[Deathpenalty] death penalty news----TEXAS, S.C., FLA., LA., TENN.

[Rick Halperin]

August 1



TEXAS:

County looking into regional public defender for capital cases


County officials are considering approval of a $11,732 contract for a regional 
public defender to handle capital murder cases - a move that could save the 
county thousands of dollars if such a trial were to be held in district court.

County Attorney Paul Watkins told commissioners on Monday that the Texas 
Legislature recently provided more funding for counties with populations under 
300,000 for a Regional Public Defender for Capital Cases (RPDO).

"The death penalty portion of this can get really expensive," Watkins said. "So 
if we had one of these cases, these folks would come in. It's like an insurance 
policy- and a lot cheaper than having to pay someone $50,000 or more."

Although Watkins questioned the likelihood of seeking the death penalty for a 
Gonzales case, he did point out that he would definitely want to use these 
specialists in the event that a police officer or child were killed.

"But you just don't decide 'this is a death penalty case' - it has to match the 
statute as well," Watkins said. "Just because we have one of those 
circumstances doesn't mean it matches the statute. So it would be a limited 
circumstance."

Commissioner Donnie Brzozowski raised concerns over the qualifications of such 
an attorney, noting that it wouldn't be wise to bring in someone straight out 
of law school.

"To do capital murder cases, the death penalty must be served by the court of 
criminal appeals," Watkins said. "There would have to be a certification that 
says [the defense attorney] is qualified to do that. These are committed 
lawyers who do these types of cases all the time - not just kids fresh out of 
law school."

Third Administrative Judicial Region Judge Billy Ray Stubblefield said in a 
press release that additional funding has enabled the public defender for such 
cases to open eligibility to participate in the program for counties under 
300,000 in population. He mentioned that previously, a county not opting in 
during the 1st 2 years of the program had to "sit out" for 2 years after 
deciding they wished to participate before being admitted to the program.

"Now, a county is able to opt into the program immediately with a beginning 
date of Oct. 1, 2015," Stubblefield said. "It is only required that the county 
execute an interlocal agreement and pay the fee. Additionally, the fee has been 
favorably affected by the funding."

Since the matter was only up for discussion and not a vote, commissioners did 
not take action. They did however agree to look into it further and possibly 
get it on the agenda for a future meeting. They will next meet on Aug. 10.

(source: Gonzales Inquirer)






SOUTH CAROLINA:

Not guilty plea in federal court for church shooting suspect; he wants 
opposite, lawyer says


The white man accused of gunning down 9 parishioners at a black church in 
Charleston wants to plead guilty to 33 federal charges, but his lawyer said in 
court Friday that he couldn't advise his client to do so until prosecutors say 
whether they'll seek the death penalty.

During a brief arraignment in federal court, defense attorney David Bruck said 
that he couldn't counsel his client, Dylann Roof, to enter a guilty plea 
without knowing the government's intentions.

U.S. Magistrate Judge Bristow Marchant then entered a not guilty plea for Roof, 
21, who faces federal charges including hate crimes, weapons charges and 
obstructing the practice of religion. Appearing in court in a gray striped 
prison jumpsuit, his hands in shackles, Roof answered yes several times in 
response to the judge's questions but otherwise didn't speak.

"Mr. Roof has told us that he wishes to plead guilty," Bruck said. "Until we 
know whether the government will be seeking the death penalty, we are not able 
to advise Mr. Roof."

The federal prosecution, particularly on hate crimes, has been expected since 
the June 17 shootings at Emanuel African Methodist Church. Early on, officials 
with the U.S. Department of Justice said they felt the case met the 
qualifications for a hate crime, and Roof was indicted by a federal grand jury 
about a month after the killings.

Roof appeared in photos waving Confederate flags and burning and desecrating 
U.S. flags. Federal authorities have confirmed his use of a personal manuscript 
in which he decried integration and used racial slurs to refer to blacks.

Because South Carolina has no state hate-crimes law, federal charges were 
needed to adequately address a motive that prosecutors believe was 
unquestionably rooted in racial hate, U.S. Attorney General Loretta Lynch said 
during a news conference announcing Roof's federal indictment.

18 of the 33 charges against Roof could potentially carry the death penalty, 
while conviction on each of the others could mean a life prison sentence. Each 
charge also carries the possibility of hundreds of thousands of dollars in 
fines.

Also during Friday's hearing, Marchant accepted Roof's application as an 
indigent defendant - meaning the state will pay for his attorneys - and 
formalized the appointment of Bruck and another defense lawyer, Michael 
O'Connell. Marchant set Aug. 20 as a deadline for attorneys to file pre-trial 
motions. No future hearings are scheduled in Roof's case.

Marchant also heard briefly from victims' family members, who at Roof's bond 
hearing in state court expressed statements of mercy and forgiveness despite 
his alleged crimes. On Friday, several relatives made similar comments in 
federal court.

"We don't hold no ill will," Leroy Singleton, brother of Myra Thompson, said 
tearfully. "We're going to let the system work it out."

Gracyn Doctor, daughter of another victim, DePayne Middleton Doctor, said she 
misses her mother greatly but wouldn't let Roof get the better of her.

"Even though he has taken the most precious thing in my life, he will not take 
my joy," Doctor told the judge.

An attorney for the church said that the AME community nationally and worldwide 
would be watching the case closely as it moves forward.

"The world is watching," Eduardo Curry told reporters outside the courthouse 
after the hearing. "What we want justice to be is mighty and fair."

