Innocence detectives: The exonerated men who now work to free others
| Coppell, Texas
The busiest P.O. box in North Texas may be in a drab, beige hallway in the post office of this Dallas suburb. Box 2075 is not stuffed with grocery coupons or credit-card promotions. It鈥檚 full of letters, mostly handwritten and postmarked from prisons across the country, addressed to what may be the most unusual detective agency in America.
This agency doesn鈥檛 have an office with a frosted glass window. Nor do the detectives snoop on cheating spouses or deadbeat debtors. The letters that pile up are from prisoners or their family members, pleading for help in overturning criminal convictions. All say they were wrongfully imprisoned.
The man who empties the box is Christopher Scott. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, he dresses sharp, talks in the gritty patois of the South Dallas neighborhood he grew up in, and uses his bright smile sparingly.
Why We Wrote This
Christopher Scott and Steven Phillips, two men who were wrongly imprisoned, don鈥檛 spend their days railing against the justice system. They are helping others who may have been falsely convicted.
Under normal circumstances, he probably wouldn鈥檛 know Steven Phillips, and they most likely wouldn鈥檛 be best friends or partners in a detective agency. They鈥檙e from different backgrounds and different generations. While Mr. Scott navigated urban streets as a youth, Mr. Phillips grew up in the country, in the Ozarks, and has the drawl to prove it. He takes his wardrobe and most other things less seriously than Mr. Scott. A lifetime of fistfights has cost Mr. Phillips several teeth, but he cracks jokes and smiles energetically, and often. Mr. Phillips is older, as evident from his salt-and-pepper stubble, but it is Mr. Scott who is the grandfather.聽
Yet for all their differences, these two men 鈥� one white and one African American 鈥� have forged a common bond around a common purpose: trying to get people out of prison who should never have been there in the first place. Their Dallas-based nonprofit, House of Renewed Hope, also campaigns for criminal justice reforms and raises public awareness about how the system often fails.
But it is the tantalizing prospect of uncovering new information that might, just might, free other innocent men that drives Mr. Scott and Mr. Phillips the most. They spend their days meeting clients in prison, tracking down and interviewing family members, friends, and potential eyewitnesses. They meet with prosecutors and activists, lawyers and experts.
There鈥檚 a lot of waiting, too. Waiting for court rulings, for district attorneys to reply, for inmates to write back. And there鈥檚 a lot of failure, the cases that don鈥檛 crack, however much you want them to.
Criminal convictions are purposefully difficult to overturn, and especially difficult when there鈥檚 no DNA evidence to present to a judge. The procedural barriers just to reopen a case are almost endless. 鈥淚t鈥檚 harder now to get somebody exonerated than ever, man,鈥� says Mr. Scott.
He should know. As should his partner.
The reason Mr. Scott and Mr. Phillips do this work is simple: The two men spent a combined 37 years in prison for crimes they didn鈥檛 commit, crimes for which they were eventually exonerated. That鈥檚 why they read every letter they receive. They know there are others like them behind bars. Others desperate for someone to help prove their innocence.
鈥淲e couldn鈥檛 begin to investigate all the cases we get sent to the mailbox, man,鈥� says Mr. Phillips. 鈥淪o what is it that we do? We deal in the commodity of hope. Don鈥檛 quit. Don鈥檛 stop. Keep the hope alive.鈥�
鈥淣ot too scared鈥�
It鈥檚 a cold, wet October day in Dallas 鈥� 10 years to the day since Mr. Scott became a free man. He has the same bulky build as when he left prison, and he鈥檚 dressed as sharply as he was before he went in. But his neatly trimmed beard is flecked with gray and white.
鈥淲e was wronged,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f you don鈥檛 want to see this happen to a lot of other people, there鈥檚 things that we can do, because we鈥檝e been a part of that system before.鈥�
Raised by a single mother, and the youngest of nine siblings, Mr. Scott learned responsibility early on. He got his first job at age 17 at a burger joint. Within a few years, he was a produce manager in a grocery store, raising two kids and driving a Lexus.
