an Emmy Award. Graves created the Nicole B. Casarez Scholarship fund at the 
University of Texas to help aspiring criminal defense attorneys.

And Beacon Press this year published Graves' compelling book, "Infinite Hope: 
How Wrongful Conviction, Solitary Confinement, and 12 Years on Death Row Failed 
to Kill My Soul."

Back in 2006, I didn't succeed in honoring Graves' request to me to help get 
his case more national attention. Graves did that on his own four years later 
after he was fully exonerated. Having just passed the Thanksgiving holiday, 
perhaps no one has more to be thankful for than Graves.

As he writes in his book, "I sustained myself through the longest nights with 
the simple assurance that God is good. And now that I'm living as a free man, I 
have known this to be true. I've been blessed with opportunities to travel the 
world and tell my story. I've been asked to speak in front of national and 
international audiences. I'm doing the work I was meant to do - sharing my 
story in hopes that all of you out there will keep the faith, find your purpose 
and prepare for the opportunity to effect change in a world that desperately 
needs reform."

(source: Joel Freedman; newspressnow.com)








NORTH CAROLINA:

Executing 16-year-old kids is OK now?



Let the jury decide the shooter's fate

In response to "Butler student should face death penalty" (Nov. 20 Forum):

I was stunned when I read Forum writer Eugene Halpin's letter stating that 
Jatwan Cuffie should get the death penalty for the shooting at Butler High. A 
16 year old high school student should be executed?

Mr. Halpin wasn't there, isn't part of the investigation, doesn't know any of 
the evidence and knows nothing of the circumstances that led up to the 
shooting. The Grand Jury, however, that did hear evidence, indicted him with 
second-degree murder. Let the facts come out at trial and let a judge and jury 
do their job and return justice in this matter.

I would also like to point out Mr. Halpin that the law states that 16 year olds 
cannot be executed, and that law is appropriate.

Jerri Wesson, Charlotte

****

There's no justice in child execution



Jatwan Cuffie shot and killed Bobby McKeithen. It breaks my heart that a boy 
lost his life at only 16. 2 families are now forever changed and I pray for 
both of them.

Jatwan was wrong to bring a gun to school. He was wrong to use it to kill 
another human being. However, let the Prosecutor determine the facts of the 
case through a proper investigation. Forum writer Eugene Halpin would likely 
have a different opinion about executing a child if Jatwan Cuffie were his own 
son. Have you no compassion Mr. Halpin?

Don’t get me wrong, Jatwan Cuffie should be held accountable for his actions 
and should serve time. But, where's the justice in executing a child? I see 
none.

Sham Ostapko, Huntersville

(source for both: Letters to the Editor, Charlotte Observer)








FLORIDA:

Blood and truth: The lingering case of Tommy Zeigler and how Florida fights DNA 
testing



A convicted killer feels DNA could help exonerate him, but after 40 years, 
prosecutors say justice is long overdue.

Dale Recinella steeled himself as he entered Florida’s death row and the rank 
smell of men who lived year-round with no air conditioning. The electronic door 
grinded as it closed behind him.

The Catholic chaplain's Rockports squeaked on the concrete corridor as he 
walked from cell to cell, on that day in 1999.

Recinella had been a Wall Street finance lawyer before deciding the work wasn't 
meaningful enough. He now served as a voluntary chaplain to hundreds on death 
row and another 1,500 in solitary confinement. It was the hardest thing he'd 
ever done, but it had given him peace.

On the Row, angry men sometimes screamed at him, said he knew nothing about 
their worlds. Others barely looked up. Then there was William "Tommy" Zeigler.

Recinella felt at ease around Zeigler, who always came to the gate of his cell 
to talk. Zeigler called himself a "foot-washing Baptist." He seemed gentle and 
cheerful. Unlike most, he always asked about Recinella's life.

"What are you doing here?" Recinella asked Zeigler that day, about 6 months 
after he had started coming to death row. "You stick out like a sore thumb."

Up until that point, Zeigler hadn't brought up his case, and Recinella hadn't 
asked.

"You know I'm innocent, right?" Zeigler responded.

Recinella couldn't imagine anyone on death row being innocent, not with as many 
appeals as they get to file. How was that even possible?

Zeigler said his case had been explored in a 1992 book, Fatal Flaw: A True 
Story of Malice and Murder in a Small Southern Town.

The following week, Recinella bought it and started reading. It was a complex 
case, made all the more complicated by the multitude of characters who found 
themselves in close proximity to Zeigler's furniture store in the central 
Florida citrus town of Winter Garden on Christmas Eve 1975. 4 people had been 
murdered: Zeigler's wife, his in-laws and a longtime customer.

Author Phillip Finch concluded that Zeigler could not have killed his family.

A few months later, Recinella visited the Midtown Manhattan law offices of 
Zeigler's lawyers and spent several days looking through thousands of pages of 
documents stored floor to ceiling. The State Attorney's Office had failed to 
turn over to defense lawyers some police reports and witness statements that 
supported Zeigler's version of the story. Recinella observed a "purposefulness 
to the mistake, not by everyone but by some."

As a chaplain, Recinella was forbidden from advocating for inmates. His job was 
to read them scripture and pray, listen and give communion. If they asked for 
him before they were to be executed, he went. He could lose his privileges at 
death row if he was too outspoken on someone's behalf. But he couldn't stop 
thinking about Zeigler. If the man was innocent, that meant he'd lost 
everything - his wife and in-laws, his home and his business, his name and his 
freedom.

That would mean he, too, was a victim.

No Florida death row inmate has begged the courts for DNA testing more than 
Tommy Zeigler.

His lawyers have asked 6 times.

After his 2nd request in 2001, Zeigler obtained limited tests, which appeared 
to support his story that he was a victim of a robbery at his furniture store.

But he has been denied more advanced testing of the blood-stained clothes, 
fingernail scrapings and guns.

Zeigler, now 73, has been awaiting execution for 42 years. He was convicted 
with the help of blood evidence that was, at the time, more theory than science 
and has been unable to get forensic testing that's now available in murder 
cases.

Florida has actually deprived a total of 19 men from accessing modern science. 
Another nine, including Zeigler, were allowed DNA tests when the technology was 
in early development but were later prevented from conducting more tests or 
advanced analysis.

Their appeals for post-conviction DNA tests have been rejected 7o times, or 
almost 3 out of every 4 requests, according to a Tampa Bay Times review of more 
than 500 death row cases since 1976, when the death penalty was reinstated in 
Florida.

7 of the men were executed without ever obtaining the tests.

