"Mr. Kratz is well-aware that other individuals lied about their contacts with Ms. Halbach on 10/31." - Kathleen Zellner, Letter to Dateline, February 2017
Kratz could very well have been the ringleader, the master planner who dreamed up the whole scheme, the evidence planter. He hid exculpatory evidence and directed witnesses to lie. His most inspired stroke was to let other people find the evidence.
On April 12, 1987, Michael Morton sat down to write a letter. “Your Honor,” he began, “I’m sure you remember me. I was convicted of murder, in your court, in February of this year.” He wrote each word carefully, sitting cross-legged on the top bunk in his cell at the Wynne prison unit, in Huntsville. “I have been told that you are to decide if I am ever to see my son, Eric, again. I haven’t seen him since the morning that I was convicted. I miss him terribly and I know that he has been asking about me.” Referring to the declarations of innocence he had made during his trial, he continued, “I must reiterate my innocence. I did NOT kill my wife. You cannot imagine what it is like to lose your wife the way I did, then to be falsely accused and convicted of this terrible crime. First, my wife and now possibly, my son! Sooner or later, the truth will come out. The killer will be caught and this nightmare will be over. I pray that the sheriff’s office keeps an open mind. It is no sin to admit a mistake. No one is perfect in the performance of their job. I don’t know what else to say except I swear to God that I did NOT kill my wife. Please don’t take my son from me too.”
Michael Morton had no criminal record, no history of violence, and no obvious motive, but the Williamson County Sheriff’s Office, failing to pursue other leads, had zeroed in on him from the start. Although no physical evidence tied him to the crime, he was charged with first-degree murder. Prosecutors argued that he had become so enraged with Christine for not wanting to have sex with him on the night of his birthday that he had bludgeoned her to death. When the guilty verdict was read, Michael’s legs buckled beneath him. District attorney Ken Anderson told reporters afterward, “Life in prison is a lot better than he deserves.” [Source]
Ken Anderson
defends himself at a Court of Inquiry investigation in Georgetown,
Texas, on Feb. 8, 2013. Anderson, a Texas prosecutor who abused his
authority to help send an innocent man to prison for decades, now faces
10 years behind bars for his misconduct. (Ricardo Brazziell,
Statesman.com/AP Photo)
For 30 years, Ken Anderson was the face of law enforcement in Williamson
County, Texas, first as a bearded district attorney asking the court
for tough sentences, and for the last 10 years handing those kinds of
sentences out as a judge.
Earlier this month, his beard gone, his hair white, Anderson, noted for his talks to school children about the criminal justice system and the dangers of drugs, walked into the courthouse again, this time as a defendant. He had come to turn himself in, be fingerprinted, photographed and post $2,500 bail. A few hours earlier a judge had ordered his arrest.
Not for drunk driving or speeding, or any other of the pedestrian crimes that sometimes fell public officials. Instead, Anderson was the rarest of defendants, a prosecutor criminally charged for his role in having helped send an innocent man to prison.
Earlier this month, his beard gone, his hair white, Anderson, noted for his talks to school children about the criminal justice system and the dangers of drugs, walked into the courthouse again, this time as a defendant. He had come to turn himself in, be fingerprinted, photographed and post $2,500 bail. A few hours earlier a judge had ordered his arrest.
Not for drunk driving or speeding, or any other of the pedestrian crimes that sometimes fell public officials. Instead, Anderson was the rarest of defendants, a prosecutor criminally charged for his role in having helped send an innocent man to prison.
In one of Anderson's most notorious murder cases — the conviction of Michael Morton for killing his wife — he withheld critical evidence that would have been essential to Morton's defense.
Morton spent 25 years in prison before gaining his release. Anderson, once named the Texas Prosecutor of the Year, now faces 10 years in prison for his part in Morton's wrongful conviction.
Related:
Ken Anderson Sentenced to 10 Days in Jail
Ken Anderson was released after only five days in jailThe judge who oversaw a Court of Inquiry investigation of Anderson's conduct did not spare the former prosecutor.
"The court cannot think of a more intentionally harmful act than a prosecutor's choice to hide mitigating evidence so as to create an uneven playing field for a defendant facing a murder charge and a life sentence," said Judge Louis Sturns.
Anderson's lawyer has filed an appeal, arguing that the statute of limitations bars any action.
In Williamson County, the charges have shaken Anderson's friends and colleagues.
But Judge Sturns's action is even more remarkable when set against the long and often ugly history of prosecutorial misconduct. Even when prosecutors engage in strikingly unethical behavior, they are rarely sanctioned for it, much less criminally charged.
George Kendall, a veteran defense lawyer who has specialized in death penalty prosecutions, called the Anderson case "unprecedented."
Prosecutors and defense lawyers disagree on whether prosecutorial misconduct is widespread, or instead limited to isolated transgressions by inexperienced or overzealous prosecutors.
