April 24 ARIZONA: Flashy lawyers leave private practice for public defender jobs Robert Hooker was hired to lead the Public Defender's Office, not dress it up, but the sartorially elegant Hooker believes in the power of appearances. He moved his own leather chairs, Oriental rug, wood-slab desk and original artwork into a corner office at the county's Legal Services Building on Stone Avenue just north of Congress Street. He'd like to bring a little style and fashion sense into the legal trenches of indigent defense, as a symbol of the professionalism he wants the office to project. These things shouldn't matter, he admits, but in the chess matches that legal advocates play, you seek every advantage, said Hooker, a former Superior Court judge, longtime criminal defense lawyer and a famously well-dressed guy. He's brought in his former partner, legendary trial lawyer Bob Hirsh, to help train his new "60-partner law firm." He wants his lawyers prepared for court and on a more even footing with the prosecutors they oppose or bargain with on behalf of clients - criminal defendants who can't afford their own lawyers. He said he wants the Public Defender's Office to stand up to the prosecutors, earn the judges' respect, take on more cases and change a system that shortchanges the disadvantaged. In the process he also hopes to save taxpayers money. The county expects him to eventually take a big chunk of the indigent caseload that now goes to private attorneys and costs the county nearly $10 million a year - more than the $8.5 million budget for Hooker's office of 60 attorneys and 70 support workers. The actions of the County Attorney's Office drive the cost of indigent defense in Pima County, which has the highest per- capita defense costs of any county in the state, Hooker said. A 2003 study done for the county by the Spangenberg Group, a Massachusetts consulting firm, criticized the county attorney for charging twice as many indictments as it prosecutes, and forcing too many cases to trial. An audit in 2001 said the additional trials cost $2.3 to $2.9 million a year. Behind the numbers, Hooker said, is an uncompromising stance that adversely affects poor clients. "We can only have an impact locally, but we can have a huge impact. We have to be persuasive with the County Attorney's Office that being punitive isn't the only way to address society's ills. "Lawyers are gods" Hooker, 62, and Hirsh, 69, said they left successful careers for public jobs that pay $68.65 and $50 an hour, respectively, to confront that imbalance. They thrive on the high stakes of criminal defense law and have practiced it since their graduation from law college. Hirsh vowed early in his career that he would never allow an innocent client to go to prison. He worries about clients who did the crime and face penalties that aren't proportional to the offense, Hooker said. "Plea bargains are so driven by the possible punishment," he said. "They always prosecute to the max, so everybody is looking at a huge penalty." Hooker wants to build a top-notch law firm around the corps of good lawyers already in place, giving them the support, training and leadership they need. He made the emphasis clear in one of his first e-mails to his troops - an e-mail some staff characterized as the "lawyers are gods" memo. "I just said, 'In case people don't realize it, here's the pecking order: lawyers, legal assistants and investigators, secretaries, clerks.' "I don't like the 'god' analogy, but lawyers are the gods in this office. They are on the line every day, going to jail on nights and weekends, underpaid in comparison to what they'd make in private practice, having to deal with the clients and all the baggage they bring." The salary range for nonsupervisorial attorneys employed by Pima County is $49,000 to $116,656. Hooker's lawyer memo ruffled feathers; a later one simply produced a few chuckles. Hooker let his lawyers know that his favorite shirt maker was in town and they could get custom-fitted shirts at a good price. "I like to dress well," said Hooker, "but I don't expect people to be a clotheshorse like I am, dress in $1,000 - well, I guess there aren't $1,000 suits anymore." His fashion reputation preceded him, prompting a question at his first staff meeting: "Will there be a dress code?" Hooker said, "There already is a dress code. It's called professional. It's an issue of respect, for your client No. 1." Credibility is currency in the legal world, he said. After a four-decade career as lawyer and Superior Court judge, the University of Arizona law school graduate said he saw the benefit of building reputation. "I always knew I could take a client who came to me as a private lawyer and I would get a better deal than a public defender would - a better listen from the judge and the prosecutor and a better deal in the end." Then the county job opened up with the retirement of Susan Kettlewell. "The time came to put up or shut up," he said. An image-making