*
If Air Travel Worked Like Health Care by Jonathan Rauch
Fasten your seat belts -- it's going to be a bumpy flight.
by Jonathan Rauch
Saturday, Sept. 26, 2009
"Hello! Thank you for calling Air Health Care, the airline that works like the health care system. My name is Cynthia. How can I give you travel care today?"
"Hi. My name is Jonathan Rauch. I need to fly from Washington, D.C., to Eugene, Oregon, on October 23."
"Yes, I'd be happy to assist you with that. It does look like we can get you on a flight on January 23 at 1 p.m. or February 8 at 3 p.m. Which would you prefer?"
"Neither. I need to be in Eugene on October 23. As in, the 23rd of October."
"I'm sorry, we have nothing open on that date. You might try another carrier."
"I suppose I'd better. Who has availability?"
"I'm afraid I have no way to know that. I have no way to look into their systems."
"Who would know?"
"You can call them individually and ask. I'm sure you can find one."
"Look, I don't have time to call two dozen airlines. It's important that I get to Eugene on the 23rd. There must be something you can do."
"Well, it looks like maybe we could squeeze you in on October 26, if you don't mind departing Washington Dulles at 5:35 a.m."
"Good grief. All right, I suppose it will do."
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't use e-mail to transmit records and other personal or secure documents. We keep our records on paper."
"Great, thank you, I'll be happy to make that booking for you. That's one flight from Washington Dulles to Chicago O'Hare on October 26. Will there be anything else?"
"Wait, hold on. Chicago? I'm going to Eugene. It's in Oregon."
"Yes, sir. The Eugene portion of your trip will be handled by a western specialist. We'll be glad to bring you back from Chicago to Washington, though."
"You mean I have to call another carrier and go through all this again? Why don't you just book the whole trip?"
"Sorry, sir, but you do need to make your own travel appointments. We would be happy to refer you to some qualified carriers. May I have your fax number, please? Before I can confirm the booking, we'll need you to fill out your travel history and send that back to us."
"Cynthia, I have filled out my travel history half a dozen times already this year. I've told six different airlines that I flew to Detroit twice and Houston once. Every time I fly, I answer the same battery of questions. At least a dozen airlines have my travel history. Why don't you get it from them?"
"We have no way we could do that. We do not have access to other companies' records, and our personnel have our own system for collecting travel history."
"But 95 percent of these questions are always the same. Don't you know that every time I fill out one of these duplicative forms I increase the chance of error? Wouldn't it make more sense to hold my travel information centrally, so that everyone could see the same thing?"
"Sorry, sir, we have no capability for that, and we do need to have your travel history at least two weeks before you fly."
"I don't suppose I could fill out these forms online?"
"No, sir. The forms are only about 30 pages, though. Did you have that fax number, please?"
"I don't have a fax machine. No one faxes anymore. Just e-mail me the forms."
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't use e-mail to transmit records and other personal or secure documents. We keep our records on paper."
"What century is this? You think paper is secure?"
"We do keep all your travel records on low-acid paper and in fire-retardant file drawers. When someone needs access to your records, we make a photocopy and put them in the mail. Or fax. How many items of luggage were you wanting to bring?"
"Two."
"OK, good. We suggest you make luggage arrangements with Rapid Air Transport, though of course you're free to use any luggage company you like."
"Luggage company?"
"Yes, sir. You'll need to arrange baggage transport. Would you like a phone number for Rapid, or would you prefer to find your own baggage company? I'm sure Rapid would be pleased to work with you. All you need to do is sign the Personal Travel Records Release form. Where would you like me to mail that?"
"Release form?"
"Yes, sir. You'll need to sign and fax or mail that back to our Travel Records Department so that we can release your travel records to Rapid. Under the privacy rules, we're not authorized to tell them when or where you're flying without your written permission."
"I suppose I couldn't just e-mail you this permission, or grant it online?"
"No. Did you want a list of luggage carriers for your Chicago-Eugene leg?"
"Let me guess. Rapid doesn't operate out West. I have to find a separate luggage company for the second leg."
"Yes, sir."
"And they'll need more copies of all the same paperwork. And they'll ask me all the same questions. And I'll have to arrange to get my travel records to them by mail or fax. And I'll repeat all this nonsense five or six separate times between here and Eugene, because the providers aren't equipped to talk to each other and my records aren't digitized and no two providers use the same system."
"Yes, sir, that's right! Did you have a preferred fuelist, or did you want a reference for a company to provide jet fuel for your flight?"
"Fuelist. That would be a fuel specialist, I suppose."
"We can make a fuel arrangement for you, but please be advised that the fuelist's charge will be billed separately and you will be responsible for it. We'll need to know where to have that bill sent.
"May I have your flight-insurance information, please?"
"Millennium Travel Care, group number 068832, ID number RS-3390041B."
"I'm sorry, sir, we're not in Millennium Travel Care's provider network."
"You're listed on their website. It says you accept Millennium."
"We did until last week. If you like, you can pay out of pocket for your ticket."
"How much would that be?"
"Yes, sir, I'll be happy to get that price for you. That would be $17,885.70."
"What? For a flight to Chicago? Does anyone actually pay that?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I wouldn't know. I can tell you that different clients and insurers pay different rates. For individuals, the rate is $17,885.70."
"Oh."
"In a sane system, I would call an airline and it would give me a price for the whole trip, not just for one part of it."
"Plus tax. And fuel."
"Is anyone else cheaper?"
"Sir, again, I couldn't tell you that. Carriers don't have public rate sheets. Prices are privately negotiated, so there's really no way you could comparison shop."
"Oh."
"Did you want to go ahead, then?"
"No. I DO NOT WANT TO GO AHEAD. I do not want to go anywhere! I want to jump off a cliff!
"This system is insane. It is fragmented to the point of incoherence. Record-keeping is stuck in the 1960s. Communication is stuck in the 1980s. None of the systems talks to the others. Everyone reinvents the wheel at every stage of the process. There is no pricing transparency.
"In a sane, modern system, I wouldn't have to arrange each leg of my flight myself. I wouldn't have to fax documents around, find and juggle multiple providers, fill out again and again what are essentially the same forms every time I use a provider.
"In a sane system, I would call an airline and it would give me a price for the whole trip, not just for one part of it. It would sell me a safe round-trip journey, instead a series of separate procedures. It would have back-office personnel using modern IT systems to coordinate my journey behind the scenes. The systems and personnel would talk to each other automatically. At the press of a button, once I entered a password, they would be able to look up my travel history. We'd do most of this stuff online.
"In fact, Cynthia, I would be able to arrange a whole trip with a single phone call!"
"Sir. Please. Calm down and be realistic. I'm sure the system can be frustrating, but consumers don't understand flight plans and landing slots. Even if they did, there are thousands of separate providers involved in moving travelers around, and hundreds of airports, and millions of trips. Getting everyone to coordinate services and exchange information just isn't realistic in a business as complicated as travel."
"Yes. I suppose I'm dreaming."
"Was there anything else I could help you with?"
"No."
"My goal today was to provide you with outstanding service. Did I accomplish that?"
[click]
*
*
Cl
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The Wild Card By BOB HERBERT
September 12, 2009
Op-Ed Columnist
The Wild Card By BOB HERBERT
There’s a lot to appreciate in the latest incarnation of the Democrats’ Sisyphean-like campaign to overhaul the nation’s health care system. In the current environment, matters are growing worse almost by the hour.
Horrendous job losses and an economy that is in shambles are driving up the number of people without health insurance. “Every day,” said President Obama in his speech to Congress this week, “14,000 Americans lose their coverage.”
This is occurring at the same time that the immense baby boomer generation is approaching retirement age, the age when even under the best of circumstances the need for health care steadily rises.
Even those with health insurance frequently find themselves on shaky ground, worried that they will lose it if they lose their jobs or that the coverage will not meet their real-world needs.
So most Americans are prepared to listen when the Democrats try to make the case for changes that would, among other things, prevent insurance companies from denying coverage because of pre-existing conditions, prevent them from engaging in the perverse practice of canceling policies when the policyholder gets ill, put an end to arbitrary caps on annual or lifetime coverage and limit what policyholders could be charged for deductibles and out-of-pocket expenses.
When you factor in the explosive costs of health care, which are making American businesses less competitive and threatening to bankrupt the government, the case for reform would seem to be a slam dunk.
But there’s a wild card out there undermining the chances for real reform, and it’s not the crazies who have been disrupting health care forums or the disrespectful space cadet legislators like the South Carolina Congressman Joe (“You lie!”) Wilson. It’s the ordinary working men and women of America who are struggling with the worst economic downturn they have ever seen and who are worried that the big new plans that the Democrats have in store may not be in their best interests — and may not be affordable.
Many of those folks already have health insurance, and many voted for Barack Obama. But they’re scared to death now as the economy continues to hemorrhage jobs and the budget deficits unfolding before their eyes are being counted in the trillions.
To get meaningful health care reform this time around, the Democrats will have to get that constituency on board. They haven’t yet.
For one thing, the various proposals are not at all clear to the general public and the average citizen is clueless as to how any of them would be paid for. To say that people are skeptical is the grossest understatement.
When the administration talks about getting hundreds of billions of dollars in savings from Medicare to help finance health care reform, it sends a shudder not just through Medicare recipients (who like their coverage just fine and don’t want anyone tampering with it), but also through younger individuals concerned about elderly relatives on Medicare.
The president said in his speech that the savings would come from eliminating “hundreds of billions of dollars in waste and fraud” and the elimination of some unwarranted subsidies. But to the finely tuned ear of the general public, that’s exactly what politicians always say: We’re going to get rid of waste and fraud.
The administration would contend that this time will be different. One can understand why some will remain unconvinced.
The president also said, as he estimated the cost of his proposal at $900 billion over 10 years, that he “will not sign a plan that adds one dime to our deficits — either now or in the future.”