Almost 70 % were convicted in the 1970s or '80s, when DNA testing didn't exist 
or was at its origins.

9 were convicted partially with "microscopic hair comparison," a method 
employed by the FBI for decades that has been discredited. The evidence in 12 
cases has been lost or destroyed.

Three of the men, including Zeigler, who were convicted in front of the same 
judge in Orange County, have spent more than 40 years on death row.

Many of the men requesting tests are likely guilty and hoping only to run the 
clock on their death sentences.

But the state Legislature wanted to eliminate the possibility that even one 
innocent man could be executed.

In 2001, it passed a statute to provide a way for inmates to obtain DNA testing 
in all cases. Almost 20 years later though, some prosecutors routinely fight 
DNA requests, especially in high-profile death row cases, and the courts often 
fail to intervene.

Court rules dictating procedure can supercede the state DNA law. And judges 
have wide discretion.

In most states, including Florida, judges often allow DNA analysis that can 
prove innocence, such as a test of a rape kit, where the perpetrator can be 
positively identified.

Judges aren't as likely to allow for the testing if they aren't convinced it 
will exonerate. And they rely on evidence from the original trial to reach that 
conclusion.

"There's a failure by courts and prosecutors to understand that DNA testing is 
different," said Seth Miller, executive director of the Innocence Project of 
Florida. It can transform, he said, the meaning of the other evidence.

In some cases, judges are rejecting advancements like touch DNA, which can 
reveal whether someone participated in the crime.

Those who believe Zeigler guilty say there is too much other evidence that 
points to him as the killer. But his supporters have spent years poking holes 
in the case.

What's clear is that a rookie detective, fresh out of a week-long blood-spatter 
school, decided Zeigler was guilty within hours. Police and prosecutors failed 
to turn over reports and witness statements that might have swayed Zeigler's 
divided jury. The trial judge called a distraught juror's doctor, who sent over 
Valium during deliberations - and sentenced Zeigler to death after the jury 
gave him life.

Questions have been raised about the primary witnesses who testified against 
Zeigler and about the 1970s interpretation of the evidence. His lawyers say he 
would never be convicted today with such a flimsy case.

Could he be innocent?

Scientists say there is a way to know, so that the state with the most 
exonerations in the country doesn't execute the wrong man.

Florida refuses.

Robert Eagan flipped through a scrapbook one day last March, looking back at 
his storied career weeding out crime and corruption across Florida.

The former Orange County State Attorney won most of his murder cases and 
indicted dozens of cops for bribery and extortion. He wore seersucker suits, 
and his patient personality drew comparisons to Atticus Finch.

"I was a very popular man with every governor," the 92-year-old said, chuckling 
in the living room of his Maitland home.

But Zeigler's case looms over Eagan's legacy. At least 7 retired police 
officers, a retired Orlando Sentinel editor and Bianca Jagger have raised 
questions about Zeigler's guilt. More than 2,300 people have signed a petition 
to the governor for DNA tests of the evidence. Analyzing the blood, they argue, 
could raise more doubt about the prosecution's theories, opening the door to a 
new trial. Or it would provide scientific certainty that Zeigler killed 4 
people.

Zeigler's lawyers have offered to pay for the DNA tests, and experts say modern 
technology is likely to produce results.

But Eagan is glad the courts have denied the requests.

"The fact that all this stuff is going on and on and on, you say to yourself, 
where does it end?" he said. "Finally, put an end to it."

He feels that the victims' families shouldn't be dragged, again and again, 
through their loved ones' deaths.

Zeigler's execution, he said, is long overdue.

He remains convinced he got the right man.

No doubt in his mind.

Body chains clinked in the hallway before Tommy Zeigler appeared in a visiting 
room, a guard by his side. He looked skeletal, his pale, freckled skin 
stretched tight over a 6-foot-2 frame. Earlier this year, he caught the flu, 
and his weight dropped below 143 pounds.

His knees hurt with arthritis, but the visitor's room felt good on a humid day 
in July compared with his 2nd-floor cell, where the only air came from vents 
and a 9-inch fan and temperatures can reach more than 100 degrees.

"It's about 15 degrees cooler here than it is up there," he said.

Gerald Ford was president and gas was 59 cents a gallon when Zeigler - then 30 
- arrived in July 1976.

Only 1 of the 346 others has been here longer and only by 3 months.

The men on death row are a blur of society's ills and humanity's vices, of rape 
and cruelty and jealousy and poverty and mental illness. They murdered for 
money, for betrayal, for "intellectual pleasure," for hire.

They are divided between Union Correctional Institution and Florida State 
Prison, adjacent facilities nine miles outside Starke in north Florida. Their 
numbers are shrinking because of challenges to the death penalty. About 60 % 
are white, 37 % are black. 58 have lived there 30 years or more.

3 times a week, they get 10-minute showers. Twice a week, they get several 
hours in the prison yard, and there is a weekly visit with family or friends. 
They are brought 3 meals a day, the 1st at 5 a.m., and eat with a spork.

Zeigler's cell is in a row of 14. None of the men can see each other. If he 
wanted to talk to the guy a few cells down, he'd go up to the cell bars and 
yell out to him. Everyone would quiet down and let them talk. Sometimes, the 
conversations go on for hours, with others chiming in. They talk about sports 
or politics or death. They are a noisy bunch, and the chatter echoes off the 
steel and concrete, along with the clanking of heavy gates, the whirring of 
metal doors.

Zeigler used to play chess with the man in the next cell, Ted Bundy. Since they 
couldn't see each other, they called out moves. Bundy was executed nearly 30 
years ago, and Zeigler no longer plays. "I got too old and too tired," he said.

He used to make sweaters and scarves, until the guards, who call him "Ziggy," 
took away his plastic knitting needles.

He used to run in his cell, back and forth, for hours, to get exercise. For 
him, it's 2 paces each way. But he messed up his knees, so now he does 1,000 
sit-ups on even days, and 500 pushups and 400 back-arm pushups on the odd days. 
It takes him about 3 hours. If he didn't, he said, he'd "go to seed."

He takes Sundays off.

The rest of the time, he reads, writes letters, watches news, golf or football 
on his 13-inch TV and stares at the empty walls.

He has dodged death twice.

Gov. Bob Graham signed his 1st death warrant in 1982. Zeigler promised to quit 
smoking Kents if he avoided the 2nd warrant, issued in 1986. He said he hasn't 
smoked since.

94 men and 2 women have been executed in Florida since the death penalty's 
revival. Zeigler has been around for each of them. He sat in the next cell over 
when John Spenkelink left for the electric chair in 1979.

Spenkelink had killed a fellow hitchhiker in Tallahassee 6 years earlier.

