by
Sarah Stillman
On a bright Thursday afternoon in 2007, Jennifer
Boatright, a waitress at a Houston bar-and-grill, drove with her two
young sons and her boyfriend, Ron Henderson, on U.S. 59 toward Linden,
Henderson’s home town, near the Texas-Louisiana border. They made the
trip every April, at the first signs of spring, to walk the local
wildflower trails and spend time with Henderson’s father. This year,
they’d decided to buy a used car in Linden, which had plenty for sale,
and so they bundled their cash savings in their car’s center console.
Just after dusk, they passed a sign that read “Welcome to Tenaha: A
little town with BIG Potential!”
They
pulled into a mini-mart for snacks. When they returned to the highway
ten minutes later, Boatright, a honey-blond “Texas redneck from
Lubbock,” by her own reckoning, and Henderson, who is Latino, noticed
something strange. The same police car that their eleven-year-old had
admired in the mini-mart parking lot was trailing them. Near the city
limits, a tall, bull-shouldered officer named Barry Washington pulled
them over.
He asked if Henderson knew that he’d been driving in the left lane for more than half a mile without passing.
No, Henderson replied. He said he’d moved into the left lane so that the police car could make its way onto the highway.
Were
there any drugs in the car? When Henderson and Boatright said no, the
officer asked if he and his partner could search the car.
The
officers found the couple’s cash and a marbled-glass pipe that Boatright
said was a gift for her sister-in-law, and escorted them across town to
the police station. In a corner there, two tables were heaped with
jewelry, DVD players, cell phones, and the like. According to the police
report, Boatright and Henderson fit the profile of drug couriers: they
were driving from Houston, “a known point for distribution of illegal
narcotics,” to Linden, “a known place to receive illegal narcotics.” The
report describes their children as possible decoys, meant to distract
police as the couple breezed down the road, smoking marijuana. (None was
found in the car, although Washington claimed to have smelled it.)
The
county’s district attorney, a fifty-seven-year-old woman with feathered
Charlie’s Angels hair named Lynda K. Russell, arrived an hour later.
Russell, who moonlighted locally as a country singer, told Henderson and
Boatright that they had two options. They could face felony charges for
“money laundering” and “child endangerment,” in which case they would
go to jail and their children would be handed over to foster care. Or
they could sign over their cash to the city of Tenaha, and get back on
the road. “No criminal charges shall be filed,” a waiver she drafted
read, “and our children shall not be turned over to CPS,” or Child
Protective Services.
“Where are we?” Boatright remembers thinking.
“Is this some kind of foreign country, where they’re selling people’s
kids off?” Holding her sixteen-month-old on her hip, she broke down in
tears.
Later, she learned that cash-for-freedom deals had become a
point of pride for Tenaha, and that versions of the tactic were used
across the country. “Be safe and keep up the good work,” the city
marshal wrote to Washington, following a raft of complaints from
out-of-town drivers who claimed that they had been stopped in Tenaha and
stripped of cash, valuables, and, in at least one case, an infant
child, without clear evidence of contraband.
Outraged by their
experience in Tenaha, Jennifer Boatright and Ron Henderson helped to
launch a class-action lawsuit challenging the abuse of a legal doctrine
known as civil-asset forfeiture. “Have you looked it up?” Boatright
asked me when I met her this spring at Houston’s H&H Saloon, where
she runs Steak Night every Monday. She was standing at a mattress-size
grill outside. “It’ll blow your mind.”
The basic
principle behind asset forfeiture is appealing. It enables authorities
to confiscate cash or property obtained through illicit means, and, in
many states, funnel the proceeds directly into the fight against crime.
In Tulsa, Oklahoma, cops drive a Cadillac Escalade stencilled with the
words “This Used To Be a Drug Dealer’s Car, Now It’s Ours!”
In Monroe, North Carolina, police recently proposed using forty-four
thousand dollars in confiscated drug money to buy a surveillance drone,
which might be deployed to catch fleeing suspects, conduct rescue
missions, and, perhaps, seize more drug money. Hundreds of state and
federal laws authorize forfeiture for cockfighting, drag racing,
basement gambling, endangered-fish poaching, securities fraud, and
countless other misdeeds.
In general, you needn’t be found guilty
to have your assets claimed by law enforcement; in some states,
suspicion on a par with “probable cause” is sufficient. Nor must you be
charged with a crime, or even be accused of one. Unlike criminal
forfeiture, which requires that a person be convicted of an offense
before his or her property is confiscated, civil forfeiture amounts to a
lawsuit filed directly against a possession, regardless of its owner’s
guilt or innocence.