Roof also faces numerous state charges, including nine counts of murder and 
another potential death penalty prosecution. The Justice Department has not 
said if its case will come first, and the state also has not announced its 
decision on the death penalty.

(source: Associated Press)






FLORIDA:

Fla. man struggles to build life after death row exoneration


Seth Penalver dropped to the floor and wept into his chair when a Florida jury 
declared him not guilty in the shooting deaths of three people during a 1994 
home invasion.

After 3 trials and 18 years in prison - including 13 on death row - a Broward 
County jury in 2012 found Penalver not guilty of capital murder in the 1994 
slayings of Casmir Sucharski, 48, Marie Rogers, 25, and Sharon Anderson, 25.

Little did he know about the struggles that lay ahead. His release from prison 
marked a new chapter, one that's been filled with ups and downs, given his 
prolonged absence from society. Despite his acquittal, he says he struggles to 
find work because of his background, which includes 2 prior nonviolent 
felonies.

"You Google my name and it lights up the screen. I'm 20 years minus a resume, 
so it's hard," he said.

Experts say Penalver's struggles with reintegration are typical for death row 
exonerees or people found to be wrongly convicted. On paper, they're no longer 
offenders, but they're not quite free of the stigma or psychological impact of 
their incarceration. The duration of their incarceration can strain personal 
relationships, creating a void in support systems after their release. 
Additionally, they often lack access to the same career or counseling services 
available to parolees because technically, they're not on parole.

"The media attention tends to focus on how people got wrongly convicted, what 
in the system led to these cases, and those are important stories worthy of 
attention," said University of North Carolina at Greensboro professor Saundra 
Westervelt, author of "Life After Death Row: Exonerees' Search for Community 
and Identity."

"But the story doesn't end there. There's a slew of practical problems they 
have to figure out how to manage."

The state could help improve prospects for exonerees by providing monetary 
compensation and reintegration services, said Westervelt, a board member of 
Witness to Innocence, which works to abolish the death penalty and provide 
support to former death row inmates.

Only 30 states have laws that provide monetary compensation to wrongly 
convicted people, which can include death row exonerees. And in many states, 
including Florida, they come with limits. In some states, access to monetary 
compensation is available only for people exonerated by DNA evidence, who 
receive an official gubernatorial pardon or who don't have prior felonies.

A crime unfolds on video

Local media dubbed the triple slayings the "Casey's Nickelodeon murders" 
because Sucharski was an owner of Casey's Nickelodeon, a Miramar nightclub 
where he met aspiring models Rogers and Anderson. The 3 were shot dead in 
Sucharski's home in Miramar, Florida, early in the morning of June 26, 1994.

Penalver and co-defendant Pablo Ibar were charged in the crime after witnesses 
identified them in grainy home surveillance video showing 2 men breaking into 
Sucharski's home. Penalver surrendered to law enforcement in August 1994 after 
a warrant was issued for his arrest.

Penalver stood trial three times for the murders. His first trial with Ibar in 
1997 ended in a mistrial after the jury deadlocked 10-2 in favor of guilt. The 
cases were severed, and Penalver was tried again in 1999 and sentenced to death 
on charges of murder, attempted robbery and burglary.

The Florida Supreme Court overturned Penalver's verdict in 2006 based on a 
series of evidentiary and constitutional errors related to witness testimony 
and identification. Given the absence of physical evidence connecting Penalver 
to the crime and questions about the identification of the men in the 
surveillance video, "the witnesses' statements presented at trial were of 
paramount importance," the judges wrote in their ruling.

An expert witness who viewed the tape said that he couldn't identify anyone 
from it, but that the person in the video had facial characteristics 
inconsistent with Penalver's facial structure. Some people who knew Penalver 
said the video wasn't him or they couldn't tell. One said she couldn't tell 
from the face, but the subject's gait was like Penalver's. Another told the 
police that it was Penalver, but then testified in court that she couldn't say 
whether it was him or not.

With respect to this last witness, the prosecution argued that she changed her 
testimony after meeting with the defense, improperly suggesting -- with no 
evidence to support it -- that the defense had tampered with her, the court 
found. The court also found that the prosecution improperly admitted hearsay 
testimony that an alternate suspect was out of state, when there was no 
evidence that the suspect was out of state. The prosecution also presented 
evidence implying that Penalver had been suicidal and wrongly used that 
suggestion to imply consciousness of guilt, the court said.

"In light of the scant evidence connecting Penalver to this murder and the 
consequent importance of identifying the individual depicted on the videotape 
in sunglasses and hat, we conclude that the improperly admitted evidence and 
the State's suggestion that the defense tampered with or suborned perjury by an 
identification witness meet the cumulative error requirements outlined above 
and require reversal," the court said in its opinion.

The video magnified the uncertainty, making the strength of the remaining 
evidence all the more important, said Temple University law professor Jules 
Epstein, who specializes in forensics. Appellate courts assess error based on 
the magnitude of the mistakes and their cumulative impact.

"The weaker the rest of the evidence, the more significant the mistakes are. 
Conversely, the stronger the remaining evidence, the impact of mistake goes 
down," Epstein said.

Stepping up for the wrongfully convicted

Penalver says he gets by on odd jobs and government assistance in the form of 
food stamps. He would like to attend school or learn a trade, but living hand 
to mouth makes it impossible to find time or money for education, he said.

Compensation from the state would help, but under the "clean hands" provision 
of Florida's Victims of Wrongful Incarceration Compensation Act, Penalver is 
ineligible because of his 2 prior nonviolent felonies, which are unrelated to 
the triple slayings he was accused of.

