JESSICA CINO associate professor of law
JESSICA CINO associate professor of law
JESSICA CINO associate professor of law
THE DUST
written by Sarah Marshall*
AT THE STATE PRISON in Reidsville, Ga., associate professor Jessica Cino leads two law students to the visiting room to meet Devonia Inman. Incarcerated since 2001 for the murder of a Taco Bell manager, Inman has always maintained his innocence. His case has caught the attention of the Georgia Innocence Project. When the students sit at the booth and lift the receiver, he flattens his hand against the glass.
“I’m so glad somebody took a chance on me,” he says, “because I feel like I’m gonna die in here.”
For Cino, this is the moment her students understand the power they wield and, as a consequence, their responsibility to society.
“That crystallizes it,” she says. “That’s when the lightbulb goes on: ‘Somebody’s depending on me.’”
For most law students, a legal education comes in two distinct components: learning how law is supposed to work and learning how it actually works. This spring, a handful of law students encountered this divide head-on when they worked on cases like Inman’s with the Georgia Innocence Project, an Atlanta nonprofit dedicated to securing the release and exoneration of men and women imprisoned for crimes they did not commit. The students worked under the guidance of Cino, professor Russell Covey and Georgia Innocence Project Interim Director Clare Gilbert.
This was the university’s first collaboration with the Georgia Innocence Project, the brainchild of Jill Polster (J.D. ’01) and September Guy (J.D. ’01), who grew passionate about wrongful conviction as Georgia State law students. They founded the nonprofit in 2003 and hired fellow alumna Aimee Maxwell (M.Ed. ’83, J.D. ’87) as its first executive director. Since then, the Georgia Innocence Project has proven the innocence of six men serving time for the misdeeds of other people.
Inman is one of the lucky. Every year, the Georgia Innocence Project receives hundreds of letters from inmates pleading for help. Because of limited resources and the high hurdles that must be cleared to take on most — and mostly cold — cases, the Georgia Innocence Project is highly selective of its clients.
From the beginning, Polster and Guy, both of whom have gone on to lead distinguished careers as public defenders, struggled to convince people an innocence project was a worthwhile investment. Pollster says the innocence movement “did not have the same notoriety or track record it has today.” According to her estimation, the national total for DNA exonerations back then was in the “low double digits.”
Just 15 years later, the National Registry of Exonerations has tallied around 350. Countless Americans now know not only what an innocence project is, but why their community might need one. And yet, Polster says exoneration remains a herculean task.
“Defense law is a tough sell,” she says, “and indigent defense is always a tough sell, particularly with people who have already exhausted their appeals. I’m glad we didn’t feel that way.”
Even when innocence work catches the public’s imagination, Polster says, we tend to focus on the happy ending and not the years of painstaking work that made it possible, often undertaken with few resources and little hope of success.
“People want to hear that story about a guy walking free after 20 years,” she says. “What did he eat? Where did he sleep? What did he wear? That’s what’s exciting. How you get to that point — I don’t know people are quite as interested.”
AT THE STATE PRISON in Reidsville, Ga., associate professor Jessica Cino leads two law students to the visiting room to meet Devonia Inman. Incarcerated since 2001 for the murder of a Taco Bell manager, Inman has always maintained his innocence. His case has caught the attention of the Georgia Innocence Project. When the students sit at the booth and lift the receiver, he flattens his hand against the glass.
“I’m so glad somebody took a chance on me,” he says, “because I feel like I’m gonna die in here.”
For Cino, this is the moment her students understand the power they wield and, as a consequence, their responsibility to society.
“That crystallizes it,” she says. “That’s when the lightbulb goes on: ‘Somebody’s depending on me.’”
For most law students, a legal education comes in two distinct components: learning how law is supposed to work and learning how it actually works. This spring, a handful of law students encountered this divide head-on when they worked on cases like Inman’s with the Georgia Innocence Project, an Atlanta nonprofit dedicated to securing the release and exoneration of men and women imprisoned for crimes they did not commit. The students worked under the guidance of Cino, professor Russell Covey and Georgia Innocence Project Interim Director Clare Gilbert.
This was the university’s first collaboration with the Georgia Innocence Project, the brainchild of Jill Polster (J.D. ’01) and September Guy (J.D. ’01), who grew passionate about wrongful conviction as Georgia State law students. They founded the nonprofit in 2003 and hired fellow alumna Aimee Maxwell (M.Ed. ’83, J.D. ’87) as its first executive director. Since then, the Georgia Innocence Project has proven the innocence of six men serving time for the misdeeds of other people.
Inman is one of the lucky. Every year, the Georgia Innocence Project receives hundreds of letters from inmates pleading for help. Because of limited resources and the high hurdles that must be cleared to take on most — and mostly cold — cases, the Georgia Innocence Project is highly selective of its clients.
From the beginning, Polster and Guy, both of whom have gone on to lead distinguished careers as public defenders, struggled to convince people an innocence project was a worthwhile investment. Pollster says the innocence movement “did not have the same notoriety or track record it has today.” According to her estimation, the national total for DNA exonerations back then was in the “low double digits.”
Just 15 years later, the National Registry of Exonerations has tallied around 350. Countless Americans now know not only what an innocence project is, but why their community might need one. And yet, Pollster says exoneration remains a herculean task.
“Defense law is a tough sell,” she says, “and indigent defense is always a tough sell, particularly with people who have already exhausted their appeals. I’m glad we didn’t feel that way.”