I’m sure he means it. But I have not spoken to anyone, either on Capitol Hill or elsewhere, who believes that is doable. Now it may be that the public should not be so worried about the deficits. They had to be jacked up to get the country through this terrible economic crisis. And health care reform — real reform — is essential if long-term deficits are to be brought under control.
But people are worried about it. And just saying that health care reform will not add to the deficits is not enough to allay those fears.
What’s missing from all the talk about reform is how the runaway costs of health care, and all the dire consequences associated with them, can be reined in without a strong public insurance option and other big-time cost-saving initiatives.
If the government requires everyone — or nearly everyone — to have health insurance, the insurance companies and the pharmaceutical industry will reap a bonanza. What the Democrats still have to make clear to ordinary working men and women is how this latest incarnation of health care reform will be cost effective and broadly beneficial to them and to their government.
Op-Ed Columnist
The Wild Card By BOB HERBERT
There’s a lot to appreciate in the latest incarnation of the Democrats’ Sisyphean-like campaign to overhaul the nation’s health care system. In the current environment, matters are growing worse almost by the hour.
Horrendous job losses and an economy that is in shambles are driving up the number of people without health insurance. “Every day,” said President Obama in his speech to Congress this week, “14,000 Americans lose their coverage.”
This is occurring at the same time that the immense baby boomer generation is approaching retirement age, the age when even under the best of circumstances the need for health care steadily rises.
Even those with health insurance frequently find themselves on shaky ground, worried that they will lose it if they lose their jobs or that the coverage will not meet their real-world needs.
So most Americans are prepared to listen when the Democrats try to make the case for changes that would, among other things, prevent insurance companies from denying coverage because of pre-existing conditions, prevent them from engaging in the perverse practice of canceling policies when the policyholder gets ill, put an end to arbitrary caps on annual or lifetime coverage and limit what policyholders could be charged for deductibles and out-of-pocket expenses.
When you factor in the explosive costs of health care, which are making American businesses less competitive and threatening to bankrupt the government, the case for reform would seem to be a slam dunk.
But there’s a wild card out there undermining the chances for real reform, and it’s not the crazies who have been disrupting health care forums or the disrespectful space cadet legislators like the South Carolina Congressman Joe (“You lie!”) Wilson. It’s the ordinary working men and women of America who are struggling with the worst economic downturn they have ever seen and who are worried that the big new plans that the Democrats have in store may not be in their best interests — and may not be affordable.
Many of those folks already have health insurance, and many voted for Barack Obama. But they’re scared to death now as the economy continues to hemorrhage jobs and the budget deficits unfolding before their eyes are being counted in the trillions.
To get meaningful health care reform this time around, the Democrats will have to get that constituency on board. They haven’t yet.
For one thing, the various proposals are not at all clear to the general public and the average citizen is clueless as to how any of them would be paid for. To say that people are skeptical is the grossest understatement.
When the administration talks about getting hundreds of billions of dollars in savings from Medicare to help finance health care reform, it sends a shudder not just through Medicare recipients (who like their coverage just fine and don’t want anyone tampering with it), but also through younger individuals concerned about elderly relatives on Medicare.
The president said in his speech that the savings would come from eliminating “hundreds of billions of dollars in waste and fraud” and the elimination of some unwarranted subsidies. But to the finely tuned ear of the general public, that’s exactly what politicians always say: We’re going to get rid of waste and fraud.
The administration would contend that this time will be different. One can understand why some will remain unconvinced.
The president also said, as he estimated the cost of his proposal at $900 billion over 10 years, that he “will not sign a plan that adds one dime to our deficits — either now or in the future.”
I’m sure he means it. But I have not spoken to anyone, either on Capitol Hill or elsewhere, who believes that is doable. Now it may be that the public should not be so worried about the deficits. They had to be jacked up to get the country through this terrible economic crisis. And health care reform — real reform — is essential if long-term deficits are to be brought under control.
But people are worried about it. And just saying that health care reform will not add to the deficits is not enough to allay those fears.
What’s missing from all the talk about reform is how the runaway costs of health care, and all the dire consequences associated with them, can be reined in without a strong public insurance option and other big-time cost-saving initiatives.
If the government requires everyone — or nearly everyone — to have health insurance, the insurance companies and the pharmaceutical industry will reap a bonanza. What the Democrats still have to make clear to ordinary working men and women is how this latest incarnation of health care reform will be cost effective and broadly beneficial to them and to their government.
Lehman Had to Die So Global Finance Could Live By JOE NOCERA
September 12, 2009
Talking Business
Lehman Had to Die So Global Finance Could Live By JOE NOCERA
What if they’d saved Lehman Brothers?
What if, a year ago this weekend, the government and the banking industry had somehow found a way to keep Lehman from filing for bankruptcy? How might that have changed the course of the financial crisis?
We know, of course, what did happen; it is seared in our memory. On Monday, Sept. 15, 2008, when the news broke that, despite nonstop efforts that weekend, there would be no last-minute reprieve for Lehman, à la Bear Stearns, all hell broke loose.
The stock market tanked, dropping more than 500 points that day. The Reserve Primary Fund, a money market fund that held Lehman bonds, “broke the buck.” Shortly afterward, the American International Group nearly collapsed, and had to be bailed out with an extraordinary $85 billion loan from the government. Morgan Stanley was rumored to be next. Banks all over Europe were teetering. There were even fears about the stability of mighty Goldman Sachs. On Wall Street — indeed, in financial capitals all over the Western world — the panic was palpable.
Ever since that weekend, most people, including me, have viewed the decision by Henry Paulson Jr., the Treasury secretary at the time, and Ben Bernanke, the Federal Reserve chairman, to allow Lehman to go bust as the single biggest mistake of the crisis. Never mind that the two men have insisted ever since that they had no other option; surely, they could have created some options if they’d wanted to. Or so goes the conventional wisdom.
Christine Lagarde, France’s finance minister, for instance, called the decision “horrendous” and a “genuine mistake.” According to David Wessel, author of a book about the crisis, “In Fed We Trust,” the head of the European Central Bank, Jean-Claude Trichet, has said the same thing in private. He quotes one of Mr. Trichet’s aides as saying, “It never occurred to us that the Americans would let Lehman fail.” In speeches and articles, in books and television appearances, commentators of every political stripe have pointed to the Lehman bankruptcy as the event that turned the subprime crisis into a full-blown financial collapse.
As we approach this anniversary, though, I’ve begun to question that conventional wisdom. Yes, the fall of Lehman Brothers set off a contagion of panic. And I’m still convinced that Mr. Paulson and Mr. Bernanke could have found a way to save Lehman had they been so inclined (more on that in a moment). But I’ve become convinced that, if Lehman had been saved, the collapse would have occurred anyway.
John H. Makin, a visiting scholar at the American Enterprise Institute, wrote recently, “If the Lehman Brothers’ failure had not triggered the panic phase of the cycle, some other institutional failure would have done so.” I’ll go a step further: it is quite likely that the financial crisis would have been even worse had Lehman been rescued. Although nobody realized it at the time, Lehman Brothers had to die for the rest of Wall Street to live.
•
A week ago, a Reuters reporter traveled to Richard Fuld’s vacation home in Ketchum, Idaho, to see if the former Lehman chief executive would say anything about the anniversary. (When Mr. Fuld walked outside to meet her, he said, “You don’t have a gun; that’s good,” according to the reporter.)
Standing in his driveway, leading, as ever, with his chin, Mr. Fuld talked about the “pummeling” he had taken for presiding over the bankruptcy. “They’re looking for someone to dump on right now and that’s me,” he said. “The facts are out there. Nobody wants to hear it, especially not from me,” he added.
Mr. Fuld’s bitter remarks reflect the way many former Lehman executives feel, even now, about the fact that their firm was the only one to go under during the crisis. After all, they say, Lehman’s mistakes — too much leverage, an overreliance on shaky real estate assets, playing down the risks on its balance sheet — were the same mistakes just about every firm made. Bear Stearns made those mistakes — and was rescued. Citigroup made those mistakes — and was rescued.
What’s more, they say, in the months and weeks leading up to the September crisis, the firm, realizing that it might need a Plan B, proposed that it be allowed to become a bank holding company. It also asked for access to the Fed’s discount window, which is reserved for troubled banks. (What Lehman didn’t do, however, despite the repeated urging of Mr. Paulson, was find a partner with deep pockets or raise additional capital.) These are the “facts” Mr. Fuld was referring to when he spoke the Reuters reporter.
But Timothy Geithner, then New York Fed president, now Treasury secretary, didn’t like the idea of letting an investment bank become a bank holding company — so he said no. Immediately after the Lehman default, however, that is exactly what he allowed Morgan Stanley and Goldman Sachs to do, which helped stabilize both firms.
Of course, politics played a role, too. Congress had no stomach for another bailout on the heels of the takeover of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac just a week before Lehman weekend. In his book, Mr. Wessel, the economics editor of The Wall Street Journal, quotes Mr. Paulson as saying in a conference call, “I’m being called Mr. Bailout. I can’t do it again.”
Although Mr. Paulson would later say that he had no legal authority to save Lehman Brothers, it seems pretty clear from Mr. Wessel’s account that he wasn’t really looking for any authority. He wanted to send a message. That Monday morning, in announcing the Lehman default, Mr. Paulson told the media: “I never once considered that it was appropriate to put taxpayers’ money on the line” to save Lehman Brothers.
For all of these reasons and more, former Lehman executives tend to feel that the process that led to the firm’s bankruptcy was profoundly unfair. I’ve heard the word “tragic” more than once. And I agree with them: it was unfair — and, certainly for the people who lost their jobs, even tragic. Lehman Brothers was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. But for the sake of the financial system, it was also the luckiest thing that could have happened.