One April night in 1997 he was riding around his neighborhood with a friend, Claude Simmons. On their way home, he noticed a heavy police presence in the area and a helicopter flying overhead. A familiar nervousness crept in. Hours later Mr. Scott and Mr. Simmons were arrested along with dozens of other African American men who fit the descriptions of two suspects in a nearby homicide.聽
He was handcuffed and taken to a police station downtown, but he knew he hadn鈥檛 done anything wrong. 鈥淪o I鈥檓 scared, but I鈥檓 not too scared,鈥� he recalls. 鈥淚n my head I鈥檓 thinking the law, the justice system, is going to get it together and figure it out.鈥�
Instead, he was identified by the wife of the slain man as one of the attackers. She had been sexually assaulted and her husband shot dead during a home invasion.聽
No physical evidence linked him to the crime, and her testimony was crucial in convicting Mr. Scott in a trial that lasted only four hours. An all-white jury sentenced him to life in prison. (Mr. Simmons was tried separately and convicted for the same crime.) Mr. Scott was 27 years old, weighed just 130 pounds, and was headed to Coffield, a notorious state prison.聽
Life sentence
Routine is key to surviving and finding purpose in prison, and he soon found his. He labored in the prison fields and worked out in the yard, putting on 100 pounds of muscle. He read three books a week, including law tomes, looking for ways to prove his innocence. He compared notes and exchanged tips with other guys in Coffield filing innocence claims in courts.
His break came when a group of law students at the University of Texas at Arlington discovered that two other men, one of whom was in prison for aggravated robbery, had committed the murder for which Mr. Scott had been convicted. The prisoner confessed, and in 2009 his accomplice was arrested in Houston.
After Mr. Scott passed a six-hour polygraph test, he was exonerated; Mr. Simmons was also exonerated. The two men were brought before a judge in Dallas and declared innocent.
鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 do nothing but shake my head,鈥� Mr. Scott says. 鈥淚 was like, 鈥楧ude, I asked for this 13 years ago, and they didn鈥檛 give it to me.鈥�
鈥淏ut I was happy. I knew I was going free. It was over.鈥�
When Mr. Scott got out, Mr. Phillips was waiting for him. He was in the courtroom for the exoneration hearing. Afterward he introduced himself and told him to call if he ever needed anything. Mr. Scott was wary at first 鈥� with everything he鈥檇 been through, he says, he didn鈥檛 trust white people 鈥� but after a few days living with his mother he did call.
Mr. Phillips let him stay at an apartment he owned, lent him some money, and even bought him a cheap car.
Advocacy and tenacity
A year later, after going to regular meetings with other exonerees, Mr. Scott set up the House of Renewed Hope using some of his compensation money from the state. (Texas awards exonerees $80,000 for every year they were wrongly imprisoned, as well as monthly annuity payments if they鈥檙e eligible.) That compensation, along with some donations and payments to Mr. Scott for speaking engagements, fund the group. He asked Mr. Phillips and Johnnie Lindsey, another exoneree, to be co-founders.
Mr. Lindsey died in 2018, but today eight employees 鈥� a mix of paid staff, including a lawyer, and volunteers 鈥� keep the organization running. Together they have built an agency that is respected, both for its advocacy work and its tenacity in investigating cold cases, by others who have a stake in the criminal justice reform movement in Texas.
鈥淭o have gone through what he went through and still be able to come out and say, 鈥業鈥檓 going to help somebody else who might be in the situation I was in,鈥� is admirable,鈥� says Cynthia Garza, head of the Dallas County district attorney鈥檚 conviction integrity unit. Her first case after joining the unit was Mr. Scott鈥檚 exoneration. He and Mr. Phillips, she says, 鈥渉ave a different perspective that they bring to these cases.鈥�
Both bring their own talents and experiences to the enterprise. Mr. Scott is the president, public face, and driving force behind the group. But it鈥檚 Mr. Phillips who has a facility with the law and knows how to prepare a writ. He honed his legal skills in the same place Mr. Scott did: the Coffield prison law library. And like Mr. Scott, miscarriages of justice took him there.