"Just because I had prior felonies in the past, that shouldn't mean I can't be 
compensated for what was done to me," he said. "It's hard getting back on your 
feet; anything would help."

Tune in to "Death Row Stories," Sunday at 10 p.m. ET/PT, to learn more about 
the home surveillance that formed the case against Seth Penalver.

(source: Las Vegas Review-Journal)

******************

Case Targets Florida Death Penalty Sentencing

The U.S. Supreme Court this fall will hear arguments in a challenge to the way 
Florida sentences people to death --- a challenge backed by 3 former Florida 
Supreme Court justices and the American Bar Association.

The case, which stems from the 1998 murder of an Escambia County fast-food 
worker, focuses on the role that juries play in recommending death sentences, 
which ultimately are imposed by judges.

Attorneys representing death row inmate Timothy Lee Hurst, including former 
U.S. Solicitor General Seth Waxman, contend that Florida's unique sentencing 
system is unconstitutional. Supporting that position in friend-of-the-court 
briefs are former Florida Supreme Court justices Harry Lee Anstead, Rosemary 
Barkett and Gerald Kogan, along with the American Bar Association and seven 
former Florida circuit judges.

Part of the argument centers on what are known as "aggravating" circumstances 
that must be found before defendants can be sentenced to death. Hurst's 
attorneys argue, in part, that a 2002 U.S. Supreme Court ruling requires that 
determination of such aggravating circumstances be "entrusted" to juries, not 
to judges.

Also, they take issue with Florida not requiring unanimous jury recommendations 
in death-penalty cases. A judge sentenced Hurst to death after receiving a 7-5 
jury recommendation.

"Florida juries play only an advisory role,'' Hurst's attorneys wrote in a May 
brief. "The jury recommends a sentence of life or death based on its assessment 
of aggravating and mitigating circumstances, but that recommendation has no 
binding effect. Moreover, the jury renders its advisory verdict under 
procedures that degrade the integrity of the jury's function. Unanimity, and 
the deliberation often needed to achieve it, is not necessary; only a bare 
majority vote is required to recommend a death sentence."

But in an earlier brief, attorneys for the state argued that the U.S. Supreme 
Court and the Florida Supreme Court have repeatedly denied challenges to the 
sentencing process, including the Florida Supreme Court rejecting Hurst's 
challenge. The state attorneys argued that a jury, in recommending the death 
penalty, has found facts that support at least one aggravating factor --- which 
can be the basis for sentencing a defendant to death.

"Therefore, because the jury returned a recommendation of death, this court may 
infer the jury did find at least one aggravating circumstance beyond a 
reasonable doubt,'' state attorneys wrote in a January brief in the U.S. 
Supreme Court.

The U.S. Supreme Court this week scheduled oral arguments in the case for Oct. 
13, according to an online docket. The court agreed in March to take up the 
case.

Hurst, now 36, was convicted in the 1998 murder of Cynthia Lee Harrison, who 
was an assistant manager at a Popeye's Fried Chicken restaurant where Hurst 
worked. Harrison's body was discovered bound in a freezer, and money was 
missing from a safe, according to a brief in the case.

In sentencing Hurst to death, a judge found 2 aggravating circumstances --- 
that the murder was committed during a robbery and that it was "especially 
heinous, atrocious or cruel," according to the brief filed by Hurst's 
attorneys. That brief, along with others in the case, were posted on an 
American Bar Association website and on SCOTUSblog, which closely tracks U.S. 
Supreme Court proceedings.

Much of the October hearing could focus on how to apply the 2002 U.S. Supreme 
Court decision --- a major case known as Ring v. Arizona --- to the Florida 
law. Hurst's attorneys contend that the 2002 decision held that "findings of 
fact necessary to authorize a death sentence may not be entrusted to the 
judge." They said Florida's system undermines the juries' constitutional 
"functions as responsible fact-finder and voice of the community's moral 
judgment."

The brief filed on behalf of Anstead, Barkett and Kogan raised similar 
arguments and said there is "no assurance that Florida death sentences are 
premised on a particular aggravating circumstance found by the jury."

"And because jury unanimity is not mandated during the sentencing process, 
there is no assurance that a Florida jury's death recommendation represents a 
reliable consensus of the community,'' the brief said. "As a consequence, (the 
former justices) believe that the jury's role is impermissibly denigrated and 
that there is an unacceptable risk that Florida death sentences are erroneously 
imposed, in violation of the Sixth and the Eighth Amendments to the 
Constitution of the United States."

(source: WUSF news)






LOUISIANA:

LIFE AFTER DEATH ROW----The resurrection of Damon Thibodeaux


The executioner haunts Damon Thibodeaux.

Nightmares yank him back to the 8-by-10-foot cell that confines him to solitary 
23 hours a day. Loneliness overwhelms him; despair crushes his spirit. He wants 
to scream: "I'm innocent." He knows it won't matter.

The guards come for him, strap him to the table and push a needle into his arm. 
A lethal serum flows into his veins. Soon it will be over.

He jolts awake, his heart pounding.

The prison chains are gone and he's lying in his one-room Minneapolis 
apartment, 1,200 miles from the Louisiana penitentiary where he waited to die 
for a murder he didn???t commit.

Thibodeaux begins again and finds freedom on the road. Jeff Wheeler and Mark 
VancleaveVideoVideo (02:15): Thibodeaux begins again and finds freedom on the 
road.

Thibodeaux is free from death row. Now, after more than 15 years in prison, 
will he be able to find his place in a world that raced ahead without him? Can 
he break free of a past that for so long kept him in chains?