In the months between Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers, Mr. Paulson and Mr. Bernanke had approached Congressional leaders about the need to pass legislation that would give them a handful of additional tools to help them deal with a larger crisis, should one ensue. But they quickly realized there was simply no political will to get anything done. After Lehman, however, Mr. Paulson and Mr. Bernanke were able to persuade Congress to pass a bill that gave the Treasury Department $700 billion in potential bailout money — which Mr. Paulson then used to shore up the system, and help ease the crisis. Even then, it wasn’t easy; it took two tries in the House to pass the legislation. Without the crisis prompted by the Lehman default, it would have been impossible to pass a bill like that.
That is one reason the Lehman default turned out to be a good thing. Here’s another: If Lehman had been sold to Bank of America, as originally planned, some other firm — no doubt bigger, and posing more danger to the global financial system — would have failed instead. By then, there was simply too much panic in the air. A crisis of some sort was inevitable.
Mr. Paulson, recall, wanted Wall Street to come up with its own solution for saving Lehman. But as the chief executives sat around the big conference table at the New York Fed all weekend, they kept worrying about who would be next. They talked openly about whether Merrill Lynch could last much longer. (Mr. Paulson bluntly told John Thain, Merrill’s chief executive, that he needed to find a buyer, which is why Bank of America turned its attention to Merrill and away from Lehman.) And there were rumblings that A.I.G. was in trouble. Why were they so reluctant to pitch in to save Lehman? They were worried that they might be next.
In truth, a Merrill or A.I.G. default would have created something akin to a financial nuclear bomb — much worse than Lehman’s filing for bankruptcy. Merrill was a much bigger firm, with deep roots on Main Street thanks to its “thundering herd.” A.I.G. was the world’s largest insurance company, whose credit-default swaps were propping up half of Europe’s banks. (By buying A.I.G.’s swaps, European banks could evade their capital requirements.) Lehman, by contrast, was a smaller firm, with practically no ties to Main Street. The risks it posed to the system were real — but smaller.
Almost everyone I’ve ever spoken to in Hank Paulson’s old Treasury Department agrees that without the immediate panic caused by the Lehman default, the government would never have agreed to make the loans needed to save A.I.G., a company it knew very little about. In effect, the Lehman bankruptcy caused the government to panic, which in turn caused it to save the firm it really had to save to prevent catastrophe. In retrospect, if you had to choose one firm to throw under the bus to save everyone else, you would choose Lehman.
It would be nice to be able to say that officials at Treasury and the Federal Reserve understood this at the time. But of course they didn’t. Throughout history, people have stumbled their way through crises, not fully understanding the potential consequences of their actions, hoping the choices they make turn out to be the right ones.
Mr. Bernanke is a well-known student of the Great Depression, which guided many of his actions during the crisis. Mr. Paulson showed immense tenacity once the crisis struck. History, I now believe, will praise their efforts in subduing the collapse. But the Lehman default?
You know the old saying: Sometimes, it’s better to be lucky than good. A year ago this weekend, it turns out, was one of those times.
Talking Business
Lehman Had to Die So Global Finance Could Live By JOE NOCERA
What if they’d saved Lehman Brothers?
What if, a year ago this weekend, the government and the banking industry had somehow found a way to keep Lehman from filing for bankruptcy? How might that have changed the course of the financial crisis?
We know, of course, what did happen; it is seared in our memory. On Monday, Sept. 15, 2008, when the news broke that, despite nonstop efforts that weekend, there would be no last-minute reprieve for Lehman, à la Bear Stearns, all hell broke loose.
The stock market tanked, dropping more than 500 points that day. The Reserve Primary Fund, a money market fund that held Lehman bonds, “broke the buck.” Shortly afterward, the American International Group nearly collapsed, and had to be bailed out with an extraordinary $85 billion loan from the government. Morgan Stanley was rumored to be next. Banks all over Europe were teetering. There were even fears about the stability of mighty Goldman Sachs. On Wall Street — indeed, in financial capitals all over the Western world — the panic was palpable.
Ever since that weekend, most people, including me, have viewed the decision by Henry Paulson Jr., the Treasury secretary at the time, and Ben Bernanke, the Federal Reserve chairman, to allow Lehman to go bust as the single biggest mistake of the crisis. Never mind that the two men have insisted ever since that they had no other option; surely, they could have created some options if they’d wanted to. Or so goes the conventional wisdom.
Christine Lagarde, France’s finance minister, for instance, called the decision “horrendous” and a “genuine mistake.” According to David Wessel, author of a book about the crisis, “In Fed We Trust,” the head of the European Central Bank, Jean-Claude Trichet, has said the same thing in private. He quotes one of Mr. Trichet’s aides as saying, “It never occurred to us that the Americans would let Lehman fail.” In speeches and articles, in books and television appearances, commentators of every political stripe have pointed to the Lehman bankruptcy as the event that turned the subprime crisis into a full-blown financial collapse.
As we approach this anniversary, though, I’ve begun to question that conventional wisdom. Yes, the fall of Lehman Brothers set off a contagion of panic. And I’m still convinced that Mr. Paulson and Mr. Bernanke could have found a way to save Lehman had they been so inclined (more on that in a moment). But I’ve become convinced that, if Lehman had been saved, the collapse would have occurred anyway.
John H. Makin, a visiting scholar at the American Enterprise Institute, wrote recently, “If the Lehman Brothers’ failure had not triggered the panic phase of the cycle, some other institutional failure would have done so.” I’ll go a step further: it is quite likely that the financial crisis would have been even worse had Lehman been rescued. Although nobody realized it at the time, Lehman Brothers had to die for the rest of Wall Street to live.
•
A week ago, a Reuters reporter traveled to Richard Fuld’s vacation home in Ketchum, Idaho, to see if the former Lehman chief executive would say anything about the anniversary. (When Mr. Fuld walked outside to meet her, he said, “You don’t have a gun; that’s good,” according to the reporter.)
Standing in his driveway, leading, as ever, with his chin, Mr. Fuld talked about the “pummeling” he had taken for presiding over the bankruptcy. “They’re looking for someone to dump on right now and that’s me,” he said. “The facts are out there. Nobody wants to hear it, especially not from me,” he added.
Mr. Fuld’s bitter remarks reflect the way many former Lehman executives feel, even now, about the fact that their firm was the only one to go under during the crisis. After all, they say, Lehman’s mistakes — too much leverage, an overreliance on shaky real estate assets, playing down the risks on its balance sheet — were the same mistakes just about every firm made. Bear Stearns made those mistakes — and was rescued. Citigroup made those mistakes — and was rescued.
What’s more, they say, in the months and weeks leading up to the September crisis, the firm, realizing that it might need a Plan B, proposed that it be allowed to become a bank holding company. It also asked for access to the Fed’s discount window, which is reserved for troubled banks. (What Lehman didn’t do, however, despite the repeated urging of Mr. Paulson, was find a partner with deep pockets or raise additional capital.) These are the “facts” Mr. Fuld was referring to when he spoke the Reuters reporter.
But Timothy Geithner, then New York Fed president, now Treasury secretary, didn’t like the idea of letting an investment bank become a bank holding company — so he said no. Immediately after the Lehman default, however, that is exactly what he allowed Morgan Stanley and Goldman Sachs to do, which helped stabilize both firms.
Of course, politics played a role, too. Congress had no stomach for another bailout on the heels of the takeover of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac just a week before Lehman weekend. In his book, Mr. Wessel, the economics editor of The Wall Street Journal, quotes Mr. Paulson as saying in a conference call, “I’m being called Mr. Bailout. I can’t do it again.”
Although Mr. Paulson would later say that he had no legal authority to save Lehman Brothers, it seems pretty clear from Mr. Wessel’s account that he wasn’t really looking for any authority. He wanted to send a message. That Monday morning, in announcing the Lehman default, Mr. Paulson told the media: “I never once considered that it was appropriate to put taxpayers’ money on the line” to save Lehman Brothers.
For all of these reasons and more, former Lehman executives tend to feel that the process that led to the firm’s bankruptcy was profoundly unfair. I’ve heard the word “tragic” more than once. And I agree with them: it was unfair — and, certainly for the people who lost their jobs, even tragic. Lehman Brothers was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. But for the sake of the financial system, it was also the luckiest thing that could have happened.
In the months between Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers, Mr. Paulson and Mr. Bernanke had approached Congressional leaders about the need to pass legislation that would give them a handful of additional tools to help them deal with a larger crisis, should one ensue. But they quickly realized there was simply no political will to get anything done. After Lehman, however, Mr. Paulson and Mr. Bernanke were able to persuade Congress to pass a bill that gave the Treasury Department $700 billion in potential bailout money — which Mr. Paulson then used to shore up the system, and help ease the crisis. Even then, it wasn’t easy; it took two tries in the House to pass the legislation. Without the crisis prompted by the Lehman default, it would have been impossible to pass a bill like that.
That is one reason the Lehman default turned out to be a good thing. Here’s another: If Lehman had been sold to Bank of America, as originally planned, some other firm — no doubt bigger, and posing more danger to the global financial system — would have failed instead. By then, there was simply too much panic in the air. A crisis of some sort was inevitable.
Mr. Paulson, recall, wanted Wall Street to come up with its own solution for saving Lehman. But as the chief executives sat around the big conference table at the New York Fed all weekend, they kept worrying about who would be next. They talked openly about whether Merrill Lynch could last much longer. (Mr. Paulson bluntly told John Thain, Merrill’s chief executive, that he needed to find a buyer, which is why Bank of America turned its attention to Merrill and away from Lehman.) And there were rumblings that A.I.G. was in trouble. Why were they so reluctant to pitch in to save Lehman? They were worried that they might be next.
In truth, a Merrill or A.I.G. default would have created something akin to a financial nuclear bomb — much worse than Lehman’s filing for bankruptcy. Merrill was a much bigger firm, with deep roots on Main Street thanks to its “thundering herd.” A.I.G. was the world’s largest insurance company, whose credit-default swaps were propping up half of Europe’s banks. (By buying A.I.G.’s swaps, European banks could evade their capital requirements.) Lehman, by contrast, was a smaller firm, with practically no ties to Main Street. The risks it posed to the system were real — but smaller.
