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He painted an old tree in the middle of the field. He painted low branches jutting off the trunk, just below the green leaves. And for a while he was not in prison. He was perched in the tree, breathing fresh air, looking out past the sunflowers toward the open horizon. The boy was too young to understand why. He only knew that Daddy was gone, and now they were poor, living above a barbershop, paint chipping off the walls. Years passed, and his mother got a better job, a new husband, but Richard Phillips Jr. He kept that old metal button, with the picture of himself and his dad on that day at the State Fair in , and sometimes, when he opened his drawer to get his wallet, he looked at the picture again.
Who was that man looking up at him? A good dad, he thought, trying to remember, but no, he kept hearing otherwise.
Your dad is a crook. Your dad is a murderer.
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If he said the right things, the governor might commute his life sentence, and he might go free. He was 63 years old, and had spent 38 of those years in the custody of the Michigan Department of Corrections, and he realized by now that people generally did not want to hear the truth, whatever the truth was, because in a man had lied, and that lie had apparently been believed by the police and prosecutors, or at least by the jury, and that lie had acquired the sheen of truth, the weight of authority, the force of justice, the power of the state, and so to dispute that lie was to make oneself a liar in the eyes of those who controlled his fate.
Tell the truth, whatever it is? He was a boy, standing before his stepfather, swearing he never took the watch, and down came the belt, tearing into his skin, and the sentence would be commuted if only he would confess—. Richard Palombo had a reason for his long silence. In a telephone interview with CNN in , Palombo said he had been afraid, afraid of Fred Mitchell, afraid to talk about what they did together in He closed his eyes and saw the face of the dead man, Gregory Harris, and worried that Harris was waiting for him on the other side. Palombo had nightmares.
He prayed for forgiveness. All along, he kept filing appeals, and when something worked he wrote to Richard Phillips and encouraged him to try the same thing. They were lost in the system together. One motion was filed in and not heard until , when Judge Helen E. Brown granted new trials once again. Now he told another story, one that had never before come to light.
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In , while serving time at the Michigan Reformatory, Palombo worked in the kitchen with Fred Mitchell. They became friends. Mitchell told Palombo he would get those guys when he got out of prison. Mitchell got out first, and Palombo followed. They met up and began planning a robbery at a convenience store. Palombo had a pistol. They cased out the store.
It was daylight, and they had no getaway car, so Palombo said he would take the bus home. At the bus stop, he heard Mitchell calling his name. Now they had a car. Gregory Harris was driving. Palombo got in the back seat, ready for the robbery. Harris stopped the car and went into a store to buy cigarettes. Mitchell asked Palombo for the gun, and Palombo handed it over. Mitchell put the gun in his waistband. Harris came back and started the car. Harris pulled into the alley.
Mitchell pulled out the gun and shot Harris in the head. Time seemed to slow down for Palombo. Mitchell fired again. The gun sounded distant as smoke curled in the air. Harris opened his door and slid out of the car. Mitchell followed him across the front seat, stood over him, and shot him again. Palombo complied. They put the body on the rear floorboard.
Mitchell drove to the suburbs, along 19 Mile Road, and pulled off in a secluded field. Mitchell and Palombo carried the body into the field. They left it there and drove away. Phillips was totally innocent? Palombo never made it out of prison. His entreaties to the parole board had no effect. When the pandemic arrived in the spring of , he was among those who tested positive for Covid He died April 19 at age 71, with an appeal pending in the Michigan Supreme Court.
What does it take to reverse a wrongful conviction? In , Palombo took matters into his own hands. Moran and his law students dug into the case. They persuaded a judge to grant Phillips a new trial. A fearless defense attorney named Gabi Silver agreed to represent him. During informal discussions, the prosecution floated an idea: Phillips could plead guilty and walk away with time served.
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Meanwhile he could go free for the first time in 46 years, if they could find him a place to stay. In a staff meeting at the Michigan Innocence Clinic, a new administrative assistant took her seat. Her colleagues were talking about a client who needed lodging. It was almost Christmas. Julie Baumer knew how it felt to get out of prison and look for a home.
In , her drug-addicted sister gave birth to a baby boy, and Baumer volunteered to care for him. The boy got sick.
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She took him to a hospital, where doctors found bleeding in the brain and suspected shaken baby syndrome. Baumer was arrested, convicted of first-degree child abuse, and sent to prison. Later, with help from the Innocence Clinic, she found six expert witnesses who testified at her second trial that the baby actually had a stroke.
Baumer lived with her year-old father, Jules, in a square-foot ranch house in Roseville, about 15 miles northeast of Detroit. And so Julie Baumer cleared the personal items out of her bedroom, remade the bed, and set herself up on a pull-out couch in the basement. It was December 14, , and her phone was ringing.
Phillips was on his way. But he felt wonderful. This was almost 50 Christmases rolled into one, and she was showing him to his room: a real bed, soft pillows, fresh pajamas, a light switch he could flip whenever he wanted. He could go to the bathroom and close the door. Baumer remembered her first meal after prison, a mediocre slice of pizza on the way to the homeless shelter, and she wanted to give Phillips something better. She called her friend and asked if he had any vouchers for the buffet. He did. They went downtown. Phillips filled his plate with chicken wings and barbecue ribs and mashed potatoes.
There were lots of desserts, too, but Phillips wanted one in particular. Baumer went to the dessert station and asked for a bowl with two scoops of vanilla ice cream. She brought it back and set it down. Phillips brought the spoon to his mouth. She took him to Meijer, the cavernous supermarket, and watched him admiring the deep shelves of orange juice. Fresh-squeezed, with pulp, without pulp, Tropicana, Minute Maid, never from concentrate.
He must have spent an hour taking in the glory. Baumer knew this feeling, too, the deprivation of prison, the gradual rewiring of your brain, the sensory jolt of reentry to the outside world. For her it was soap and lotion, this weird craving while she was locked away, and she got out and went to Meijer and spent a long time inhaling the scent of berry shampoo. Not to mention the second trial, if indeed the state intended to try Phillips again.
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These cases were exhausting, as David Moran had found at the Innocence Clinic. Again and again, Moran and his students would conclude that a convicted person was innocent. They would file a motion.