Even when innocence work catches the public’s imagination, Polster says, we tend to focus on the happy ending and not the years of painstaking work that made it possible, often undertaken with few resources and little hope of success.
“People want to hear that story about a guy walking free after 20 years,” she says. “What did he eat? Where did he sleep? What did he wear? That’s what’s exciting. How you get to that point — I don’t know people are quite as interested.”
AT THE STATE PRISON in Reidsville, Ga., associate professor Jessica Cino leads two law students to the visiting room to meet Devonia Inman. Incarcerated since 2001 for the murder of a Taco Bell manager, Inman has always maintained his innocence. His case has caught the attention of the Georgia Innocence Project. When the students sit at the booth and lift the receiver, he flattens his hand against the glass.
“I’m so glad somebody took a chance on me,” he says, “because I feel like I’m gonna die in here.”
For Cino, this is the moment her students understand the power they wield and, as a consequence, their responsibility to society.
“That crystallizes it,” she says. “That’s when the lightbulb goes on: ‘Somebody’s depending on me.’”
For most law students, a legal education comes in two distinct components: learning how law is supposed to work and learning how it actually works. This spring, a handful of law students encountered this divide head-on when they worked on cases like Inman’s with the Georgia Innocence Project, an Atlanta nonprofit dedicated to securing the release and exoneration of men and women imprisoned for crimes they did not commit. The students worked under the guidance of Cino, professor Russell Covey and Georgia Innocence Project Interim Director Clare Gilbert.
This was the university’s first collaboration with the Georgia Innocence Project, the brainchild of Jill Polster (J.D. ’01) and September Guy (J.D. ’01), who grew passionate about wrongful conviction as Georgia State law students. They founded the nonprofit in 2003 and hired fellow alumna Aimee Maxwell (M.Ed. ’83, J.D. ’87) as its first executive director. Since then, the Georgia Innocence Project has proven the innocence of six men serving time for the misdeeds of other people.
Inman is one of the lucky. Every year, the Georgia Innocence Project receives hundreds of letters from inmates pleading for help. Because of limited resources and the high hurdles that must be cleared to take on most — and mostly cold — cases, the Georgia Innocence Project is highly selective of its clients.
From the beginning, Polster and Guy, both of whom have gone on to lead distinguished careers as public defenders, struggled to convince people an innocence project was a worthwhile investment. Pollster says the innocence movement “did not have the same notoriety or track record it has today.” According to her estimation, the national total for DNA exonerations back then was in the “low double digits.”
Just 15 years later, the National Registry of Exonerations has tallied around 350. Countless Americans now know not only what an innocence project is, but why their community might need one. And yet, Pollster says exoneration remains a herculean task.
“Defense law is a tough sell,” she says, “and indigent defense is always a tough sell, particularly with people who have already exhausted their appeals. I’m glad we didn’t feel that way.”
Even when innocence work catches the public’s imagination, Polster says, we tend to focus on the happy ending and not the years of painstaking work that made it possible, often undertaken with few resources and little hope of success.
“People want to hear that story about a guy walking free after 20 years,” she says. “What did he eat? Where did he sleep? What did he wear? That’s what’s exciting. How you get to that point — I don’t know people are quite as interested.”
orking with the Georgia Innocence Project, law students Allison Parham and Alli Whitfield took on the case of Tommy Bass, convicted of rape in Alabama in 1978. Nothing in their legal education could have prepared them for the case.
“This man had a seven-and-a-half-hour trial, and the jury deliberated for 45 minutes,” Parham says. “And that very same day, he was sentenced to 99 years in prison. There was no physical evidence presented at the trial, only eyewitness accounts. I don’t think anybody cared about making sure they had the right person.”
Their greatest difficulty was not handling the case, but how little they could do.
“In our opinion, he’s obviously innocent and has been in jail for almost 40 years,” Parham says. “And it’s just sad that he’s finally getting people to look at his case, but there’s really nothing anyone can do because it’s just too late. There wasn’t much for us to do except make some Hail Mary phone calls.”
The students searched for untested DNA evidence but found none. Yet Parham still hasn’t given up on Bass and remains hopeful that, someday, she can help secure a compassionate release.
“He’s elderly now, and he’s sick,” she says. “They have a medical furlough act in Alabama, [and] he’s obviously not a danger to society. I don’t think there’s any way to get his actual innocence in front of a judge, but at least we can let him live out the rest of his days with his daughter instead of in jail. So, I’ll definitely be staying in touch with the Georgia Innocence Project and would like to do some pro bono work after I graduate.”
orking with the Georgia Innocence Project, law students Allison Parham and Alli Whitfield took on the case of Tommy Bass, convicted of rape in Alabama in 1978. Nothing in their legal education could have prepared them for the case.
“This man had a seven-and-a-half-hour trial, and the jury deliberated for 45 minutes,” Parham says. “And that very same day, he was sentenced to 99 years in prison. There was no physical evidence presented at the trial, only eyewitness accounts. I don’t think anybody cared about making sure they had the right person.”
Their greatest difficulty was not handling the case, but how little they could do.
“In our opinion, he’s obviously innocent and has been in jail for almost 40 years,” Parham says. “And it’s just sad that he’s finally getting people to look at his case, but there’s really nothing anyone can do because it’s just too late. There wasn’t much for us to do except make some Hail Mary phone calls.”