"It smelled like burnt bacon," Zeigler said.

Zeigler has spent 24 years fighting to get all of the evidence against him 
tested for DNA.

"The courts," he said, "don't want to admit they made a mistake."

He clings to hope.

"I was raised that if you tell the truth, the truth's gonna find you out," he 
said. "And I can't believe that God has put me through this ... and not gonna 
straighten it out. I can’t believe that."

The evidence is stored in Orlando. It is preserved in paper bags, in a 
humidity-controlled vault, with answers to a crime that rattled a small town on 
Christmas Eve 1975.

(source: Tampa Bay Times)








ILLINOIS:

Fact-check: Mendoza off in claim of last-minute reprieve for death penalty 
ban----Susana Mendoza'svote in the Legislature to abolish the death penalty has 
become an issue in the mayoral race.



In the crowded race for Chicago's next mayor, many of the would-be candidates 
are working to distinguish themselves by touting their progressive bona fides - 
or questioning those of their opponents.

During a recent forum featuring 5 of those vying for the post, Illinois 
Comptroller Susana Mendoza was called on to defend her criminal justice record 
by one of her opponents, Cook County Board President Toni Preckwinkle.

Mendoza was once a Democratic member of the Illinois House, where she honed a 
tough-on-crime reputation and had long supported the death penalty even as a 
succession of Illinois governors imposed a moratorium on the practice.

Given that background, Preckwinkle asked Mendoza to explain how voters could 
trust her as mayor to push for criminal justice reforms.

PolitiFact is an exclusive partnership between Chicago Sun-Times and BGA to 
fact-check politicians

In response, Mendoza spoke of how her views on capital punishment had evolved. 
"I know what it's like to be on the other side of crime," said Mendoza, who 
earlier in the debate had recalled how her family moved from Chicago's Little 
Village neighborhood when she was a child to escape violence. "Having said 
that, yes I did support the death penalty. But I was the deciding vote on 
abolishing the death penalty in the state of Illinois. It would still be there 
had I not voted to abolish it."

The 2011 House vote to abolish executions in Illinois succeeded with the 
minimum number of 60 needed to pass. So, technically, any of those lawmakers 
who voted for the measure could lay claim to be a deciding vote. But did it 
really all come down to Mendoza?

During debate on the House floor, Mendoza gave an impassioned speech describing 
how she had personally wrestled with the issue, legislative transcripts show.

"Throughout my entire life, I've been a staunch supporter of the death penalty 
and a firm believer in the justice it serves," Mendoza said on the House floor.

"But this debate for me is no longer about whether or not guilty killers 
deserve to die for their crimes," she added, describing how she had met with 
several former death row inmates in Illinois who had been wrongly convicted and 
then freed. "Speaking to them and hearing their horror stories of being hours 
away from execution made me reflect on my own beliefs regarding our ability to 
apply the death penalty in a fair and error free way."

Even with Mendoza’s support, however, the initial House vote on the measure was 
59 to 58, 1 short of the 60-vote majority needed for passage.

But the sponsor, then state Rep. Karen Yarbrough of Maywood, used a procedural 
move to allow for a 2nd vote and then twisted the arm of a Quad Cities area 
Democrat to switch positions.

"I'd been back and forth on this since they started talking about abolishing 
it," then state Rep. Patrick Verschoore of Milan told the Bloomington 
Pantagraph in 2011 after the final vote. He said Yarbrough, who is now the Cook 
County Recorder of Deeds, called in a favor because she had supported him on 
other legislation.

In light of this, we asked the Mendoza campaign to tell us how Mendoza could be 
considered the deciding vote on the measure. Spokeswoman Rebecca Evans emailed 
us a response that did not directly address the question.

"As is common during the legislative process, not everyone was accounted for 
during the initial vote for a variety of reasons," Evans wrote. "The law to 
abolish the death penalty would not have passed without Susana's vote."

Our ruling

While defending her criminal justice record, Mendoza said she was "the deciding 
vote on abolishing the death penalty in the state of Illinois."

Before making that claim, she accurately described her change of heart on the 
issue that led her to support the 2011 abolition measure after long backing 
capital punishment.

And Mendoza is technically correct that the measure would have sunk had she 
voted the other way. By that standard, however, any 1 of the 59 other House 
members who supported the bill on final passage could make the same claim.

Even with Mendoza's support, the measure came up short on an initial vote. When 
the sponsor opted for a re-do later that day, a different lawmaker who'd 
opposed it on the 1st try switched his vote, securing its passage. In the end, 
it clearly didn't come down to Mendoza.

We rate her claim Mostly False.

The Better Government Association runs PolitiFact Illinois, the local arm of 
the nationally renowned, Pulitzer Prize-winning fact-checking enterprise that 
rates the truthfulness of statements made by governmental leaders and 
politicians. BGA's fact-checking service has teamed up weekly with the 
Sun-Times, in print and online.

(source: Chicago Sun-Times)








ARIZONA:

Bill Montgomery: The son of a smuggler becomes Maricopa County's controversial 
prosecutor



Bill Montgomery's friends and political backers characterize the Maricopa 
County attorney as a principled family man who cares not just about law and 
order, but about justice.

His character was forged, they say, by pulling himself out of poverty, serving 
his country at war, and now protecting public safety.

"He’s a man who thinks about how to be honorable and tries to apply it to his 
life," says Steve Twist, a mentor, friend and former chief assistant attorney 
general. "Duty, honor, country. And I would add God and family … He's 
respectful of people even if he disagrees with them."

Stephen Montoya, a Democrat and immigrant-rights attorney, says, "I think he's 
fair ... He just wants to enforce the law... And the strongest thing I can say 
for him is he's willing to listen to both sides."

That image is difficult to reconcile with the one his critics see.

Montgomery, they say, has since taking office in 2010 overzealously pursued the 
death penalty and rigidly resisted common-sense reforms - ending mandatory 
prison terms, legalizing marijuana - while overseeing more than 31,000 felony 
convictions a year.

"Bill Montgomery is arguably the most powerful person in Arizona's criminal 
justice system," says Kathy Brody, legal director at the state ACLU office. 
"We're spending billions of dollars on incarceration. It's not smart to do that 
when we know it’s not working. He's working behind the scenes at the 
Legislature ... If he's trying to make our community safer and rehabilitate 
people, he's not succeeding."

Diego Rodriguez, a Democrat who ran against Montgomery in 2016 and plans to 
challenge him again, says the County Attorney's Office under Montgomery "does 
not have a reputation for advocating for justice. It has a reputation for 
punishment. So many of his decisions are colored by his political allegiances 
or ideology."

