I had no idea the next steps of my journey were to become so twisted. At my hearing I walked into the federal court only to find there both Barry Gross, the prosecutor who had sent me to Death Row, and Detective Martin, the policeman who had led the case against me so aggressively. I had not seen either of them for twenty-two years and now they had shown up out of nowhere. They were standing in a huddle with Sheldon Kovach, the new prosecutor brought in to handle my appeals on the state’s behalf. Long gone was Dennis McAndrews, who had tried so hard to get me executed. From what I heard Mr Kovach was a decent man.
I looked over to see my father and mother’s outraged faces as they recognised Gross and Martin. I smiled at my father and mouthed to him, ‘They’re scared to death!’ He nodded, but I noticed he held my mother’s hand a little more firmly.
At the hearing, the DNA results from the men’s gloves found inside Mrs Craig’s car were revealed: that of Mrs Craig and ‘Unknown Male Number 1’; also a second unidentifiable female.
Judge Giles listened as my federal appeals lawyers said for the first time ever that they believed I was innocent and that the results of the tests proved it. The prosecutor then stood up and interjected, ‘Your Honour, these gloves were never entered as evidence, so we cannot now say that they prove anything. A jury never established the true ownership of these gloves.’
All eyes in the courtroom ascended to Judge Giles, who sat calmly throughout it all, high up on his podium. A middle-aged black man, his hair greying at the temples, he smiled pleasantly at both my lawyers and the prosecutor before saying, ‘Let me get this straight. Is it your position that, because the state improperly withheld these gloves from Mr Yarris and his attorney prior to his trial, any evidence found inside of these gloves should not benefit this man twenty-two years later?’
‘That is our position, yes, Your Honour,’ replied the prosecutor.
The judge looked at him as a teacher might regard a student who has come up with a really lame effort. Then he looked at me before saying, ‘Well, your position stinks. I am ordering that a final test on all known DNA evidence be made immediately; that further, both sides should sign an agreement that these tests, which are expected to consume the remaining DNA, will determine this matter once and for all.’
I looked at my attorneys, who had all gathered at my table. They tried to explain quickly to me the deal on offer: that is, in an effort to overcome the problem of degraded material, all remaining DNA collected from the victim’s underwear and elsewhere would be pooled; also, all the spilled samples were to be tested as well.
Finally, after fourteen years, a court was ordering that all available evidence be tested one last time. As I sat there trying to absorb this information, I realised that my lawyers were waiting for my answer. ‘What does this deal mean in terms of the gloves and the DNA we already have?’ I asked.
The lead attorney, Peter Goldberger, who had represented me for eleven years by this point, explained, ‘You have one roll of the dice, Nick.’ Then he looked around at his colleagues and said, ‘If these tests prove inconclusive, then you get your wish and we are all fired and you can do whatever you want with your appeals. But if we pull off a miracle and the DNA in the gloves is shown to match that of the sperm found on the victim’s underwear, then you will be given a new trial.’
I looked around the table full of lawyers. ‘What?’ I cried. ‘Are you waiting for me to approve this deal? Fine. I am ready to die, so what do I care if you want to put me through some new cliffhanger that hinges on yet another DNA test?!’
At which point I stood up, as it was time for me to be taken back to Graterford, where I was to be held while the remaining DNA evidence was tested. I addressed all six lawyers before me: ‘Sign whatever deal they ask.’ Then I made them follow my stare to where Randy Martin and Barry Gross sat. ‘As far as I’m concerned, just seeing those men’s scared faces having come here to cover up their dirty deeds is enough victory for me today.’ Then lastly and sincerely, ‘Tell Judge Giles I apologise for my letter.’
On the way back to Graterford prison, I broke down; at least I now knew there was no more DNA after this. I felt like I could leave it all to fate.
Four months later, on 2 July 2003, Michael Wiseman, a lawyer from the Federal Defenders Association, phoned me at Graterford. I was sweating through the intolerable heat of the summer there and I was hoping either to go back to Greene County or have some news on the DNA tests.
Michael and I did not like each other: he seemed to think I was a rapist-murderer who was a pain in the ass as a client; I thought he was a pig-headed, brilliant lawyer who was wrong about me. Whatever. He launched straight into reading off the fax he had just received from the DNA test lab in California. The report findings were as follows:
1. DNA from ‘Unknown Male Number 1’ found in gloves matches sperm located in victim’s underwear.
2. DNA from a second male’s sperm, now referred to as ‘Unknown Male Number 2’, also found in victim’s underwear.
3. DNA from ‘Unknown Male Number 1’ recovered from skin cells located under fingernails of victim collected during autopsy.
