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In the crosshairs of conscience: John Kitzhaber's death penalty reckoning

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To cope with his dread, John Kitzhaber opened his leather-bound journal and began to write.
It was a little past 9 on the morning of Nov. 22, 2011. Gary Haugen had dropped his appeals. A Marion County judge had signed the murderer's death warrant, leaving Kitzhaber, a former emergency room doctor, to decide Haugen's fate. The 49-year-old would soon die by lethal injection if the governor didn't intervene.
Kitzhaber was exhausted, having been unable to sleep the night before, but he needed to call the families of Haugen's victims.
"I know my decision will delay the closure they need and deserve," he wrote.
The son of University of Oregon English professors, Kitzhaber began writing each day in his journal in the early 1970s. The practice helped him organize his thoughts and, on that particular morning, gather his courage.
Kitzhaber first dialed the widow of David Polin, an inmate Haugen beat and stabbed to death in 2003 while already serving a life sentence fo…

When Your Lawyer Abandons You on Death Row

Texas' death house, The Walls Unit, Huntsville, Texas
Texas' death house, The Walls Unit, Huntsville, Texas
Another terrifying way the legal system screws the poor.

For two months, John Ramirez had been sitting in his cell in Texas's death row prison, counting down the days to his execution date and scrawling handwritten letters to anyone who would listen. His message: Get me a new lawyer.

Ramirez's execution was stayed last week just two days before he was scheduled to die, after a federal judge ruled that his court-appointed lawyer had failed to file a necessary clemency petition.

He's far from alone: Death row inmates around the country have faced the ultimate punishment after court-appointed lawyers abandoned them, declining to file motions or cutting off communication with their clients in the high-tension, high-stakes last weeks before an execution. It's one example of how America's criminal justice system remains skewed in terms of funding and resources toward prosecutors and away from poor defendants.

Ramirez was sentenced to death in December 2008 for the murder of Pablo Castro in Corpus Christi four years earlier, when he was 20. According to testimony at his trial, Ramirez and two women attacked Castro in an attempt to rob him for drug money, with Ramirez slashing his throat and stabbing him more than 20 times. He ended up with just $1.25 from Castro's pockets, and Ramirez wasn't arrested until three and a half years later near the Mexican border.

Now 32, Ramirez said in an interview with a local TV station last month that he was remorseful for his actions, but hoped his appeals would lead to a life sentence instead of an execution. "I was young and stupid and made a lot of bad choices that night," he said. "I never meant to do that—I didn't go out planning to take someone's life like that."

From the beginning, the man's legal representation has been lacking, to say the least, even if his own instincts about how to ward off capital punishment were suspect. At Ramirez's request, his attorney gave a closing argument at the punishment phase of his trial that consisted of reading a single-sentence bible verse: "For I know my transgressions and my sin is always before me. Amen."

Even so, the jury deliberated for three and a half hours over whether to give Ramirez death or a life sentence.

But the legal system's ugliest failure came when another, court-appointed attorney named Michael Gross represented Ramirez in his state and federal appeals, which were both unsuccessful. Last November, after his execution date had been set for February 2, Ramirez sent Gross a letter firing him and asking him to not file anything in his case. Meanwhile, Ramirez's godmother struggled to find him a new lawyer.

But federal law makes clear that once an attorney is appointed, they have a responsibility to represent their client all the way up to their execution, including by filing clemency petitions. The only way to get out of that responsibility is to go to the judge and have them substitute in a new lawyer.

John Ramirez
Gross didn't do that. In a motion in federal court, he said that he attempted to find a new lawyer for Ramirez but was unable to do so. The deadline for Ramirez to file a clemency petition—January 12—came and went without Gross taking any action.

Finally, Ramirez's godmother got in touch with Gregory Gardner, another lawyer who agreed to help, according to court records. Gardner filed multiple motions in federal court two weeks ago, arguing that Gross had neglected his duties and urging the judge to postpone Ramirez's execution and appoint a new lawyer. 

Last Tuesday, just two days before Ramirez was scheduled to be executed, Judge Nelva Gonzales Ramos agreed with Gardner's argument, staying Ramirez's execution. "At the heart of this case is an inmate whose attorney neglected an important legal obligation," she wrote. An appeals court upheld her decision on Wednesday.

Garner said he was heartened by the judge's ruling. "We're seeing that the federal courts are not going to allow people to be executed when their attorneys stopped working for them," he said.

This doesn't appear to be the first time Gross has let a client down just before their execution.

Lawyers and professors who study capital punishment say it's hard to pinpoint how many death row inmates are left high and dry by their lawyers when it matters most. "It happens more than we would like to admit," said Kathryn Kase, a senior counsel at the nonprofit criminal justice legal group Texas Defender Service. "Sometimes there are attorneys available to step in, but there's not always someone who has the capacity to do it."

For many years, attorneys in Texas (and other states) who were appointed to defend death row inmates didn't get paid for any work they did after their last appeal to the Supreme Court was denied, according to Kase. That meant that in some cases, if they filed a clemency petition or made last-minute motions to try to save their client's life, they'd essentially be working pro bono.

"Some attorneys make the decision that they would rather pay the rent than fight what they feel will be a losing battle," Kase said, adding that the law is now clear that this is not permitted.

Click here to read the full article

Source: VICE, Casey Tolan, February 6, 2017

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