softheart
08-14-2004, 01:09 PM
Aug. 14, 2004
Missouri
HEATHER HOLLINGSWORTH, Associated Press
KANSAS CITY, Mo. - For nearly two decades, Joe Amrine was known as
prisoner number CP48 - the 48th person sentenced to capital punishment in
Missouri since the death penalty was reinstated in 1977.
Now, his grandnieces and nephews call him "sucker Joe," he says, admitting
he once spent $117 at a convenience store on ball caps and candy for them.
It's been just more than a year since Amrine was freed from death row and
walked out of jail with all his possessions in two plastic garbage bags.
The prosecution's case fell apart when the former inmates who testified
against Amrine in a prison stabbing trial recanted. One of Amrine's
attorneys, Arthur Benson, is preparing a wrongful imprisonment suit.
After 26 years in prison, 17 of them on death row, the 47-year-old Kansas
City resident is tasting freedom - something that once scared him more
than being executed. Amrine said he knows how much is riding on his
success.
"For me to screw up, that would really be a terrible blow all around," he
said. "So, I feel a lot of pressure. I mean a lot."
A grant of about $30,000 allows him to work full-time for the same
attorneys who helped free him. He speaks at gatherings of anti-death
penalty activists and reviews claims from inmates seeking help from the
Innocence Project at the University of Missouri-Kansas City's law school.
"A lot of the cases the guys claim they are innocent despite overwhelming
evidence to the contrary," said Kent Gipson, an attorney with the Public
Interest Litigation Clinic in Kansas City. "Basically, screening the good
cases from the ones that are not good cases. I think he's developed some
insight being in prison that long."
The high school dropout also is studying for his GED and wants to become a
paralegal. He sometimes sits in on court cases, scribbling notes.
But despite the grant, there are bills he struggles to pay. Former inmates
flooded him with collect calls until he stopped accepting them, wracking
up a phone bill of $875 his first month out of prison and $1,300 the next
month.
His nine siblings say he moved into his own apartment too soon. They
question the new furniture and 60-inch television he bought.
But Amrine said he doesn't mind the bills.
"Actually, I love it," he said. "I love the idea of having the
responsibility of paying these bills every month - whether I'm late or
whether I can't pay it or not. Just the idea of being in the position to
try and do it. I love it. I love it to death."
Amrine was just 20 when he started serving a 15-year sentence for robbery,
burglary and forgery. With an older brother already in prison and another
brother recently released, Amrine made friends quickly and often found
himself in the middle of trouble.
Had he behaved, he said he probably would have been paroled long before
1985 when fellow inmate Gary Barber was stabbed to death. Amrine, who by
his own admission wasn't a "model inmate by a longshot," was questioned
and charged with the killing.
Key testimony against Amrine came from three former inmates, who later
said they lied to win special protection for themselves. When he was
sentenced to death, he had between 18 months and seven years left to serve.
On death row, Amrine kept busy playing basketball and worked with three
other inmates to help other prisoners with their cases - charging for some
and handling others for free.
The other inmates who helped Amrine were Doyle Williams, who beat a man
who could have testified against him in the burglary of a small-town
doctor's office in 1981; Roy "Hog" Roberts who was convicted of holding a
prison guard from behind during a 1983 riot as other inmates repeatedly
stabbed him; and Stephen K. Johns who was sentenced to death for killing a
gas station clerk during a 1982 robbery that netted $248.
"They used to be mad at me because I liked to play basketball and
handball," he said. "Whereas Doyle and Big Hog and Steve Johns, they lived
law library. They put a lot, a lot, a lot more time into it than I did."
Williams was executed on April 10, 1996; Roberts on March 10, 1999; and
Johns on Oct. 24, 2001.
With time, he said, the executions became easier. But not easy.
He still remembers when the guards came to take Robert "Tony" Murray to
the area where he would spend the last weeks of his life. Murray was at
the apartment where two St. Louis cabdrivers were shot to death in 1985.
His brother, William Murray, admitted he was the trigger man, but not
until 1991, after he was sentenced to life in prison and four years after
Tony Murray was sentenced to die for the killings.
"His cell was right above mine," Amrine said. "We was in a vent together.
And he was hollering through the vent, 'They coming to get me. They coming
to get me.' I faked like I was sleeping. Because I didn't know what to
say. I didn't know what to say. And he was a young guy."
He said he used to support the death penalty. But not after living it.
"Even right to this day, there might be some cases where it might be
appropriate," he said. "But because of so many flaws in it, you can't
guarantee that this person is getting the death sentence based off his
crime and his character alone."
