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I met this
wonderful woman. Her name’s
Robin. I’m kind of
happy that now I know, okay,
there’s nothing wrong
with me. Robin shows me
how to manage my money.
I’m an electronics
freak. I used to buy remote
control cars, which we always
wanted when we were kids,
me and my brother. Remote
control cars—it seemed
like a good idea. Now, Robin
would just kill me. There’s
a robot I bought at Sharper
Image, sale rack. It dances
and stuff. A hundred dollars.
She said, “Why did
you get that? You don’t
use it.” I was going
to go buy this $300 robot
one time, a big one, I mean
he actually serves drinks
and stuff. He has a camera,
so you send him in to spy
on people. But she won’t
let me. I mean, I could,
’cause it’s
my money. She would say,
“It’s your money,”
but she shows me how to
control myself.
My family was pretty poor.
When I was growing up, I
didn’t have much—and
I sure as heck didn’t
have it in prison. I didn’t
have a TV, I had a little
radio, worth eight bucks—that’s
all I had. And now I come
out here and they give me
money. It’s not so
much that I go nuts. Every
guy that’s middle
class, thirty-eight years
old, with a wife and kids,
they have the ability to
go buy a plasma [TV]. That’s
all the money did—put
me where I was supposed
to be.
Ochoa
(center) with Barry Scheck
(bottom row, second from
right) and the
Wisconsin Innocence Project
lawyers who helped to free
him (2004)
Sometimes
I do interviews,
and I have to
remind myself
that it’s
Chris Ochoa,
it’s Richard
Danziger, it’s
Jeanette Popp
[the victim’s
mother], but
we can’t
forget the victim,
Nancy DePriest,
the woman that
died.
I felt horrible.
Everybody did.
That guy still
took her life,
and I won’t
sit here and
tell you everybody’s
not guilty and
you shouldn’t
be punished
when you hurt
people—physically
hurt people.
I don’t
believe in physically
hurting people
at all. I’m
just as mad
as anybody else.
I feel bad for
her mom, her
family. Especially
her mom, Jeanette
Popp. That’s
not the only
tragedy she’s
gone through.
She doesn’t
talk to me much
anymore, but
Jeanette’s
somebody that’s
really, really
special.
What happened is that she
saw it on Good Morning
America that I was
probably going to be exonerated.
She was rather upset. She
calls the district attorney:
“What is going on?
I mean, these guys are guilty,
what are you trying to do?”
They weren’t very
truthful. So she calls my
attorney. I’m scared,
because once the victim
puts up a fight, the exoneration
is going to be longer.
So my attorney,
John Pray, tells
her everything
from the get-go—what
happened, honestly.
And Jeanette
was so grateful
that finally
someone was
telling her
what was going
on, and she
felt so bad
that she asked
John if she
could write
me. I get the
letter in prison.
She says how
sorry she is,
kind of saying
that it was
her fault. I
wrote her back,
and we start
writing each
other. I asked
her if she could
be at my exoneration.
I really wanted
her to be there.
So she went
to Austin. I
felt so bad
for her. She
was crying because,
you know, she
saw my mom.
My mom got her
son back, but
Jeanette didn’t
get her daughter
back.
She was the
biggest advocate.
She was a very,
very big part
of why I was
released so
quick and why
society accepted
me so quick.
She talked to
the press, she
talked to the
DA—that
was very instrumental,
believe me,
when a victim
stands up and
says, “I
want him out.”
We went to do
TV shows together.
I would speak,
she would speak
from her perspective,
and it was a
really nice
one-two punch.
Now, I don’t
know where she’s
at, mentally
or emotionally,
but during the
time I think
it helped her.
It’s helped
me a lot. But
I didn’t
take her daughter’s
life, so I don’t
know how much
it’s helped
me, in that
way. It’s
like I don’t
need closure.
The guy [who]
needs closure
is Marino.
I need closure
from the police
officer. My
whole deal is
not between
me and Jeanette
or Nancy. My
deal is between
me and the police
department.
I have an issue
with [Officer]
Polanco. That’s
the guy I need
to talk to.
They
were going to
make [Polanco]
go to the [civil]
trial. They
were going to
subpoena him.
I said no, I
don’t
want him there.
“Do you
want to talk
to him?”
No, I don’t
want to talk
to him.
I didn’t
know how I would
have reacted.
I’m not
saying I would
have been mad.
I’m not
saying I would
have done anything
bad. Maybe I
would break
down. I didn’t
want to cry,
because I was
taught not to
cry in prison.
Not in front
of people. Sometimes
now I do want
to confront
him.
I would ask
him, “Why?
Why did you
do this?”
“Well,
I really thought
you were guilty,”
he would say.
“No, don’t
lie to me. You
destroyed evidence.
You knew I was
innocent. You
knew. You were
a cop for fourteen
years or however
long; you were
one of the most
experienced
homicide detectives,
and you knew,
you knew. Why
was it so important
for you to wrap
this up? There
was an MO [modus
operandi] on
the guy that
did it. He had
already done
stuff like this—why
don’t
you use standard
procedures?
Why don’t
you go to the
FBI? They would
have given you
an MO. You didn’t
follow procedure.”
And the second
question I would
ask is, “How
in the hell
can you live
with yourself?
Are you happy
that my life
is destroyed,
and I have to
pick it up?
’Cause
you’re
not doing anything
to pick it up
for me. My grandfather—are
you happy that
all you left
me was a grave?”
You know, sometimes
I feel like
I’m a
little kid,
that I’m
a little kid
that had this
gigantic puzzle,
and then he
came and kicked
it, and I’m
here left with
this puzzle,
all by myself,
trying to put
the pieces back
together.
I mean, I know
I have money,
and I have school,
and I have friends
and support.
But I’m
alone. In the
end, when I’m
in my room,
and when I have
nobody, like
right now, I’m
left alone trying
to pick up these
pieces, and
nobody’s
helping me.
You know, I
never thought
about it that
way, but I’m
thinking about
it now. My life
is a broken
puzzle. People
say I’m
young. Come
on, I’m
thirty-eight.
I don’t
have much time
to put my life
back. And it’s
frustrating,
because sometimes
the pieces that
I need are not
there, and I’m
trying to fit
pieces that
don’t
fit. And there
are times that
it works well,
I get a little
piece. That’s
what I would
ask him. Why
did you kick
my puzzle? Why
did you destroy
it?
You sit there
and you fight
me when I sue
you. Why don’t
you just admit
you messed up
and you violated
every right
that I had under
the Constitution?
People have
helped me pick
up the puzzle,
it hasn’t
been you. It’s
been the courts;
it’s even
been the DA,
Barry, the Innocence
Project, even
Congress, even
President Bush.
When I started
my relationship—I
don’t
want to bring
in our sex life,
but I couldn’t
perform. And
I got so mad
at Polanco because
this is what
you’ve
done to me.
I was crying
in bed. I said,
“Why did
he do this to
me, why?”
I can’t
even function.
Finally I got
through it,
but I had to
fix that—to
put those pieces
of that part
of the puzzle
together.
People tell
me, “You
can go to the
therapist.”
The therapist,
in the end,
is not going
to help me.
I have to help
myself. I can
talk to the
therapist; he
can guide me,
but in the end,
I’m in
the room alone.
Next:
Taking responsibility
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