role Hooker sees his role, partly, as image-making. "The public defender needs to exercise more influence, in plea bargains with the county attorney, in convincing judges their policies need not coalesce with those of the prosecutor." Hirsh, Hooker's second-in-command, is perhaps the more surprising addition to the Public Defender's Office. He is, without doubt, Tucson's most famous criminal defense lawyer - so adept that the Legislature passed laws against him. After he won a series of acquittals with insanity pleas in murder trials in the 1980s, the Legislature passed a law making it necessary to plead "guilty except insane." It was called "Laura's law," in memory of Laura Griffin-Austin, a 24-year-old woman slashed to death by her husband, Mark Austin in 1989. Hirsh successfully argued for Austin's acquittal by reason of insanity. His client spent 120 days in a mental hospital. Bill Walker, who spent his first 5 years as a defense lawyer assisting Hirsh at 14 or 15 trials, said he can only remember one loss. "That is astounding when you understand that 90 % of these things are usually lost." Prosecutors have law and public sentiment stacked in their favor, Hirsch said. Even with mandatory sentences and juries primed to convict, prosecutors cross ethical lines, he said. He said Pima County's problems began during the 20-year tenure of County Attorney Steve Neely and continued with his successor, Barbara LaWall. "I liked Steve Neely, but there was a culture that developed under him. He cowed the judges. He helped pass mandatory sentencing laws," Hirsh said. That attitude encouraged lawyers such as Ken Peasley, who was the office's top prosecutor before being charged with eliciting false testimony in a triple-murder trial, Hirsh said. Peasley was disbarred last year. Peasley's actions and those of the late David White, another top prosecutor, whose conduct forced LaWall's office to drop charges against a woman charged with murder, are simply the acknowledged excesses of an unfair system, said Hirsh. Spangenberg criticisms LaWall said Peasley and White do not represent the way her office runs. "I don't have an explanation for them, but the people in my office really take their professionalism and their ethics very seriously." The 2003 Spangenberg report concluded that "several policies of the County Attorney's Office contribute to the overall high cost of indigent defense in Pima County, including a high rate of pre-indictment dismissals, a high trial rate, late or questionable plea offers and delayed or incomplete discovery." Those studies also criticized the Public Defender's Office for lax record-keeping and poor management. LaWall, who took office in 1997, said the trial rate dropped from 16.3 % in 1993 to 7.74 % last year. "I've listened to what other people had to say, that 'you try too many cases,' " she said. "We target the most serious, most violent, most repetitive offenders for trial." Richard Lougee, the defense attorney who doggedly pursued charges against Peasley after he uncovered false police testimony during the 1997 retrial of two suspects in the 1992 triple murder at the South Side El Grande Market, said the county has been in dire need of someone to out-tough the county attorney. The Public Defender's Office still has plenty of good lawyers who should be doing the high-profile trial cases that are now being mostly farmed out to private lawyers, Lougee said. Hooker said his office currently represents 40 % of the indigent caseload in Pima County. The Legal Defender's Office, created to take cases in which the Public Defender has conflicts, takes 20 % and the rest go to private attorneys under contract. His office should be doing 75 % of the cases, he said. -- Robert J. Hirsh - Education: University of Arizona, B.S. 1960; UA law school, J.D. 1964 - Admitted to practice: Arizona and U.S. District Courts, 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals, U.S. Supreme Court - Successful defense of Stephen Steinberg of Scottsdale, found not guilty by reason of insanity in the 1981 stabbing murder of his wife, Elana. The trial became a book, "Death of a Jewish American Princess" by Shirley Frondorf. - Successful insanity defense of Mark Austin in the April 1989 murder of his wife, Laura Griffin-Austin, the case that led to a change in Arizona law on insanity defenses. - Successful defense of David L. Grandstaff, who was acquitted of the $3.3 million robbery of a Tucson bank in 1981. - Defense of the Rev. John Fife, co-founder of the Sanctuary Movement. Fife was found guilty of three counts of smuggling Central Americans into the United States after a six-month federal trial in 1986. Fife served no prison time. Robert J. Hooker - Education: Chico State University, B.S. 1965; University of California, M.A. 1967; University of Arizona law school, J.D., 1972 - Admitted to practice: Arizona and U.S. District Court, 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, U.S. Supreme Court - Hooker practiced mostly civil and criminal defense law for 30 years in Tucson, with clients including drug kingpins, Teamsters officials, trustees of the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum and members of the Traditional Indian Alliance. - In 1976, in a federal crackdown on giving aid to undocumented immigrants that preceded the Sanctuary Movement, Hooker successfully argued for dismissal of all charges against Margo Cowan and the Manzo Area Council. - Appointed judge of Pima County Superior Court by Gov. Bruce Babbitt in 1980. He served 3 years before resigning to return to private practice. (source: Arizona Daily Star) LOUISIANA: The evolution of Angola -- Reinvention has been constant at Louisiana State Penitentiary The story of the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola, like so many stories in Louisiana history, is one of people, politics and plantations. It's not a pretty story, but it's one that warden Burl Cain and other prison reformers have worked hard to change. "I think that there has been more human suffering in this place than in any place in the world," said Cain, who has served as warden at Angola for 10 years, "longer than anybody in the history of Angola." Cain bases his theory on stories repeated over generations of how Angola began as a "slave-breeding plantation" along with tales of decades and decades of inmate cruelty. The penitentiary today is far different, but it is hard to escape its storied past. Angola, which houses about 5,100 inmates, occupies 18,000 acres of the richest farmland in the state. Like many older prisons in the South, it is run like a big farm. "Angola is the perfect place for a prison," said Jack Field, a member of the board of the Louisiana State Penitentiary Museum. "It's guarded on 3 sides by the Mississippi River and on the 4th side by the Tunica Hills." Angola was Louisiana's 3rd major prison. The 1st was the old New Orleans City Jail described by University of Louisiana at Lafayette Criminal Justice Associate Professor Burk Foster in "The Wall is Strong: Corrections in Louisiana" as "a nasty place -- a dirty, insect-ridden dumping place for men, women and children, who were mixed together for a variety of criminal and noncriminal offenses." Louisiana's 1st state penitentiary was built in 1835 at the corner of 6th and Laurel streets in Baton Rouge. Known as "the walls" for the 24-foot-high brick wall surrounding the facility, the prison contained individual cells for the prisoners, who worked together in silence doing factory or craft work, Foster wrote. To save funds, the state began leasing the prisoners to plantation owners who used them as laborers in exchange for their care. As Mark T. Carlton wrote in "Politics and Punishment: A History of the Louisiana State Penal System," "Louisiana leased her convicts to a number of private operators, if possible for profit; but if profit was not possible, leasing was at least a means of avoiding the expense of maintaining the prisoners." In 1844, the penitentiary with all of its inmates was leased to the firm of McHatton, Pratt and Co., which paid nothing for the lease, Carlton wrote, with only the duty to maintain the penitentiary. "And if the lessees were to prosper, little time could be devoted to reforming or rehabilitating the convicts, for such distractions would cut deeply into working hours and thus decrease profits," Carlton wrote. In 1869, the lease was purchased by Maj. Samuel James, who also leased the 8,500-acre cotton plantation, Angola, from the widow of Isaac Franklin, the Southern slave trader and planter. The name is said to have come from the area in Africa that was the home of many of the plantation's former slaves. Immediately James began moving convicts from the penitentiary in Baton Rouge to Angola, which he actually purchased in 1880 for $100,000. Until James died in 1894, he ran what Carlton called "the most cynical, profit-oriented and brutal prison regime in Louisiana history." James worked the convicts on his personal property and hired them out to work on other plantations. "They worked the land, farming and cutting timber, they performed as household servants, they traveled not only 'up the river' but 'down the river' as well on Major James's' steamboat, repairing and building levees in the never-ending struggle to contain the Mississippi and protect the rich farmland," Foster wrote. When James died suddenly in 1894, his descendants continued the lease until it expired, and on Jan. 1, 1901, the state regained control of the prison system. "The Angola Story" a history developed by the Louisiana State Penitentiary Museum, describes the early years of state control of Angola, when the penitentiary was operated as a large prison farm by a board of control, a 3-member panel appointed by the governor. Under its auspices, the state purchased Angola from James' heirs. The Legislature abolished the board of control in 1916 and appointed Henry L. Fuqua as general