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Indefensible? Lawyers in key death penalty states often fall short
By Stephen Henderson
McClatchy Newspapers
Stephen Berend/MCT
The jurors heard all about the convenience store holdup, the gunshots and the dead clerk. Their unanimous verdict came swiftly: Warren King was guilty of a senseless murder that shocked rural Appling County, Ga.
A death sentence almost certainly would be next, unless King's lawyer could convince the jury to spare his life.
But G. Terry Jackson, King's state-appointed lawyer, didn't do much.
With little money to unearth details about his client's past, Jackson did not chronicle the mitigating circumstances that could have helped his client's cause. The jury learned almost nothing about the import of King's low IQ, his childhood in a log cabin with no plumbing or electricity, the savage beatings he took from his alcoholic parents or the succession of foster homes he shuttled through.
In desperation, Jackson turned to Jesus.
"WWJD," he said, invoking the popular bumper-sticker phrase "What Would Jesus Do?" Jackson told jurors to keep those four letters in mind as they weighed King's future.
A stunned prosecutor objected. The judge told the jury to ignore the comment.
The jurors deliberated for 90 minutes and returned with their sentence:
Now Warren King sits on death row in Georgia, one of many inmates whose lawyers, at the crucial point when jurors decide between life and death conviction, made only feeble, incomplete or tragically laughable efforts to defend them.
A broad review by McClatchy Newspapers of recent death-penalty cases in Georgia, Mississippi, Alabama and Virginia provides, for the first time, an assessment of how commonplace these failures have become.
McClatchy reviewed trial transcripts and appeal records and interviewed lawyers for 80 men and women who were sentenced to death from 1997 through 2004 in those four states. The review found that:
In 73 of the 80 cases, defense lawyers gave jurors little or no evidence to help them decide whether the accused should live or die. The lawyers routinely missed myriad issues of abuse and mental deficiency, abject poverty and serious psychological problems.
By failing to investigate their clients' histories, lawyers in these 73 cases fell far short of the 20-year-old professional standards set by the American Bar Association. Their performances also appear inconsistent with standards that the U.S. Supreme Court has mandated several times.
Appeals courts for the most part have ducked those Supreme Court directives about the importance of quality defense counsel. So far death sentences have been overturned for bad lawyering.
In 11 of the cases, the defendants already have been executed. Their cases moved through the appeals process without a single judge flagging lapses in the defense attorneys' performances.
In Virginia, Alabama and Mississippi, this poor legal representation is a result of official policy. The states pay no more than a pittance to help lawyers defend their clients, and none requires that well-trained attorneys handle death cases.
Georgia had a similarly inadequate system until 2005, when a publicly funded, statewide capital defenders office began spending whatever is necessary to scour clients' backgrounds for mitigating evidence. So far, none of that office's 46 clients has been sentenced to death.
Overall, the 80 cases that McClatchy reviewed show how poorly these four key death-penalty states fulfill a basic constitutional principle.
"For government, this is the ultimate policy decision outside of going to war," said Kenneth Starr, a former federal judge and independent counsel. Starr, who's now the dean of the Pepperdine University School of Law, has represented several death-row inmates on appeal, including one whose case was part of McClatchy's review.
"We are going to sit in judgment of one of our own and take their life. Not doing it right is unspeakably shameful," said Starr, who supports capital punishment.
Starr thinks that the trial lawyers for his client, Robin Lovitt, didn't do it right. Lovitt was found guilty of killing an Arlington, Va., pool-hall manager during a robbery.
Lovitt's lawyers did almost nothing to look into his background. They never interviewed family members, collected records or even planned how they might defend his life.
Had they looked, they would have discovered a nightmare.
Lovitt's parents were drug dealers who beat their kids, forced them to help package and distribute narcotics, and had wild parties during which guests took turns molesting the children.
"There's no dispute that very able counsel simply failed to do the job in this case," Starr said.
Most of the other cases McClatchy reviewed reflect similar failures.
Warren King's lawyer, G. Terry Jackson of Savannah, Ga., knew he needed plenty of compelling evidence to save his client's life.
During the trial, jurors saw a videotape of the store holdup, and they could hear the muffled shots from the handgun that was used to kill 23-year-old Karen Crosby. They also saw her brother arrive at the store to find her body, and they heard his cries as he knelt by her side, waiting for help.
To spare King's life, Jackson knew he'd have to make the jurors understand that his client's upbringing had helped make him a killer. But he couldn't convince the judge to give him money to hire investigators to prove that point.
Jackson was paid only a few thousand dollars to handle King's case.
"You're supposed to do everything you can for your client, but we ended up with far, far less than we should have had to defend this guy's life," Jackson said recently.