A girl goes missing

It was a hot Louisiana summer day on Thursday, July 18, 1996, and Thibodeaux 
was a 22-year-old deckhand on a Mississippi River barge. After work that day, 
he went to visit relatives - Dawn and C.J. Champagne. He had come to New 
Orleans 3 weeks earlier for a wedding, then stayed to be closer to his mother 
and his sister and to work on the river.

After drinking late into the night, Thibodeaux slept at the Champagnes' 
apartment. He was still there at 5:15 Friday afternoon when their 14-year-old 
daughter, Crystal Champagne, left to walk to a nearby Winn-Dixie supermarket.

She never returned.

Thibodeaux and the family scoured the neighborhood through that night and into 
the next day while the Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Office launched an 
investigation. Thibodeaux had returned to his mother's home to sleep when 
sheriff's deputies knocked on his door, searching for answers.

Thibodeaux wanted to find Crystal, his step-cousin, as much as anyone and 
agreed to go with them and answer questions.

Minutes later, the missing-person case became a murder investigation. A former 
neighbor of the Champagnes found the girl's body in a wooded area along the 
Mississippi River beneath the Huey P. Long Bridge, about 5 miles from the 
family's home in Westwego.

Thibodeaux, whose only previous run-ins with the law were for 2 misdemeanor 
marijuana possession convictions, waived his right to an attorney and spent the 
next 2 1/2 hours sitting alone in a room, anxious and exhausted. He hadn't 
eaten or slept much over the past 30 hours.

Court records and interviews reveal what happened next. The investigators 
hammered him about the girl's death. When he said he knew nothing about it, 
they accused him of lying. They told him that Crystal's family didn't 
corroborate his whereabouts or his story. They said the evidence showed he 
raped and murdered the girl. They suggested he might not remember, that 
sometimes people black out and kill their victims without even knowing it.

And the polygraph test that he took at 1 a.m.? They told him he failed it.

Key dates in the Thibodeaux case

July 19, 1996--Crystal Champagne is killed and her body is found under the Huey 
P. Long Bridge in Bridge City, La.

July 21, 1996--Damon Thibodeaux confesses at 4:40 a.m. to beating, choking, 
raping and strangling Crystal.

Oct. 3, 1997--Jury finds Thibodeaux guilty of 1st-degree murder.

Oct. 24, 1997--Thibodeaux is sentenced to death and sent to Louisiana State 
Penitentiary at Angola.

April 3, 2001--Minneapolis law firm of Fredrikson & Byron begins work on 
Thibodeaux's case.

Dec. 2002--The Innocence Project of New York and Barry Scheck join the team.

May 31, 2007--Jefferson Parish District Attorney Paul Connick Jr. agrees to 
work with Thibodeaux's legal team on a joint re-investigation.

Sept. 27, 2012--The district attorney agrees to file a motion overturning 
Thibodeaux's conviction; the judge orders his release.

Sept. 28, 2012--Thibodeaux walks off death row.

Oct. 4, 2012--Thibodeaux arrives in Minneapolis.

Jan. 22, 2013--Thibodeaux receives his GED.

Feb. 25, 2014--Thibodeaux testifies before subcommittee of the U.S. Senate 
Judiciary Committee.

Thibodeaux fell to the floor, spent and afraid.

Investigators told him he would be labeled a child rapist and murderer in 
prison. They graphically described a 3-drug execution cocktail that would drip 
into his veins and burn. Confess, they said, and he might get leniency.

"They were never going to let me out until I gave them what they wanted," 
Thibodeaux said. "It's not about what you believe you did, it's about trying to 
get away."

No evidence, but a confession

At 4:40 a.m. Sunday, after 9 hours of interrogation, Thibodeaux confessed, 
stitching together a story with details he gleaned from his interrogators.

"I didn't - I didn't know that I had done it," he told investigators. "I would 
say that I got scared, so I killed her."

He passed out on the way to jail. "When I woke up, I knew the damage was done," 
he said. "You can scream as loud as you want, but no one is hearing."

Within 36 hours, new facts about the crime emerged - details that didn't match 
Thibodeaux's confession.

He confessed to rape; the autopsy showed no sexual contact. He said he used his 
hands to choke her; the autopsy showed she wasn't choked by hand. He said he 
hit her with his hand; the autopsy showed she was bludgeoned with a heavy 
object, her skull fractured. He said he left her lying face down; she was left 
face up.

6 weeks later, forensic results on 86 pieces of physical evidence confirmed 
there was no rape, no sexual contact and nothing that connected Thibodeaux to 
the girl, her body, clothing or crime scene.

But prosecutors had his confession to rape and murder.

"A confession is the most powerful, incriminating evidence law enforcement can 
obtain," said Steve Kaplan, a Minneapolis lawyer who later became one of 
Thibodeaux's lead post-conviction attorneys. "Once the jury hears that 
confession, you're 95 % on your way to conviction. The average juror can???t 
believe anyone would give a false confession, especially to a heinous crime."

But since 1989, the Innocence Project has found that 31 % of 330 DNA exonerees 
were convicted based on false confessions, admissions or guilty pleas.

Many who falsely confess said they did so thinking it would put a stop to a 
grueling interrogation. They believed the truth would come out later.

Thibodeaux's trial began on a Monday - Sept. 29, 1997, a little more than a 
year after his arrest. That Friday, the jury deliberated an hour and returned 
with its verdict: guilty of 1st degree murder.

The words numbed Thibodeaux.