---
Source : Associated Press
Missouri
HEATHER HOLLINGSWORTH, Associated Press
KANSAS CITY, Mo. - For nearly two decades, Joe Amrine was known as
prisoner number CP48 - the 48th person sentenced to capital punishment in
Missouri since the death penalty was reinstated in 1977.
Now, his grandnieces and nephews call him "sucker Joe," he says, admitting
he once spent $117 at a convenience store on ball caps and candy for them.
It's been just more than a year since Amrine was freed from death row and
walked out of jail with all his possessions in two plastic garbage bags.
The prosecution's case fell apart when the former inmates who testified
against Amrine in a prison stabbing trial recanted. One of Amrine's
attorneys, Arthur Benson, is preparing a wrongful imprisonment suit.
After 26 years in prison, 17 of them on death row, the 47-year-old Kansas
City resident is tasting freedom - something that once scared him more
than being executed. Amrine said he knows how much is riding on his
success.
"For me to screw up, that would really be a terrible blow all around," he
said. "So, I feel a lot of pressure. I mean a lot."
A grant of about $30,000 allows him to work full-time for the same
attorneys who helped free him. He speaks at gatherings of anti-death
penalty activists and reviews claims from inmates seeking help from the
Innocence Project at the University of Missouri-Kansas City's law school.
"A lot of the cases the guys claim they are innocent despite overwhelming
evidence to the contrary," said Kent Gipson, an attorney with the Public
Interest Litigation Clinic in Kansas City. "Basically, screening the good
cases from the ones that are not good cases. I think he's developed some
insight being in prison that long."
The high school dropout also is studying for his GED and wants to become a
paralegal. He sometimes sits in on court cases, scribbling notes.
But despite the grant, there are bills he struggles to pay. Former inmates
flooded him with collect calls until he stopped accepting them, wracking
up a phone bill of $875 his first month out of prison and $1,300 the next
month.
His nine siblings say he moved into his own apartment too soon. They
question the new furniture and 60-inch television he bought.
But Amrine said he doesn't mind the bills.
"Actually, I love it," he said. "I love the idea of having the
responsibility of paying these bills every month - whether I'm late or
whether I can't pay it or not. Just the idea of being in the position to
try and do it. I love it. I love it to death."
Amrine was just 20 when he started serving a 15-year sentence for robbery,
burglary and forgery. With an older brother already in prison and another
brother recently released, Amrine made friends quickly and often found
himself in the middle of trouble.
Had he behaved, he said he probably would have been paroled long before
1985 when fellow inmate Gary Barber was stabbed to death. Amrine, who by
his own admission wasn't a "model inmate by a longshot," was questioned
and charged with the killing.
Key testimony against Amrine came from three former inmates, who later
said they lied to win special protection for themselves. When he was
sentenced to death, he had between 18 months and seven years left to serve.
On death row, Amrine kept busy playing basketball and worked with three
other inmates to help other prisoners with their cases - charging for some
and handling others for free.
The other inmates who helped Amrine were Doyle Williams, who beat a man
who could have testified against him in the burglary of a small-town
doctor's office in 1981; Roy "Hog" Roberts who was convicted of holding a
prison guard from behind during a 1983 riot as other inmates repeatedly
stabbed him; and Stephen K. Johns who was sentenced to death for killing a
gas station clerk during a 1982 robbery that netted $248.
"They used to be mad at me because I liked to play basketball and
handball," he said. "Whereas Doyle and Big Hog and Steve Johns, they lived
law library. They put a lot, a lot, a lot more time into it than I did."
Williams was executed on April 10, 1996; Roberts on March 10, 1999; and
Johns on Oct. 24, 2001.
With time, he said, the executions became easier. But not easy.
He still remembers when the guards came to take Robert "Tony" Murray to
the area where he would spend the last weeks of his life. Murray was at
the apartment where two St. Louis cabdrivers were shot to death in 1985.
His brother, William Murray, admitted he was the trigger man, but not
until 1991, after he was sentenced to life in prison and four years after
Tony Murray was sentenced to die for the killings.
"His cell was right above mine," Amrine said. "We was in a vent together.
And he was hollering through the vent, 'They coming to get me. They coming
to get me.' I faked like I was sleeping. Because I didn't know what to
say. I didn't know what to say. And he was a young guy."
He said he used to support the death penalty. But not after living it.
"Even right to this day, there might be some cases where it might be
appropriate," he said. "But because of so many flaws in it, you can't
guarantee that this person is getting the death sentence based off his
crime and his character alone."
---
Source : Associated Press