He was working as a roofer in Dallas in 1982 when a woman reported an armed man had broken into her apartment and raped her, one of a string of sex crimes committed in the area. She later identified Mr. Phillips as her assailant, as did other victims. 聽
He had an alibi for that day, and there was no physical evidence tying him to the assault. But he was convicted of rape and burglary in two separate trials and sentenced to concurrent 30-year sentences. 聽
Law library reading
Like Mr. Scott, Mr. Phillips was sent first to Coffield. As a teen in Arkansas, before he enlisted in the U.S. Army and served in Germany, he had learned to box, and his left jab-right hook combo helped protect him within the Darwinian walls of prison. He made the prison basketball and softball teams. But mostly he hit the books in the law library, filing all the post-conviction motions he could, to no avail.聽
His case appeared hopeless. Every day he prayed, asking God to help him show that he was innocent. Years later his prayer changed. If God wanted him exonerated, God was going to have to do it. Mr. Phillips shoved his typewriter under his bunk and resolved to never file another motion.
Then everything changed.聽
In 2006, the Innocence Project in New York took up his case and secured evidence that proved his innocence. The Dallas County district attorney linked DNA from the crime scene to a felon who had died in prison in 1998 after being convicted of 16 other sexual assaults and related crimes, and cleared Mr. Phillips of all charges. On Oct. 1, 2008, he was a free man again.
鈥淔aith carried me all the way 鈥� until science took over,鈥� he says.
Transformation of DNA
Science, he thinks 鈥� DNA testing in particular 鈥� has transformed criminal justice in the United States. It鈥檚 鈥渁 little disagreement鈥� he has with Mr. Scott, who still harbors a deep mistrust of the system.
鈥淚 say the system is better now than it was 20 or 25 years ago,鈥� Mr. Phillips says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not perfect at all, but the science is improving, and the science is holding [people] to at least try for a more perfect system.鈥�
Indeed, DNA science has been pivotal in exploding the long-held myth that wrongful convictions are rare. The first man to be exonerated by DNA evidence was Gary Dotson in 1989. Since then, more than 2,500 people have been exonerated in what has become known as the innocence movement.
Still, for every release of a wrongfully imprisoned person, many others may remain behind bars because there鈥檚 not enough evidence to persuade authorities to reopen their cases, experts say. 鈥淚t takes a tremendous amount of evidence, legal work, and just plain luck to be able to exonerate someone,鈥� says Keith Findley, an associate professor at the University of Wisconsin Law School and co-founder of the Wisconsin Innocence Project.
He and other legal experts believe that the justice system鈥檚 reliance on DNA 鈥� the science that spelled salvation for Mr. Phillips and launched the innocence movement 鈥� has now become a handicap. DNA tests provide an ironclad proof of innocence. But most cases don鈥檛 have any biological evidence to test, and ironclad proof has become almost mandatory.聽
When Mr. Phillips brings a case to a district attorney, he says, the first question is usually, 鈥淚s there DNA?鈥� 鈥淚f there鈥檚 not DNA, and just, [say], some question of misidentification involved, they may not [reopen] that case,鈥� he says.
A hierarchy of innocence now exists, says Daniel Medwed, a professor at Northeastern University School of Law in Boston. 鈥淚t鈥檚 made it harder to prevail in non-DNA cases.鈥�
Absent DNA, Mr. Phillips and Mr. Scott need to uncover other physical evidence that was overlooked or unlawfully suppressed that could have changed the jury鈥檚 decision. They need to unearth new eyewitnesses or, better yet, a confession from another suspect. Even then, claims of 鈥渁ctual innocence鈥� 鈥� the legal standard for exoneration 鈥� in Texas have to be approved first by a trial court judge and then by the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals.
鈥淭exas is very challenging in that regard, but it鈥檚 also a blessing,鈥� says Ms. Garza. You 鈥渄on鈥檛 water down what actual innocence means. You can鈥檛 hand [exonerations] out like candy.鈥�
鈥淭he bar is so high鈥�
While there are likely a lot of innocent people in prison who can鈥檛 find enough evidence to prove it in court, there are also a lot of people making frivolous post-conviction appeals. It鈥檚 in this area that Coffield has given Mr. Scott a sixth sense of who is believable. 聽
鈥淚n prison you automatically become an investigator,鈥� he says. 鈥淚n a 5,000-man unit, I heard different stories every day. So my thing was [to] break it down and make sense of what I think they鈥檙e telling me.鈥�
Even the strong cases are time-consuming and tedious. House of Renewed Hope is working on a half-dozen cases at any one time, but in nine years it has only come close to helping to exonerate a few clients.聽In one case, the investigators tracked down a man who admitted to committing a robbery for which their client, Isaiah Hill, had been convicted, but the man refused to testify formally. Mr. Hill was released on parole in 2016 after 40 years in prison.