However, one thing is abundantly clear: While revelations of misconduct might result in people being freed from prison or granted new trials, action is almost never taken against the offending prosecutors.
An investigation by ProPublica found 30 cases in New York in recent years where convictions had been overturned because of prosecutorial misconduct. Yet in only one instance was a prosecutor punished in any meaningful way.
In fact, many of the New York prosecutors found to have withheld evidence and accepted false testimony were promoted, or received raises, even after courts overturned convictions because of their misconduct.
In one case, a Queens man was sent to prison for raping his 4-year-old daughter even though the prosecutor had evidence showing the child hadn't been sexually abused. After spending nearly two years in prison, the man's conviction was overturned. A judge later ruled that what the prosecutor had done was "tantamount to fraud." But after the conviction was overturned, the prosecutor received a raise and became head of a department where she oversaw and guided young assistant district attorneys.
In California, "prosecutors continue to engage in misconduct, sometimes multiple times, almost always without consequence," according to a study by the Northern California Innocence Project and Santa Clara University School of Law. In some 600 cases in which courts found there had been prosecutorial misconduct, the study found, only six times did the State Bar discipline the prosecutor.
In Virginia, four murder convictions have been overturned within the last year because of prosecutorial misconduct, according to The Open File, a website launched last year "to monitor prosecutorial misconduct and accountability." None of the prosecutors have been sanctioned.
Twenty-six years ago in Texas, Michael Morton was charged with bludgeoning his wife to death with a club while she lay on the couple's waterbed. During Morton's trial, Anderson put on an emotional case, shedding tears in court and graphically depicting Morton's alleged crimes. His theory of the case was that Morton had become enraged after his wife had denied him sex the previous night, which had been his birthday. For good measure, Anderson told the jury that Morton had masturbated on his dead wife before he headed off to work as a manager at the nearby supermarket.
The jury deliberated less than two hours before finding Morton guilty; he was sentenced to life in prison.
It is now charged that Anderson won his conviction corruptly, failing to comply with the law as laid down by the United States Supreme Court: Anderson had withheld from Morton's lawyers documents that indicated their client was innocent.
Anderson failed to turn over the transcript of an interview in which Morton's young son told his grandmother that a "monster" had killed his mother and that his father had not been at home, and a police report that a green van had been seen near the home and that a strange man had walked into the woods behind the house around the time of the murder.
Morton had been in jail 15 years when one of his trial lawyers contacted Barry Scheck, who had used his fame and money from the O.J. Simpson trial to expand the work and visibility of the Innocence Project. Scheck assigned the case to Nina Morrison, a bright, tenacious young lawyer then new to the office, but who has in the last decade secured the release of more than a dozen men from prison based on DNA testing.
The Innocence Project works with local lawyers, and Morton was fortunate that John Raley, a highly regarded civil litigator in Houston, agreed to represent him pro bono.
Morton's new lawyers quickly moved to request DNA testing on a bloody bandana that had been found at a construction site 100 yards from Morton's house. The state resisted, and a court denied the request; but Morrison persisted, and eventually a court ordered DNA testing.
The bandana was found to contain the blood of Morton's wife and the DNA of an unknown individual. That individual was later identified as Mark Alan Norwood, whose DNA was found in a national database; he was convicted of the murder and sentenced to life in prison last month.
DNA testing was not as advanced at the time of Morton's trial, and there was no serious criticism of Anderson for not having considered the bandana more carefully. But that was not the end of the case.
Using the state's public records act, Morrison had sought documents from the district attorney's office. After years of litigation, what she obtained was explosive.
Foremost among the documents was an eight-page transcript of an interview of the victim's mother by a police officer, an account that suggested Morton could not have been the killer. There was also a sheriff's report about the strange man seen in the neighborhood around the time of the killing.
Anderson had kept all of this from the defense.
With Morton out of prison, and fully exonerated, his lawyers might have stopped there. But they pushed on.
An obscure 1876 Texas law provides for a Court of Inquiry when there is probable cause to believe that "an offense has been committed against the laws of this State." Such courts have been used to investigate cases of wrongful convictions, but never allegations of prosecutorial misconduct.
Morton's lawyers persuaded a judge that this was a proper case for a Court of Inquiry. Their legal arguments were buttressed no doubt by the extraordinary public attention paid to the Morton case: Pamela Colloff had authored a two-part series, "The Innocent Man," which appeared in The Texas Monthly; there had been an editorial in The New York Times; 60 Minutes and National Public Radio had also weighed in.
Appointed as the special prosecutor for the Court of Inquiry was Rusty Hardin, who had been a legendary Houston district attorney — "one of the most feared death penalty prosecutors in Texas," says George Kendall.
During the hearing before Judge Sturns in February, Anderson, 60, was grilled for several hours by Hardin. Anderson defiantly defended his actions, "discounted the importance of the inquiry itself, struck a sarcastic tone, and cast himself as the victim of a 'media frenzy,'" Colloff reported.