Almost everyone I’ve ever spoken to in Hank Paulson’s old Treasury Department agrees that without the immediate panic caused by the Lehman default, the government would never have agreed to make the loans needed to save A.I.G., a company it knew very little about. In effect, the Lehman bankruptcy caused the government to panic, which in turn caused it to save the firm it really had to save to prevent catastrophe. In retrospect, if you had to choose one firm to throw under the bus to save everyone else, you would choose Lehman.
It would be nice to be able to say that officials at Treasury and the Federal Reserve understood this at the time. But of course they didn’t. Throughout history, people have stumbled their way through crises, not fully understanding the potential consequences of their actions, hoping the choices they make turn out to be the right ones.
Mr. Bernanke is a well-known student of the Great Depression, which guided many of his actions during the crisis. Mr. Paulson showed immense tenacity once the crisis struck. History, I now believe, will praise their efforts in subduing the collapse. But the Lehman default?
You know the old saying: Sometimes, it’s better to be lucky than good. A year ago this weekend, it turns out, was one of those times.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Haydn Recordings: A Legacy Reconsidered By ANTHONY TOMMASINI, ALLAN KOZINN, STEVE SMITH and VIVIEN SCHWEITZER
September 11, 2009
Haydn Recordings: A Legacy Reconsidered By ANTHONY TOMMASINI, ALLAN KOZINN, STEVE SMITH and VIVIEN SCHWEITZER
Half a century ago the classical music world ranked Franz Joseph Haydn more or less on a par with Mozart. Then the Mostly Mozart and "Amadeus" industries uncovered a sex appeal in Mozart that Papa Haydn could never rival. Still, his achievement remains stunning in its vastness, inspiration and artistry, and he has continued to be well served by recordings. To commemorate the bicentennial of Haydn's death, the classical music critics of The New York Times look back over those recordings and suggest their favorites. JAMES R. OESTREICH
Here are several favorite Haydn recordings of the classical music critics of The New York Times. The CDs range in price from $6.99 for a single CD to $26.98 for four CDs; the 12-CD set is $79.98; and the 33-CD set is $98.19. (An introduction appears on Page C1.)
ANTHONY TOMMASINI
'LONDON' SYMPHONIES (12), 'PARIS' SYMPHONIES (6), 'DIE SCHÖPFUNG,' MASSES (4) Vocal soloists; choruses; New York Philharmonic, London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Leonard Bernstein (Sony Classical 88697480452; 12 CDs). 'THE SEASONS' Vocal soloists; Beecham Choral Society, Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Thomas Beecham (EMI Classics 5 86118 2; two CDs).
STRING QUARTETS (OP. 76, 77, 103) Amadeus Quartet (Deutsche Grammophon 289 471 762-2; three CDs).
PIANO SONATAS (5) Leif Ove Andsnes, pianist (EMI Classics 5 56756 2; CD).
'ORLANDO PALADINO' Vocal soloists; Concentus Musicus Wien, conducted by Nikolaus Harnoncourt (Deutsche Harmonia Mundi 82876 73370 2; two CDs).
EVEN now, many music lovers think of Haydn as a master, of course, but no Mozart. Yet comparing these composers, who were fast friends from different generations, misses the point. Mozart was a man of the theater by nature. Haydn was not. It is more telling to link Haydn with Beethoven.
Everything Beethoven knew about the technique of generating entire sonatas and symphonies from a handful of motifs, used like building blocks, he learned from Haydn. Haydn was the wittiest composer who ever lived, and among the most wildly inventive. Still a great Haydn performance must also convey the structural, Beethovenian grandeur of the music.
For me two conductors who really got this were Leonard Bernstein and Thomas Beecham. Sony Classical has issued a comprehensive collection of Bernstein's Haydn recordings with the New York Philharmonic from the 1960s and '70s, a 12-disc set containing the 12 "London" Symphonies, the 6 "Paris" Symphonies, the late oratorio "Die Schöpfung" ("The Creation") and 4 Masses. One item, the "Theresienmesse" from 1979, features the London Symphony Orchestra and Chorus. For the rest the performances are as enthralling as I remember them from my youth.
Bernstein captures not just the wit, daring, darkness and tenderness of the music but the immensity. These are the performances of a fellow composer intent on simply showing us how these pieces go. Here, in one purchase, you can have a comprehensive Haydn collection.
When Haydn went to London later in his life, he was astonished to discover how popular he was there. Beecham, with his refinement and droll British humor, brings out Haydn's inner Englishman. A typically revelatory recording is his 1956 account of the oratorio "The Seasons," performed in English, with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, the Beecham Choral Society and fine vocal soloists.
Haydn essentially invented the string quartet as we know it. Among the many splendid recordings, I keep going back to those of the great Amadeus Quartet, founded in London in 1947 with three Viennese and one British player. The group brings an Old World Viennese sensibility to its warm, vibrant accounts, an authority that comes through without a trace of entitlement. A three-disc collection offers its classic accounts of nine late quartets, including the astonishing six works of Opus 76.
Talk about astonishing, there is the pianist Leif Ove Andsnes's recording of five Haydn sonatas, Nos. 24, 30, 32, 33 and 44, from a decade ago. Mr. Andsnes plays these works with elegance, inventiveness and superb pianism. In the fast movements, like the Presto finale of the Sonata No. 30 in B minor, he takes daringly quick tempos. Yet the runs ripple by with uncanny clarity and effortless grace.
Haydn wrote most of his operas for performance at his patron's court. So he never really had a chance to put on shows for the public and learn what works in the theater. Still, Haydn's fantastical "Orlando Paladino," which he called a heroic-comic drama, is clever and engaging, qualities that abound in the recording by the conductor Nikolaus Harnoncourt with a fine cast, including Patricia Petibon and Michael Schade, and the period-instrument orchestra Concentus Musicus Wien.
ALLAN KOZINN
'DIE SCHöPFUNG' Vocal soloists; Stockholm Radio Chorus and Stockholm Chamber Choir; Berlin Philharmonic, conducted by James Levine (Deutsche Grammophon 427 629-2; two CDs).
'NELSON' MASS, 'THERESIENMESSE,' TE DEUM Vocal soloists; Monteverdi Choir; English Baroque Soloists, conducted by John Eliot Gardiner (Philips 470 286-2; two CDs).
'LONDON' SYMPHONIES, VOLUME 1 Concertgebouw Orchestra, conducted by Colin Davis (Philips 442 611-2; two CDs).
STRING QUARTETS (12) Lindsays (Resonance RSB 407; four CDs).
PIANO SONATAS, VOLUME 2 Marc-André Hamelin, pianist (Hyperion CDA67710; two CDs).
ONE way to approach Haydn is by starting at the beginning: not the beginning of Haydn, but the beginning of the universe (or at least the opening chapters of the Bible, leavened with passages from Milton's "Paradise Lost"). In the magnificent oratorio "The Creation" Haydn took a page from Handel's playbook, shaping his music to illustrate vividly and even expand on the events described in the libretto. You can savor the effect in the opening moments: a harmonically adventurous orchestral Largo suggests the dark mysteries of the unformed cosmos, and a soft-hued choral texture explodes into a fortissimo blaze on the final word of the phrase "and there was light."
James Levine, presiding over a modern-instrument orchestra and what sounds like a hefty choir, leads a robust performance with a finely balanced solo cast: Kathleen Battle, Gosta Winbergh and Kurt Moll. The choir is at its best in the several exuberant choruses praising God's majesty and power.
Haydn is nearly as descriptive and dramatic in the series of great Masses he composed from 1796 to 1802, but instead of painting biblical tableaus, he captures the deepest emotions of a prayerful supplicant. The "Missa in Angustiis" ("Mass in Time of Stress," 1798), popularly known as the "Nelson" Mass, reflects the fears and turmoil of life in Austria during the Napoleonic Wars. Its brass and percussion writing does double duty, evoking both the military spirit of the age and the glory of God's judgment. But a sense of desperation pervades the work as well: listen to the emphatic setting of the Credo and the assertive, pleading quality of the "Dona nobis pacem" ("Grant us peace").
Those qualities come through electrifyingly in John Eliot Gardiner's recording with his period-instrument band and expert choir. And Mr. Gardiner offers illuminating contrasts by way of the celebratory Te Deum and the more lyrical, shapely "Theresienmesse."
Anyone interested in Haydn's symphonies really should examine the full range, which has few weak spots and traces both Haydn's development and changes in his listeners' tastes. But if you want to dabble, the late "London" Symphonies catch Haydn at his most commanding. Colin Davis's traversal is available in two double-CD sets, and Volume 1 (Symphonies Nos. 95, 96, 98, 102-4) is marginally preferable, if only because it gives you the "Drum Roll," "London" and "Miracle" Symphonies. Yet both sets are enlivened by Mr. Davis's wit and vitality and the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra's rich sound.
Fine recordings of the string quartets are plentiful these days, but few groups capture their ingenuity, boldness and sheer beauty as thoroughly as the Lindsays, a British quartet that broke up in 2005. Its compilation brings together several favorites — the "Lark," "Sun," "Fifths" and "Emperor" Quartets, among them — in appealingly earthy performances recorded live in London in 1987.
Haydn's piano sonatas, though not as dazzling as Mozart's or as titanic as Beethoven's, are worth knowing for their consummate gracefulness and invention. The latest installment of Marc-André Hamelin's survey in progress, including 11 works, benefits from crisp, focused playing and the kind of linear transparency that gets to the core of Haydn's resourcefulness and originality in, for example, the expansive variations of the Sonata in F minor, misleadingly titled "Un Piccolo Divertimento."
STEVE SMITH
SYMPHONIES (COMPLETE) Philharmonia Hungarica, conducted by Antal Dorati (Decca 478 1221-0; 33 CDs).