The next day, the jury found him guilty of aggravated rape while murdering the 
14-year-old. He was sentenced to die.

Shackled and riding in the back of a squad car to Louisiana State Penitentiary 
at Angola., he kept his eyes on the night sky. He never expected to see stars 
again.

Making peace with death

Amid the monotony and isolation of death row, Thibodeaux spiraled into a void 
he couldn't escape. Like a zoo animal, he paced. 5 steps each way around the 
cell - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, turn. When the sweltering summer heat pushed the 
temperature past 100, he sat motionless for hours.

"It's about as lonely as it gets. You miss the sense of touch," he said. "The 
walls start to close in on you. You watch friends walk away to be executed. One 
day they would come for me."

Not wanting to prolong the misery, Thibodeaux decided against launching a 
string of appeals that likely would keep him languishing on death row for 
decades.

"The grave is the only way out," he said.

Then Denise LeBoeuf, an attorney working for the Capital Post-Conviction 
Project of Louisiana, walked into his life.

She sat in the prison visiting room, looking at a man who seemed more like a 
boy behind large wire-rimmed glasses. He was thin, depressed, fragile-looking, 
she said. She was convinced Thibodeaux was innocent and wanted a chance to 
prove it.

He decided to let her try.

Even after Thibodeaux's routine appeals were denied, LeBoeuf refused to give 
up. Others joined forces with her and colleague Caroline Tillman. The 
Minneapolis law firm Fredrikson & Byron, having recently lost a death-row case 
in Louisiana, dedicated its resources to the fight on a pro bono basis. The 
Innocence Project and its co-founder, New York lawyer Barry Scheck, also signed 
on.

For the 1st time in Thibodeaux's life there were people who believed in him, 
and were ready to fight to save him.

Thibodeaux got up one morning and sat on the edge of his prison cot, staring at 
the cigarette in one hand, the lighter in the other.

"Man, I'm tired of this," he thought, and tossed the cigarettes. He began 
exercising.

He counted out push-ups, jumping jacks, squats and situps. He threw his trial 
transcript and some magazines in a laundry bag and lifted the weight. During 
the 3 hours a week he was allowed in the yard, he ran within the confines of 
the fence.

Read the Bible. Make coffee using a handkerchief for a filter. Clean the cell. 
Brush teeth. Wash face. Exercise. Read. Do puzzles. Exercise. Shower. Clean the 
cell again. Listen to the radio. Read.

Routine gave him focus; religion and faith in his legal team gave him the will 
to survive another day. "We all have to have something to believe in," he said.

A tax attorney visits death row

Kaplan wasn't involved in Thibodeaux's case when it landed at Fredrikson & 
Byron in the spring of 2001, but after being invited by a colleague during an 
impromptu hallway conversation, the then 54-year-old attorney not only joined 
the team, he eventually led it. The unassuming and plain-spoken Kaplan had 
spent 3 decades litigating cases that dealt with taxes, regulatory agencies and 
white-collar crimes, never murder.

The case weighed heavily on Kaplan. "It's a hard pill to swallow if your client 
is going to be executed because you can't save them," he said.

Girl's murder case remains open, 19 years later

With Damon Thibodeaux's conviction overturned, the question remains: Who 
brutally murdered Crystal Champagne? The investigation into her death is once 
again an open case, Vince Lamia, chief of investigations for the Jefferson 
Parish District Attorney's office, said recently.

For 4 years, Kaplan worked the case from his law office overlooking downtown. 
Thibodeaux was a "prisoner who existed in a file." That changed in April 2005 
when Kaplan met Thibodeaux face-to-face at Angola, a screened partition 
separating them as they talked about the legal team's investigation.

When the guards came to return Thibodeaux to his cell, Kaplan watched his 
client shuffle down the hall, his hands and feet heavily shackled. It was 
heartbreaking, Kaplan said. Then Thibodeaux looked over his right shoulder.

"And he gave me this smile. A nervous smile," Kaplan remembered. "At that 
point, the case took on another dimension. It took on a whole other level of 
commitment."

Kaplan and Thibodeaux became friends, talking every week about the case or 
sometimes just about baseball, politics or the price of Mideast oil.

The growing relationship was critical, LeBoeuf said. "What Damon had that other 
[death-row] clients don't have is that rock-solid, I'm-not-going-anywhere 
allegiance from Steve. Steve is like a father to him."

As Thibodeaux dared to think he might be freed, he ruminated about the 
monumental task of restarting his life.

Thibodeaux didn't want to go back to New Orleans, fearing he would be harassed. 
"'There's that murderer. He should have died,'" he said. "Probably there would 
be a lot of people who would think I got out on a technicality."

So Kaplan suggested Thibodeaux come to Minnesota for a fresh start.

By 2007, Kaplan and a team that had involved dozens of attorneys, clerks, 
students and legal assistants convinced Jefferson Parish District Attorney Paul 
Connick Jr., who oversaw Thibodeaux's prosecution, to take another look at the 
case. In an unusual move, Connick agreed to work with Thibodeaux's team to 
reinvestigate. Experts tested blood, clothing, hair and maggots from the crime 
scene.

The legal team meticulously uncovered the mismatch between Thibodeaux's 
confession and the physical evidence and the inconsistencies of witness 
statements. The DNA tests showed no connection between Thibodeaux and the 
murder.

But then there was his confession. Thibodeaux's lawyers argued he falsely 
confessed in part because interrogators used what's called the Reid technique, 
a method of questioning that some critics argue is psychological manipulation. 
It sometimes pressures people to confess to crimes they didn't commit, Kaplan 
said.