He also suffered memory lapses. He routinely turned over all evidence to the defense that he was required to, he testified. But he had "no independent memory" of having given the defense the interview in which Morton's young son told his grandmother that a monster had killed his mother.
How could Anderson not remember a statement by a child seeing his mother killed? Hardin demanded to know.
"I have no recollection of it," Anderson repeated. Besides, he said, he'd put no credence in what a little boy said.
It is hard to overstate the uniqueness of the inquiry into the prosecutor's actions in the Morton case, and the subsequent legal action against Anderson.
One way to appreciate its novelty is to recall the South Carolina case of Edward Lee Elmore. A semi-literate African-American, Elmore was convicted and sentenced to death for the sexual assault and murder of a 75-year-old white woman.
In Elmore's case, the prosecution didn't just withhold critical information from the defense. There is reason to believe that the police and investigators concocted evidence, and that they committed perjury.
For instance, at Elmore's trial, officers testified that more than 40 of Elmore's pubic hairs had been found on the bed where he was alleged to have sexually assaulted the victim.
But the claims, as well as others involving what was once presented as scientific evidence of Elmore's guilt, ultimately crumbled upon re-examination. And some potentially exculpatory evidence was withheld from Elmore's lawyer.
Elmore was approaching 30 years in prison — more than half his life — when the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals issued an opinion. It is striking for its length — 194 pages — but even more so for the majority's scathing criticism of the state's handling of the case. There was "persuasive evidence," the court held, that investigators "were outright dishonest," and that they "lied about" some of their investigative findings at the time of Elmore's trial.
That judgment was rendered more than 18 months ago, and Elmore was released shortly afterward. But there is no indication of any investigation into the police or prosecutors involved in the case.
Raymond Bonner, a lawyer and former New York Times reporter, is the author of "Anatomy of Injustice: A Murder Case Gone Wrong."
A poster of Cameron Todd Willingham distributed by anti-death-penalty activists. (Janet Jacobs/Corsicana Daily Sun)
John Jackson is the Texas prosecutor who convicted Cameron Todd Willingham of murdering his family by setting his own house on fire. Jackson then persuaded a jury to send Willingham to his death. We now know that Willingham was likely innocent, convicted on forensic evidence now known to be junk science and snitch testimony now known to be false.
We also now know that Jackson is accused of hiding exculpatory evidence from Willingham’s attorneys.
In a highly unusual move, the Texas bar is trying to bring sanctions against Jackson. More unusual still, the procedure is being done in public, in front of a lay jury. The Intercept’s Jordan Smith is at the trial.
Specifically, the state’s lawyers contend that Jackson made a deal with a jailhouse snitch who agreed to testify against Willingham and then hid that deal from Willingham’s defense attorneys — a clear violation of both law and ethics. They say that Jackson took extraordinary measures over the next two decades to conceal his deceitful actions.
“It is a duty of the prosecution — an ethical obligation — to turn over that evidence,” state bar lawyer Kristin Brady told jurors in her opening arguments last Wednesday afternoon. “For years he protected this snitch; for years. It wasn’t for [the snitch’s] protection, it was for his own protection.”Jackson and the snitch, a man named Johnny Webb, corresponded for years after Willingham’s conviction, with Jackson working feverishly to get Webb’s sentence reduced, likely out of fear that Webb would go public. He finally did, leading to the bar’s move against Jackson.
Smith also hunted Webb down before the trial:
It was late morning by the time I parked across the street from the house I would later find out belongs to Webb’s mom. The crumbing bungalow had seen better days. A broken windowpane was haphazardly covered from the inside. A sign on a screen door warned that because of the rise in the price of ammo, there would be no warning shot. Two cats slept on the porch next to a half-eaten bowl of kibble. No one answered the door. As I turned to walk back to the car, I spotted a man across the street smoking a cigarette and watching me. I recognized him. “Are you Johnny Webb?” I called out. “I don’t know,” he said. “Am I?”We’ve noted here at The Watch on several occasions just how rare it is for a state bar to sanction a prosecutor. It’s no different in Texas. Smith reports that of the 2,000 or so attorneys against whom the Texas bar has sought sanctions since 2011, just 10 of the efforts resulted in disciplinary action against a prosecutor.
Indeed, he was. I introduced myself as a reporter and he recoiled, looking at me suspiciously. “I can’t give any interviews,” he said. I understand, I replied. But then he began talking. I asked him if he was prepared to testify in court; yes, he said, but he planned to invoke his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. Did that mean that what he’d said about being coerced was untrue, I asked him. He said that talking to the Innocence Project, “trying to fix things,” had cost him. He’s lost work — the contractor he worked with had to let him go, he said, once his boss’s well-connected clients found out Webb was on the crew — and wants nothing more than to get this behind him, get out of Corsicana, and start his life anew. “I thought I could change things,” he lamented about his involvement in the Willingham case. “I’ve learned that one man can’t.”
