Bloodsworth Page 23

  At that time, there were many unanswered questions about the amount, age, and condition of a DNA sample that was necessary to conduct a valid test. It’s been discovered since that DNA has survived from fifty thousand to one hundred thousand years ago in the remains of a woolly mammoth preserved in Siberian permafrost. DNA has been extracted from a bone of a Neanderthal human dating from forty thousand to fifty thousand years ago. Scientists know that DNA can be degraded or destroyed by environmental contaminants such as sunlight and detergent. Light, heat, moisture, and pressure may break down a DNA sample such that no DNA fingerprint data or only a partial fingerprint can be obtained. However, environmental contaminants will not alter the DNA to the extent that an analysis will yield an incorrect result.

  Bob Morin, of course, didn’t think he had any semen to examine. The FBI had so determined. A DNA test was probably a futile exercise. But Morin needed to know that he had done anything and everything to save this young man.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE YEARS HAD been passing inexorably for Kirk Bloodsworth. Through half his twenties and now into his thirties he’d been buried alive. He’d miraculously survived two prison riots. Seven, eight, nine terrible years entombed. The world around him was changing. George Herbert Walker Bush had been elected president. The Berlin Wall had fallen. The United States had invaded and defeated Panama. Iraq had overrun Kuwait, and the United States had stormed into the Persian Gulf. The Soviet Union had collapsed. Bill Clinton defeated George Bush in the election and was waiting to be sworn in. All this while Kirk wasted away behind bars.

  Meanwhile, the State of Maryland temporarily closed down parts of the old penitentiary for repairs. Most of the inmates in Kirk’s building were moved to nearby Jessup to a newly constructed prison. The conditions were better. Kirk wrote his letters every day, kept the library organized, and lifted weights. Half was there, and Bozo. Kimberly Ruffner had shown his face a few times, and Kirk had spotted weights with him once, though Ruffner didn’t say much.

  Kirk thought he’d arrived at some kind of equilibrium, though he still cursed his existence, still hated what the state had made him.

  That Christmas, 1992, Curtis and Jeanette visited him bringing cakes and cookies. In the new horseshoe-shaped prison visiting room, he was able to hold Jeanette’s hand while they talked. She had aged since he’d been locked up. He knew the ordeal had ground her down. Her face was more wrinkled. She was frail. Her soft skin was loose. Some of her last words to Kirk were not to worry, that he was going to get out. “I’ve seen it in a dream, son,” she told him. She patted his hand. “You will be a free man . . .”

  Kirk was watching President Bill Clinton’s inauguration in January when he got a note that Anita Smith and Al Rose were in the visiting room and needed to see him. They told him that his mother had died of a massive heart attack. Kirk sat and sobbed for hours.

  The warden allowed prison guards to escort him in chains for a short private viewing of his mother’s body. He was driven in a windowless van to a local funeral home in Cambridge. Kirk was shackled, wrists to ankles. He never saw anyone but his mother’s corpse. The warden wouldn’t allow him to attend her funeral. Kirk spent many days in his bunk grieving.

  When Bob Morin called him that April to tell him the news about the DNA, Kirk knew for certain that his mother had a hand in it. He felt her presence. Her felt her smile and touch.

  After Kirk had finished running up and down the tier signaling a touchdown and hollering that it was over, that the DNA had cleared him, he had come back to the phone. Morin had then tried to explain that there were still issues to confront. That the test didn’t mean he’d walk free tomorrow. Once again, Morin was surprised by Kirk’s response. “That’s okay,” Kirk answered. “I can wait now. What’s important is that it tells the world that it wasn’t me. That I didn’t do this crime. What matters is that the test finally shows that it wasn’t me . . .”

  The morning after Morin and Kirk learned about the DNA results, Morin picked up the phone and dialed Ann Brobst. He told her of the test results reached by Dr. Blake’s lab. While no testable sperm or DNA was found on the cotton swabs or the smears on the glass slides, the stain of semen on Dawn Hamilton’s underpants had yielded enough genetic specimen to successfully employ the PCR technology. The analysis had definitively excluded Kirk Bloodsworth as the donor of the sperm. When Morin told Ann Brobst this, all that came through from the other end of the phone was silence. Finally, he heard a very shaky voice say, “You’re kidding me . . . You’re kidding me. . .” That’s all she could reply.