PIANO TRIOS (6) Patrick Cohen, fortepianist; Erich Höbarth, violinist; Christophe Coin, cellist (Harmonia Mundi HMX 2968298.99; two CDs).
PIANO SONATAS NOS. 32, 34, 42; OTHER WORKS Alfred Brendel, pianist (Philips B000316302; CD).
'DIE SCHÖPFUNG' Vocal soloists; Balthasar-Neumann Chorus and Ensemble, conducted by Thomas Hengelbrock (Deutsche Harmonia Mundi 05472 77537 2; two CDs).
'DIE JAHRESZEITEN' Vocal soloists; RIAS Chamber Chorus, Freiburg Baroque Orchestra, conducted by René Jacobs (Harmonia Mundi HMC 901829.30; two CDs).
EVEN with a recording industry in crisis, a new complete cycle of Beethoven's nine symphonies turns up seemingly every year. By comparison, only a handful of artists have recorded all of Haydn's symphonies. Antal Dorati and the Philharmonia Hungarica were the first, taping the 104 numbered symphonies along with alternative versions and other extras for Decca from 1969 to 1972. Their cycle remains eminently recommendable, especially in a newly issued, budget-price boxed set. True, minuet movements can be stolid by today's standards, and conductors like Eugen Jochum, Leonard Bernstein, Colin Davis and Trevor Pinnock recorded portions of this huge body of work to more stirring effect. Still, no performance in this milestone set lacks style or charm.
Haydn's string quartets require no special pleading; fine recordings abound, and every home should have one. I am partial to those by the Mosaïques Quartet, a period-instrument group whose renditions were recently reissued by Naïve in two boxed sets. Two members of that ensemble, the violinist Erich Höbarth and the cellist Christophe Coin, have also devoted welcome attention to Haydn's piano trios, a comparatively overlooked body of work that includes some of his most effervescent music.
Patrick Cohen, a stylish pianist, plays historically appropriate fortepianos in the six works found on a recent Harmonia Mundi set (Nos. 32-37), producing a light, lithe sound that never overwhelms that of his collaborators. (For those who insist on modern instruments, the Beaux Arts Trio's comprehensive Philips set remains the gold standard.)
Likewise, Haydn's piano sonatas have never attracted as much attention as his symphonies and string quartets, but the pianist Alfred Brendel made a specialty of them in concert and on records. On a disc featuring three sonatas (in E minor, B minor and D), the Fantasia in C and the Adagio in F, Mr. Brendel's playing is a model of lucid insight and tasteful expression. Dip a toe in here, or take a real plunge and pick up Mr. Brendel's four-disc Philips collection, which includes this program and more.
The two great oratorios, "Die Schöpfung" ("The Creation") and "Die Jahreszeiten" ("The Seasons"), have never lacked for first-rate interpretations, with classic accounts by conductors like Herbert von Karajan, Thomas Beecham and Georg Solti still holding places in the catalog. But Thomas Hengelbrock's account of "The Creation," issued in 2002, demands attention. His period-instrument players are electrifying in the opening conjuration of chaos; the vocal soloists are fresh-voiced and commanding. René Jacobs works similar magic with "The Seasons," conveying the work's dazzling colors and elemental energy like no one else.
VIVIEN SCHWEITZER
PIANO SONATAS (5) Emanuel Ax, pianist (Sony Classical SK 89363; CD).
PIANO CONCERTOS NOS. 3, 4, 11 Leif Ove Andsnes, pianist and conductor; Norwegian Chamber Orchestra (EMI Classics 5 56960 2; CD).
SYMPHONIES NOS. 88-92, SINFONIA CONCERTANTE Berlin Philharmonic, conducted by Simon Rattle (EMI Classics 3 94237 2; two CDs).
VIOLIN CONCERTOS NOS. 1, 3, 4 Augustin Hadelich, violinist; Cologne Chamber Orchestra, conducted by Helmut Müller-Brühl (Naxos 8.570483; CD).
'THE CREATION' Vocal soloists; Gabrieli Consort and Players, conducted by Paul McCreesh (Deutsche Grammophon Archiv 477 7361-0; two CDs).
HAYDN, who was not a virtuoso performer on the keyboard like Beethoven or Mozart, relied on it to help him compose symphonies and works in other genres. "My imagination plays on me as if I were a clavier," he told a friend. His piano sonatas are among the highlights of his output.
Playing with warmth, insight and singing lines, the superb pianist Emanuel Ax offers gracious renditions of five of Haydn's piano sonatas, including the technically demanding No. 46 and the brooding No. 36, dedicated to two sisters in Vienna. (The Hoboken numberings used here differ from those on the disc.) The CD also features elegant interpretations of the Sonatas Nos. 33 (whose slow movement Mr. Ax plays beautifully) and 43, both lighthearted works that Haydn wrote for the amateur market.
Haydn's piano concertos are often more like chamber works than solo showpieces. The Concertos Nos. 3 and 4 are scored for only keyboard and strings; oboes and horns are added in the Concerto No. 11. The stellar Norwegian pianist Leif Ove Andsnes plays and conducts the Norwegian Chamber Orchestra in buoyant, deeply expressive performances full of warmth and charm. The lithe, crisp playing of the orchestra complements Mr. Andsnes's sparkling finger work.
As with some of the piano concertos ascribed to Haydn, only four of the violin concertos that have been attributed to him are actually his, and one is lost. The talented young violinist Augustin Hadelich plays the three surviving works, written to highlight the virtuosity of Luigi Tomasini, the concertmaster in Haydn's orchestra at the Esterhazy court. Mr. Hadelich (supplying his own cadenzas) offers fiery, nuanced and expressive playing, with the conductor Helmut Müller-Brühl eliciting spirited performances from the Cologne Chamber Orchestra.
Simon Rattle, primarily known as a champion of contemporary music, has called Haydn "our greatest neglected composer," and he clearly empathizes with the music. He leads the Berlin Philharmonic in the Symphonies Nos. 88 to 92 and the Sinfonia Concertante for violin, cello, oboe and bassoon, aptly mining the score for its humor, invention and profundity. Mr. Rattle illuminates the work's surprising twists with clearly etched phrasing, a crisp approach, plenty of dynamic contrast and a nod to period practice.
Although initially hesitant to step on the toes of Handel, then the leading composer of oratorios in London, Haydn did write his own: the magnificent "Creation." Paul McCreesh conducts the period-instrument Gabrieli Consort and Players and a strong cast of soloists, including Sandrine Piau, Miah Persson, Mark Padmore, Neal Davies and Peter Harvey in a dramatically vivid interpretation of Haydn's crowning achievement. Sung in English (as Haydn preferred), with a revised libretto by Mr. McCreesh and with the large-scale choral and orchestral forces used during the 1799 premiere in London, this is a thrilling performance.
From Symphonies to Sonatas, Favorite Haydn Recordings - NYTimes.com (12 September 2009)
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/11/arts/music/11haydn.html?sq=Haydn&st=cse&scp=1&pagewanted=print
http://snipurl.com/rrzri
Haydn Recordings: A Legacy Reconsidered By ANTHONY TOMMASINI, ALLAN KOZINN, STEVE SMITH and VIVIEN SCHWEITZER
Half a century ago the classical music world ranked Franz Joseph Haydn more or less on a par with Mozart. Then the Mostly Mozart and "Amadeus" industries uncovered a sex appeal in Mozart that Papa Haydn could never rival. Still, his achievement remains stunning in its vastness, inspiration and artistry, and he has continued to be well served by recordings. To commemorate the bicentennial of Haydn's death, the classical music critics of The New York Times look back over those recordings and suggest their favorites. JAMES R. OESTREICH
Here are several favorite Haydn recordings of the classical music critics of The New York Times. The CDs range in price from $6.99 for a single CD to $26.98 for four CDs; the 12-CD set is $79.98; and the 33-CD set is $98.19. (An introduction appears on Page C1.)
ANTHONY TOMMASINI
'LONDON' SYMPHONIES (12), 'PARIS' SYMPHONIES (6), 'DIE SCHÖPFUNG,' MASSES (4) Vocal soloists; choruses; New York Philharmonic, London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Leonard Bernstein (Sony Classical 88697480452; 12 CDs). 'THE SEASONS' Vocal soloists; Beecham Choral Society, Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Thomas Beecham (EMI Classics 5 86118 2; two CDs).
STRING QUARTETS (OP. 76, 77, 103) Amadeus Quartet (Deutsche Grammophon 289 471 762-2; three CDs).
PIANO SONATAS (5) Leif Ove Andsnes, pianist (EMI Classics 5 56756 2; CD).
'ORLANDO PALADINO' Vocal soloists; Concentus Musicus Wien, conducted by Nikolaus Harnoncourt (Deutsche Harmonia Mundi 82876 73370 2; two CDs).
EVEN now, many music lovers think of Haydn as a master, of course, but no Mozart. Yet comparing these composers, who were fast friends from different generations, misses the point. Mozart was a man of the theater by nature. Haydn was not. It is more telling to link Haydn with Beethoven.
Everything Beethoven knew about the technique of generating entire sonatas and symphonies from a handful of motifs, used like building blocks, he learned from Haydn. Haydn was the wittiest composer who ever lived, and among the most wildly inventive. Still a great Haydn performance must also convey the structural, Beethovenian grandeur of the music.
For me two conductors who really got this were Leonard Bernstein and Thomas Beecham. Sony Classical has issued a comprehensive collection of Bernstein's Haydn recordings with the New York Philharmonic from the 1960s and '70s, a 12-disc set containing the 12 "London" Symphonies, the 6 "Paris" Symphonies, the late oratorio "Die Schöpfung" ("The Creation") and 4 Masses. One item, the "Theresienmesse" from 1979, features the London Symphony Orchestra and Chorus. For the rest the performances are as enthralling as I remember them from my youth.