The lawyers had Thibodeaux examined by a psychologist, who said something else 
played a role in the confession: his past.

Scars that cut deep

Thibodeaux was only 5 when the abuse began.

He was the oldest of his mother's 4 children, all with different fathers. The 
family bounced around the South - Mississippi, Louisiana, west Texas, Oklahoma 
- almost always running from his mother's abusive ex-husband.

He always found them.

Thibodeaux won't talk about it, but his younger brother, David Thibodeaux, 
does. "[Their stepfather's] idea of trying to make Damon a tougher person was 
to put his hand over Damon's face after he punched Damon in the stomach. He 
would cover his nose and mouth, suffocating him until he passed out. ... He 
thought that when Damon came to, he would be so angry he would fight back."

But he didn't. So [he] kicked him, punched him or found something to hit him 
with. He made me stand and watch. He always had a knife or a gun. He would make 
Mom watch. If she got involved, he threatened to take Damon's life or hers."

In the middle of the night, he sometimes pulled the boys out of bed, forcing 
them to kneel on bottle caps and rice, holding their hands over their heads.

"As soon as our arms would drop, he would throw rocks at us or beat us with a 
belt," David Thibodeaux said. "He never sexually abused me, but he did Damon."

Court records show that as a 2nd-grader, while living with an aunt, Thibodeaux 
was sexually abused by another relative and by a neighbor. And when he later 
moved in with his grandfather, he was abused by him, too.

Thibodeaux told himself, "I'm not going to be 6 forever. I'm not going to be 12 
forever." He would jump on his bike and ride around the neighborhood, 
temporarily escaping the pain, pushing the hurt deep within.

"Sometimes you have to suck it up and roll with it and do what it takes to get 
along. I just saw it was easier not to fight and just let it happen. If you 
fight battles you know you can't win, then it's a waste of energy. You just ... 
hope you come out on the other side."

Conviction overturned

The lawyers argued, based on the psychologist's assessment, that Thibodeaux was 
likely more susceptible to give a false confession, in part because he was 
young and suffered anxiety, depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. 
Beaten and abused as a child, he feared authority and large men, particularly 
those who yelled at him and demanded responses, the psychologist said.

The Jefferson Parish district attorney needed more convincing. Connick enlisted 
his own expert, a forensic psychiatrist who had argued that false confessions 
are more rare than the Innocence Project contends. But his conclusion: 
Thibodeaux falsely confessed partly because he felt guilty for refusing to give 
Crystal Champagne a ride to the grocery store that day.

Without a reliable confession, Connick dropped the indictment against 
Thibodeaux. And the judge who sentenced him to die overturned his conviction on 
Sept. 27, 2012, making Thibodeaux the 141st inmate freed from death row since 
1973 and the 18th death-row inmate who was freed based on DNA evidence.

Final night in captivity

With 1 last night behind bars, Thibodeaux couldn't sleep. He had spent 16 years 
locked up - 15 years of that on death row, where meals were shoved through a 
hatch and the stars were beyond his view. With his bag packed, he kept watch as 
the hours seemed to pass slowly, anticipating the moment he would shed his 
orange jump suit and chains. Sitting on his prison cot, he listened to the 
radio and waited for the sun to rise.

"When I took the 1st step out of that cell, I took it slowly," he said.

About the Innocence Project

For more than 2 decades, the Innocence Project has used DNA evidence to free 
the wrongfully convicted.

DNA is the "gold standard" for going back into old cases to prove where things 
went wrong, said Paul Cates, spokesman for the New York-based Innocence 
Project. "DNA exposes the cracks in the system in a way it hadn't been exposed 
before."

Since 1989, 330 people have been released from prison after DNA evidence showed 
they weren't connected to the crime. The Innocence Project has worked on 176 of 
those cases.

"To the best of our knowledge, those people are innocent," Cates said.

Kaplan and other team members waited for him at the prison gate, where a guard 
stopped Thibodeaux as he was leaving.

He had to sign his name in the log book. And with that, he heard the words:

"Mr. Thibodeaux, you are free to go."

A new life loomed in front of him, but it was small, everyday details that he 
began to savor.

His first taste of freedom was a Wendy's chicken sandwich. Then came TV and 
media interviews, a hot shower in a private bathroom, the feel of a real bed, 
and a family reunion at a New Orleans hotel. His mother swept him into an 
embrace while his brother, t2 sisters and his 20-year-old son, who grew up 
without him, waited their turns. Thibodeaux last saw his son, Josh, when the 
boy was only 6 months old. When his son turned 14, Thibodeaux sent a birthday 
card from death row, introducing himself to a teenager who had no idea who his 
father was.

When Josh asked to visit him in prison, Thibodeaux was firm: No.

"I didn't want him to see me for the 1st time behind a glass window. I didn't 
want to be chained," Thibodeaux said. "I wanted to see him face-to-face like a 
man. Hug him. Shake his hand."

During his first 5 days of freedom, Thibodeaux got reacquainted with Josh and 
the rest of his family. Then he got into a rental car with Kaplan at the wheel 
and drove north past cornfields turning gold under an early October sun.

"It was like shaking off the chains. I could breathe," Thibodeaux said. "I 
could get used to being free."

3 days later, the 2 crossed into Minnesota and Thibodeaux looked up at the 
state welcome sign: "There it is," he thought. "There's your new life."