manager of the penitentiary. Fuqua instituted numerous reforms including firing most of the security officers, establishing a system of selected inmate trusty guards and getting rid of the traditional black-and-white striped uniforms. In eight different purchases of property, he secured the surrounding plantations, bringing the total penitentiary acreage to its present 18,000. Partly because of the reputation Fuqua made as a prison reformer, he was elected governor in 1924. But the reforms did not last. Major floods in 1903, 1912, 1922 and 1927 ruined the crops, and coupled with the Great Depression, Angola was thrown into economic chaos. Even though life at Angola was difficult in the early part of the 20th century, inmates had never been kept behind bars. During the years that James ran the prison, inmates lived in the plantation's old slave cabins. When the state took control, barracks were built for the inmates, who were guarded by armed guards. But after a major prison break in 1933 resulting in the death of two prison guards, things changed drastically. The 1934-36 biennial report of the Louisiana State Penitentiary described the changes brought on by the big prison break as well as some 113 escapes from 1932-34. "The September tragedy of 1933 showed clearly that trouble-makers must be segregated and placed under conditions of very definite control," the report said. The result was the infamous Red Hat Cellblock built in 1935. The facility, which got its name from the red hats worn by workers in the tall fields of sugarcane, had 40 cells of reinforced concrete reserved for the incorrigibles. "These troublesome convicts are housed there under absolute control," the report said. "The occupant can't hold secret caucus with others; he can't terrorize others; he can't stealthily leave his bed and approach a sleeping man to do him harm while the guard is not looking -- he is under control." The application to place the Red Hat Cellblock on the National Register of Historic Places describes it as a "notorious place in Angola history and legend." Inmates had tiny cells with concrete beds with what was described by Angola's legendary nurse, Mary Margaret Daugherty, as "an odor that would knock you down." "There was no heat and no air in the building," said classification officer Merriet Thomas. One thing the cellblock did have was an execution chamber, where the electric chair was set up. "The old generator is still sitting in the back behind the building," Thomas said. Along with the new cellblock came guard towers manned by guards with rifles and modern weapons, all causing writer Harnett Kane in a 1939 news story to proclaim Angola as the "Alcatraz of the South." In 1951, some 31 inmates slashed their heel tendons to protest conditions at the prison. The incident brought nationwide attention to Angola, and in a Collier's magazine story, the facility was labeled "America's Worst Prison." In the following year, in his successful run for governor, Robert F. Kennon campaigned on the need to "clean up" Angola. As a result, during his term of office, the main prison complex was completed in 1955, convict stripes were again eliminated and other major improvements were made to the prison. The improvements were short-lived. After a serious reduction in the corrections budget in the early 1960s, Angola went through a period of decline during which the prison became known as "the bloodiest prison in the South" for the "number of inmate upon inmate assaults and deaths," the museum-compiled history states. Gov. Edwin Edwards appointed Elayne Hunt as director of corrections after his election in 1972. She began a massive program of prison reform, including the closing of the Red Hat Cellblock. "She said it was inhumane," Thomas said. After her death in 1976, her work of reform was continued by C. Paul Phelps. Among the improvements were the building of four new camps, major renovations to the existing facilities and better medical care for the prisoners. These days, because of the work of the prison staff and inmates, the grounds at Angola are immaculate, crops are thriving, workers participate in numerous prison industries, and there are a variety of educational opportunities. It's not freedom, but things are far better than they were in Angola's past. In one project, Wheels for the World, inmates repair old wheelchairs and ship them to needy people all over the world. At a vocational school, inmates can learn a variety of skills including culinary arts, graphic arts and auto mechanics. There's a Bible college, a mop and broom factory, a fabrication shop and the main prison kitchen. In one area of Angola, prison employees and inmates breed Percheron horses. "These are a breed of war horses originally built for battle," said Master Sgt. Greg Eirick. "They average about 2,300 pounds." The horses are used every day to haul vegetables and for plowing. "They're for work, and that's what we use them for, especially with the cost