One result is the rise of improbable case
names such as United States v. One Pearl Necklace and United States v.
Approximately 64,695 Pounds of Shark Fins. (Jennifer Boatright and Ron
Henderson’s forfeiture was slugged State of Texas v. $6,037.) “The
protections our Constitution usually affords are out the window,” Louis
Rulli, a clinical law professor at the University of Pennsylvania and a
leading forfeiture expert, observes. A piece of property does not share
the rights of a person. There’s no right to an attorney and, in most
states, no presumption of innocence. Owners who wish to contest often
find that the cost of hiring a lawyer far exceeds the value of their
seized goods. Washington, D.C., charges up to twenty-five hundred
dollars simply for the right to challenge a police seizure in court,
which can take months or even years to resolve.
The tangled nature
of the process became clear when I spoke to Nelly Moreira, a stout,
curly-haired custodian who lives in Northwest D.C. Moreira relied on her
2005 Honda Accord to drive from her early-morning job, cleaning Trinity
Washington University, to her evening job, cleaning the U.S. Treasury
Department. In March, 2012, her son was driving her car when he was
pulled over for a minor traffic violation, and, after a pat down, was
found to have a handgun. He was arrested, and her car was seized.
Moreira, who grew up in El Salvador, explained in Spanish that she
received a letter in the mail two months later asking her to pay a bond
of one thousand and twenty dollars—which she took to be the fee to get
her car back. Desperate, she borrowed cash from friends and family to
cover the bond, which is known in D.C. law as a “penal sum.” If she
hadn’t, the car would have been auctioned off, or put to use by the
police. But all that the money bought her was the right to a complex and
slow-moving civil-forfeiture court case.
She was left struggling
to make her car payments each month as her Honda sat in a city lot,
unused and unsheltered from the elements. The bond, the loans, and the
public-transportation costs added up. “There were days I didn’t have a
good meal,” she told me in February, sitting beneath her daughter’s
quinceañera portrait in her narrow fuchsia-painted row house.
The
Public Defender Service for the District of Columbia won the release of
Moreira’s car last summer, and in May filed a lawsuit against the city
on behalf of approximately three hundred and seventy-five car owners
like Moreira. Describing the policy as “devastating for hundreds of
families who depend on their cars for many of the urgent and important
tasks of daily life,” it called for higher standards of proof and the
end of penal-sum fees. At a public hearing on July 11th, D.C.’s attorney
general, Irvin Nathan, acknowledged “very real problems” relating to
due-process rights. But he warned that millions of dollars raised by
forfeiture “could very easily be lost” and “an unreasonable burden”
placed on his office if the reforms supported by the Public Defender
Service were enacted. He proposed more modest changes that would leave
the current burden of proof untouched.
“We all know the way things
are right now—budgets are tight,” Steve Westbrook, the executive
director of the Sheriffs’ Association of Texas, says. “It’s definitely a
valuable asset to law enforcement, for purchasing equipment and getting
things you normally wouldn’t be able to get to fight crime.” Many
officers contend that their departments would collapse if the practice
were too heavily regulated, and that a valuable public-safety measure
would be lost.
But a system that proved successful at wringing
profits from drug cartels and white-collar fraudsters has also given
rise to corruption and violations of civil liberties. Over the past
year, I spoke with more than a hundred police officers, defense
attorneys, prosecutors, judges, and forfeiture plaintiffs from across
the country. Many expressed concern that state laws designed to go after
high-flying crime lords are routinely targeting the workaday homes,
cars, cash savings, and other belongings of innocent people who are
never charged with a crime.
When Jennifer
Boatright and Ron Henderson complained to the county in the hope of
retrieving their savings, they got another surprise. Lynda Russell, the
district attorney, told them she had warned “repeatedly” that they did
not have to sign the waiver, but, if they continued to contest it, they
could be indicted on felony charges. “I will contact you and give you an
opportunity to turn yourself in without having an officer come to your
door,” she wrote in a letter mentioning the prospect of a grand jury.
Once again, their custody of the kids was threatened. Boatright and
Henderson decided to fight anyway.
When out-of-town drivers who
felt victimized by a Tenaha forfeiture called local lawyers for help,
their business wasn’t always welcomed. “That’d be like kicking a basket
of rattlesnakes,” one defense lawyer warned a forfeiture target. Often
they were referred to a defense attorney named David Guillory, in nearby
Nacogdoches. Guillory is a broad-faced man with blue eyes and the
gregarious, cheerful disposition of a Scoutmaster. (He is, in fact, an
assistant Scoutmaster of local Troop 100, and keeps the “Handbook of
Knots” by his desk, near heaps of legal briefs.) He moved to Nacogdoches
seventeen years ago and set up shop as a small-town civil-rights
lawyer. He specialized in cases around the state that made neither
friends nor profits: mostly, suing policemen for misconduct.