A world changed

With Minneapolis' tree-lined city streets alive in fall color, Thibodeaux 
walked around the lakes, ran along the river and explored a maze of downtown 
skyways. Crowds overwhelmed him at times, conversations with strangers felt 
awkward, and the sight of a police officer was uncomfortable. "I know there's 
no rational reason for it," he said.

This wasn't just a new place he had to navigate, it was a new time. When he 
entered jail in July 1996, Bill Clinton was president, the Olympic Games were 
being played in Atlanta and the Macarena was trending. Now people hurried past, 
talking and tapping on cellphones - technology he had never used.

He soon had his own iPhone, laptop and Kindle, gifts from those who worked on 
his case. With the help of a Minneapolis nonprofit - Project for Pride in 
Living - he would have his own apartment for the first time and begin GED 
classes.

In the rush of these changes, Thibodeaux still sought solitude. Standing on the 
balcony of Kaplan's North Loop condo as a light snow swirled in the air, he 
embraced the quiet much as he had on the river barge, where he spent hours 
mesmerized by the Mississippi - the same river that partially surrounded the 
prison. He couldn???t see the river from his cell, but if a barge was high 
enough, he could see the wheelhouse.

But the calm he felt looking out over his newly adopted city was interrupted by 
the gnawing frustration over a mix-up on his birth certificate, complicating 
his efforts to get a Minnesota ID.

"I hate pulling this thing out," he said, ordering a beer and reluctantly 
handing the waitress his only photo ID - the one stamped Louisiana State 
Penitentiary. It was a constant reminder of a past that shouldn't have been.

And his ability to be independent was stunted. Without a Minnesota ID, he 
couldn't open his own bank account or get a driver's license. He also needed it 
to board a plane to fly to Alabama, where he would meet up with his son and 
drive to Texas for a family Christmas - Thibodeaux's 1st in 16 years.

As the ID paperwork dragged on, he focused on what he could control: working on 
GED algebra problems and planning his contribution for Thanksgiving dinner with 
Kaplan's family.

"The challenge is making kosher gravy," he said, as he scoured the Internet for 
recipes.

He's diligent, focused and no-nonsense, Kaplan explained. "He's extremely 
disciplined. Getting the gravy right is typical."

After a reception for Damon Thibodeaux at Fredrikson & Byron to welcome him to 
Minneapolis just 2 weeks after he was released from prison in 2012, defense 
investigator Jennifer Vitry spirited Thibodeaux away to buy his 1st personal 
computer and iPod. Vitro, a private criminal defense investigator based in New 
Orleans, was hired by the law firm and worked extensively on Damon's case.

Few know Thibodeaux better than Kaplan. "He has a strong sense of what???s 
right and wrong," Kaplan said. "He writes beautiful letters, has meticulous 
handwriting." He's philosophical and profound but always chooses his words 
carefully. "I don't think you hear 1/2 of 1 % of what he's thinking. Growing 
up, he learned what he said could provoke a beating," Kaplan said.

The exoneree and his entourage

More than 2 decades after he dropped out of high school because he was bullied, 
Thibodeaux walked on stage at Jefferson Community School in Minneapolis and 
accepted his high school equivalency diploma. He walked off with a smile that 
broadened into exuberance to the clapping and cheers of Kaplan, Pam Wandzel - 
the law firm's pro bono manager who shepherded Thibodeaux like a mother - and 
an entourage of others.

Since arriving in Minnesota, these were the people who kept him from feeling 
lost and alone and helped him believe he could be more than he ever thought he 
was. They became a 2nd family.

They helped furnish his apartment, took him to Vikings games, concerts and 
parties. They celebrated with him as he passed his driver's license exam, 
bought a used car, got a mailroom job. And on a cold December night at Lee???s 
Liquor Lounge, the former death-row inmate danced for the 1st time in his life.

"Ever," he said, grinning. "Except when I danced with my sister at her 
wedding."

There had been few celebrations in his life. It was deprivation followed by 
tragedy; survival rather than living. "Damon raised himself. When he actually 
sees he did something well and someone says to him,'???Wow, Damon, that's 
amazing,' I can assure you that hasn't happened in his life very often," Kaplan 
said.

In prison, Kaplan was the voice that connected him to the outside world. In 
Minnesota, Kaplan was the steady force that guided him in rebuilding his life - 
from getting a driver's license to finding a therapist. Kaplan even shared his 
home with Thibodeaux when he first arrived in Minneapolis.

And he did what he could to expose Thibodeaux to opportunities without 
inadvertently influencing him. "I want him to be whatever he wants to be," 
Kaplan said. "I'm not his father. Hopefully someday he'll look at me and say, 
'Damn it, I'm not going to do what you're suggesting.'"

A passion emerges

Thibodeaux's malleability was his downfall in a Jefferson Parish interrogation 
room, but it may have helped him endure the mind-numbing solitude of death row. 
In his search for a new life, it meant he was open to new opportunities and 
others' higher expectations - getting a GED he never thought he'd get, and even 
considering going to college.

His biggest fear was not making his apartment another prison cell. He refused 
to allow the anger over losing 16 years behind bars destroy him. Instead, it 
fueled him. "I wanted my life back as fast I could get it," Thibodeaux said. 
"You have to go after it like they came after you in that courtroom."

But more important: He couldn't bear to disappoint those who had so 
passionately fought to free him. "I want to prove to everyone that I'm not the 
monster they made me out to be," he said, his soft Texas drawl underlying a 
fierce determination.

Before his arrest, Thibodeaux had worked on a boat and as a cook, but now with 
Kaplan's encouragement, he plucked "legal assistant" from a list of jobs that 
popped up in a computerized career assessment. But he was more resigned than 
enthused.