The students searched for untested DNA evidence but found none. Yet Parham still hasn’t given up on Bass and remains hopeful that, someday, she can help secure a compassionate release.
“He’s elderly now, and he’s sick,” she says. “They have a medical furlough act in Alabama, [and] he’s obviously not a danger to society. I don’t think there’s any way to get his actual innocence in front of a judge, but at least we can let him live out the rest of his days with his daughter instead of in jail. So, I’ll definitely be staying in touch with the Georgia Innocence Project and would like to do some pro bono work after I graduate.”
orking with the Georgia Innocence Project, law students Allison Parham and Alli Whitfield took on the case of Tommy Bass, convicted of rape in Alabama in 1978. Nothing in their legal education could have prepared them for the case.
“This man had a seven-and-a-half-hour trial, and the jury deliberated for 45 minutes,” Parham says. “And that very same day, he was sentenced to 99 years in prison. There was no physical evidence presented at the trial, only eyewitness accounts. I don’t think anybody cared about making sure they had the right person.”
Their greatest difficulty was not handling the case, but how little they could do.
“In our opinion, he’s obviously innocent and has been in jail for almost 40 years,” Parham says. “And it’s just sad that he’s finally getting people to look at his case, but there’s really nothing anyone can do because it’s just too late. There wasn’t much for us to do except make some Hail Mary phone calls.”
The students searched for untested DNA evidence but found none. Yet Parham still hasn’t given up on Bass and remains hopeful that, someday, she can help secure a compassionate release.
“He’s elderly now, and he’s sick,” she says. “They have a medical furlough act in Alabama, [and] he’s obviously not a danger to society. I don’t think there’s any way to get his actual innocence in front of a judge, but at least we can let him live out the rest of his days with his daughter instead of in jail. So, I’ll definitely be staying in touch with the Georgia Innocence Project and would like to do some pro bono work after I graduate.”
When her students study successful exonerations, Cino reminds them to consider the context.
“Let’s look at how long it took to get him out,” she says. “Because once you get lawyers involved who are pursuing actual innocence on a case, you’re talking three years at a minimum. But I’ve seen some that go on 10, 12 years.”
She directs students to “look behind the rah-rah ‘somebody-got-exonerated-and-vindicated’ story and ask, ‘What did it take to get them there? And how many [other] people get lost?’”
These questions linger in the minds of the students this spring — not just of what it takes to exonerate an innocent client, but of how many innocent people remain behind bars despite the dedicated efforts of their (often self-appointed) defenders.
“It impacted all of us emotionally,” Parham says. “You hear about these stories [in the news] and think, ‘Well, maybe they’re innocent; maybe they’re guilty. Who am I to judge?’
“But then, when they ask you to judge, and you get to read the background and the trial transcripts and the letters from these people who are begging for help because they swear they’re innocent, it changes your perspective. It makes you wonder how many people are sitting in prison who shouldn’t be? And how many people are still out there who should be in prison?”
Her work with the Georgia Innocence Project not only helped Parham understand the issues and institutional failings these clients face, but also shed light on law itself — especially the dangers of assuming the infallibility of the American legal system.
Because, as Parham describes it, the system is made up of “human beings with human desires, urges and flaws.” And this human fallibility is painfully visible in the cases she and her classmates worked on.
Popular narratives of wrongful conviction often suggest that these stories, too, have discernible villains: that, in order for an innocent person to end up in prison, someone must have decided to send him there with full knowledge of the grave injustice being undertaken. But Parham says the reality is more complicated, and the forms of injustice that lead to wrongful conviction are far more insidious and endemic to the American legal system than any individual perpetrator.
If you look at the agencies that contributed to the wrongful convictions of the Georgia Innocence Project’s clients, Parham says you’ll find “prosecutors and police officers and people that are getting pressured from the community because they’re up for re-election. You come across good intentions turned into something totally different from good intentions.”
When her students study successful exonerations, Cino reminds them to consider the context.
“Let’s look at how long it took to get him out,” she says. “Because once you get lawyers involved who are pursuing actual innocence on a case, you’re talking three years at a minimum. But I’ve seen some that go on 10, 12 years.”
She directs students to “look behind the rah-rah ‘somebody-got-exonerated-and-vindicated’ story and ask, ‘What did it take to get them there? And how many [other] people get lost?’”
These questions linger in the minds of the students this spring — not just of what it takes to exonerate an innocent client, but of how many innocent people remain behind bars despite the dedicated efforts of their (often self-appointed) defenders.
“It impacted all of us emotionally,” Parham says. “You hear about these stories [in the news] and think, ‘Well, maybe they’re innocent; maybe they’re guilty. Who am I to judge?’
“But then, when they ask you to judge, and you get to read the background and the trial transcripts and the letters from these people who are begging for help because they swear they’re innocent, it changes your perspective. It makes you wonder how many people are sitting in prison who shouldn’t be? And how many people are still out there who should be in prison?”
Her work with the Georgia Innocence Project not only helped Parham understand the issues and institutional failings these clients face, but also shed light on law itself — especially the dangers of assuming the infallibility of the American legal system.
Because, as Parham describes it, the system is made up of “human beings with human desires, urges and flaws.” And this human fallibility is painfully visible in the cases she and her classmates worked on.
Popular narratives of wrongful conviction often suggest that these stories, too, have discernible villains: that, in order for an innocent person to end up in prison, someone must have decided to send him there with full knowledge of the grave injustice being undertaken. But Parham says the reality is more complicated, and the forms of injustice that lead to wrongful conviction are far more insidious and endemic to the American legal system than any individual perpetrator.