Bernstein captures not just the wit, daring, darkness and tenderness of the music but the immensity. These are the performances of a fellow composer intent on simply showing us how these pieces go. Here, in one purchase, you can have a comprehensive Haydn collection.
When Haydn went to London later in his life, he was astonished to discover how popular he was there. Beecham, with his refinement and droll British humor, brings out Haydn's inner Englishman. A typically revelatory recording is his 1956 account of the oratorio "The Seasons," performed in English, with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, the Beecham Choral Society and fine vocal soloists.
Haydn essentially invented the string quartet as we know it. Among the many splendid recordings, I keep going back to those of the great Amadeus Quartet, founded in London in 1947 with three Viennese and one British player. The group brings an Old World Viennese sensibility to its warm, vibrant accounts, an authority that comes through without a trace of entitlement. A three-disc collection offers its classic accounts of nine late quartets, including the astonishing six works of Opus 76.
Talk about astonishing, there is the pianist Leif Ove Andsnes's recording of five Haydn sonatas, Nos. 24, 30, 32, 33 and 44, from a decade ago. Mr. Andsnes plays these works with elegance, inventiveness and superb pianism. In the fast movements, like the Presto finale of the Sonata No. 30 in B minor, he takes daringly quick tempos. Yet the runs ripple by with uncanny clarity and effortless grace.
Haydn wrote most of his operas for performance at his patron's court. So he never really had a chance to put on shows for the public and learn what works in the theater. Still, Haydn's fantastical "Orlando Paladino," which he called a heroic-comic drama, is clever and engaging, qualities that abound in the recording by the conductor Nikolaus Harnoncourt with a fine cast, including Patricia Petibon and Michael Schade, and the period-instrument orchestra Concentus Musicus Wien.
ALLAN KOZINN
'DIE SCHöPFUNG' Vocal soloists; Stockholm Radio Chorus and Stockholm Chamber Choir; Berlin Philharmonic, conducted by James Levine (Deutsche Grammophon 427 629-2; two CDs).
'NELSON' MASS, 'THERESIENMESSE,' TE DEUM Vocal soloists; Monteverdi Choir; English Baroque Soloists, conducted by John Eliot Gardiner (Philips 470 286-2; two CDs).
'LONDON' SYMPHONIES, VOLUME 1 Concertgebouw Orchestra, conducted by Colin Davis (Philips 442 611-2; two CDs).
STRING QUARTETS (12) Lindsays (Resonance RSB 407; four CDs).
PIANO SONATAS, VOLUME 2 Marc-André Hamelin, pianist (Hyperion CDA67710; two CDs).
ONE way to approach Haydn is by starting at the beginning: not the beginning of Haydn, but the beginning of the universe (or at least the opening chapters of the Bible, leavened with passages from Milton's "Paradise Lost"). In the magnificent oratorio "The Creation" Haydn took a page from Handel's playbook, shaping his music to illustrate vividly and even expand on the events described in the libretto. You can savor the effect in the opening moments: a harmonically adventurous orchestral Largo suggests the dark mysteries of the unformed cosmos, and a soft-hued choral texture explodes into a fortissimo blaze on the final word of the phrase "and there was light."
James Levine, presiding over a modern-instrument orchestra and what sounds like a hefty choir, leads a robust performance with a finely balanced solo cast: Kathleen Battle, Gosta Winbergh and Kurt Moll. The choir is at its best in the several exuberant choruses praising God's majesty and power.
Haydn is nearly as descriptive and dramatic in the series of great Masses he composed from 1796 to 1802, but instead of painting biblical tableaus, he captures the deepest emotions of a prayerful supplicant. The "Missa in Angustiis" ("Mass in Time of Stress," 1798), popularly known as the "Nelson" Mass, reflects the fears and turmoil of life in Austria during the Napoleonic Wars. Its brass and percussion writing does double duty, evoking both the military spirit of the age and the glory of God's judgment. But a sense of desperation pervades the work as well: listen to the emphatic setting of the Credo and the assertive, pleading quality of the "Dona nobis pacem" ("Grant us peace").
Those qualities come through electrifyingly in John Eliot Gardiner's recording with his period-instrument band and expert choir. And Mr. Gardiner offers illuminating contrasts by way of the celebratory Te Deum and the more lyrical, shapely "Theresienmesse."
Anyone interested in Haydn's symphonies really should examine the full range, which has few weak spots and traces both Haydn's development and changes in his listeners' tastes. But if you want to dabble, the late "London" Symphonies catch Haydn at his most commanding. Colin Davis's traversal is available in two double-CD sets, and Volume 1 (Symphonies Nos. 95, 96, 98, 102-4) is marginally preferable, if only because it gives you the "Drum Roll," "London" and "Miracle" Symphonies. Yet both sets are enlivened by Mr. Davis's wit and vitality and the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra's rich sound.
Fine recordings of the string quartets are plentiful these days, but few groups capture their ingenuity, boldness and sheer beauty as thoroughly as the Lindsays, a British quartet that broke up in 2005. Its compilation brings together several favorites — the "Lark," "Sun," "Fifths" and "Emperor" Quartets, among them — in appealingly earthy performances recorded live in London in 1987.
Haydn's piano sonatas, though not as dazzling as Mozart's or as titanic as Beethoven's, are worth knowing for their consummate gracefulness and invention. The latest installment of Marc-André Hamelin's survey in progress, including 11 works, benefits from crisp, focused playing and the kind of linear transparency that gets to the core of Haydn's resourcefulness and originality in, for example, the expansive variations of the Sonata in F minor, misleadingly titled "Un Piccolo Divertimento."
STEVE SMITH
SYMPHONIES (COMPLETE) Philharmonia Hungarica, conducted by Antal Dorati (Decca 478 1221-0; 33 CDs).
PIANO TRIOS (6) Patrick Cohen, fortepianist; Erich Höbarth, violinist; Christophe Coin, cellist (Harmonia Mundi HMX 2968298.99; two CDs).
PIANO SONATAS NOS. 32, 34, 42; OTHER WORKS Alfred Brendel, pianist (Philips B000316302; CD).
'DIE SCHÖPFUNG' Vocal soloists; Balthasar-Neumann Chorus and Ensemble, conducted by Thomas Hengelbrock (Deutsche Harmonia Mundi 05472 77537 2; two CDs).
'DIE JAHRESZEITEN' Vocal soloists; RIAS Chamber Chorus, Freiburg Baroque Orchestra, conducted by René Jacobs (Harmonia Mundi HMC 901829.30; two CDs).
EVEN with a recording industry in crisis, a new complete cycle of Beethoven's nine symphonies turns up seemingly every year. By comparison, only a handful of artists have recorded all of Haydn's symphonies. Antal Dorati and the Philharmonia Hungarica were the first, taping the 104 numbered symphonies along with alternative versions and other extras for Decca from 1969 to 1972. Their cycle remains eminently recommendable, especially in a newly issued, budget-price boxed set. True, minuet movements can be stolid by today's standards, and conductors like Eugen Jochum, Leonard Bernstein, Colin Davis and Trevor Pinnock recorded portions of this huge body of work to more stirring effect. Still, no performance in this milestone set lacks style or charm.
Haydn's string quartets require no special pleading; fine recordings abound, and every home should have one. I am partial to those by the Mosaïques Quartet, a period-instrument group whose renditions were recently reissued by Naïve in two boxed sets. Two members of that ensemble, the violinist Erich Höbarth and the cellist Christophe Coin, have also devoted welcome attention to Haydn's piano trios, a comparatively overlooked body of work that includes some of his most effervescent music.
Patrick Cohen, a stylish pianist, plays historically appropriate fortepianos in the six works found on a recent Harmonia Mundi set (Nos. 32-37), producing a light, lithe sound that never overwhelms that of his collaborators. (For those who insist on modern instruments, the Beaux Arts Trio's comprehensive Philips set remains the gold standard.)
Likewise, Haydn's piano sonatas have never attracted as much attention as his symphonies and string quartets, but the pianist Alfred Brendel made a specialty of them in concert and on records. On a disc featuring three sonatas (in E minor, B minor and D), the Fantasia in C and the Adagio in F, Mr. Brendel's playing is a model of lucid insight and tasteful expression. Dip a toe in here, or take a real plunge and pick up Mr. Brendel's four-disc Philips collection, which includes this program and more.
The two great oratorios, "Die Schöpfung" ("The Creation") and "Die Jahreszeiten" ("The Seasons"), have never lacked for first-rate interpretations, with classic accounts by conductors like Herbert von Karajan, Thomas Beecham and Georg Solti still holding places in the catalog. But Thomas Hengelbrock's account of "The Creation," issued in 2002, demands attention. His period-instrument players are electrifying in the opening conjuration of chaos; the vocal soloists are fresh-voiced and commanding. René Jacobs works similar magic with "The Seasons," conveying the work's dazzling colors and elemental energy like no one else.
VIVIEN SCHWEITZER
PIANO SONATAS (5) Emanuel Ax, pianist (Sony Classical SK 89363; CD).
PIANO CONCERTOS NOS. 3, 4, 11 Leif Ove Andsnes, pianist and conductor; Norwegian Chamber Orchestra (EMI Classics 5 56960 2; CD).
SYMPHONIES NOS. 88-92, SINFONIA CONCERTANTE Berlin Philharmonic, conducted by Simon Rattle (EMI Classics 3 94237 2; two CDs).
VIOLIN CONCERTOS NOS. 1, 3, 4 Augustin Hadelich, violinist; Cologne Chamber Orchestra, conducted by Helmut Müller-Brühl (Naxos 8.570483; CD).
'THE CREATION' Vocal soloists; Gabrieli Consort and Players, conducted by Paul McCreesh (Deutsche Grammophon Archiv 477 7361-0; two CDs).
HAYDN, who was not a virtuoso performer on the keyboard like Beethoven or Mozart, relied on it to help him compose symphonies and works in other genres. "My imagination plays on me as if I were a clavier," he told a friend. His piano sonatas are among the highlights of his output.
