Surviving Justice

hard to relate
Exonerees often struggle
with romantic relationships
after release

Contrary to popular belief, not all inmates are sexually ravenous when released; actually, after years of suppressing sexual urges, many exonerees experience substantially decreased sexual drives—one of a host of challenges exonerees face upon re-entering the dating world.

The average exoneree has spent more than twelve years in prison. During that time, dating customs and trends can change dramatically. After his release, Peter Rose was approached by a young woman at a local bar. “She told me I was handsome and asked me what my name was,” he says. “Women didn’t do that ten years ago. I’m not really sure what a man is supposed to do these days.”

Christopher Ochoa with his
girlfriend Robin Dalton

Exonerees who entered prison as teen-agers often have difficulties even with very basic aspects of relationships, having missed a crucial maturational stage in their youth. After his release, Donnell Johnson began to date a fellow undergraduate at Mississippi Valley State. “I was still discovering myself when I met her,” he says. “I was twenty-one, but after spending my teenage years in prison, I didn’t really know about real simple stuff that most people take for granted, like how to even talk to a woman.”

Trust can be particularly challenging for exonerees. Many, unable or unwilling to express their rage and despair, engage in avoidance or distancing behaviors. After so many years of restriction, many become annoyed if a partner tells them what to do.

Basic romantic expression can be difficult for exonerees. “When I came home it was difficult for me to relate to a woman,” says exoneree Michael Austin, “because I’d been around men for so long. It was difficult for me to be somewhat gentle.”

And for exonerees accused of rape, physical intimacy brings additional anxieties. “When I first got out,” says Ken Wyniemko, “and even to some extent to this day, I am real paranoid. If a woman walks up to me that I don’t know, I keep my distance, because in the back of my mind, I’m worried that she’s going to accuse me of molesting her.”

My Life is a Broken Puzzle
Page 5

I haven’t stopped believing in myself

In 1990, convicted rapist Achim Josef Marino learned from his cellmate that two other men had pleaded guilty to murdering DePriest. Marino had a religious conversion as a result of his participation in a twelve-step program, and in 1996, seeking atonement, he wrote letters to the Austin Police Department and the Austin American-Statesman, in which he confessed that he was the sole perpetrator of the crime against DePriest. The letters described the crime in detail and informed police of the location of the pistol with which he had shot DePriest, as well as handcuffs he had used to bind her, and a bank bag he had stolen. These items were recovered shortly after the crime, but investigators, unsure as to whether the gun was the real murder weapon, took no further action.

In 1997, Marino again wrote letters, this time to Governor George W. Bush, to the police department, and to the district attorney’s office. In response, a homicide detective and a Texas ranger were sent to interview Ochoa.

In ’98, two cops came to see me, a Texas ranger and an Austin police officer. They asked me if they could interview me. They said, “There’s this guy that’s saying that he did this crime with you guys.”

I didn’t know then, at all, what was going on. I didn’t know that this guy, who actually did it, had already wrote them a letter, had wrote Governor Bush a letter, had wrote DAs that we hadn’t done the crime, that he had done it. He did a Christian conversion. But I guess they were trying to link us together. Well, I didn’t know this guy; he didn’t know us.

During that interview I ask one of the detectives, “Hey, what if I call Barry Scheck? What if I get in contact with him?” I had kept up with all the DNA exonerations that Barry Scheck had done. I remember the cop had mentioned DNA initially, and that’s the only thing that stuck to my mind when I was first arrested.

He says, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’re gonna make it worse for yourself.” I didn’t respond to that. I just looked at him like, wait a minute, they know damn well that if I’m guilty I’m not going to do that. So this guy’s got to be hiding something. I was very afraid that if I gave him any clue whatsoever, or say that I’m going to contact an attorney, they would destroy evidence that might be used to help me.

Distrustful of the officers, Ochoa repeated what he had said at Danziger’s trial—that he and Danziger had raped and murdered DePriest. The officers suspected he was lying to protect Marino. For the next two years, the police searched for a link between Ochoa and Marino. In the meantime, Ochoa began to pursue information about DNA testing.

So I went and I talked to this [prisoner] from El Paso that was going home, a pretty good friend of mine. I told him to type Barry Scheck’s name in the search engine. And finally somebody from the Innocence Project emails him back: “Your friend might have a case, because he has DNA.” And he sent me the addresses of the schools with innocence projects.

So for some reason I circle Wisconsin. That’s the one I’m going to write. Wrote them an eight-page letter and I sent it off and I said, “That’s all I can do, God. That’s the best I can do.” Told them the whole story from the beginning to the time that I wrote them. Just the legal stuff. And I told them, “You know what, I’ve given up on the system, I’ve given up on everyone, I don’t trust anybody. I’ve given up on the world, I don’t have faith in the system, but I haven’t stopped believing in myself.”

That was enough for them to take the case. They called me up a couple of months later, and I was really happy.

In 1999 the lawyers and students of the Wisconsin Innocence Project began their search for evidence that would help prove Ochoa’s innocence. In the spring of 2000, John Pray, law professor and co-founder of the project, sent a letter to the police department requesting that DNA evidence be preserved. The DNA laboratory at the Texas Department of Public Safety had saved the evidence, and the police department immediately agreed to testing. At the request of the district attorney’s office, the tests were performed in the summer and fall of 2000. The results matched Marino and conclusively excluded Ochoa and Danziger.

Eventually, in 2000, the cops came to see me again. This time they were friendlier. They gave me another polygraph. I flunked it again. And that’s when I told them, “I don’t care what your polygraph says, I’m innocent. I don’t care what that crap says.” So September, October, I don’t know when it was, I got the test that exonerated me. The DNA test. They said it matched Marino, and I said, “Who the hell is Marino?” And my attorney said, “You don’t know?”

I said, “No. What are you talking about?” So then he started telling me Marino is this guy, the actual perpetrator. In a way I was grateful, but in a way I was really angry, ’cause Marino is the one that cost me a lot of years. He took somebody’s life. He’s caused so much hurt. I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him.

They tell me I’ll have to wait for two months. They’ll try to get me out before Thanksgiving, before Christmas. Finally, January 16, they took me to court and they released me.

When I was released it was celebratory. Every talk show host that I’ve talked to, they said they admired me, or whatever—because, I guess, I didn’t come out angry. I think people like that. I think the media like that I was forgiving and not this angry convict. I went on The O’Reilly Factor. He was angry at what happened. He said, “Why aren’t you angry? I would be really angry.” I guess he was trying to draw me in to a confrontation.

I said, “No, I’m not bitter.” And he said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Ochoa.” I didn’t last but ten minutes on his show.

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