‘That’s it,’ Michael finished.
‘That’s it?’ I repeated. ‘Don’t you see, this proves me innocent!’
Michael Wiseman, a man who had reluctantly represented me for seven years, paused for a second and then said in complete and honest bemusement, ‘Damn, I guess it does prove you innocent!’
He started to talk about how the lawyers in the office all considered me crazy for seeking DNA testing as most of them thought I’d done it, but I stopped him short. I only had six minutes left of my fifteen-minute phone allocation and I wanted to call my mother and father. Bye, Michael.
I was shaking when I rang my mother. After I’d told her the news she just repeated over and over: ‘Finally, finally, you can live again, honey.’ When I heard her start to cry I lost it.
I cried so hard that I had to be taken out of my cell and placed in a white plastic chair under the shower to cool down. I sat under that water for a whole twenty minutes, just letting it all go. I cried so hard I had the heaves and nearly passed out. I cried for so many things, but for one thing more than any other: that I had brought so much of this on myself. Having let my sorrow out, I wanted to leave it there once and for all.
Had I known that it would take a further seven months for me to be released, I would have spared myself so much grief-venting. In many ways it was so anti-climactic. First, Judge Giles ordered that I be retried by Delaware County within ninety days or otherwise be set free. Then my lawyers searched out Elliot Scherker, a Florida lawyer who volunteered to get my convictions there overturned. In September 2003 I was kicked out of Graterford and sent back across Pennsylvania to Greene County, although at least this time I was spared Scaggi.
When I got off the bus at Greene I was greeted by the top-level of administrators. Having congratulated me for being the first Death Row prisoner in Pennsylvania to prove his innocence using DNA evidence, they told me I would be taken off Death Row but placed in solitary confinement in a disciplinary unit cell until I was officially set free. I was incredulous. Why? Initially I was told that, as I had escaped custody eighteen years previously, I still presented an escape risk. But I didn’t buy it, so I asked them to give it to me straight.
This time, at least they were honest.
‘The things listed on your file that have been done to you – your hand crushed by a guard, assaults on you by other staff – we are afraid you’d take revenge. We just cannot trust you not to hurt one of us.’ I shook my head and tried to launch into a tirade, but was hauled out of the room before I could do so. I knew it would not have mattered what I said.
I was taken to my new cell on H-Block, where I sat cross-legged on the bed. I had been restless and lost in my feelings before, but now I had a lot of new thinking to do. I had won but I could still lose it all. And I could be so messed up that it was pointless to leave.
Then I simply started dreaming of how my life could be outside. I knew that the 35-year sentence passed down on me in Florida for robbery would have to be reduced, if not overturned, as it had been scaled up because of my prior conviction as a rapist-murderer. I knew that the state of Pennsylvania would never retry me now that three separate DNA results had proved my innocence. I also knew that I had served so much time that no one could say I had not truly paid for the mistakes I had made as a young man.
In the weeks that followed, Maria came back to see me, not as a spiritual adviser, she explained, but ‘just as a friend’. We laughed, and it was OK between us again.
‘I see that mischievous smile is back,’ she said. ‘Does this mean I have to worry about what you’ve been up to?’
‘Sit down, buddy,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got one hell of a plan to share with you! Did you know that the United Kingdom is the largest foreign investor in Pennsylvania?’
Sighing, Maria shook her head at what all this could mean. I told her that I’d had an idea to fight the death penalty using economics, lobbying countries which had themselves abolished the death penalty but which traded with Pennsylvania – and the United Kingdom was my first target.
‘But first,’ I said, ‘I’m going to get strong, and then I’m going to be happy.’
Maria pointed out that I might like to find out what had been going on in the ‘real world’ in my absence before making too many plans about being ‘happy’.
I replied that being strong and then being happy was a lot to plan for. After all, I pointed out to her how she seemed to have it all worked out. If she wasn’t dealing with all those dying people and their grief-stricken families, she was out harassing soon-to-be-released Death Row prisoners, I teased. It was so good to look at Maria and see that, however strange our first meeting had been, and however badly I had treated her when I had wanted to die, our friendship had weathered it all and become stronger as a result. I felt as if I had a second mother there, witnessing my growth through my toughest days. Maria, I really do love you, my friend and guide, and I am so glad that you never gave up on me.