  Later, during a subsequent call, Brobst told Morin that her office would require a confirmatory test. Morin rarely lost his temper, but this made him angry. The agreement they had reached earlier permitted the state to have the methodology and accuracy of the protocols reviewed, not to demand a second test. Morin wasn’t even sure if enough sperm sample was left over to conduct a second test. Brobst was adamant. “The FBI needs to do its own test,” she said. Otherwise, we’re not agreeing to his release.”

  When Kirk heard this, the color drained out of his face. It was another ploy, another way to keep him in prison. The FBI had screwed him the first time. It had failed to detect the sperm that was clearly there. How could he trust the FBI? In the prison visiting room, he screamed at the wall, pounded his hand against the table. Morin tried to calm him.

  Morin learned from Dr. Blake that his lab, in anticipation of such a reaction from the prosecution, had designed the test protocol to retain and preserve a sufficient sample of sperm for a confirmatory test. This was a relief. Morin, still concerned though, called Barry Scheck at the Innocence Project in New York. Scheck, a pioneer in the forensic use of DNA, had consulted with Morin about the case previously and knew as much about DNA testing as any defense lawyer in the country. Scheck agreed to review Blake’s results. Afterward, he assured Morin that they were solid and that he shouldn’t worry. A confirmatory test was standard procedure. Morin wasn’t satisfied. He learned that an FBI agent named Jennifer Lindsay had been involved in developing the DNA protocols at the FBI lab. Morin called her to talk about Kirk’s case and the state’s insistence that the FBI confirm the test. Lindsay listened and responded sympathetically. She knew Ed Blake. “If Ed Blake did the science,” she told Morin, “then the science is good. You can count on it.” She said that obviously she couldn’t promise anything. But she said it was extremely unlikely that Blake was wrong.

  Morin felt better. He relayed this information to Kirk. There wasn’t any choice anyway but to allow the FBI to run its own test. Two agonizing months passed by. Morin was home on a Friday night having dinner with Marty and their two sons when Lindsay called him. “I didn’t want to bother you at home,” she said, “but after we talked I told the lab to let me know right away what the results were.”

  “Yes?” Morin asked quietly.

  “Well, the results won’t be official for a couple of days. But the test confirmed what Dr. Blake found. Kirk Bloodsworth is excluded . . .”

  WHEN HE HEARD the news, Gary Christopher considered Kirk Bloodsworth to be the luckiest man alive. To have Bob Morin as an advocate, for him to file a motion to preserve evidence that was supposedly of no value, to have this coincide with an emerging technology that could identify or exclude a person from a tiny sperm sample, to have a stain of semen discovered on discarded clothing after nine years, to have all this converge—it really was miraculous. Of course Kirk had been unlucky too. He never should have been caught up in the Dawn Hamilton case to begin with. Nor should he have been subject to such incompetence from those responsible for handling and examining the physical evidence in the case. According to Dr. Blake’s examination and findings, the semen stain on Dawn Hamilton’s underpants was not that difficult to detect, and it might very well have revealed the blood type of the murderer in 1984, saving Kirk Bloodsworth from the horror he endured.

  After Blake’s report was disseminated, carefully supported with footnote
s, slides, and microphotographs, the FBI had taken an additional two months, but this time had definitively confirmed that Kirk Bloodsworth was not the man who raped and killed Dawn Hamilton. Upon receiving the news on a Thursday night, Bob Morin immediately set out trying to have Kirk released. He spoke to Ann Brobst early the next morning, then prepared a motion for a new trial, which would be unopposed by the state. He filed it early the next day. The plan was for Judge Smith to grant the new trial and then the state would dismiss the case for lack of sufficient evidence.

  But that Friday Judge Smith was out of town and wouldn’t be back until Monday. The press picked up the news. A Baltimore radio station, 98 ROCK—WIYY-FM— had a weekend “Kirk Watch.”