By
the time Boatright and Henderson spoke with Guillory, he was already
acquainted with what he refers to as “the Tenaha operation.” Several
months earlier, he’d received a call from a plump-cheeked
twenty-seven-year-old man named James Morrow, who worked at a Tyson
plant in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, slicing chicken strips for prepared
foods. “He told me a pretty startling story,” Guillory recalls. In
August, 2007, Tenaha police pulled Morrow over for “driving too close to
the white line,” and took thirty-nine hundred dollars from him. Morrow
told Guillory that he was on his way to get dental work done at a
Houston mall. (The arresting officers said that his “stories of travel”
were inconsistent, as was his account of how much money he had; they
also said they detected the “odor of burned marijuana,” although no
contraband was found in the car.) Morrow, who is black, was taken to
jail, where he pleaded with authorities to call his bank to see proof of
his recent cash withdrawal. They declined.
“They impounded my
car, and they impounded me, too,” Morrow told me, recalling the night he
spent in jail. When he finally agreed to sign away his property, he was
released on the side of the road with no money, no vehicle, and no
phone. “I had to go to Wal-Mart and borrow someone’s phone to call my
mama,” he recounted. “She had to take out a rental car to come pick me
up.” For weeks, Morrow said he felt “crippled,” unsure of what to do. He
says that a Tenaha officer told him, “Don’t even bother getting a
lawyer. The money always stays here.” But finally he decided “to shine a
big ol’ light on them.”
After Morrow was steered to Guillory, he
took a day off from his job and arrived at Nacogdoches with stacks of
old bank files to prove where his money came from. “He knew how hard
he’d worked for that money,” Guillory told me, “and every dime was taken
from him.” Guillory decided to find out if what had happened to Morrow
was more than a fluke. He was taken aback by the scale of what he
uncovered. It was a baroque small-town scandal, but it was also a story
with national reach. He wondered how many people across the country felt
“crippled,” as Morrow did, by statutes so little known yet so widely
used.
In West Philadelphia last August, an
elderly couple named Mary and Leon Adams were finishing breakfast when
several vans filled with heavily armed police pulled up to their red
brick home. An officer announced, “We’ll give you ten minutes to get
your things and vacate the property.” The men surrounding their home had
been authorized to enter, seize, and seal the premises, without any
prior notice.
“I was almost numb,” Mary Adams, a
sixty-eight-year-old grandmother with warm brown eyes and wavy russet
hair, recalled. When I visited her this spring, she sat beside her
seventy-year-old husband, who was being treated for pancreatic cancer,
and was slumped with exhaustion. A little earlier, he had struggled to
put on his embroidered blue-and-yellow guayabera shirt; his wife,
looking fit for church in a green jacket, tank top, and slacks, watched
him attentively as he shuffled over on a carved-wood cane to greet me.
Leon explained his attachment to their home in numerical terms. “1966,”
he said. “It’s been our home since 1966.”
Mary had been working as
a truck-stop cook in segregated South Carolina when she met and married
Leon—a man from “way out in the woods, just a fireplace and a lamp”—and
followed him north. Leon had been hired as a cook at the Valley Forge
Music Fair, outside Philadelphia, where James Brown, Aretha Franklin,
and the Kingston Trio would one day perform. After renting a room in the
city, the Adamses found a sweet little two-story house within their
budget, five miles from Philadelphia’s Liberty Bell. It had a narrow
covered porch that reminded Mary Adams of the country.
The home
served the Adams family well over the next half century, as Leon took a
job as a steel-plant worker, and later as an elementary-school janitor,
and Mary worked as a saleswoman at Woolworth and, eventually, as a
patients’ care assistant at Bryn Mawr hospital. (“I treated every
patient as a V.I.P., whether you were in a coma or not!”) More recently,
the home has helped the couple ease into their retirement. “I love
digging in the dirt,” she said, referring to their modest,
marigold-lined front yard, and “sitting on the porch, talking to
neighbors.”
Their home also proved a comfortable place to raise
their only son, Leon, Jr.—so comfortable, in fact, that the young man
never quite flew the nest. At thirty-one, slender and goateed, Leon,
Jr., occupied a small bedroom on the second floor. When his father, who
had already suffered a stroke, fell ill with cancer, he was around to
help out. But, according to a report by the Philadelphia Police
Department, the younger Leon had a sideline: on the afternoon of July
10, 2012, he allegedly sold twenty dollars’ worth of marijuana to a
confidential informant, on the porch of his parents’ home. When the
informant requested two more deals the next week, the report said, he
made the same arrangements. Both were for twenty dollars, purchased with
marked bills provided by police.