If you look at the agencies that contributed to the wrongful convictions of the Georgia Innocence Project’s clients, Parham says you’ll find “prosecutors and police officers and people that are getting pressured from the community because they’re up for re-election. You come across good intentions turned into something totally different from good intentions.”
When her students study successful exonerations, Cino reminds them to consider the context.
“Let’s look at how long it took to get him out,” she says. “Because once you get lawyers involved who are pursuing actual innocence on a case, you’re talking three years at a minimum. But I’ve seen some that go on 10, 12 years.”
She directs students to “look behind the rah-rah ‘somebody-got-exonerated-and-vindicated’ story and ask, ‘What did it take to get them there? And how many [other] people get lost?’”
These questions linger in the minds of the students this spring — not just of what it takes to exonerate an innocent client, but of how many innocent people remain behind bars despite the dedicated efforts of their (often self-appointed) defenders.
“It impacted all of us emotionally,” Parham says. “You hear about these stories [in the news] and think, ‘Well, maybe they’re innocent; maybe they’re guilty. Who am I to judge?’
“But then, when they ask you to judge, and you get to read the background and the trial transcripts and the letters from these people who are begging for help because they swear they’re innocent, it changes your perspective. It makes you wonder how many people are sitting in prison who shouldn’t be? And how many people are still out there who should be in prison?”
Her work with the Georgia Innocence Project not only helped Parham understand the issues and institutional failings these clients face, but also shed light on law itself — especially the dangers of assuming the infallibility of the American legal system.
Because, as Parham describes it, the system is made up of “human beings with human desires, urges and flaws.” And this human fallibility is painfully visible in the cases she and her classmates worked on.
Popular narratives of wrongful conviction often suggest that these stories, too, have discernible villains: that, in order for an innocent person to end up in prison, someone must have decided to send him there with full knowledge of the grave injustice being undertaken. But Parham says the reality is more complicated, and the forms of injustice that lead to wrongful conviction are far more insidious and endemic to the American legal system than any individual perpetrator.
If you look at the agencies that contributed to the wrongful convictions of the Georgia Innocence Project’s clients, Parham says you’ll find “prosecutors and police officers and people that are getting pressured from the community because they’re up for re-election. You come across good intentions turned into something totally different from good intentions.”
When her students study successful exonerations, Cino reminds them to consider the context.
“Let’s look at how long it took to get him out,” she says. “Because once you get lawyers involved who are pursuing actual innocence on a case, you’re talking three years at a minimum. But I’ve seen some that go on 10, 12 years.”
She directs students to “look behind the rah-rah ‘somebody-got-exonerated-and-vindicated’ story and ask, ‘What did it take to get them there? And how many [other] people get lost?’”
These questions linger in the minds of the students this spring — not just of what it takes to exonerate an innocent client, but of how many innocent people remain behind bars despite the dedicated efforts of their (often self-appointed) defenders.
“It impacted all of us emotionally,” Parham says. “You hear about these stories [in the news] and think, ‘Well, maybe they’re innocent; maybe they’re guilty. Who am I to judge?’
“But then, when they ask you to judge, and you get to read the background and the trial transcripts and the letters from these people who are begging for help because they swear they’re innocent, it changes your perspective. It makes you wonder how many people are sitting in prison who shouldn’t be? And how many people are still out there who should be in prison?”
Her work with the Georgia Innocence Project not only helped Parham understand the issues and institutional failings these clients face, but also shed light on law itself — especially the dangers of assuming the infallibility of the American legal system.
Because, as Parham describes it, the system is made up of “human beings with human desires, urges and flaws.” And this human fallibility is painfully visible in the cases she and her classmates worked on.
Popular narratives of wrongful conviction often suggest that these stories, too, have discernible villains: that, in order for an innocent person to end up in prison, someone must have decided to send him there with full knowledge of the grave injustice being undertaken. But Parham says the reality is more complicated, and the forms of injustice that lead to wrongful conviction are far more insidious and endemic to the American legal system than any individual perpetrator.
If you look at the agencies that contributed to the wrongful convictions of the Georgia Innocence Project’s clients, Parham says you’ll find “prosecutors and police officers and people that are getting pressured from the community because they’re up for re-election. You come across good intentions turned into something totally different from good intentions.”
t has been a scant 28 years since DNA testing has been able to corroborate innocence claims with objective, scientific evidence too clear for courts to ignore, or at least too clear to ignore in every case. DNA evidence can still be excluded on a procedural basis because judges have no ethical or professional obligation to consider new evidence in a case that has already been decided, and because the convicted have already been found guilty and have no constitutional right to an appeal. After all, the law has already found them undeserving of full citizenship.
For the most part, the American legal system is policed, managed and upheld by people who base their decisions on the fundamental premise that the system does not make mistakes. But a new generation of Americans — including attorneys — is growing up in a nation that can no longer pretend that wrongful conviction is anything but a systemic issue. This painfully visible reality cannot help but shape the perceptions of citizens who want a justice system that’s truly just. And for people who make it their business to confront these difficult truths, the impact can be profound.
Cino says exoneration work has been in her own DNA since before she began law school.
“I read a book about wrongful convictions when I was a junior in college,” she says. “I was a science major, and the plight of innocent people who needed the assistance of science to demonstrate their innocence resonated with me.