Which is the real William G. Montgomery?

Montgomery warns a reporter looking into his background that he won't find 
hidden dirt. That turns out to be true. But it's Montgomery's most public 
actions - who his agency chooses to prosecute and who it doesn't - that have 
made him such a controversial enforcer of Arizona's criminal code and one of 
the most divisive figures in local politics.

The son of a smuggler

At age 51, Montgomery cuts a somewhat nerdish figure, with thick glasses and 
tight-fitting suits, his graying hair cut short with military precision.

In conversations, his intensity is balanced with moments of humor.

He likes the music of Depeche Mode, prefers pepperoni pizza over all other 
food, and wants the epitaph on his tombstone to say: "Bill Montgomery - Husband 
and Father."

The most shocking self-disclosure he can come up with? "I know how to 2-step."

"I never had a father-son relationship. Part of my approach to being a husband 
and father today is I don't want my children to ever wonder if I love them, if 
I love their mother. I never want them to fear they're going to wake up and I'm 
not there."----Maricopa County Attorney Bill Montgomery

Yet Montgomery also is a dynamic political force who oversees a $100 million 
budget and wields influence well beyond his office.

The duality, it turns out, is part of a larger paradox that begins with the 
Horatio Alger tale of a boy who rose to power despite (or because of) an 
impoverished upbringing.

Montgomery grew up mostly in barrio suburbs of Los Angeles, amid gangs, 
violence and blight.

His sister, Theresa Valentine, says a local gang known as Dog Patch was based 
across the street from one of their many homes.

Montgomery's father, a truck driver who dropped out of high school, was in and 
out of the home amid domestic feuds, and finally went to prison for smuggling 
marijuana across the border in Texas.

Montgomery recalls his dad's pickup truck had a false bed where pot was stored. 
He tells of deputies swarming the apartment while he was getting ready for 
school. He grits his teeth remembering prison visits - being patted down by 
guards before seeing his dad in a room full of convicts.

The family, perpetually struggling, moved so often Montgomery went to 6 
elementary schools. He recalls an early home life full of parental bickering.

"There were times I was the moderator at the table," Montgomery says. "I had a 
sense of what 'good' was supposed to be: mother and father, husband and wife 
and family. I could see we didn't have that."

At some point before high school, Montgomery's dad got shot in a dispute over a 
woman, and was mostly gone after that.

Although his mom held down part-time jobs, Montgomery from age 9 was the oldest 
of three kids in a single-parent home subsisting partly on welfare. He recalls 
his late mother as a woman of courage who constantly told him, "Circumstances 
are what we deal with. They don't dictate who you are, or what you become."

"I never had a father-son relationship," Montgomery says. "Part of my approach 
to being a husband and father today is I don't want my children to ever wonder 
if I love them, if I love their mother. I never want them to fear they're going 
to wake up and I'm not there."

Valentine says her brother dedicated his life to being the opposite of their 
father. "Some people take what happens to them, and it motivates them to do 
better. Some use it as an excuse," she says. "Bill was nothing like my dad."

As Montgomery recites his life story, each chapter contains a moral, a beacon 
to live by.

Early on, he turned to religion for stability and comfort. In second grade, he 
developed a crush on a beautiful Irish nun who selected him as a church lector. 
Later, he signed up as an altar boy.

"The Mass was a place where I could experience the infinite in a very intimate 
way," he says. "Where I knew - and this is what my sense was going forward - no 
matter what went on around me there was that constant, that love of God the 
Father. Even though I had a very challenging father, personally, there was 
still a God who was going to watch out for me, and that I felt I could rely 
on."

Books provided another escape. Montgomery says as a boy he read all of the 
"Tarzan" novels, as well as "The Lord of the Rings" and "The Hobbit" fantasies. 
Looking back, the stories were about heroic, honorable figures sacrificing for 
a greater good.

Valentine says her brother always had epic expectations: "He used to say he was 
going to be president. And I believed him ... From the time he was a young kid, 
he'd set goals and pretty much achieve everything."

Pursuing the death penalty

Montgomery says capital punishment is "the most consequential decision I make 
as county attorney."

But that burden has not been a deterrence: He defends executions in public 
debates, and has pursued the death penalty so often that last year the county 
ran short of specialized attorneys to represent defendants facing lethal 
injection.

According to a report by Harvard University's Fair Punishment Project, Maricopa 
County prosecutors from 2010-15 sought a higher ratio of death sentences than 
99.5 percent of counties in the United States.

That report, "Too Broken to Fix," says Montgomery's prosecutors sought 
executions 28 times during that period. Although the county has 1 percent of 
the nation's population, it accounts for 3.6 % of death sentences. In many of 
those cases, the report says, defendants suffered from low IQs, damaged mental 
health and other mitigating issues.

Researchers noted that, while Montgomery cut back on capital filings compared 
with one of his predecessors, Andrew Thomas,several "overzealous prosecutors" 
continue seeking executions at a high rate.

This year, in the French publication Le Monde, Montgomery characterized 
executions as "too antiseptic" to satisfy a sense of justice. "It would be good 
to return to earlier methods like the gas chamber or electric chair," he said, 
according to the paper. "Personally, I would prefer the firing squad."

In an op-ed piece for The Republic, Montgomery wrote that most Americans 
support capital punishment: "As long as there are horrific murders reflecting 
the worst of crimes, there will be a role for the death penalty as a just and 
proportionate punishment."

Montoya says Montgomery, like any prosecutor, is duty-bound to enforce capital 
punishment: "If he didn't push the death penalty, he'd be going against the 
will of the people. And the law is emphatically clear."

But Brody, the ACLU legal director, contends Montgomery's zeal is not just 
questionable from a moral perspective, but “an enormous drain on county 
resources” because death-penalty cases are so expensive.

Debates about death-penalty costs quickly sink in a quagmire of contradictory 
studies.

The research indicates capital convictions are far more expensive even when 
prison costs are included. But death penalty proponents contend most of the 
studies were performed by anti-execution groups using flawed methods or tainted 
data. Justice for All, a pro-execution outfit, estimates life-without-parole 
cases cost $1.2 million to $3.6 million more than death-penalty convictions.

Montgomery has argued that life-long incarceration, with medical bills and 
post-conviction appeals, becomes far more costly than a death sentence.

"There would be no cost savings," he wrote in a 2014 op-ed piece for The 
Republic. "We would have to deal with the dangers of increased inmate violence 
... (And) families of murder victims would receive discounted justice."

