Post by POA on Mar 31, 2004 15:44:42 GMT -5
Published on Tuesday, August 20, 2002 by the lndependent/UK
American Travesty
When 46 people were arrested for drug offenses in the sleepy Texas town of Tulia, the local lawman was hailed as a hero. But there was a problem – almost all of the defendants were black, and there wasn't a shred of evidence. Andrew Gumbel reports on an extraordinary story of racism and police corruption
by Andrew Gumbel
Kizzie White was still fast asleep when the police came knocking on her door in the early hours on 23 July, 1999. She had no idea what they could possibly want. After all, she was an ordinary 24-year-old mother of two small children living in Tulia, a small, dusty farming town of 5,000 souls in northern Texas. She had never been in trouble for anything in her life.
They told her, to her astonishment, that she was under arrest on drugs charges and ordered her out of the house. She asked if she could at least put her clothes on, but they said no. "I had on boxers and a T-shirt with no underclothes on. With no shoes on," she recounts much later. "Basically, they took me out half-naked."
When the squad car reached the Swisher County courthouse in the center of town, she saw that dozens of others had been arrested just like her. Men were being paraded across the courthouse lawn in their underwear, their hair uncombed and their faces lost in bewilderment. Every last detainee, as far as she could see, was black, while the arresting officers were uniformly white. To add to the humiliation, local photographers, tipped off in advance, were now busy capturing the bizarre scene for the next day's front pages.
The town's now-defunct newspaper, The Tulia Sentinel, ran a headline on the affair announcing: "Tulia's Streets Cleared of Garbage". An editorial on the inside pages lavished praise on the police for rounding up the town's drug-dealing "scumbags". The racist undertone of the coverage could not have been more clearly signaled; whether or not the police had actually arrested a single drug-dealer, it was incontrovertible fact that they had hauled in more than 10 per cent of Tulia's black population, including one in every two adult males. Six non-blacks were also arrested, but all of these either lived in the black neighborhood in Tulia – a shanty area of tenements and trailer homes officially known as the Sunset Addition but popularly referred to by white folks as "black persontown" – or were closely tied to black families.
In all, 46 people were caught up in the police dragnet, although not quite all of them were arrested that morning. They included Kizzie's husband, a white man named William "Cash" Love, her brothers Donnie and Kareem, her sister Tonya, an uncle and five cousins. To believe the indictments subsequently handed down by the district attorney's office, these impoverished farming people were running a high-class racket in powder cocaine. Each of them, prosecutors maintained, had been caught selling the stuff to an undercover narcotics agent called Tom Coleman. Kizzie White, for example, was accused of selling to Coleman no fewer than seven times.
The accusations seemed beyond a joke. After all, none of the 46 people arrested showed the slightest outward sign of material gain that would surely come from the heady lifestyle of a cocaine dealer. When they were arrested, police found no money, no weapons and no trace of illicit drugs of any kind at their houses. There were no fingerprints on the drugs that had been seized. The authorities subsequently failed to produce any photographs, tape-recordings or other concrete evidence that the alleged drug trades had taken place at all.
By now – with the issue finally commanding national attention, including a recent series of hard-hitting op-ed pieces in The New York Times and a clutch of high-society fundraising events on the East Coast to keep the legal defense battle going – it is clear the accusations were a joke. And yet their cases proceeded through the court system, often with terrifying efficiency. Kizzie was sent away for 25 years. Her brother Kareem got 60. Her brother Donnie, who admitted a history of crack cocaine use but insisted he was not a dealer, went down for 12 years. The man fingered as the alleged ring-leader of the cocaine racket, a 57-year-old pig farmer called Joe Moore, was given 99 years even though he was charged with just two counts of selling an eight-ball (about 3.5 grams, or $200 worth) to Agent Coleman. Even worse off than him was Cash Love, Kizzie's husband and the only defendant accused of making any sizeable sale. Accused by Coleman of selling a whole ounce of cocaine, on top of a number of smaller deliveries, he was sentenced to 434 years in state prison. (Could he have been treated with such mercilessness because his inter-racial marriage was abhorrent to mainstream opinion in Tulia? His family certainly thinks so.)
What made this calamity all the more extraordinary is that it all hung on the word of one man, and a singularly unalluring, unreliable one at that. Tom Coleman claimed that the mass arrests were the result of a painstaking, 18-month undercover operation in which he worked at a "sale barn" digging pig dirt with the townsfolk and slowly put the word out that he might be interested in purchasing drugs.
Something about his story, however, did not add up from the start. To secure 100 cocaine sales without blowing his cover, as Coleman claimed he did, would be an extraordinary feat for an experienced narcotics cop. For a first-timer like Coleman – he had worked in law enforcement before, but never in narcotics – it would have to be little short of miraculous, and not even his staunchest defenders have suggested he is a miracle-worker. This was a man who never kept records, never filmed or taped anything, never brought a single colleague in on the job. What notes he made he scrawled on his leg, yanking up a trouser leg with one hand while he wrote down a name or date with the other. Later, during preparation for the trials, he claimed he had indeed kept records on paper, but that a secretary at the sheriff's department had accidentally thrown them into a rubbish skip.
His reliability was immediately thrown into doubt. Asked how he identified Freddie Brookins, a young man later sentenced to 20 years behind bars, he admitted that he got the name, and a picture, from the police and worked backwards from there. "I believe I talked to the sheriff on this occasion," Coleman said, according to court papers. "I gave him the description of the subject. And I believe the sheriff asked city policy officers, or somebody, and told me – says, 'Well, we got a Freddie Brookins'."
This was not a fail-safe identification method, to say the least. One defendant, Billy Don Wafer, managed to prove Coleman wrong – and escape the cold grip of the criminal justice system – by proving through employee time sheets and the testimony of his boss that he was at work at the time he was alleged to be selling cocaine.
Another defendant, Yul Bryant, had his case dismissed because Coleman described him as a tall man with bushy hair. In fact, Bryant is 5ft 6in and bald. There are doubts whether the two men ever met before trial.
Throughout, Coleman made a singularly unattractive witness – not least because of an astigmatism that caused him to jog his head to one side when answering questions and look as if he did not entirely understand what was being asked. Short, slight and pale, he was capable of looking downright shifty. He would hedge every answer and let his words ramble on, as though he wasn't sure himself what the point was.
Worse, he out-and-out lied. He told one defense lawyer who asked about his background that he had never been arrested or charged for anything other than a traffic ticket "way back when I was a kid". The truth, however, was that he was under indictment even as he worked on his undercover operation in Tulia – something that the lawyer quizzing him did not know at the time. While working in Cochran County, another rural area of Texas, he had racked up thousands of dollars in debt with his employers and then, one fine day, simply walked off the job mid-shift and disappeared. The indictment related to the use of a work credit card to buy petrol for his personal use, but it was clear that dissatisfaction with him ran much deeper than casual abuse of petty cash. After he ran out, the Cochran County sheriff wrote a letter to a state commission on police standards declaring: "Mr Coleman should not be in law enforcement if he's going to do people the way he did this town." Technically, the indictment should have disqualified him from working the drugs beat in Tulia, but someone along the line clearly turned a blind eye.
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