“I got really lucky,” Cino adds, “because I came from a poor family, my parents didn’t pay for college, and they certainly weren’t going to pay for law school. My parents didn’t even go to college. But I got scholarships and opportunities I wouldn’t have received if a lot of people hadn’t taken chances on me. So, I absolutely view this as the way I give back. The same chances people took on me, I need to take on others and bring students along with me so they get to share that experience. Being able to see what it’s like to give back at the very beginning of your career is tremendously important and sets the tone for how you view yourself as a lawyer going forward.”
t has been a scant 28 years since DNA testing has been able to corroborate innocence claims with objective, scientific evidence too clear for courts to ignore, or at least too clear to ignore in every case. DNA evidence can still be excluded on a procedural basis because judges have no ethical or professional obligation to consider new evidence in a case that has already been decided, and because the convicted have already been found guilty and have no constitutional right to an appeal. After all, the law has already found them undeserving of full citizenship.
For the most part, the American legal system is policed, managed and upheld by people who base their decisions on the fundamental premise that the system does not make mistakes. But a new generation of Americans — including attorneys — is growing up in a nation that can no longer pretend that wrongful conviction is anything but a systemic issue. This painfully visible reality cannot help but shape the perceptions of citizens who want a justice system that’s truly just. And for people who make it their business to confront these difficult truths, the impact can be profound.
Cino says exoneration work has been in her own DNA since before she began law school.
“I read a book about wrongful convictions when I was a junior in college,” she says. “I was a science major, and the plight of innocent people who needed the assistance of science to demonstrate their innocence resonated with me.
“I got really lucky,” Cino adds, “because I came from a poor family, my parents didn’t pay for college, and they certainly weren’t going to pay for law school. My parents didn’t even go to college. But I got scholarships and opportunities I wouldn’t have received if a lot of people hadn’t taken chances on me. So, I absolutely view this as the way I give back. The same chances people took on me, I need to take on others and bring students along with me so they get to share that experience. Being able to see what it’s like to give back at the very beginning of your career is tremendously important and sets the tone for how you view yourself as a lawyer going forward.”
t has been a scant 28 years since DNA testing has been able to corroborate innocence claims with objective, scientific evidence too clear for courts to ignore, or at least too clear to ignore in every case. DNA evidence can still be excluded on a procedural basis because judges have no ethical or professional obligation to consider new evidence in a case that has already been decided, and because the convicted have already been found guilty and have no constitutional right to an appeal. After all, the law has already found them undeserving of full citizenship.
For the most part, the American legal system is policed, managed and upheld by people who base their decisions on the fundamental premise that the system does not make mistakes. But a new generation of Americans — including attorneys — is growing up in a nation that can no longer pretend that wrongful conviction is anything but a systemic issue. This painfully visible reality cannot help but shape the perceptions of citizens who want a justice system that’s truly just. And for people who make it their business to confront these difficult truths, the impact can be profound.
Cino says exoneration work has been in her own DNA since before she began law school.
“I read a book about wrongful convictions when I was a junior in college,” she says. “I was a science major, and the plight of innocent people who needed the assistance of science to demonstrate their innocence resonated with me.
“I got really lucky,” Cino adds, “because I came from a poor family, my parents didn’t pay for college, and they certainly weren’t going to pay for law school. My parents didn’t even go to college. But I got scholarships and opportunities I wouldn’t have received if a lot of people hadn’t taken chances on me. So, I absolutely view this as the way I give back. The same chances people took on me, I need to take on others and bring students along with me so they get to share that experience. Being able to see what it’s like to give back at the very beginning of your career is tremendously important and sets the tone for how you view yourself as a lawyer going forward.”
JUSTICE FOR ALL
For Kianna Hawkins Chennault (J.D. ’17), who graduated this spring with plans to work as a criminal defense lawyer, the Georgia Innocence Project practicum shed light on an adversarial system that can be fair, but only under the right conditions.
“If you have two good attorneys, and if they both have resources, I think the system favors justice,” Chennault says, “which is a stretch because you don’t often have two good attorneys with similar resources on both sides. And that’s why we fall into wrongful convictions and mass incarceration.”
Chennault speaks passionately about the challenges of advocating for a client within a justice system hopelessly weighted toward the interests of the state. In the absence of resources, of money, of time, it seems the only factors that can help ensure the defendant’s rights are the skill, dedication and indomitable will of an individual defense attorney. But Chennault is up to the challenge.
Litigating is an “adrenaline rush,” she says. “I love being on the spot and having to think on my feet. I love getting a case and just getting the facts. It’s like a puzzle you have to put together to tell a story.”
But no matter how thrilling the practice of law may be, the students’ most lingering feeling after this work is profound sadness. The cases they worked on were often frustrating because of how little could be done: how long it took even to request a trial transcript from a county clerk, how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turned, how often DNA evidence had been destroyed or inexplicably lost, or how little legal recourse a client had even when evidence suggested their innocence.
Many of the Georgia Innocence Project’s cases — wherein racial bias has abetted prosecutorial tunnel vision — strike closer to home for Chennault.
“As an African-American woman with a five-month-old son,” she says, “I pay attention to every single step I take. Like, what school, what preschool — no, what nursery am I going to send him to? I feel like I need to be super careful.
“What is he even going to wear once he gets to a certain age? Just things other races take for granted. I have to make sure his hoodie’s not too big. Can he even wear a hoodie? How should I teach him to walk? I get scared reading about some of these cases because just one accusation can send you down a total spiral that’s almost impossible to get out of.”