Around 5
p.m.
on July 19th, Leon, Sr., was in his bedroom recovering from surgery
when he was startled by a loud noise. “I thought the house was blowing
up,” he recalls. The police “had some sort of big, long club and four
guys hit the door with it, and knocked the whole door right down.”
swat-team
officers in riot gear were raiding his home. One of the officers placed
Leon, Jr., in handcuffs and said, “Apologize to your father for what
you’ve done.” Leon, Jr., was taken off to jail, where he remains,
awaiting trial.
The police returned about a month after the raid.
Owing to the allegations against Leon, Jr., the state was now seeking to
take the Adamses’ home and to sell it at a biannual city auction, with
the proceeds split between the district attorney’s office and the police
department. All of this could occur even if Leon, Jr., was acquitted in
criminal court; in fact, the process could be completed even before he
stood trial.
Mary Adams was at a loss. She and her husband were
accused of no crime. Instead, the civil case was titled Commonwealth of
Pennsylvania v. The Real Property and Improvements Known as [their
address]. For years, Mary had volunteered for the Philadelphia More
Beautiful Committee, and as a block captain she always thought that
civil forfeiture was reserved for crack houses and abandoned eyesores.
Now her own carefully maintained residence was the target.
The
Adamses had a lucky break on the morning of their eviction notice: when
an officer observed Leon’s frail condition, he told them that they could
stay in the house while the forfeiture proceedings advanced. This gave
them some time to figure out how to fight. “We had no money,” Mary told
me, so they couldn’t hire a lawyer. But they learned of a free “Civil
Practice” clinic at the University of Pennsylvania Law School, run by
Louis Rulli, where students help indigent homeowners challenge
civil-forfeiture claims.
“It was an area of the law that was under
the radar and very prone to abuse,” Rulli told me when we met at his
clinic, in a wing of the law school with a separate entrance and an air
of potted-plant competence reminiscent of a doctor’s office. Beside him
sat Susanna Greenberg, a colleague, and Julia Simon-Mishel, who had
worked on the Adamses’ case as a law student. Rulli noted that the
system is designed to defeat anyone who isn’t an expert in navigating
its intricacies. “These are affirmative defenses—you lose them if you
don’t raise them,” he said. “Even lawyers don’t know about these
defenses unless they’ve worked on forfeiture specifically.”...
How did we get to this point in the law? The article explains:
Whether this should be the law—whether, in the
absence of a judicial finding of guilt, the state should be able to take
possession of your property—has been debated since before American
independence. In the Colonial period, the English Crown issued “writs of
assistance” that permitted customs officials to enter homes or vessels
and seize whatever they deemed contraband. As the legal scholars Eric
Blumenson and Eva Nilsen have noted, these writs were “among the key
grievances that triggered the American Revolution.”
The new nation’s
Bill of Rights would expressly forbid “unreasonable searches and
seizures” and promise that no one would be deprived of “life, liberty,
or property, without due process.” Nonetheless, Congress soon authorized
the use of civil-forfeiture actions against pirates and smugglers. It
was easier to prosecute a vessel and seize its cargo than to try to
prosecute its owner, who might be an ocean away. In the ensuing decades,
the practice fell into disuse and, aside from a few brief revivals,
remained mostly dormant for the next two centuries.
Forfeiture in
its modern form began with federal statutes enacted in the
nineteen-seventies and aimed not at waitresses and janitors but at
organized-crime bosses and drug lords. Law-enforcement officers were
empowered to seize money and goods tied to the production of illegal
drugs. Later amendments allowed the seizure of anything thought to have
been purchased with tainted funds, whether or not it was connected to
the commission of a crime. Even then, forfeiture remained an infrequent
resort until 1984, when Congress passed the Comprehensive Crime Control
Act. It established a special fund that turned over proceeds from
forfeitures to the law-enforcement agencies responsible for them. Local
police who provided federal assistance were rewarded with a large
percentage of the proceeds, through a program called Equitable Sharing.
Soon states were crafting their own forfeiture laws.
Revenue gains
were staggering. At the Justice Department, proceeds from forfeiture
soared from twenty-seven million dollars in 1985 to five hundred and
fifty-six million in 1993. (Last year, the department took in nearly
$4.2 billion in forfeitures, a record.)
