By Kevin D. Williamson
Thursday, April 20, 2017
Annie Dookhan is not the first. She will not be the last.
Dookhan, who in 2013 pleaded guilty to 27 criminal counts
involving obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence, was a chemist
employed by Massachusetts to test evidence in drug cases. She was involved in
thousands of them, and she routinely falsified evidence. For example, she
declared samples positive for drugs without testing them and forged colleagues’
signatures on reports. On Wednesday, Massachusetts announced that it was
obliged to throw out 21,587 drug convictions secured with questionable
evidence.
In September 2001, Oklahoma City fired forensic chemist
Joyce Gilchrist. Gilchrist had been accused of falsifying evidence, though she
never was charged with a crime. She had offered testimony in capital murder
cases in which she claimed that DNA samples matched those of the accused —
claims that later turned out to be false. Jeffrey Todd Pierce, who served 15
years in prison on a rape charge bolstered by DNA evidence that turned out to
be false, sued Gilchrist and the district attorney for $75 million, claiming
that they had conspired to falsify evidence. Oklahoma City settled. Curtis
McCarthy spent 20 years on death row thanks in part to Gilchrist; his
conviction was thrown out after the court found that Gilchrist had mishandled
evidence and may have intentionally altered it. The Tenth Circuit Court of Appeals
found that she had fabricated evidence in another capital case.
In the 1990s, Dr. Ralph Erdmann, a highly paid
pathologist working for Lubbock County, Texas, ran into a spot of trouble: At
one point he had misplaced a human head, and in one autopsy report he duly
recorded the condition of the spleen of a man who did not have one. He kept
blood samples in his home refrigerator, next to the mustard. He was eventually
convicted of a raft of felonies involving evidence tampering and perjury. Local
lawyers insisted that he was cooperating with the district attorney and
providing whatever evidence was needed to produce a conviction. His tainted
evidence helped produce convictions in at least 20 capital murder cases.
Dookhan received a sentence of three to five years and
was shortly thereafter paroled. Gilchrist was never charged with a crime.
Erdmann was sentenced to community service; he later was imprisoned on weapons
charges and served two years. We go pretty easy on these kinds of crimes. We
shouldn’t.
It is strange — and wrong — that we permit this sort of
thing to happen, and that our attitudes about police and prosecutorial
misconduct remain so blasé. It is natural that we want to give the benefit of
the doubt to the people involved in the difficult work of keeping society safe
from criminals, but it is a fact of human existence that police and
prosecutorial work is a magnet for corruption. Prosecutors have ambitions, and
police officers have bills to pay. Prosecutorial abuse is a problem from Texas
to Massachusetts to California, and practically every big-city police
department in this country has at one time or another been penetrated by
organized-crime syndicates or suffered other forms of systemic corruption.
This is a moral problem, but too often our moral
insistence that this sort of thing simply should not happen blinds us to the
fact that it does happen, consistently, and that we need to take prophylactic
measures against it.
Consider, for a moment, the very popular idea of
drug-testing welfare recipients. There is very little evidence that this
produces lower rates of drug use on the part of welfare recipients, and no
evidence at all that it lowers welfare caseloads — much less that it does so in
a way that offsets or more than offsets the cost of the drug testing. It might
conceivably have some effect on casual recreational drug users, but as anybody
who ever has worked with full-blown addicts knows, they will give up a great
deal (jobs, custody of their children, marriages, self-respect) in the service
of their addictions. We would be far more likely to reduce welfare dependency
by treating addiction than to reduce addiction by restricting welfare
dependency. But the desire to punish is a permanent part of the human outlook,
and it has its own demands.
Why not test police and prosecutors instead?
Not for drug use. We would be far better off applying a
similar idea in the matter of criminal cases by having independent third
parties randomly retest DNA samples, drugs, and other physical evidence in
felony cases. Erdmann’s autopsy reports were not only falsified — in many
cases, he apparently did not perform the autopsy at all. Dookhan’s work
similarly would have been exposed by ordinary oversight measures that are
routine in other settings. We do not need Sherlock Holmes to root out this sort
of wrongdoing. We only need basic responsible action.
Expensive? Surely. But not nearly so expensive as
retrying 21,587 felony cases linked to a single chemist or making restitution
for wrongful convictions. Difficult and problematic? No doubt, but not nearly
so troubling as the possibility of wrongly convicting innocent people — or, as
the wiser among us will appreciate, of convicting guilty people on bad
evidence. It may very well have been the case that every man and woman Erdmann
sent to death row was 100 percent guilty as charged; properly understood, that
question is irrelevant to the issue of falsifying evidence and other forms of
misconduct on the part of prosecutors and their colleagues. A bogus trial that
produces the right result is still a bogus trial.
And it is expensive to have bogus trials.
Not only because of the obvious costs involved in
reopening cases or making multimillion-dollar payments to those wrongly
convicted, but because a liberal society runs on trust. Trust in institutions is the lubricant that permits the
machinery of an open society to run. We ought to be routinely reexamining the
work of prosecutors and police officers in a systematic and regular way not
because we expect to find widespread abuse and misconduct but because we do not
expect to find them.
Trust has to be earned.
In the 1950s, outlaw motorcycle gangs briefly became a
subject of national fascination, owing in part to Marlon Brando’s performance
in The Wild One. (Hunter S.
Thompson’s later exploration of the subject in Hells Angels was his best work.) A representative of the American
Motorcycle Association is supposed to have remarked that 99 percent of all
motorcyclists were decent, law-abiding citizens. Since that time, outlaw
motorcyclists have proudly worn a patch reading: “1%.”
Outlaw prosecutors, outlaw coroners, and outlaw chemists
do not wear any such patch. And they probably don’t even amount to 1 percent of
the people with whom we entrust the enforcement of our laws and the
administration of justice. But they are there.
What are we going to do about that?
No comments:
Post a Comment