Chennault decided to go to law school after witnessing an event that, for her, illuminated how differently the law functions depending on who’s in charge.
“I decided to go to law school after watching the Trayvon Martin trial,” she says. “Well, it was the George Zimmerman trial, but unfortunately we call it the Trayvon Martin trial because he was on trial, too. I was blown away that someone — a child — could be walking down the street, get followed, attacked and killed, and have his killer go free because of [Florida’s Stand Your Ground] law. And I thought, ‘What law is this? This can’t be right.”
According to Cino, her students’ opportunity to learn these sobering lessons through courses like the Georgia Innocence Project practicum is one of Georgia State’s greatest gifts, not just to students but to the community as well.
“It’s great to be at a school where you can get creative in how you teach and bring law into the classroom,” Cino says, “because there aren’t many places you can do that. The school is intensely supportive of the practicum, and it benefits the students greatly. Given income disparities and the nature of our society, more and more people will need access to lawyers. That’s why it’s fundamentally important that, as lawyers, we’re cognizant of our duty to make sure there’s access for all.”
Fifteen years after founding the Georgia Innocence Project with little assurance of success, Polster gets to witness passionate students from her alma mater work on the cases that first inspired her.
“Talk about having an impact,” she says. “And not only on that one person you’re fighting for. It’s a ripple on a pond. It’s amazing to set things right.”
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JUSTICE FOR ALL
For Kianna Hawkins Chennault (J.D. ’17), who graduated this spring with plans to work as a criminal defense lawyer, the Georgia Innocence Project practicum shed light on an adversarial system that can be fair, but only under the right conditions.
“If you have two good attorneys, and if they both have resources, I think the system favors justice,” Chennault says, “which is a stretch because you don’t often have two good attorneys with similar resources on both sides. And that’s why we fall into wrongful convictions and mass incarceration.”
Chennault speaks passionately about the challenges of advocating for a client within a justice system hopelessly weighted toward the interests of the state. In the absence of resources, of money, of time, it seems the only factors that can help ensure the defendant’s rights are the skill, dedication and indomitable will of an individual defense attorney. But Chennault is up to the challenge.
Litigating is an “adrenaline rush,” she says. “I love being on the spot and having to think on my feet. I love getting a case and just getting the facts. It’s like a puzzle you have to put together to tell a story.”
But no matter how thrilling the practice of law may be, the students’ most lingering feeling after this work is profound sadness. The cases they worked on were often frustrating because of how little could be done: how long it took even to request a trial transcript from a county clerk, how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turned, how often DNA evidence had been destroyed or inexplicably lost, or how little legal recourse a client had even when evidence suggested their innocence.
Many of the Georgia Innocence Project’s cases — wherein racial bias has abetted prosecutorial tunnel vision — strike closer to home for Chennault.
“As an African-American woman with a five-month-old son,” she says, “I pay attention to every single step I take. Like, what school, what preschool — no, what nursery am I going to send him to? I feel like I need to be super careful.
“What is he even going to wear once he gets to a certain age? Just things other races take for granted. I have to make sure his hoodie’s not too big. Can he even wear a hoodie? How should I teach him to walk? I get scared reading about some of these cases because just one accusation can send you down a total spiral that’s almost impossible to get out of.”
Chennault decided to go to law school after witnessing an event that, for her, illuminated how differently the law functions depending on who’s in charge.
“I decided to go to law school after watching the Trayvon Martin trial,” she says. “Well, it was the George Zimmerman trial, but unfortunately we call it the Trayvon Martin trial because he was on trial, too. I was blown away that someone — a child — could be walking down the street, get followed, attacked and killed, and have his killer go free because of [Florida’s Stand Your Ground] law. And I thought, ‘What law is this? This can’t be right.’”
According to Cino, her students’ opportunity to learn these sobering lessons through courses like the Georgia Innocence Project practicum is one of Georgia State’s greatest gifts, not just to students but to the community as well.
“It’s great to be at a school where you can get creative in how you teach and bring law into the classroom,” Cino says, “because there aren’t many places you can do that. The school is intensely supportive of the practicum, and it benefits the students greatly. Given income disparities and the nature of our society, more and more people will need access to lawyers. That’s why it’s fundamentally important that, as lawyers, we’re cognizant of our duty to make sure there’s access for all.”
Fifteen years after founding the Georgia Innocence Project with little assurance of success, Polster gets to witness passionate students from her alma mater work on the cases that first inspired her.
“Talk about having an impact,” she says. “And not only on that one person you’re fighting for. It’s a ripple on a pond. It’s amazing to set things right.”
JUSTICE FOR ALL
For Kianna Hawkins Chennault (J.D. ’17), who graduated this spring with plans to work as a criminal defense lawyer, the Georgia Innocence Project practicum shed light on an adversarial system that can be fair, but only under the right conditions.
“If you have two good attorneys, and if they both have resources, I think the system favors justice,” Chennault says, “which is a stretch because you don’t often have two good attorneys with similar resources on both sides. And that’s why we fall into wrongful convictions and mass incarceration.”
Chennault speaks passionately about the challenges of advocating for a client within a justice system hopelessly weighted toward the interests of the state. In the absence of resources, of money, of time, it seems the only factors that can help ensure the defendant’s rights are the skill, dedication and indomitable will of an individual defense attorney. But Chennault is up to the challenge.
