By Patricia Nooyen
One of the reasons I chose to become a researcher for documentary films is my love for interviewing. I tend to ask a lot of questions, and have always been curious to discover the inner world of others and understand the reasons for their actions. I have daydreamed about going through the portal in Spike Jonze’s Being John Malkovich (2000); a tunnel that allows main character Craig Schwartz to enter the mind of renowned actor John Malkovich. The further he probes into Malkovich’ mind, the deeper he actually delves into his own. To some degree, the interview can resemble such a portal: an opening into someone else’s world of experience that also holds up a mirror. It’s what I experienced when I visited the Innocence Project Conference in Phoenix, Arizona as part of my research for False Confessions, a 6-part series Les Lemons is currently developing.
The series is a deep dive into the minds of people who falsely confessed to crimes they did not commit. Our investigation not only uncovers the harrowing processes that lead to such confessions, but also challenges the viewer to confront a perplexing aspect of human behavior: Why would someone admit to a crime they never committed? The annual conference of the Innocence Project seemed like a great place to start asking these questions. The project is a coalition of organisations committed to fighting wrongful convictions and providing aid to the exonerated, with a two-day programme consisting of lectures, readings, panel discussions and workshops. My job was to find experts and protagonists who could potentially contribute to our series, as well as acquainting myself with the current state of science regarding false confessions.
The event took place in a Wes Anderson setting. The Arizona Grand Resort & Spa encompasses seven acres filled with lavish residences awash in cream and gold, a picturesque hilly golf course, an exuberant aqua park and not to forget the royal buffets served at the resort’s restaurants, providing both quality and quantity.
Being visibly younger than everyone else and wearing one of the very few “press” key-cords, my presence didn’t go unnoticed. Many attendees seemed interested in my role and background and were eager to talk. It soon became clear that the occasion was a wonderful way to connect in a highly personal and informal manner.
The turnout was overwhelming. About 900 people attended the opening plenary in the Ball Room, counting 300 exonerated men and women, along with their families, researchers, policymakers, advocates, educators, forensic scientists, journalists and members of the general public. The opening speech was given by master of ceremonies Ricky Kidd, who spent 23 years in Missouri’s notorious maximum-security prisons for a double murder in Kansas City he did not commit. His loud and cogent voice, calling for action and engagement through poetry and spoken word, sent shivers down my spine and set the tone for the spirit that permeated the conference, guided by collective action, healing and resilience. “Time is the only thing you lose that you can never get back, but I remember down the track, repeating to myself, it’s not where you are Ricky, it’s where you are going,” he exclaimed with all his might. Exuberant clapping and yelling came in response.
What followed were two jam-packed days in which I tried to absorb as much relevant information as possible, whilst also trying to make valuable connections. In my search for knowledge and information I sat front row at a number of lectures and panel discussions and held interviews with some renowned false confession experts, among which Steven Drizin and Laura Nirider, two lawyers and legal scholars who together founded the Center on Wrongful Convictions at the Northwestern University Pritzker School of Law. Initially, the networking took place in the in-between-moments, during the meals and coffee breaks. The encounters were therefore mostly short; many greetings and business cards were exchanged. The mood shifted when the sun set and all the attendees moved to the dinner tables. No more obligations and things to miss out on. The hastiness subsided and now the type of conversations changed. Especially with the exonerees.
Often with glistening eyes, the exonerees told me how grateful and happy they are. How alive they feel. As the conversation progressed, they revealed their life stories, inescapably describing the hostility and torment of their years spent in jail. “One night I got in an argument with a guard and was put in an ice cell without clothes, to potentially let me freeze to death,” one exoneree told me. “We were treated like rats. Prison is the darkest place on earth.” All languages fail to describe the horrors these people went through. And yet, whilst telling those dark stories, none of the exonerees displayed a trace of sorrow or anger. They were extremely grateful to be heard and welcomed, their past seemingly buried. They truly seemed able to live according to those lines Ricky Kidd shouted during the opening speech: “It’s not where you are, it’s where you are going.”
While it is admirable that these freed people have reconfigured themselves and maintained such a positive outlook on life, the truth is that they are haunted by a dark past. Decades of their lives were stolen from them, and even though they embrace the present, irreparable harm has been done. During my visit to the conference and the ensuing discussions, the injustice, racism, and cruelty of America’s justice system became painfully palpable. I had thoroughly researched the topic for our series plan, specifically in relation to false confessions. While scrutinising the subject, my viewpoint on America’s criminal justice system—that it is fundamentally flawed—was not only reaffirmed, but it also reached new heights. I learned that the phenomenon of false confessions is one of the chief contributing factors to false imprisonment in the United States, accounting for approximately 15–25% of wrongful convictions and that they are most often coerced through highly psychologically manipulative methods of police interrogations in which racial disparities prevail.
I knew about the scientific theories and discriminatory deceptive laws and procedures surrounding false confessions, and while it did fuel my anger and sense of urgency to raise awareness, my chief concern in this project was still the science. After all, it was our aim to produce a series which would focus on the psychological underpinnings of how false confessions come about. The how and why behind it. However, during my interviews with the exonerees, science was of little relevance. Their personal stories now mattered most, and whilst hearing those, it sometimes felt like an invite into the magical portal in Spike Jonze’s film. Of course, I didn’t enter the very being of the exonerees – I will never come to experience what they did – but I did feel an unparalleled closeness that was intimate and visceral.
The stories uncovered profound tales of human resilience, illustrating how this remarkable strength extends far beyond the bounds of reason, touching the very essence of the human spirit. Philip Richards (77) survived the longest wrongful prison sentence in American history by writing poetry and painting with watercolours. He never stopped singing. I confessed to one exoneree that if I were to spend my days in a jail cell, with no hope of release, I’d probably give up. My spirit would crash. “But you don’t know what you are capable of until you live it,” I was then told. This remark forced me to reconsider what makes life worth living. I thought about how, when resilient enough, there might always be a flickering, distant light at the end of a very dark tunnel. You yourself are responsible for keeping the switch on. I still don’t know if I’d be able to keep it on, but it was now imaginable.
Visiting the conference changed me. I left Phoenix feeling compelled to focus more intently on the voices of our main protagonists—the victims—who should not be regarded merely as cases, but as people with urgent stories to tell. I found it crucial for our future audience to glean from their world of experience, just as I did during my conversations with them when the roles of interviewer and interviewee dissolved, and we spoke freely, like friends.