A West Point cadet

The 1st day of high school, waiting in line for a class schedule, Montgomery 
realized he was a misfit. He was wearing pant cuffs above the ankles, a shirt 
that didn't fit and ragged sneakers.

"I remember standing in that line ... thinking, 'All right, I'm not going to 
win the best-dressed contest. But you know what? No test I've ever taken asked 
me what kind of clothes you're wearing or how well-off your family is. I can 
work harder than anybody else in the classroom. And I can work harder than 
anybody else on the football field, because I'm responsible for my effort.'"

He played football, baseball and basketball. None of them well, by his account, 
but all with fervor. He also started getting straight A's.

"I've never held a marijuana joint, let alone inhaled," Montgomery says. "I was 
not part of the in-crowd. That wasn't my scene ..."

Nevertheless, he made an initial foray into politics, running for student 
council. The memory of losing still stings enough that he remembers the margin: 
3 votes.

Academic success earned Montgomery a trip to Boys State, a student leadership 
program in Sacramento. While there, on a whim he filled out an information card 
for the Army academy at West Point.

He had no military pedigree, no benefactor in Congress backing the application. 
A recruiter who had retired as a general helped him apply and offered simple 
advice: "Be 100 % honest and never kiss anybody's rear end."

Montgomery became the 1st from his high school to be accepted at West Point.

Cadet training was so brutal he nearly quit. He recalls peering out a dorm 
window at other students drilling. If they could stand it, he decided, so could 
he.

A year later, he was responsible for monitoring barracks on a day when several 
cadets left their beds unmade. There were whispers that he might look the other 
way. The whispers were false.

"I couldn't let them think I'd let standards pass, so I went around and wrote 
up everybody," he says. "Some of them were really mad. But I said, 'You know 
what? You put me in that position.' ... Sometimes, when you enforce a standard, 
it may make people mad."

Abusing 'prosecutorial discretion'?

Some critics contend Montgomery uses the authority of his office to protect 
friends and prosecute enemies.

During a scandal in 2011, the County Attorney's Office investigated 28 Arizona 
lawmakers who unlawfully accepted tickets, trips and other gifts from the 
Fiesta Bowl.

The most prominent politician was Senate President Russell Pearce, a fellow 
Republican who authored SB 1070 and had endorsed Montgomery in his 2010 
campaign, along with Sheriff Arpaio.

Pearce collected and failed to report about $40,000 in gifts while promoting 
legislation to subsidize the Fiesta Bowl. After a months-long probe, Montgomery 
declined to charge him or any other legislator, arguing that he could not prove 
their criminal violations were committed "knowingly."

At the time, former Attorney General Terry Goddard, who had previously 
convicted a politician using the same law, said Montgomery showed "a massive 
dose of prosecutorial discretion" in letting off the politicians.

In 2013, Pearce's son, Sean, a sheriff's deputy, drove his unmarked car through 
an intersection at twice the speed limit, without siren or police lights, and 
slammed into another car, killing the driver.

Montgomery again declined to prosecute, saying Sean Pearce had been responding 
to a police call. The victim's family and others complained of political 
favoritism. Montgomery rejected the criticism as "amateur analysis."

In 2014, Montgomery launched an investigation of alleged election violations by 
then- Attorney General Tom Horne at a time when Montgomery was campaigning for 
Horne's Republican challenger, Mark Brnovich.

Amid complaints of a conflict, Montgomery convened a news conference to declare 
that Horne was a "disgrace" who had violated Arizona law and should resign.

No criminal charge was filed against Horne. A civil action for the alleged 
violations was thrown out. Judges ruled Montgomery had no authority to 
investigate in the first place.

By then, however, Brnovich had defeated Horne in the Republican primary and 
prevailed in the general election.

Horne said Montgomery recruited Brnovich to run against him and served as his 
political mentor, so he had no business investigating. "He has abused his 
prosecutorial office for political purposes, and continues to do so," Horne 
said at the time.

Leading a tank battalion

After graduating from West Point, Montgomery wound up leading a tank battalion 
along the Iraqi border, charging across the desert at the beginning of 
Operation Desert Storm in 1991.

The scenario remains so vivid that Montgomery steps to a grease board to 
diagram the assault. His unit covered 100 miles in 24 hours, chasing Saddam 
Hussein's troops until they were trapped against the Euphrates River.

Mike Ball, who was in the combat wave with Montgomery and later became his Army 
roommate, recalls being psyched for battle, possibly against chemical weapons.

"We were locked and ready to go," he says. "It was exciting, scary, a lot of 
things. We were thinking of all the worst-case scenarios."

Instead, a cease-fire was issued. The war ended.

Montgomery's shoulders slump at the memory: "We went looking for Republican 
Guards, and they ran from us. I liken it to taking the prettiest girl in school 
to prom. You bring her home. You're on the porch ready to kiss. And her dad 
turns on the lights."

Montgomery earned a Bronze Star.

He spent more time overseas, but the Army wanted him to leave tanks and study 
language to become a foreign service officer. Montgomery, who had dreamed of 
teaching at West Point, wanted to remain with an armored division. So he opted 
out in 1995.

After discharge, he spent a couple years marketing computer systems in 
California, and met his wife, Becky, in a Palo Alto sports bar. They married in 
1997, and have 2 teen-age children.

Blocking justice reforms?

Arizona has the nation's 4th-highest rate of incarceration, due to punishments 
doled out in the state's most populous county.

A 2017 report by the American Friends Service Committee says about 1/5 of the 
state's prison inmates were convicted of drug offenses, more than any other 
category of crime. The reason: Narcotics sales in Arizona bring an automatic 
Class 2 felony charge - the same as manslaughter or armed robbery.

An Arizona Republic report found Montgomery has been a key player in efforts to 
block sentencing reforms, such as reduced prison time for drug possession, or 
downgrading marijuana offenses.

Twist, Montgomery's teacher and friend, is considered the architect of the 
existing statutes. Rep. Eddie Farnsworth, a Republican who chairs the House 
Judiciary Committee, works closely with both men.

The Arizona Prosecuting Attorneys’ Advisory Council has released an updated 
report on prison populations that they say confirms the state "leads the way in 
criminal-justice reform." Wochit

Montgomery says he supports reforms that are proven effective by data, 
including drug treatment and job training that reduce recidivism. His office 
features a Felony Pretrial Intervention Program for non-violent offenders. 
Those who complete the rehabilitation program avoid a felony conviction 
entirely.

But even his diversion programs are under fire. In August, the non-profit Civil 
Rights Corps sued Montgomery for running a "predatory" system that charges 
thousands of dollars in fees to people accused of possessing pot.