of gasoline and diesel today," Eirick said. They also breed police horses, which have been sent all over the country. "We're the only prison in the U.S. to do that," Cain said. Most importantly, Angola remains a prison farm with "just field after field after field, thousands of acres in cultivation," Jack Field said. The prisoners operate a processing plant for the vegetable crops, where they are freeze-blasted for cold storage. "That way we have fresh vegetables year round," Thomas said. Even executions at Angola are more humane. Before the state acquired a portable electric chair in 1941, prisoners were executed by hanging. Since 1991, execution has been by lethal injection in a special room with a separate viewing area for members of the victim's family, media and either the inmate's religious adviser or his lawyer. "Burl Cain tries to make sure that every inmate who gets on that table has made peace with Jesus," Field said. "It's a pretty somber thing. We're talking about lives." Cain meets with an inmate on death row several times after his execution date has been set. "I tell them not to meet Jesus with a lie," said Cain, who understands the conflicts people have with the death penalty. "Some of these inmates do horrible things," he said. "They can't live with society, but the people do care. That's just American." Inmates who die at Angola and whose families do not wish to bury them are taken to the Angola graveyard. Point Lookout, the old Angola cemetery, overlooks a newer cemetery, opened in 1996, where inmates are buried from a 19th-century-style horse-driven hearse made by the inmates themselves and first used in 1998. "Burials today are much different than they used to be," Thomas said. In 1998, the Louisiana State Penitentiary Museum was opened to preserve Angola's historic past. Among the items on view are the original electric chair, homemade contraband weapons, old records, photos from past floods, a wall of tribute to officers who died in the line of duty and the new hearse. "The museum is a wonderful thing for us," Cain said. "It's such a famous prison and so historical. The museum is a reminder for us not to go back to the old days at Angola." Many of the items were collected from employees, who had taken them home as souvenirs. "The employees saved things and brought them back," he said. Cain has worked hard to emphasize the rehabilitation aspect of prison life. "This place doesn't operate like the past at all," he said. "We call this the land of new beginnings. When inmates come in, we don't care about the past." (source: The Advocate) INDIANA: Melcher admits killing pregnant wife, 11-month-old son The man Jeffersonville police believe responsible for the murders of his pregnant wife and 11-month-old son has admitted to the crimes and has asked to be put to death, a police spokesman said. Zachariah Melcher, 27, told police that on the morning of April 16 he strangled his 23-year-old wife Christian Melcher, who was eight months pregnant, and suffocated his 11-month-old son, Zach Jaiden Melcher, by placing a plastic bag over the child's head, Det. Maj. Charles Thompson said. The detective said an autopsy conducted Saturday in Louisville confirmed the man's story. "He said he killed them on Saturday morning," Thompson said. "He said he wasn't mad, he wasn't enraged." Thompson said Melcher then told police "he would like to have the death penalty as soon as possible." Clark County Prosecutor Steve Stewart said he might be able to oblige Melcher's death wish. "Obviously, the death penalty is on the table," Stewart said during an interview Saturday. "A final decision will be made only after a full review of all of the evidence." Stewart said Melcher would likely face an initial hearing on Monday afternoon or Tuesday in Clark Circuit Court on three counts of murder. He is eligible for the third because Indiana law permits a murder charge when a "viable" fetus is killed. The law defines such a fetus as one that could survive outside the mother's womb. The murders would appear to qualify Melcher for the death penalty based on at least a pair of aggravating circumstances - the murder of a child less than 12 years old and the murdur of multiple people. The bodies of Christian and Zach were found in their apartment in the 600 block of Maple Street Friday morning by a neighbor. Police had searched the apartment on Thursday after Christian's father, Michael Young, reported her missing and told police he had not heard from his daughter since early on the morning of April 16. Young told police that a fight between Christian and Zachariah might have led to her disappearance. Melcher was arrested around 3 p.m. Friday in the 100 block of East Chestnut Street, Thompson said, and he confessed to the crimes several hours later. He was arrested on a bench warrant from Floyd Circuit Court that was issued earlier in the week, after he failed to appear for a hearing to determine whether to revoke Melcher's probation