Litigating is an “adrenaline rush,” she says. “I love being on the spot and having to think on my feet. I love getting a case and just getting the facts. It’s like a puzzle you have to put together to tell a story.”
But no matter how thrilling the practice of law may be, the students’ most lingering feeling after this work is profound sadness. The cases they worked on were often frustrating because of how little could be done: how long it took even to request a trial transcript from a county clerk, how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turned, how often DNA evidence had been destroyed or inexplicably lost, or how little legal recourse a client had even when evidence suggested their innocence.
Many of the Georgia Innocence Project’s cases — wherein racial bias has abetted prosecutorial tunnel vision — strike closer to home for Chennault.
“As an African-American woman with a five-month-old son,” she says, “I pay attention to every single step I take. Like, what school, what preschool — no, what nursery am I going to send him to? I feel like I need to be super careful.
“What is he even going to wear once he gets to a certain age? Just things other races take for granted. I have to make sure his hoodie’s not too big. Can he even wear a hoodie? How should I teach him to walk? I get scared reading about some of these cases because just one accusation can send you down a total spiral that’s almost impossible to get out of.”
Chennault decided to go to law school after witnessing an event that, for her, illuminated how differently the law functions depending on who’s in charge.
“I decided to go to law school after watching the Trayvon Martin trial,” she says. “Well, it was the George Zimmerman trial, but unfortunately we call it the Trayvon Martin trial because he was on trial, too. I was blown away that someone — a child — could be walking down the street, get followed, attacked and killed, and have his killer go free because of [Florida’s Stand Your Ground] law. And I thought, ‘What law is this? This can’t be right.’”
According to Cino, her students’ opportunity to learn these sobering lessons through courses like the Georgia Innocence Project practicum is one of Georgia State’s greatest gifts, not just to students but to the community as well.
“It’s great to be at a school where you can get creative in how you teach and bring law into the classroom,” Cino says, “because there aren’t many places you can do that. The school is intensely supportive of the practicum, and it benefits the students greatly. Given income disparities and the nature of our society, more and more people will need access to lawyers. That’s why it’s fundamentally important that, as lawyers, we’re cognizant of our duty to make sure there’s access for all.”
Fifteen years after founding the Georgia Innocence Project with little assurance of success, Polster gets to witness passionate students from her alma mater work on the cases that first inspired her.
“Talk about having an impact,” she says. “And not only on that one person you’re fighting for. It’s a ripple on a pond. It’s amazing to set things right.”
JUSTICE FOR ALL
For Kianna Hawkins Chennault (J.D. ’17), who graduated this spring with plans to work as a criminal defense lawyer, the Georgia Innocence Project practicum shed light on an adversarial system that can be fair, but only under the right conditions.
“If you have two good attorneys, and if they both have resources, I think the system favors justice,” Chennault says, “which is a stretch because you don’t often have two good attorneys with similar resources on both sides. And that’s why we fall into wrongful convictions and mass incarceration.”
Chennault speaks passionately about the challenges of advocating for a client within a justice system hopelessly weighted toward the interests of the state. In the absence of resources, of money, of time, it seems the only factors that can help ensure the defendant’s rights are the skill, dedication and indomitable will of an individual defense attorney. But Chennault is up to the challenge.
Litigating is an “adrenaline rush,” she says. “I love being on the spot and having to think on my feet. I love getting a case and just getting the facts. It’s like a puzzle you have to put together to tell a story.”
But no matter how thrilling the practice of law may be, the students’ most lingering feeling after this work is profound sadness. The cases they worked on were often frustrating because of how little could be done: how long it took even to request a trial transcript from a county clerk, how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turned, how often DNA evidence had been destroyed or inexplicably lost, or how little legal recourse a client had even when evidence suggested their innocence.
Many of the Georgia Innocence Project’s cases — wherein racial bias has abetted prosecutorial tunnel vision — strike closer to home for Chennault.
“As an African-American woman with a five-month-old son,” she says, “I pay attention to every single step I take. Like, what school, what preschool — no, what nursery am I going to send him to? I feel like I need to be super careful.
“What is he even going to wear once he gets to a certain age? Just things other races take for granted. I have to make sure his hoodie’s not too big. Can he even wear a hoodie? How should I teach him to walk? I get scared reading about some of these cases because just one accusation can send you down a total spiral that’s almost impossible to get out of.”
Chennault decided to go to law school after witnessing an event that, for her, illuminated how differently the law functions depending on who’s in charge.
“I decided to go to law school after watching the Trayvon Martin trial,” she says. “Well, it was the George Zimmerman trial, but unfortunately we call it the Trayvon Martin trial because he was on trial, too. I was blown away that someone — a child — could be walking down the street, get followed, attacked and killed, and have his killer go free because of [Florida’s Stand Your Ground] law. And I thought, ‘What law is this? This can’t be right.’”
According to Cino, her students’ opportunity to learn these sobering lessons through courses like the Georgia Innocence Project practicum is one of Georgia State’s greatest gifts, not just to students but to the community as well.
“It’s great to be at a school where you can get creative in how you teach and bring law into the classroom,” Cino says, “because there aren’t many places you can do that. The school is intensely supportive of the practicum, and it benefits the students greatly. Given income disparities and the nature of our society, more and more people will need access to lawyers. That’s why it’s fundamentally important that, as lawyers, we’re cognizant of our duty to make sure there’s access for all.”
Fifteen years after founding the Georgia Innocence Project with little assurance of success, Polster gets to witness passionate students from her alma mater work on the cases that first inspired her.