Mr. Phillips is sure of his innocence, but knows that an exoneration 鈥� and the compensation money that Mr. Hill is desperate for 鈥� is out of reach. 鈥淭he bar is so high. You have to have overwhelming evidence in your favor to get back in court. ... He didn鈥檛 reach that bar, and that鈥檚 just unfortunate,鈥� he says.
Given all the difficulties, the mix of prison-yard smarts and investigative grit that Mr. Scott and Mr. Phillips bring to a case can be a boon to lawyers working on potential exonerations.
鈥淯ltimately [exonerations] come down to good lawyers doing good work,鈥� says Mike Ware, executive director of the Innocence Project of Texas. 鈥淏ut I think what good lawyers doing good work need is sometimes the raw tools and raw information to work with, and I think sometimes exonerees can help with those raw tools and raw information.鈥�
Changing the system聽
Working for House of Renewed Hope, though, means pursuing more than just exonerations. It also means trying to prevent wrongful convictions in the first place.
On that rainy day last October, Mr. Scott drives to Friendship-West Baptist Church in South Dallas to join a panel discussion on issues facing African American men. A small audience sits in the front pews of the cavernous church, greeting friends and shaking off rain-soaked umbrellas.
It鈥檚 just weeks after former Dallas police officer Amber Guyger was convicted of murdering Botham Jean, a young black man, while off duty, and the first question, perhaps unsurprisingly, is about police brutality and the fairness of the criminal justice system. Daryl Washington, a prominent local lawyer who represented the Jean family, talks about the importance of involving the black community in all aspects of law enforcement and the court system. Without five black jurors, he says, Ms. Guyger would have walked.
Mr. Scott picks up his cue. 鈥淚 had an all-white jury, judge, prosecutor, and defense attorney,鈥� he tells the audience. 鈥淲e鈥檝e got to vote for change. We鈥檝e got to get the right people in office鈥� as judges and prosecutors.聽
House of Renewed Hope staff rarely all meet together, instead working out of their own homes or offices. This flexibility leaves time for personal commitments, which for people who spent years locked away from their families are very important.
The next day Mr. Scott picks up his grandson from school to take him to a barber shop for his weekly haircut. In prison, he missed most of his two sons鈥� school years, and he is now a doting grandfather. The 6-year-old, who was nodding off in the car, falls asleep in the barber鈥檚 chair, so Mr. Scott holds his head up while talking sports with the room. 鈥淓very Friday I鈥檓 holding his head up,鈥� he says, smiling.
It鈥檚 more than his grandson鈥檚 head that he鈥檚 holding up. He鈥檚 holding up the hopes of every person who sends a letter to P.O. Box 2075.
He鈥檚 getting close with one case. House of Renewed Hope has teamed up with the Innocence Project of Texas to try to exonerate Leslie Davis, a man who served 28 years in prison for aggravated robbery. His conviction was based largely off testimony from a Dallas police officer who claimed he鈥檇 eavesdropped on Mr. Davis confessing to the crime while hiding in some bushes.
Some other Dallas officers gave similar testimony around that time in the early- and mid-90s, earning the nickname the 鈥淏ushmen鈥� with some county prosecutors, and it later came to light that several of them had been disciplined internally for dishonesty.聽
鈥淭hat鈥檚 something that should have been disclosed to the defense and was not,鈥� says Mr. Ware of the Innocence Project of Texas.
Mr. Davis was released on parole several months ago, but he is still trying to clear his name. 鈥淚t鈥檚 close,鈥� says Mr. Scott. 鈥淲e just need a little more information.鈥�
Until then, Mr. Davis must wait, and wait. That鈥檚 something that exonerees know only too well, that feeling of being stuck, of a stolen life fading away.
鈥淚 can relate to that,鈥� says Mr. Phillips. 鈥淎nd I鈥檇 like to help them if I can.鈥�
Editors note: This story was clarified on March 3 to more accurately reflect House of Renewed Hope's previous cases.