"They do this by threatening jail time and six-figure fines if convicted," the 
corps alleges. "This diversion program traps poor people in cycles of debt, and 
funds the Maricopa County Attorney's Office ... on the backs of low-level 
marijuana offenders."

Montgomery contends 95 % of Arizona inmates are violent or repeat offenders. 
And he credits tough sentencing for crime rates that dropped more than 28 % 
between 1990 and 2016.

"There is nothing Draconian in carrying out government's first duty of 
protecting citizens," Montgomery wrote in an opinion piece for the Arizona 
Daily Star this year. "With historic lows in crimes, we should be extremely 
cautious about tinkering with a system that has worked."

Becoming a lawyer

A few years in business led to a decision: Montgomery wanted to become a 
lawyer.

Arizona State University offered a Truman Young Fellowship, named for a law 
student killed in a military flight accident. The recipient is put on track to 
become a prosecutor, with internships at offices of the U.S. attorney, Arizona 
attorney general, Phoenix city attorney and Maricopa county attorney.

Montgomery won the scholarship.

During his final semester in law school, he took a class on victims' rights. 
The instructor, former Chief Assistant Attorney General Steve Twist, had helped 
create the Truman Young Fellowship.

A mentor relationship quickly evolved into a personal friendship - and a 
political alliance.

Twist, who wrote Arizona's Victims' Bill of Rights, co-founded the right-wing 
Goldwater Institute. He also headed the NRA's CrimesStrike program, and served 
as president of the State Board for Charter Schools.

Montgomery today describes Twist as his best friend. They serve together on 
non-profit boards. And Twist's wife, Shawn Cox, is chief of Montgomery's 
Victims Services Division.

Twist says of Montgomery: "I just can’t emphasize enough what a decent, decent 
man he is - in all aspects of his life. I think he's one of the finest office 
holders in the history of our state."

After passing the Bar exam, Montgomery joined the County Attorney's Office as a 
low-level prosecutor working petty crimes. It didn't last. Pay was so low he 
left for a private firm, Lewis Brisbois Bisgaard & Smith LLP.

That didn't last, either. Weeks into the job, his mom was diagnosed with 
cancer. Montgomery took leave, caring for her until she died.

Instead of returning to the firm, he joined Twist at Arizona Voice for Criminal 
Victims, a non-profit. The advocacy job, plus encouragement from then-Rep. J.D. 
Hayworth, R-Ariz., fueled political ambition.

Holding prosecutors accountable

The trial of Jodi Arias, who in 2008 murdered her ex-boyfriend, has been 
described as a televised "circus" with the county attorney's homicide 
prosecutor, Juan Martinez, as ringmaster.

Arias was sentenced to life in prison.

Martinez, meanwhile, became a subject of 6 Arizona Bar complaints for alleged 
ethics violations. Most have been dismissed, but several serious charges are 
still pending. He is accused of having sexual relationships with bloggers 
covering the Arias case, and improperly leaking information about the lone 
juror who prevented a death sentence.

The report by Fair Punishment Project says Martinez once compared a Jewish 
defense lawyer to Hitler and the "Big Lie," a tactic deemed "reprehensible" by 
the Arizona Court of Appeals. The state Supreme Court found he had engaged in 
misconduct during at least three capital cases.

Jodi Arias was convicted of killing Travis Alexander in his Mesa home in 2008. 
She was sentenced to life in prison in Arizona.

Justices also criticized Jeannette Gallagher, head of Montgomery's capital case 
unit, for "entirely unprofessional" conduct, according to the report.

Although Montgomery holds criminal defendants accountable, Brody says, 
prosecutors are not disciplined for misbehavior, creating a culture of 
tolerance.

Montgomery says prosecutors are subject to internal investigations and 
discipline, and a half-dozen also have been referred to the state Bar for 
alleged wrongdoing. "We do not tolerate unethical conduct," he adds. "We've 
taken action against prosecutors in this office when it is necessary to do so."

However, Montgomery says he believes the Supreme Court findings against 
Martinez were not based on a full evaluation, do not reflect lower-court 
determinations and involved prosecutorial error, rather than misconduct.

Montgomery says his office recently completed an investigation of internal 
allegations against Martinez, and disciplined him based on the findings. He 
would not divulge the nature of the inquiry, or describe the discipline. He 
says the investigative report was submitted to the state Bar in connection with 
its review of Martinez's conduct, and Arizona's presiding disciplinary judge, 
William O'Neil, has issued a protective order blocking release of information.

When asked about the Arias case, Montgomery shrugs: "It took on a life of its 
own. We're likely never to see anything like that again."

Running for public office

In 2006, as a virtual unknown just 5 years out of law school, Montgomery ran 
for attorney general.

He lost to Democrat Terry Goddard, and resumed working for crime victims. Then 
he bounced back to private practice at Lewis, Brisbois.

Once again, the job lasted only weeks before cancer intervened. This time it 
was Montgomery's dad. Despite a long-broken relationship, the son went to the 
father's hospital bed. Montgomery says his dad didn't even recognize him:

"He said, 'Who are you?' I said, 'I'm your son.' He started to cry … I told 
him, 'I'm not here to beat you up. You don't have a lot of time. You need to 
get things right.'"

As Montgomery left, he sent a chaplain to the room. His dad kicked the priest 
out. The son persisted. They were watching TV days later when his father 
blurted, "Of all the people I thought would stay away ... "

Montogmery's eyes glaze as he continues. "I told him, 'Look, you're my dad. 
That never changes.'"

Montgomery says the day before his father died, in February 2008, a priest gave 
the last rites. He recalls reconciling with his dad not as an act of 
forgiveness, but of Christian example: "This is what responsibility looks like. 
I was modeling it for him. But I never said that."

Defending Hamilton High decision

When Chandler police investigated rampant sexual hazing in Hamilton High 
School's football program last year, they concluded at least two coaches and an 
administrator knew of the assaults - and should be prosecuted for failing to 
take action.

Montgomery disagreed, securing charges only against three students. Asked why 
the supervising adults were allowed to walk, he blamed victims who refused to 
cooperate as witnesses.

The decision stunned critics who suggested prosecutors go after easy targets 
while shying from suspects with savvy lawyers.

Montgomery's answer: "Community outrage and frustration can't be a basis for 
deciding to charge somebody."

Some victim families have sued Chandler Unified School District and key 
Hamilton High officials.

The county attorney

After his father's death, Montgomery returned to work as a prosecutor under 
Maricopa County Attorney Andrew Thomas.

Within a year, all hell broke loose. Thomas, who was politically aligned with 
Sheriff Arpaio, accused county supervisors and a judge of conspiracies 
involvingbribery and racketeering.