“Talk about having an impact,” she says. “And not only on that one person you’re fighting for. It’s a ripple on a pond. It’s amazing to set things right.”
Clarence Harrison, wrongfully incarcerated for nearly 18 years, was the Georgia Innocence Project’s first exoneration.
Harrison
ON A RAINY OCTOBER MORNING in 1986, a 25-year-old woman was viciously attacked as she walked to a bus stop in Decatur, Ga. She was punched in the face, dragged down an embankment and raped three times. The assailant also robbed her of her wristwatch and money.
Police investigated a tip that a man named Clarence Harrison, who lived near the site of the abduction, had a watch for sale. Even though they didn’t find the watch in his house, police included Harrison in a photo lineup, and the victim identified him as her attacker.
Harrison maintained his innocence, but a DeKalb County jury convicted him on March 18, 1987, of rape and robbery. During the trial, a forensic analyst testified the rape kit showed blood group markers consistent with Harrison when, in fact, the evidence had been compromised. Harrison was sentenced to life in prison plus 20 years.
In February 2003, the Georgia Innocence Project began to review his case. They were told all the evidence had been destroyed in the 1990s, but their investigation discovered that one slide containing evidence from the rape kit still existed.
New DNA samples were taken from Harrison, and the results showed that Harrison could not possibly be the same man whose DNA was in the rape kit.
“I remember sitting in the district attorney’s office,” Polster recalls, “and he just picked up the phone and said, ‘You need to pull [Clarence Harrison], put him in protective custody and ship him back to Atlanta.’”
Harrison was released from custody August 31, 2004.
“It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” Polster says. “The system can move efficiently when it wants to. It was unbelievable.”
Clarence Harrison, wrongfully incarcerated for nearly 18 years, was the Georgia Innocence Project’s first exoneration.
Harrison
ON A RAINY OCTOBER MORNING in 1986, a 25-year-old woman was viciously attacked as she walked to a bus stop in Decatur, Ga. She was punched in the face, dragged down an embankment and raped three times. The assailant also robbed her of her wristwatch and money.
Police investigated a tip that a man named Clarence Harrison, who lived near the site of the abduction, had a watch for sale. Even though they didn’t find the watch in his house, police included Harrison in a photo lineup, and the victim identified him as her attacker.
Harrison maintained his innocence, but a DeKalb County jury convicted him on March 18, 1987, of rape and robbery. During the trial, a forensic analyst testified the rape kit showed blood group markers consistent with Harrison when, in fact, the evidence had been compromised. Harrison was sentenced to life in prison plus 20 years.
In February 2003, the Georgia Innocence Project began to review his case. They were told all the evidence had been destroyed in the 1990s, but their investigation discovered that one slide containing evidence from the rape kit still existed.
New DNA samples were taken from Harrison, and the results showed that Harrison could not possibly be the same man whose DNA was in the rape kit.
“I remember sitting in the district attorney’s office,” Polster recalls, “and he just picked up the phone and said, ‘You need to pull [Clarence Harrison], put him in protective custody and ship him back to Atlanta.’”
Harrison was released from custody August 31, 2004.
“It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” Polster says. “The system can move efficiently when it wants to. It was unbelievable.”
Clarence Harrison, wrongfully incarcerated for nearly 18 years, was the Georgia Innocence Project’s first exoneration.
Harrison
ON A RAINY OCTOBER MORNING in 1986, a 25-year-old woman was viciously attacked as she walked to a bus stop in Decatur, Ga. She was punched in the face, dragged down an embankment and raped three times. The assailant also robbed her of her wristwatch and money.
Police investigated a tip that a man named Clarence Harrison, who lived near the site of the abduction, had a watch for sale. Even though they didn’t find the watch in his house, police included Harrison in a photo lineup, and the victim identified him as her attacker.
Harrison maintained his innocence, but a DeKalb County jury convicted him on March 18, 1987, of rape and robbery. During the trial, a forensic analyst testified the rape kit showed blood group markers consistent with Harrison when, in fact, the evidence had been compromised. Harrison was sentenced to life in prison plus 20 years.
In February 2003, the Georgia Innocence Project began to review his case. They were told all the evidence had been destroyed in the 1990s, but their investigation discovered that one slide containing evidence from the rape kit still existed.
New DNA samples were taken from Harrison, and the results showed that Harrison could not possibly be the same man whose DNA was in the rape kit.
“I remember sitting in the district attorney’s office,” Polster recalls, “and he just picked up the phone and said, ‘You need to pull [Clarence Harrison], put him in protective custody and ship him back to Atlanta.’”
Harrison was released from custody August 31, 2004.
“It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” Polster says. “The system can move efficiently when it wants to. It was unbelievable.”
photos of Jessica Cino and Kianna Chennault by Ben Rollins
photo of Jill Polster by Ryan Hayslip
photo of Clarence Harrison courtesy of the Georgia Innocence Project
*Sarah Marshall was a Georgia Innocence Project intern in 2016. Her writing has appeared in The Believer, The New Republic and Buzzfeed.
photos of Jessica Cino and Kianna Chennault by Ben Rollins
photo of Jill Polster by Ryan Hayslip
photo of Clarence Harrison courtesy of the Georgia Innocence Project
*Sarah Marshall was a Georgia Innocence Project intern in 2016. Her writing has appeared in The Believer, The New Republic and Buzzfeed.