from a pair of 1997 class B felony burglary convictions. Melcher will likely face a charge of resisting law enforcement after trying to flee police while handcuffed. Thompson said Christian's and Zach's bodies were found in the apartment's laundry room in a plastic container and that Zachariah Melcher had attempted to use deodorizers to cover up the odor. "He said he done that so he could buy himself time," Thompson said. The detective said that during interviews with investigators, Melcher showed no remorse for the murders and was indignant that they would only be able to build a circumstantial case against them. "He said, 'So what if you find my fingerprints on stuff, I live there,'" Thompson said. Thompson said police were able to file an information and probable cause affidavit for the murders after a pair of witnesses corroborated Melcher's story about how he killed his wife and child. "He told both of them (Friday)," he said. At least 1 neighbor reported seeing Melcher coming and going from the apartment, which is 1 of 2 in the two-story home in which the family lived. Death penalty If Stewart decides to seek the death penalty for Melcher, it would be the 5th such case in Clark County since 1977, according to the Clark County Prosecutor's Web site. The most recent Clark County death penalty case involved the 1992 conviction of Theodore Helfenbein for the April 20, 1991 murder of his 10-year-old son Michael Helfenbein at the Memphis Truck Stop. The elder Helfenbein shot his sleeping son 5 times with a .25-caliber pistol then drove to Scottsburg, called police and turned himself in. He had previously been convicted of murdering a soldier in Florida in 1962 and had served 11 years in prison there. During the trial for his son's murder, Helfenbein testified he wanted the death penalty and the jury unanimously recommended a death sentence, but Clark Circuit Judge Daniel F. Donahue sentenced Helfenbein to 94 years in prison and his anticipated release date is April of 2038, when he is 95 years old. "That was a case I prosecuted," Stewart said. Such a discrepancy between a jury's recommendation and the sentence is no longer possible, Stewart said, because state law has been changed to require judges to follow the jury's recommended sentence. The other 3 death penalty cases include: - James Kenneth Utley, who was convicted in 1989 of the Feb. 18, 1988 murders of Karen Smith, 26, and her 3-year-old daughter Jacqueline in their Cole Road home in New Washington. The jury in Utley's case could not agree on a death sentence and on April 18, 1989 Shelby Circuit Judge Charles D. O'Connor sentenced him to 170 years in prison. Utley's anticipated release date is February 2073, when he will be 107. - Latine Marie Gordon Davidson, who was convicted of the July 31, 1983 murder of Shaccara Dayann Gordon and the Jan. 4, 1985 murder of Rodriguez Sanches Escabar Felicciones. Then a 21-year-old mother of 4, Davidson was convicted of killing her children, each whom was approximately 14 months old at the time they were murdered, in bathtubs at homes in which she lived on Rhonda Drive and Riddle Street. In each case, Davidson had secured large life insurance policies for the children. On Dec. 2, 1986, after a jury was unable to agree on a death sentence, then-Clark Superior Court Judge Clementine Barthold sentenced Davidson to 120 years in prison. Davidson's anticipated release date from prison is June 2065, when she will be 80. - Russell Earnest Boyd was sentenced to death on Oct. 4, 1983 by the late Clark Circuit Judge Clifford Maschmeyer, following Boyd's conviction of the murder of Judith Falkenstein. Ten years later Special Judge Robert L. Bennett set aside the death sentence, citing that Boyd's defense attorneys were ineffective in presenting mitigating circumstances on the defendant's behalf. Boyd then entered into a sentencing agreement and was sentenced to 80 years, the maximum allowed under the statutes at the time Falkenstein was killed. His anticipated release date is August 2022, when he will be 64. Last triple murder Jeffersonville's last triple murder was the result of a Sept. 11, 1999 arson at 819 Colonial Park Drive. Shawn Bald, who was 16 when the murders were committed, was convicted of the crimes. Bald was sentenced to 185 years for the murders of Alan D. Rumple, 40; Jennifer L. Steinberger, 24, and their 4-month-old son, Alan Rumple Jr. According to the Indiana Department of Correction Web site, Bald, 22, is incarcerated at the Wabash Valley Long Term Segregation and is ineligible for release for another 101 years. The murders were part of a wave of violence in Jeffersonville that led to a community outcry that prompted then-Mayor Tom Galligan to create the Jeffersonville Youth Commission. The commission, which is directed by Beverly Knight, gives youths the opportunity to learn about government, perform voluntary civic service and participate in fun, constructive activities. (source: The New Albany Tribune)
