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- <text id=89TT0906>
- <title>
- Apr. 03, 1989: Recrossing The Thin Blue Line
- </title>
- <history>
- TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1989
- Apr. 03, 1989 The College Trap
- </history>
- <article>
- <source>Time Magazine</source>
- <hdr>
- NATION, Page 23
- Recrossing the Thin Blue Line
- </hdr><body>
- <p>Randall Adams is free of everything but the media
- </p>
- <p> Randall Adams did not complain when Continental Flight 140
- from Houston to Columbus took off 20 minutes behind schedule
- last Thursday. He was already twelve years late leaving Dallas
- County, Texas, which he says had become his "hell on earth." In
- 1976, several weeks after Adams found a job repairing pallets,
- he was arrested for the slaying of a Dallas policeman. At one
- point, with only three days to spare, he was saved from
- execution by a U.S. Supreme Court stay while the Justices
- considered a legal technicality.
- </p>
- <p> Adams had been in jail for eight years when Errol Morris,
- an avant-garde film-maker from New York City, came to Texas to
- make a documentary about Dr. James Grigson, known as Dr. Death
- to defense lawyers for his consistent findings that convicted
- murderers were so unrepentant that they deserved execution. In
- its zeal to help Morris, the Dallas district attorney's office
- turned over the dusty records from Adams' trial. What Morris
- found in the boxes was more intriguing than Dr. Death: evidence
- of a prosecution willing to bend, if not break, the guarantees
- of a fair trial in its efforts to obtain a conviction. Morris
- abandoned his original project in order to tell Adams' story in
- The Thin Blue Line, which won two major film awards and helped
- Adams finally win his freedom.
- </p>
- <p> The nightmare began Thanksgiving weekend in 1976, when
- Adams was picked up by David Harris, 16, after running out of
- gas. The two went to a drive-in movie. Adams claims Harris
- dropped him off at his motel room a little before 10 p.m., but
- Harris said the two tooled around Dallas with Adams driving
- until well after midnight. When they were stopped by a
- policeman, Harris claimed, he hunched down in the passenger seat
- as Adams pulled out a .22-cal. pistol and shot officer Robert
- Wood dead.
- </p>
- <p> But everything else pointed to Harris. Both the car and the
- pistol had been stolen by Harris. The teenager had been in
- trouble before. Harris even boasted to some friends that he had
- killed Wood. Still, the prosecution bought Harris' story. Adams'
- attorney, Randy Schaffer, contends that Harris supplied two
- things the prosecutors wanted: an eyewitness (Harris) and
- someone to execute (Adams). Harris was too young for the death
- penalty.
- </p>
- <p> Convicted and condemned, Adams was like the man in the
- dream whose lips form words but who cannot be heard. He got a
- major break when Schaffer, a scrappy young Houston lawyer, took
- his case in 1982 for expenses only. Then Morris began filming
- in 1985. The investigating officers sat before him in their
- best Sunday suits, preening for the camera, as did two
- prosecution witnesses whose stories fell apart. Most chilling
- of all, Harris all but confessed, saying to Morris, "I'm the one
- who knows" Adams is innocent.
- </p>
- <p> Even so, prosecutors were determined to keep Adams in jail,
- discounting Harris' statements as the rantings of a condemned
- man. (Harris is on death row for a 1985 murder.) But on March
- 1, an appellate court unanimously threw out Adams' conviction,
- finding that the state was guilty of suppressing evidence
- favorable to Adams, deceiving the trial court and knowingly
- using perjured testimony.
- </p>
- <p> If, in one sense, Adams was saved by the media, he is now
- at risk of becoming their prisoner. Released on $50,000 bond
- three weeks after the appellate-court ruling, Adams was soon out
- of his orange prison uniform and into a borrowed shirt and tie,
- then whisked off to a Houston studio to appear on Nightline, the
- first of a slam-bang round of television appearances. Awkward
- at first, Adams quickly seemed as comfortable as Tom Hanks
- discussing his latest movie on Johnny Carson's couch. For the
- moment, prying reporters have become as ever present as guards.
- On the plane to Ohio, flight attendants passed food trays
- bucket-brigade style over the backs of cameramen crouched in the
- aisles.
- </p>
- <p> Waiting in the Columbus airport were about 100 people,
- including Adams' mother Mildred, a retired supervisor at a home
- for retarded children, and friends from her Baptist church with
- yellow ribbons around their necks. Adams plowed through the
- crowd to hug his mother and then the teary-eyed Morris. At the
- press conference, Adams' sister whispered in his ear that Texas
- had decided not to retry him. He squeezed his mother's hand so
- tightly his knuckles turned white.
- </p>
- <p> The next day Adams' sister threw a party. The family
- brought deviled eggs and a cake; someone had left seven bags of
- groceries on the doorstep during the night. Recalling his first
- postprison meal of chicken chalupas, Adams said, "It felt
- strange to have the man across from me eating something
- different than I."
- </p>
- <p> Adams, now 40, seems to have made his peace with his
- jailers, knowing that to pursue revenge could poison his future
- happiness. He has learned, he says, to "think the worst and hope
- for the least." Doug Mulder, the former Dallas prosecutor who
- wronged him, is shielded by law from suits by convicts. But
- cases like Adams' leave a residue of uneasiness: if the Supreme
- Court had not reversed the death sentence, and if a filmmaker
- had not stumbled onto suppressed evidence in locked and
- forgotten files, Adams would have been dead long ago.
- </p>
-
- </body></article>
- </text>
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