And then he walked into the annual auto show at the Minneapolis Convention 
Center.

At 38 and clean-shaven, Thibodeaux looked the part of a kid in a candy store as 
he wandered amid cars and trucks nearly every day of the show's 9-day run. 
There he struck up a fast friendship with Bill Collins, owner of Interstate 
Truck Driving School. As a supporter of the Innocence Project, he had 
emblazoned a race car at the show with the organization's name.

Collins was so taken with Thibodeaux and his story that he offered to pay his 
way through his trucking school.

Driving a truck was something Thibodeaux had wanted to do since he was about 5 
years old when his uncle pulled up in a red semi. 9 months after meeting 
Collins, Thibodeaux was officially a long-haul trucker, relishing the freedom 
and solitude of days spent on the road.

Moving on

Thibodeaux no longer was just acquiescing to life, he was living it, finding 
his own voice.

And falling in love.

"She's so gorgeous," he thought, while working up his courage to talk to a 
woman working the registration table at a Witness to Innocence conference in 
Georgia.

"She pretty much knew my story about my case and release. I didn't necessarily 
think she would be interested in me." But for the past 2 years, he and Veronika 
Castellanos, who lives in California, have kept their relationship strong, 
talking and texting nearly daily, meeting when they can.

A story years in the making

Later this month, he'll pack up his apartment and move to California, where 
Castellanos is finishing her nursing degree. Eventually, they may return to 
Minnesota. "I think maybe this stabilizes me a bit emotionally," he said. "You 
go into prison and you have to bury your emotions."

Soft-spoken and taciturn, Thibodeaux seems an unlikely candidate to become an 
advocate and public speaker, but that changed, too.

Over time he graduated from merely standing alongside Kaplan to answer a few 
questions to taking the podium to tell his story to religious groups, business 
leaders, lawyers, judges and the U.S. Senate Judiciary Committee, often 
bringing a room into rapt silence.

"Every time I stand in front of an audience and talk to them, I relive that 
nightmare," Thibodeaux said. By speaking out, he hopes someone who has the 
power to change the system will make a difference.

He also wants support for those who are exonerated, because piecing their lives 
back together is daunting, sometimes impossible. Few have the support that 
Thibodeaux was given.

At the very least, those wrongfully convicted should be compensated for the 
time they lost and the anguish they endured, said Thibodeaux, who has filed 
lawsuits seeking compensation in both state and federal courts.

"Exonerees like myself struggle every day, still paying the price for a crime 
they did not commit," he said. "I feel free, but I'm not free from my past. I 
never will be."

On the Internet, Thibodeaux's name is forever linked with the murder of a 
teenage girl. "I will never be free of the fact that I did 15 years on death 
row for something I didn't do. Those chains are on me forever.

"Sometimes I think I'm going to wake up from all of this and I'm going to still 
be sitting in that damn cell, waiting for them to come," he said.

"All you can do is move on."

(source: Star Tribune)


TENNESSEE:

2 to face death penalty in Carter Co. murder cases


2 men who will be facing the death penalty in unrelated cases appeared in 
Carter County Criminal Court on Thursday.

Eric James Azotea, 43, was arraigned before Judge Stacy Street on 2 counts of 
1st-degree murder, 2 counts of abuse of a corpse and 1 count of tampering with 
evidence.

Azotea entered a not guilty plea in the Jan. 7 shooting deaths and 
dismemberments of Arthur Gibson, 36, and Amber Terrell, 22, a couple from 
Sullivan County.

Anthony Joseph Lacy, 19, was previously arraigned on a 1st-degree murder charge 
in the bludgeoning death of Danny Ray Vance, 56, with a large rock outside 
Vance's home at 690 Heaton Creek Road, Roan Mountain, on the 4th of July 2014.

The state has already filed notice that it will be seeking the death penalty 
for Lacy.

Street asked First Judicial District Attorney General Tony Clark if the state 
will be seeking the death penalty against Azotea. Clark said he will be seeking 
the death penalty, and he will file the motion in the next few days.

After questioning Azotea on his financial condition, the defendant was allowed 
to sign an affidavit of indigency. Assistant Public Defender Melanie Sellers 
said her office had a potential conflict of interest. Street then appointed 
Steve Finney to defend Azotea. Finney accepted the appointment.

Street set a motions hearing in the case for Aug. 24.

Lacy was in court Thursday and pleaded not guilty during an arraignment on 
aggravated assault and vandalism under $500 charges in an unrelated incident in 
the Carter County Jail.

Lacy was being held in pretrial confinement following his arrest on the murder 
charge.The assault charge stems from an alleged incident Aug. 30, 2014, in 
which corrections officers responded to an altercation and reported finding 
Lacy standing up and inmate James Buckingham lying on his back under a bunk in 
a pool of blood.

The washer of a fire sprinkler head was believed to be the weapon used in the 
attack, and guards found evidence of digging in the concrete of the cell.

Lacy is also facing a charge of attempted 1st-degree murder in an alleged 
attack on corrections officer Dwight Lacey with a mop handle.

These cases are expected to be tried before the murder trial because 1 of the 
aggravating circumstances to justify the death penalty is that Lacy was 
convicted of another felony involving the use of violence.

Attorney Patrick Denton was appointed to handle the assault and vandalism cases 
after Lacy said there has not been a change in his financial condition since he 
filed his first statement of indigency.

Lacy is scheduled to be back in court on Sept. 4.

(source: Johnson City Press)