Jackson put King's sister on the stand to beg for his life. He found a foster parent who said King had always been a "well-mannered young man." One of King's former parole officers hinted at the swirl of abuse and neglect that surrounded his childhood but offered very little detail.
By closing arguments, Jackson was desperate and reaching for anything to sway the jury. He said the appeal to Jesus was the best he could do.
"I just wanted them to look in their hearts. I knew we hadn't given them much else to work with," Jackson said. "The whole thing was just a nightmare."
In one Mississippi case, the defendant's wife, who'd met and married him while he was on death row, was put on the stand to testify that he'd never been violent toward her. The lawyer had done no other research into his client's background.
Another lawyer from Mississippi had his client testify about "voices ... in my head" that "tell me to do things that are evil and wrong." But no psychologist explained what was wrong with him or related his illness to his crime. No experts at all testified during his sentencing.
In a third Mississippi case, a lawyer representing Lawrence Branch had been given a report that showed his client was diagnosed as mentally retarded at age 5, with an IQ of 68. The report also showed that Branch had flunked three grades in school.
His lawyer threw away the report, thinking it wasn't relevant, and put Branch's parents on the stand to say he'd been a "nice kid" who "respected older peoples." His father said he "wasn't an A-B student, you know," but wasn't asked more about his son's academic record.
Branch was sentenced to death for killing 57-year-old Dorothy Jorden during a burglary in her home in Coila, just east of the Mississippi Delta.
In an Alabama case, lawyer Floyd Likins made several requests for money to investigate his client's upbringing. Melvin Gene Hodges had brutally killed a shop clerk by beating and pistol-whipping her, then running over her repeatedly with a car. Likins knew that Hodges had grown up in a two-room shack with no electricity or running water; and he knew he'd exhibited signs
of mental deficiency.
Likins needed money to hire someone to comb through social service and school records and to search for other supporting evidence.
The judge said no.
"He told me he needed to be careful about wasting money in the court," Likins said. "That's how the judges are here. They don't think this stuff is necessary."
So Likins put Hodges' mother on the stand to talk briefly about his
childhood. She begged the jury for leniency.
Likins closed his presentation with an ill-suited comparison: His client, he reasoned, was not as bad as serial killer Ted Bundy or mass murderer Timothy McVeigh.
Indefensible? Lawyers in key death penalty states often fall short
By Stephen Henderson
McClatchy Newspapers
Stephen Berend/MCT
The jurors heard all about the convenience store holdup, the gunshots and the dead clerk. Their unanimous verdict came swiftly: Warren King was guilty of a senseless murder that shocked rural Appling County, Ga.
A death sentence almost certainly would be next, unless King's lawyer could convince the jury to spare his life.
But G. Terry Jackson, King's state-appointed lawyer, didn't do much.
With little money to unearth details about his client's past, Jackson did not chronicle the mitigating circumstances that could have helped his client's cause. The jury learned almost nothing about the import of King's low IQ, his childhood in a log cabin with no plumbing or electricity, the savage beatings he took from his alcoholic parents or the succession of foster homes he shuttled through.
In desperation, Jackson turned to Jesus.
"WWJD," he said, invoking the popular bumper-sticker phrase "What Would Jesus Do?" Jackson told jurors to keep those four letters in mind as they weighed King's future.
A stunned prosecutor objected. The judge told the jury to ignore the comment.
The jurors deliberated for 90 minutes and returned with their sentence:
Now Warren King sits on death row in Georgia, one of many inmates whose lawyers, at the crucial point when jurors decide between life and death conviction, made only feeble, incomplete or tragically laughable efforts to defend them.
A broad review by McClatchy Newspapers of recent death-penalty cases in Georgia, Mississippi, Alabama and Virginia provides, for the first time, an assessment of how commonplace these failures have become.
McClatchy reviewed trial transcripts and appeal records and interviewed lawyers for 80 men and women who were sentenced to death from 1997 through 2004 in those four states. The review found that:
In 73 of the 80 cases, defense lawyers gave jurors little or no evidence to help them decide whether the accused should live or die. The lawyers routinely missed myriad issues of abuse and mental deficiency, abject poverty and serious psychological problems.
By failing to investigate their clients' histories, lawyers in these 73 cases fell far short of the 20-year-old professional standards set by the American Bar Association. Their performances also appear inconsistent with standards that the U.S. Supreme Court has mandated several times.
Appeals courts for the most part have ducked those Supreme Court directives about the importance of quality defense counsel. So far death sentences have been overturned for bad lawyering.
