This is the story of a man by the name of James. James is a Savannah local, and as far as I know, a couch hopper and laborer who takes any work he’s offered. He’s a quiet fellow – contemplative and reserved by nature, but I got to know him over many cups coffee, and now he’s rarely either of those things. He and I have talked about almost everything, but his favorite subjects include the latest news from the projects, the crazy Baptists up the road, and the most recent injustices he’s witnessed. He has told me a great deal about himself, his son the underground rapper, and his ex-wife, but his most interesting story had to do with a false accusation landed him in jail and almost ruined his life.

It all happened about 30 years ago. Back in the nineties, when James was a young man in his late 20’s, he lived less than an hour across the Georgia border in a relatively small South Carolina town. From what I understand, it was late December one year, when there was an armed robbery at a local corner drugstore. One person was hurt, and hundreds of dollars were stolen. As it would be expected in a case like this, the police were called and an investigation was opened to catch the perp.

The cops didn’t have much to go on, but what they did have led them to three or four suspects. This is where they hit a dead end, so they resorted to a lineup.

Police lineups have historically been dubious at best, but despite this, they continue to be used in almost every local law enforcement office. The office investigating this particular armed robbery was no different. The police set the sole witness down in front of a binder of faces and names and asked if any of them looked familiar. The witness pointed out one of the men the police suspected, and the police knew they had their guy – but there was a mistake. The suspect’s face did not match the name beneath. The name was James’.

It was Christmas Eve when James’ mother got a knock on her door. From what I understand, she was a short, skinny woman whose taste in decoration matched her elderly age. She opened the door to two detectives with an arrest warrant for her son. They barged in demanding to know where he was, searching the premises as they went. His mother couldn’t believe it. James was a kind soul with a modest but steady job. He couldn’t have committed armed robbery, much less hurt someone. As she told the police this, they were understanding of her opinion of her son but were steadfast in their convictions. James was their perp. She finally asked to see the evidence they had, so they said that they had a witness pick him out and showed her the picture.

“That’s not my son.” Four words the detectives were not expecting to hear. She promptly showed them an actual picture of James, and they realized their mistake. This was not the end, though. In order to be thorough, they placed the witness in front of another lineup, this time with the correct names, but also with James’ picture. After a few minutes, the witness again picked out James, presumably not because of the face but rather because she recognized his name. The police promptly arrested James with their new witness statement in hand.

James didn’t have enough money for bail or a lawyer. The court-appointed defense attorney suggested a plea bargain, but James was not about to admit to a crime he didn’t commit. His mother ended up taking out a loan so that he could hire a new lawyer and post bail.

“You did the right thing.” His lawyer immediately said upon reviewing his case. The prosecution was so full of holes it was laughable, but an acquittal was only possible if they could show just how flawed the second lineup was. At the advice of his lawyer, James made a trip up to Charleston to visit a professor and forensic psychologist who could help. He arrived over the professor’s lunch break so without any other options, he sat in the waiting room for two hours, waiting for 5 minutes to make his case.

When the professor arrived back, James laid out the facts of his less than favorable predicament. Impressed with both James’ initiative and the police’s incompetence, the professor not only agreed to help build his defense and testify as an expert witness but also agreed to do it pro bono. James returned home grateful and hopeful for the first time since he was arrested.

The day of his trial came quickly. His defense was prepared, he was dressed in his best and only suit, and his mom was sitting right behind him. Both parties laid out their cases, and on the second day after the closing arguments, the jury left the room to deliberate. James hugged his mom, not knowing if he would get to do that if the jury came back with a bad verdict. Thirty-five minutes later, the jury came back out.

Thirty-five minutes is not a lot of time, especially for a jury. Short deliberations mean that there is little doubt in the juror’s minds, and could mean harsher sentencing if they vote to convict. James knew this and was sweating with nervous anticipation. Despite their solid defense, nothing was guaranteed. The foreman read the verdict.

“Not guilty on all accounts”

“It’s a relief that is indescribable and not recreatable,” He later recounted to me. “I beat the system – A corrupt system.”

Since then because of his debts from his mother’s loan and all the fines and fees from late payments, James has fallen on hard times. He is nevertheless free and does not go a day without remembering and being grateful for that fact. When he does finally speak up, he won’t be the loudest voice, but he will be one of the most passionate. He will tell you exactly what injustices he sees in the world, and what we can do to remedy them. And when he has to go, he’ll stand, shake your hand and ride off on his rusty bike with nothing but a head nod and a half smile as a farewell.