  “It’s eight thirty on Saturday evening, and Kirk Bloodsworth is still in jail,” the disc jockey announced. Radios blared it all over the prison. Two DJs, Lopez and Stash, sent Kirk a request list for his favorite songs. Every song they played was dedicated to “Kirk Bloodsworth, still in the prison . . .” Jayne Miller, a television reporter, ran a two-part series on Kirk. For the guys on Kirk’s tier, it was a hoot. “And here is Snoop Dogg going out to Kirk Bloodsworth, who on this fine Sunday morning, June 27, is still behind bars . . .” The media frenzy had started.

  Over that weekend Kirk happily gave away everything he’d acquired in prison. He gave Half his television and Bozo his cans of tuna and potato chips. Rock from New York got his cigarettes. They all congratulated him. Kimberly Ruffner even hollered down the tier to him. Ruffner had a lion’s mane of dirty blond hair, combed back and parted in the middle. Shorter than Kirk by several inches, he’d grown a full beard when he first came to the prison, and it now covered most of his face. “Blood! Blood!” he said, “come here.” Bloodsworth walked down to where Ruffner stood by the commissary window. “I heard about the DNA. Congrats, man.” He still had trouble looking Kirk in the eye. “You out’a this shit now, man, ain’t you? Man, I know where that area is,” he said. “Where that crime was done.” The statement came from out of the blue. Kirk thought nothing of it, nodded, and walked away.

  Monday morning Bob Morin met with Ann Brobst and her boss, Sandra O’Connor, in the chambers of Judge Smith. O’Connor said something cryptic about how the DNA results had compromised the integrity of the conviction. All agreed that Bloodsworth had to go free. Bob Morin had prepared an order to that effect, and Judge Smith signed it.

  On June 28, 1993, at just after noon, Kirk Bloodsworth was marched by Sergeant Cooley Hall through the Jessup House of Corrections to the departure room. Cooley took turns whistling and laughing all along the way. “You gone and done it, Mister Bloodmon,” he said in that Calypso accent of his. “Good for you, mon. Good for you. Yes, yes, yes. The world it is waitin’ for you out there. Go now and get it . . .”

  Abdul-Haleem watched Kirk pass and put his hand over his heart. Kirk gave him a salute in return.

  In the departure room, the warden gave Kirk the money he’d earned and accumulated over the nine years he’d been working in the prison. It came to just over a thousand dollars. Kirk passed some of it back to Bozo and Half, and some of it to Rock, who’d stood up for him a few times. They were all happy for him. Rock shouted from behind the steel bars, “See you later, big fellow. Don’t let your ass back in here or I’ll kick it myself.”

  Sergeant Cooley Hall unlocked the handcuffs. Kirk looked down the drive, through the prison gate. It seemed bright out there. People were milling around in the glare. Bob Morin, Stephen Harris, the state public defender, and Thomas Saunders, the district public defender, came up to the departure room to greet him. Kirk and Bob Morin embraced.

  “You ready?” Morin asked him.

  Kirk was leaning against a table studying a quarter, part of the change he’d gotten from the warden as his prison earnings. He was turning the quarter in his fingers. He looked up at Bob Morin. To Bob, Kirk seemed gentle at that moment. Almost childlike.

  “It’s smaller than I remember,” Kirk said. He hadn’t seen a quarter in nine years. “Have they made these smaller?”

  Sergeant Cooley Hall nudged Kirk. Patted him on the shoulder. “Go ahead,” Cooley said. “Go ahead, mon . . . It’s time for you to go now . . .”

  Kirk put the quarter in his pocket and straightened himself up. He could hear his name being yelled by inmates through some of the barred windows behind him. This time the yells were not catcalls. They were cheers of congratulations, of triumph. With his lawyers at his side, he strutted out through the prison gate, out into the day. He had to squint and shield his eyes as he walked out into the full sunlight.

  Curtis and Anita Smith were there to meet him. Several cousins and friends were there. It was a fine summer afternoon. Reporters and cameras were everywhere. Each of the lawyers gave a brief statement at a makeshift podium. During that year, the governor of Maryland had convened a panel to study whether to shorten the time between conviction and execution. “I think this case will cause anyone with a conscience to pause before trying to expedite putting people to death,” Tom Saunders said.