Playing with warmth, insight and singing lines, the superb pianist Emanuel Ax offers gracious renditions of five of Haydn's piano sonatas, including the technically demanding No. 46 and the brooding No. 36, dedicated to two sisters in Vienna. (The Hoboken numberings used here differ from those on the disc.) The CD also features elegant interpretations of the Sonatas Nos. 33 (whose slow movement Mr. Ax plays beautifully) and 43, both lighthearted works that Haydn wrote for the amateur market.
Haydn's piano concertos are often more like chamber works than solo showpieces. The Concertos Nos. 3 and 4 are scored for only keyboard and strings; oboes and horns are added in the Concerto No. 11. The stellar Norwegian pianist Leif Ove Andsnes plays and conducts the Norwegian Chamber Orchestra in buoyant, deeply expressive performances full of warmth and charm. The lithe, crisp playing of the orchestra complements Mr. Andsnes's sparkling finger work.
As with some of the piano concertos ascribed to Haydn, only four of the violin concertos that have been attributed to him are actually his, and one is lost. The talented young violinist Augustin Hadelich plays the three surviving works, written to highlight the virtuosity of Luigi Tomasini, the concertmaster in Haydn's orchestra at the Esterhazy court. Mr. Hadelich (supplying his own cadenzas) offers fiery, nuanced and expressive playing, with the conductor Helmut Müller-Brühl eliciting spirited performances from the Cologne Chamber Orchestra.
Simon Rattle, primarily known as a champion of contemporary music, has called Haydn "our greatest neglected composer," and he clearly empathizes with the music. He leads the Berlin Philharmonic in the Symphonies Nos. 88 to 92 and the Sinfonia Concertante for violin, cello, oboe and bassoon, aptly mining the score for its humor, invention and profundity. Mr. Rattle illuminates the work's surprising twists with clearly etched phrasing, a crisp approach, plenty of dynamic contrast and a nod to period practice.
Although initially hesitant to step on the toes of Handel, then the leading composer of oratorios in London, Haydn did write his own: the magnificent "Creation." Paul McCreesh conducts the period-instrument Gabrieli Consort and Players and a strong cast of soloists, including Sandrine Piau, Miah Persson, Mark Padmore, Neal Davies and Peter Harvey in a dramatically vivid interpretation of Haydn's crowning achievement. Sung in English (as Haydn preferred), with a revised libretto by Mr. McCreesh and with the large-scale choral and orchestral forces used during the 1799 premiere in London, this is a thrilling performance.
From Symphonies to Sonatas, Favorite Haydn Recordings - NYTimes.com (12 September 2009)
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/11/arts/music/11haydn.html?sq=Haydn&st=cse&scp=1&pagewanted=print
http://snipurl.com/rrzri
Thursday, September 10, 2009
App of the Week: A Swiss Army Knife for the iPhone By Roy Furchgott
September 9, 2009, 4:21 pm
App of the Week: A Swiss Army Knife for the iPhone By Roy Furchgott
AppBox Pro's icon – a multi-bladed folding knife – acknowledges its goal to be the Swiss Army knife of apps. It has collected 21 popular functions in a single 99-cent iPhone app, and it lets you add more for free.
Standard in AppBox are a number of specialized calculators, calendars and reminder programs, a currency converter, flashlight, Google books and games.
I found the battery life calculator useful in plotting out how I would waste my battery. It tells you approximately how many minutes longer you can talk, play games, surf the Web on either the 3G network or Wi-Fi, or listen to music before you run out of power.
I also like Price Grab, which makes a price comparison between items of different cost and quantity – handy in the grocery store — to tell you which of two products is really the better deal.
The start screen can be customized to show only the apps you want and how you want them displayed. It also has a feature in settings that lets you find more Web apps to add.
Does anyone actually need all of these functions? Probably not. And they may not all be best-in-class, but for about a buck, it's worth it for the ones you consider keepers. Hey, even an actual Swiss Army knife has a few useless blades.
App of the Week: A Swiss Army Knife for the iPhone - Gadgetwise Blog - NYTimes.com (12 September 2009)
http://gadgetwise.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/09/app-of-the-week-a-swiss-army-knife-for-the-iphone/?pagemode=print
http://snipurl.com/rrzqx
App of the Week: A Swiss Army Knife for the iPhone By Roy Furchgott
AppBox Pro's icon – a multi-bladed folding knife – acknowledges its goal to be the Swiss Army knife of apps. It has collected 21 popular functions in a single 99-cent iPhone app, and it lets you add more for free.
Standard in AppBox are a number of specialized calculators, calendars and reminder programs, a currency converter, flashlight, Google books and games.
I found the battery life calculator useful in plotting out how I would waste my battery. It tells you approximately how many minutes longer you can talk, play games, surf the Web on either the 3G network or Wi-Fi, or listen to music before you run out of power.
I also like Price Grab, which makes a price comparison between items of different cost and quantity – handy in the grocery store — to tell you which of two products is really the better deal.
The start screen can be customized to show only the apps you want and how you want them displayed. It also has a feature in settings that lets you find more Web apps to add.
Does anyone actually need all of these functions? Probably not. And they may not all be best-in-class, but for about a buck, it's worth it for the ones you consider keepers. Hey, even an actual Swiss Army knife has a few useless blades.
App of the Week: A Swiss Army Knife for the iPhone - Gadgetwise Blog - NYTimes.com (12 September 2009)
http://gadgetwise.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/09/app-of-the-week-a-swiss-army-knife-for-the-iphone/?pagemode=print
http://snipurl.com/rrzqx
Training Apps That Help You Sweat the Details By ROY FURCHGOTT
September 10, 2009
Training Apps That Help You Sweat the Details By ROY FURCHGOTT
To prepare for his first marathon last year, Michael Nolan trained for six months with the New York Road Runners Club, running up to 20 miles a day five days a week.
Nevertheless, he finished with an average speed of about 11 minutes a mile, a full 60 seconds a mile off his target pace. This year, he vowed to be faster. "I didn't want to take that long again," he said.
So he got a personal trainer. Now as Mr. Nolan prepares for this year's New York marathon, he is leaner, stronger and "easily" averages eight-and-a-half-minute miles on training runs, he said.
Mr. Nolan's new workouts are not coached by a running guru, but by iPhone applications that show video workout instructions and tabulate every set of burpees, a full-body exercise for strength training, and step-ups.
The sports and health industries are just beginning to tap the computing power of smartphones. Applications range from simple calorie counters to heart-rate monitors that use complex metabolic calculations.
These apps can help an athlete achieve a personal best, but some doctors say that more important is their ability to produce no-fail routines for the sedentary and obese, which could improve health and drive down medical costs. Here are some of the popular fitness apps out there.
WEIGHT LOSS In theory, losing weight is simple: Just burn more calories than you eat. Martin Gramckow, an avid bicyclist who lives in California, had considered that fact since a cyclist he met on a ride bragged about losing 50 pounds. "I'm huffing and puffing trying to keep with him, while he leisurely pedals along and tells me how he did it," said Mr. Gramckow.
The answer was calorie-counting. But Mr. Gramckow thought logging every morsel that passed his lips "was always too much work." Then he saw Calorie Tracker for the iPhone, $2.99 from LiveStrong.com, an affiliate of the Lance Armstrong Foundation.
As with similar apps, Mr. Gramckow can search for foods by name or meals from restaurant chains and the app calculates and stores all of the nutritional information.
"Sure enough I find a couple of things in my meal plan that are out of whack," said Mr. Gramckow, who trimmed 10 pounds in less than a month. "I'm not far away from being the fittest I've been in a long time," he said.
Calorie Tracker, which is also available for the BlackBerry ($2.99), won't give you a breakdown of proteins, carbohydrates and fats (unless you sync it and view the result on your computer), but a free iPhone app called Lose It! will. The app also allows you to enter the ingredients of your own recipes and store a list of meals you commonly eat.
My Food Diary may have the most complete food database, and it can be accessed from any mobile browser, but it has no phone-specific app. Phone access is free with a $9 monthly membership to the Web site. Make sure you point your browser to the site formatted for the phone, mobile.myfooddiary.com.
INDOOR FITNESS: FitDeck Mobile ($4.99 for iPhone, $14.99 for BlackBerry) was created by a former Navy Seal instructor, Phil Black, as a simple workout that required no equipment. Illustrations show exercises like jumping jacks and push-ups.
Fitsync is a Web site with a collection of workout routines that can be loaded onto phones using Android, Palm or Windows Mobile software as well as an iPhone. The company claims a library of 1,600 exercises organized into more than 400 workouts like "Rock Hard Challenge" and "Bikini Body Cardio." Scheduled workouts from the Web site can be sent to your phone on workout days. An annual subscription, normally $39.95, is being offered at $2.99 for Android phones.
Mr. Nolan, the marathoner, used apps from PumpOne, which has 20 workout apps for the iPhone, including ones for specific sports like golf or specific goals like burning fat. The newest app from the site, Fitness Builder 2 Plus, has 5,000 images and videos of exercises, and 500 ready-made workout programs for a $4.99 monthly subscription or a $99.99 onetime fee. Created by an exercise physiologist, Declan Condron, the programs can be researched by muscle group, effort level, type of equipment or goal (like speed or strength). It also lets you enter the number of reps and the weight used.
Smheart Link ($124.95) makes a heart monitor that links to an iPhone. Smheart Link works with four apps that allow gym rats to arrange a display screen to show what they want, like calories burned, average heart rate or elapsed time. It also links to sensors on indoor and outdoor bikes that measure cadence and estimated speed and distance. Hard-core riders can attach a power meter that measures the watts a cyclist generates, a measure bikers often use in competitive training.
For precise data, you can visit a New Leaf-trained technician, who employs metabolic testing equipment to measure your heart and lung efficiency in a grueling aerobic test (average cost $175-$200). Using that data, New Leaf sends custom exercise programs to your phone and works like a virtual personal trainer, telling you how high to push your heart rate, when, and for how long.