There was no proof.

Amid the uproar, Thomas resigned to run for state attorney general. He lost the 
election, and was disbarred.

Rick Romley, a longtime Arpaio nemesis who had previously served as county 
attorney, was appointed to fill the vacancy left by Thomas.

Romley decided to run again in 2009.

So did one of his employees, Montgomery.

Boosted by attack ads against Romley financed by Arpaio, Montgomery won - a 
stunning upset given his limited experience.

Suddenly, the poor kid from mean California streets was in charge of 1,000 
employees and a government office in turmoil.

Montgomery says his No. 1 goal was to rebuild public confidence and internal 
morale.

"I think we got there," he adds.

Morale under Montgomery

Critics inside and outside of the County Attorney's Office offer a different 
take: They say Montgomery has instilled a yes-man culture where prosecutors 
have little authority and feel expendable or demeaned.

As a result, they add, experienced lawyers have fled, leaving green colleagues 
overwhelmed by complex cases.

"Prosecuting at MCAO is far from pure or ideal and sucks the rewarding aspect 
out of many employees. This office is focused/driven on stats, policies (no 
prosecutorial discretion), micromanagement ... Meaning that employees are just 
down right not trusted."

Anonymous post on glassdoor.com

Insiders won't make such assertions on the record for fear of retaliation, and 
outsiders want confidentiality because they represent criminal defendants in 
court. But the criticisms appear anonymously at glassdoor.com, a website for 
employer reviews.

"Prosecuting at MCAO is far from pure or ideal and sucks the rewarding aspect 
out of many employees," says one post. "This office is focused/driven on stats, 
policies (no prosecutorial discretion), micromanagement ... Meaning that 
employees are just down right not trusted.

"Image and public perceptions seem to drive decisions from the top, with little 
consideration to the fact that morale is on its death bed ... Reasonable and 
experienced prosecutors are leaving at a blistering pace."

Another post says, "The elected (leader) and his upper management are terrible. 
The essence of the decisions made (are) for future political office with no 
regard for employee morale and the 'right' outcome."

Montgomery describes such complaints as "stereotypical criticism of a large 
government office."

While a high number of prosecutors retired or quit in 2017, after a paperless 
record system was imposed, he says he goes out of his way to get employee 
feedback, and has introduced leadership training to emphasize values and 
vision.

Whispers of 'dark money'

Rodriguez and other critics suggest Montgomery is tied to behind-the-scenes 
political financiers such as the Koch brothers.

In 2014, that perception spawned public claims that Montgomery helped create a 
team of Republican candidates, including Ducey, to run on a "dark money slate."

Montgomery grimaces at the insinuation, his jaw jutting.

He says he's not part of the Koch machine, and disagrees with their libertarian 
views on drug decriminalization, justice reform and other issues. "It's hard, I 
think, for people to appreciate that someone might just want to do a job, and 
do it well," he says.

Tom Collins, executive director of the Citizens Clean Elections Commission, a 
nonpartisan agency created by Arizona voters to promote fair campaigns, says 
he's seen no evidence to support dark-money rumors about Montgomery.

The county attorney was a leading promoter of legislation in 2013 to raise 
limits on campaign contributions, Collins adds. Those donations are 
transparent, and Montgomery argued thatmaintaining a lower contribution limit 
made stealth operators more powerful.

Montgomery, who has been re-elected twice, insists he is a politician during 
campaigns but a neutral prosecutor once elections are over.

The claim that he's apolitical elicited heavy skepticism in September during 
U.S. Senate committee hearings for now-U.S. Supreme Court Justice Brett 
Kavanaugh.

Montgomery provided one of his prosecutors, Rachel Mitchell, to question 
Kavanaugh's accuser on behalf of Republicans. Amid criticism of her partisan 
role in the proceedings, Montgomery posted a tweet comparing Democrats to "a 
pack of hyenas" with the hashtag, "#ConfirmKavanaugh."

He defended the commentary by saying it appeared on his personal Twitter 
account, not an official county account.

Few prosecutions in police killings

In 2014, a Phoenix police officer shot and killed an unarmed man, Rumain 
Brisbon, after he attempted to flee into his apartment.

The police thought Brisbon, who is African-American, was dealing drugs, but it 
turned out he was delivering a fast-food dinner to his children.

A fatal wound was fired into Brisbon's back at point-blank range during a 
scuffle. Brisbon allegedly ignored orders to show his hands, and officers said 
they thought he was holding a gun. Instead, he clutched a bottle of pills.

The incident occurred amid national protests over police killings, and 
triggered local demonstrations.

Montgomery said the officer had a "reasonable fear for his life" based on 
circumstances; no charges were filed.

Law officers in Maricopa County have shot suspects 285 times since 2012, 
killing 183 of them.

Rodriguez, Montgomery's Democratic rival, contends a failure to prosecute 
dangerous cops contributes to a shoot-first mentality that hurts police and the 
community.

As of mid-June of this year, police and deputies in Maricopa County had shot 
subjects 47 times in the line of duty, 24 fatally. They are on pace for a 
record year.

County Attorney Bill Montgomery talks about officer involved shootings during a 
conference, June 26, 2018, at the Maricopa County Atorney's Office. Mark Henle, 
The Republic

At a news conference, Montgomery said the shootings are up because armed 
suspects increasingly ignore directives to drop their weapons.

But he sometimes blocks public access to information that might confirm that 
assertion.

For example, in the 2016 shooting of an unarmed man, Daniel Shaver, by Mesa 
officer Philip "Mitch" Brailsford, Montgomery refused to release body-cam 
videos. He argued that evidence should not be divulged while a case is pending. 
Yet law-enforcement officials frequently release tapes when they show suspects 
committing crimes, or officers performing well.

"He wants to tamp down dissent. He wants to shape the narrative," says 
Rodriguez. "When's the last time he filed charges against an officer?" A 
Republic analysis found that, in the past 7 years, Montgomery's office has 
prosecuted just 1 officer: A 2nd-degree murder indictment was obtained against 
Brailsford.

He was found not guilty.

Mesa police have released footage from Officer Philip "Mitch" Brailsford's body 
camera of the fatal shooting of an unarmed Texas man at a hotel in 2016. This 
edited video shows the moments leading up Daniel Shaver's death. Mesa

Police Department

The body-cam video, released afterward, showed Shaver on his knees and begging 
for his life seconds before he was shot.

This year, the Phoenix City Council authorized an independent study of police 
shootings in the city, and Mesa Police Chief Ramon Batista asked Romley 
(Montgomery's predecessor) to conduct a similar study of excessive-force 
allegations in his department.