  Morin had advised Kirk to keep his remarks short, but Kirk couldn’t help himself. He blasted the state for what it had done to him. He thanked the people who had helped him. “Since my arrest, I’ve lost so much,” he said, trying to control his emotions. “It’s been a nine-year nightmare. The death of my mother is the most painful . . .” He couldn’t keep the tears from flowing down his face. Reporters shoved cards at him. Microphones were everywhere. Before he stepped away, he added, “Even though this is a small victory for me, to have proved my innocence, the real killer is still out there. And all of this won’t be completed until the real one is behind bars . . .”

  One of the disc jockeys, Steve Ash, aka “Stash,” arrived with a stretch limousine, handed Kirk a cigar and a beer, and accompanied Kirk, Anita, Curtis, and Kirk’s cousin, Salmo, all over town, broadcasting live from the stretch. This had been prearranged. Kirk was taken to the 98 ROCK radio station for a lunch of champagne, pizza, and sandwiches. The station played Guns N’ Roses, ZZ Top, Ozzy Osbourne, and all of Kirk’s favorites throughout the afternoon. Kirk had the windows rolled down, and he waved to everyone. He felt like a celebrity.

  When Kirk finally got home to Cambridge his family and friends had set up a party at the Suicide Bridge Restaurant, and they celebrated late into the night. Kirk ordered every crab dish he could think of: crab dip, crab cakes, steamed hard crabs, fried soft shells, and crab imperial. Later, back in his house for the first time in nine years, he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned. He got up and almost urinated in the corner. He cried over what he’d become. He saw his mother everywhere. The house where he grew up seemed haunted, empty without her. He was frightened. He tried to make toast, then called Bob Morin and woke him up to tell him that he had used a toaster for the first time in nine years. He’d made his own toast. He wept again. The house seemed so much smaller than before. Like it had shrunk over the years. Later he realized that the trees outside had grown so tall that they now dwarfed his family home.

  Kirk and Anita tried to become a couple. But once Kirk was out, Anita seemed more like a sister to Kirk. And right off, she began scolding him, urging him to walk the straight and narrow. The one thing he didn’t need was someone telling him what to do. He needed space and time; he needed to blow off steam. He needed his freedom. After a couple of weeks they fought. Kirk was sorry, felt guilty; she had been good to him, had helped him, but it just wasn’t going to work. Anita went back to Baltimore.

  Kirk and his cousin, Salmo, went down to the beach. They stayed drunk for three days. When Kirk came back he reviewed the statement issued by the state’s attorney’s office concerning his release and what the prosecutors said to the newspapers. In her press release, the state’s attorney described over three pages of detail the evidence against Kirk Bloodsworth. The statement then indicated that he was released because, as a result of the DNA test, his conviction now “lacked the necessary integrity.” There was no longe
r enough evidence to hold him.

  In her news conference, Sandra O’Connor declined to say that Bloodsworth was innocent and offered no apologies. “There are no other suspects at this time,” she said. “Based on the evidence, our office did the right thing in prosecuting him,” she said. “I believe he is not guilty,” O’Connor added. “I’m not prepared to say he’s innocent.”

  There is a strain of hubris that affects certain people in power, people with authority. It can be slow to develop, like a dormant infection. If not guarded against, it can breed an unhealthy arrogance, a cocksureness that their judgments are beyond fallacy. Such self-righteousness allows them to close their minds to new possibilities. It can cause right-thinking people to do terrible things. The devil has a long tail.

  Few people in Kirk’s hometown had any idea what a DNA test meant. These statements by Sandra O’Connor undercut everything he thought he’d accomplished. They left a bitter taste. That week some neighbor of Curtis and Kirk left an anonymous note on the pickup truck parked in their driveway. Child killer! was all it said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  HOW DOES A MAN recover from an experience like Kirk Bloodsworth’s? How does he recapture the lost years, the lost dignity? How does a man forced to become an animal in order to survive in a vile and violent jungle reenter his community and find his way? How does a person get past being branded a monster for a crime he didn’t commit?