In 11 of the cases, the defendants already have been executed. Their cases moved through the appeals process without a single judge flagging lapses in the defense attorneys' performances.
In Virginia, Alabama and Mississippi, this poor legal representation is a result of official policy. The states pay no more than a pittance to help lawyers defend their clients, and none requires that well-trained attorneys handle death cases.
Georgia had a similarly inadequate system until 2005, when a publicly funded, statewide capital defenders office began spending whatever is necessary to scour clients' backgrounds for mitigating evidence. So far, none of that office's 46 clients has been sentenced to death.
Overall, the 80 cases that McClatchy reviewed show how poorly these four key death-penalty states fulfill a basic constitutional principle.
"For government, this is the ultimate policy decision outside of going to war," said Kenneth Starr, a former federal judge and independent counsel. Starr, who's now the dean of the Pepperdine University School of Law, has represented several death-row inmates on appeal, including one whose case was part of McClatchy's review.
"We are going to sit in judgment of one of our own and take their life. Not doing it right is unspeakably shameful," said Starr, who supports capital punishment.
Starr thinks that the trial lawyers for his client, Robin Lovitt, didn't do it right. Lovitt was found guilty of killing an Arlington, Va., pool-hall manager during a robbery.
Lovitt's lawyers did almost nothing to look into his background. They never interviewed family members, collected records or even planned how they might defend his life.
Had they looked, they would have discovered a nightmare.
Lovitt's parents were drug dealers who beat their kids, forced them to help package and distribute narcotics, and had wild parties during which guests took turns molesting the children.
"There's no dispute that very able counsel simply failed to do the job in this case," Starr said.
Most of the other cases McClatchy reviewed reflect similar failures.
Warren King's lawyer, G. Terry Jackson of Savannah, Ga., knew he needed plenty of compelling evidence to save his client's life.
During the trial, jurors saw a videotape of the store holdup, and they could hear the muffled shots from the handgun that was used to kill 23-year-old Karen Crosby. They also saw her brother arrive at the store to find her body, and they heard his cries as he knelt by her side, waiting for help.
To spare King's life, Jackson knew he'd have to make the jurors understand that his client's upbringing had helped make him a killer. But he couldn't convince the judge to give him money to hire investigators to prove that point.
Jackson was paid only a few thousand dollars to handle King's case.
"You're supposed to do everything you can for your client, but we ended up with far, far less than we should have had to defend this guy's life," Jackson said recently.
Jackson put King's sister on the stand to beg for his life. He found a foster parent who said King had always been a "well-mannered young man." One of King's former parole officers hinted at the swirl of abuse and neglect that surrounded his childhood but offered very little detail.
By closing arguments, Jackson was desperate and reaching for anything to sway the jury. He said the appeal to Jesus was the best he could do.
"I just wanted them to look in their hearts. I knew we hadn't given them much else to work with," Jackson said. "The whole thing was just a nightmare."
In one Mississippi case, the defendant's wife, who'd met and married him while he was on death row, was put on the stand to testify that he'd never been violent toward her. The lawyer had done no other research into his client's background.
Another lawyer from Mississippi had his client testify about "voices ... in my head" that "tell me to do things that are evil and wrong." But no psychologist explained what was wrong with him or related his illness to his crime. No experts at all testified during his sentencing.
In a third Mississippi case, a lawyer representing Lawrence Branch had been given a report that showed his client was diagnosed as mentally retarded at age 5, with an IQ of 68. The report also showed that Branch had flunked three grades in school.
His lawyer threw away the report, thinking it wasn't relevant, and put Branch's parents on the stand to say he'd been a "nice kid" who "respected older peoples." His father said he "wasn't an A-B student, you know," but wasn't asked more about his son's academic record.
Branch was sentenced to death for killing 57-year-old Dorothy Jorden during a burglary in her home in Coila, just east of the Mississippi Delta.
In an Alabama case, lawyer Floyd Likins made several requests for money to investigate his client's upbringing. Melvin Gene Hodges had brutally killed a shop clerk by beating and pistol-whipping her, then running over her repeatedly with a car. Likins knew that Hodges had grown up in a two-room shack with no electricity or running water; and he knew he'd exhibited signs
of mental deficiency.
Likins needed money to hire someone to comb through social service and school records and to search for other supporting evidence.
The judge said no.
"He told me he needed to be careful about wasting money in the court," Likins said. "That's how the judges are here. They don't think this stuff is necessary."
So Likins put Hodges' mother on the stand to talk briefly about his
childhood. She begged the jury for leniency.
Likins closed his presentation with an ill-suited comparison: His client, he reasoned, was not as bad as serial killer Ted Bundy or mass murderer Timothy McVeigh.