The FBI is investigating possible civil-rights violations in the Brailsford 
shooting and at least three other use-of-force cases involving Mesa police.

A Christian family man

Montgomery, aware of his critics' harsh narratives, volunteers an 
autobiographical portrait: the Christian family man without scandals.

"I promise you, there are no mistresses," he laughs. "There's nobody I sexually 
harassed. There are no offshore bank accounts."

He talks of being the product of 3 pillars: his mom's self-fulfillment advice; 
Catholicism's 10 Commandments; and West Point's honor code.

"Timeless values and principles," he says. "Something to draw from."

His conversations are big on personal responsibility. But he also talks of 
empathy, of helping folks who are down to lift themselves up.

"Even when I was handling cases myself, I never looked at any defendant as a 
throw-away, or just a name on a piece of paper," he says. "There's a human 
being behind it ... If I did my job well and treated folks with respect, that 
might be a catalyst for them turning their lives around later."

"Dream big dreams," Montgomery blurts later. "Set high goals. Work hard."

Admirers swear the mottos, however cliche, are sincere.

Jeff Taylor, who had multiple drug robbery convictions, met Montgomery while 
running a Salvation Army residential program for pregnant women with addiction 
histories.

He says the county attorney didn't just offer encouragement, he went out of his 
way personally to help one of the clients.

"I have never seen someone fight harder for a young woman than Bill did," he 
adds. "She delivered a drug-free baby."

If Montgomery is hard-nosed about law and order, Taylor says, he is just as 
strong on redemption.

Frantz Beasley, a convicted robber and kidnapper, recalls meeting Montgomery in 
2010 at a Phoenix gathering of newly released prison inmates, an event 
sponsored by Chicanos Por La Causa.

Beasely, who served his time and became co-founder of the Common Ground mentor 
program, says it stunned him to see a top prosecutor mixing with criminals. No 
reporters or TV cameras. No entourage. Yet there was Montgomery shaking hands 
with ex-cons before delivering a talk.

"I think he was the only white face in the room," Beasley says. "How many 
officials would do that without turning it into something about themselves?"

Montgomery told the convicts about the passion and purpose of their lives, 
Beasley recalls.

"He was very adamant letting them know, 'You have a role to play in society, 
and don't let your background hold you back.'"

(source: azcentral.com)








USA/VIRGINIA:

Fields trial begins Monday; jury selection could take days



More than a year after the Unite the Right rally culminated in a deadly car 
attack, the man charged with intentionally driving into a crowd of anti-racist 
protesters goes to trial Monday.

James Alex Fields Jr., 21, a self-described neo-Nazi, is charged with 
1st-degree murder and multiple counts of malicious wounding in the Aug. 12, 
2017, car attack that killed counterprotester Heather Heyer and injured 35 
others.

His trial in Charlottesville Circuit Court will begin with jury selection, a 
process that could last until mid-week. The pool of potential jurors totals 360 
people, the largest in recent memory.

A questionnaire was given to potential jurors last month, to help remove those 
with biases before voir dire begins Monday. The commonwealth has not yet 
revealed how many potential jurors were removed from the pool based on their 
responses to the questionnaire.

In August, Fields' attorney, Denise Lunsford, filed a motion to change venue, 
arguing that the ramifications of the rally were too widespread to seat an 
impartial jury in Charlottesville. Additionally, Lunsford argued that local 
media had biased the pool, presenting more than 2,000 pages of news reports.

However, Judge Richard Moore, who will be presiding over the trial, said he 
believes an unbiased jury can be seated and took the motion under 
consideration, with the intention to revisit it during the trial.

Charlottesville officials and police are preparing for a deluge of media 
members, assigning the Levy Opera House as a satellite viewing location for 
those who cannot get a seat in the courthouse.

Joe Rice, deputy communications director for Charlottesville, said the city is 
expecting "well over" 100 members of the media to be present for the 3-week 
trial.

Many steps have been taken to ensure a safe and orderly trial, including a ban 
on all electronic devices, backpacks and cameras from the courthouse property 
and in the spillover room.

'Something I can do for Heather'

Less than a week after the attack, The Washington Post published a story 
featuring an interview with one of Fields' former teachers, Derek Weimer. In 
the article, Weimer and former classmates of Fields described him as a man 
without many emotions who idolized Adolf Hitler and Nazism and who was 
determined to have a military career.

At a pretrial hearing late last year, Charlottesville police Detective Steven 
Young testified that as Fields was being detained after the car crash, he said 
he was sorry and sobbed when he was told a woman had been killed. Fields later 
told a judge he is being treated for bipolar disorder, anxiety, depression and 
ADHD.

Prosecutors played surveillance video of the attack, which showed Fields' Dodge 
Challenger head toward the counter-protesters, then quickly go in reverse and 
then lunge forward at a high rate of speed into the crowd, killing Heyer and 
injuring dozens.

One of those injured, Star Peterson, had her right leg crushed and still uses a 
wheelchair and a cane. Peterson will be one of the witnesses called by the 
prosecution during Fields' trial.

"I feel like it's something I can do for Heather," she said in an interview 
with The Associated Press. "I'll be testifying on her behalf."

In the wake of her daughter's death, Heyer's mother, Susan Bro, created the 
Heather Heyer Foundation, which provides scholarships to students pursuing 
careers in law, paralegal studies, social work, social justice or education.

Bro has repeatedly asked for people to look past her daughter and remember the 
bigger picture of why Heyer was protesting on Aug. 12, 2017.

"My daughter would tell you - as I'm telling you - to get over her," Bro said 
at an NAACP forum on the 1-year anniversary of the rally. "Let's get onto the 
issues that existed before my daughter and will exist long after we forget her 
name."

In the days following her death, one of Heyer's last posts began to circulate 
widely. "If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention," it read.

10 state charges, 30 federal

Fields faces 10 state charges: 1st-degree murder, 3 counts of malicious 
wounding, 3 counts of aggravated malicious wounding, 2 counts of felonious 
assault and 1 count of hit and run.

In June, a federal grand jury indicted Fields on 30 hate crime charges, for 
which he could face the death penalty.

In that case, Fields is charged with 1 count of a hate crime resulting in the 
death of Heyer; 28 counts of hate crime acts causing bodily injury and 
involving an attempt to kill; and 1 count of racially motivated violent 
interference with a federally protected activity, resulting in Heyer's death.

His federal trial has not been scheduled yet.

Jury selection in the state trial begins at 9:30 a.m. Monday.

(source: The Roanoke Times)