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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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time
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040389
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04038900.035
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1990-09-22
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NATION, Page 23Recrossing the Thin Blue LineRandall Adams is free of everything but the media
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.