It also tracks results through the Smheart Link heart monitor. New Leaf's detailed reports show how many fat and carb calories you have burned, and how much time is spent in each of five heart rate zones.
OUTDOOR FITNESS: One of the beauties of a mobile device is that you don't have to be wired to a machine in a gym. Several apps are designed with hiking, biking and running in mind.
MyTracks, a free app for Android phones, uses GPS signals to track your time, distance, speed and elevation as you hit the trail. The data can be loaded into a spreadsheet on Google Docs to determine whether you are getting faster, or you can put the map and statistics in MyMaps to share with friends. You can also send an e-mail message of your route to running buddies from the app. If you want heart-rate data or calories burned, you will need a second device.
The Nike + iPod Sport Kit is made especially for runners (it can be used in a gym for cardio workouts as well); it tracks time, distance, pace and estimates calories burned. It uses a $29 sensor compatible with a Nike+ shoe and beams information to an iPod or iPhone. It does take some effort to calibrate. You will need to run a known course to set it up for highest accuracy.
The cycling app iMapMyRide turns the iPhone into a GPS cyclometer, recording time, distance, speed, altitude and estimated calories burned. You can see your position on a map, and it has a button to pause your ride. Your maps and statistics are loaded to the MapMyRide Web site, where you can measure your progress, and, if you like, share your routes with other riders.
MapMyRide has a free app if you don't mind seeing ads, or an ad-free $4.99 version that also stores more rides and statistics. There is a separate running app as well. The Web site requires a separate subscription, but there is a free option as well as an unlimited-use $99 annual membership.
There is one respect, however, in which these apps don't go the distance. Powering the screen while also using GPS or a heart monitor (and maybe listening to music as well) will leave your batteries wheezing like a tubby, two-pack-a-day smoker. If you're really into getting fit, your smartphone may hit the wall before you do.
Smartphone Training Apps Help You Sweat the Details - NYTimes.com (12 September 2009)
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/10/technology/personaltech/10basics.html?sq=Training%20apps&st=cse&scp=1&pagewanted=print
http://snipurl.com/rrzq6
Training Apps That Help You Sweat the Details By ROY FURCHGOTT
To prepare for his first marathon last year, Michael Nolan trained for six months with the New York Road Runners Club, running up to 20 miles a day five days a week.
Nevertheless, he finished with an average speed of about 11 minutes a mile, a full 60 seconds a mile off his target pace. This year, he vowed to be faster. "I didn't want to take that long again," he said.
So he got a personal trainer. Now as Mr. Nolan prepares for this year's New York marathon, he is leaner, stronger and "easily" averages eight-and-a-half-minute miles on training runs, he said.
Mr. Nolan's new workouts are not coached by a running guru, but by iPhone applications that show video workout instructions and tabulate every set of burpees, a full-body exercise for strength training, and step-ups.
The sports and health industries are just beginning to tap the computing power of smartphones. Applications range from simple calorie counters to heart-rate monitors that use complex metabolic calculations.
These apps can help an athlete achieve a personal best, but some doctors say that more important is their ability to produce no-fail routines for the sedentary and obese, which could improve health and drive down medical costs. Here are some of the popular fitness apps out there.
WEIGHT LOSS In theory, losing weight is simple: Just burn more calories than you eat. Martin Gramckow, an avid bicyclist who lives in California, had considered that fact since a cyclist he met on a ride bragged about losing 50 pounds. "I'm huffing and puffing trying to keep with him, while he leisurely pedals along and tells me how he did it," said Mr. Gramckow.
The answer was calorie-counting. But Mr. Gramckow thought logging every morsel that passed his lips "was always too much work." Then he saw Calorie Tracker for the iPhone, $2.99 from LiveStrong.com, an affiliate of the Lance Armstrong Foundation.
As with similar apps, Mr. Gramckow can search for foods by name or meals from restaurant chains and the app calculates and stores all of the nutritional information.
"Sure enough I find a couple of things in my meal plan that are out of whack," said Mr. Gramckow, who trimmed 10 pounds in less than a month. "I'm not far away from being the fittest I've been in a long time," he said.
Calorie Tracker, which is also available for the BlackBerry ($2.99), won't give you a breakdown of proteins, carbohydrates and fats (unless you sync it and view the result on your computer), but a free iPhone app called Lose It! will. The app also allows you to enter the ingredients of your own recipes and store a list of meals you commonly eat.
My Food Diary may have the most complete food database, and it can be accessed from any mobile browser, but it has no phone-specific app. Phone access is free with a $9 monthly membership to the Web site. Make sure you point your browser to the site formatted for the phone, mobile.myfooddiary.com.
INDOOR FITNESS: FitDeck Mobile ($4.99 for iPhone, $14.99 for BlackBerry) was created by a former Navy Seal instructor, Phil Black, as a simple workout that required no equipment. Illustrations show exercises like jumping jacks and push-ups.
Fitsync is a Web site with a collection of workout routines that can be loaded onto phones using Android, Palm or Windows Mobile software as well as an iPhone. The company claims a library of 1,600 exercises organized into more than 400 workouts like "Rock Hard Challenge" and "Bikini Body Cardio." Scheduled workouts from the Web site can be sent to your phone on workout days. An annual subscription, normally $39.95, is being offered at $2.99 for Android phones.
Mr. Nolan, the marathoner, used apps from PumpOne, which has 20 workout apps for the iPhone, including ones for specific sports like golf or specific goals like burning fat. The newest app from the site, Fitness Builder 2 Plus, has 5,000 images and videos of exercises, and 500 ready-made workout programs for a $4.99 monthly subscription or a $99.99 onetime fee. Created by an exercise physiologist, Declan Condron, the programs can be researched by muscle group, effort level, type of equipment or goal (like speed or strength). It also lets you enter the number of reps and the weight used.
Smheart Link ($124.95) makes a heart monitor that links to an iPhone. Smheart Link works with four apps that allow gym rats to arrange a display screen to show what they want, like calories burned, average heart rate or elapsed time. It also links to sensors on indoor and outdoor bikes that measure cadence and estimated speed and distance. Hard-core riders can attach a power meter that measures the watts a cyclist generates, a measure bikers often use in competitive training.
For precise data, you can visit a New Leaf-trained technician, who employs metabolic testing equipment to measure your heart and lung efficiency in a grueling aerobic test (average cost $175-$200). Using that data, New Leaf sends custom exercise programs to your phone and works like a virtual personal trainer, telling you how high to push your heart rate, when, and for how long.
It also tracks results through the Smheart Link heart monitor. New Leaf's detailed reports show how many fat and carb calories you have burned, and how much time is spent in each of five heart rate zones.
OUTDOOR FITNESS: One of the beauties of a mobile device is that you don't have to be wired to a machine in a gym. Several apps are designed with hiking, biking and running in mind.
MyTracks, a free app for Android phones, uses GPS signals to track your time, distance, speed and elevation as you hit the trail. The data can be loaded into a spreadsheet on Google Docs to determine whether you are getting faster, or you can put the map and statistics in MyMaps to share with friends. You can also send an e-mail message of your route to running buddies from the app. If you want heart-rate data or calories burned, you will need a second device.
The Nike + iPod Sport Kit is made especially for runners (it can be used in a gym for cardio workouts as well); it tracks time, distance, pace and estimates calories burned. It uses a $29 sensor compatible with a Nike+ shoe and beams information to an iPod or iPhone. It does take some effort to calibrate. You will need to run a known course to set it up for highest accuracy.
The cycling app iMapMyRide turns the iPhone into a GPS cyclometer, recording time, distance, speed, altitude and estimated calories burned. You can see your position on a map, and it has a button to pause your ride. Your maps and statistics are loaded to the MapMyRide Web site, where you can measure your progress, and, if you like, share your routes with other riders.
MapMyRide has a free app if you don't mind seeing ads, or an ad-free $4.99 version that also stores more rides and statistics. There is a separate running app as well. The Web site requires a separate subscription, but there is a free option as well as an unlimited-use $99 annual membership.
There is one respect, however, in which these apps don't go the distance. Powering the screen while also using GPS or a heart monitor (and maybe listening to music as well) will leave your batteries wheezing like a tubby, two-pack-a-day smoker. If you're really into getting fit, your smartphone may hit the wall before you do.
Smartphone Training Apps Help You Sweat the Details - NYTimes.com (12 September 2009)
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/10/technology/personaltech/10basics.html?sq=Training%20apps&st=cse&scp=1&pagewanted=print
http://snipurl.com/rrzq6
Choosing Wisely by Consulting the Sommelier in Your Pocket By BOB TEDESCHI
September 10, 2009
Phone Smart
Choosing Wisely by Consulting the Sommelier in Your Pocket By BOB TEDESCHI
Shopping for wine is a lot like parenting a teenager. You feel stupid when you’re in the middle of it, and when you finally emerge, you’re desperately ready for a drink.
There is, alas, no app for raising teenagers. But mobile software developers have begun aiming at oenophiles, and in so doing, they have established one of the more useful categories of wireless apps.
Appropriately enough, choosing the right one can be puzzling and tedious. Some of the refined entries in the current vintage include Cor.kz ($4), Wine Enthusiast Guide ($5), Nat Decants Food & Wine Matcher ($3) and Pair It! ($3). I’d give them a rating of 85, with an asterisk. They’re fairly good now, and they should age nicely.
Before digging into the details, though, consider the overall value of these services for a moment. Let’s say you’re at your favorite wine shop with about 15 minutes to spare, and you want a bottle that will make your dinner guests coo, without maxing out your credit card.
The shop owner is helping someone near the Mouton Rothschild, and the other employees are 23-year-olds with extensive beer-stocking skills. Rather than choosing a random bottle or asking the beer guys, you can now just reach for the sommelier in your cellphone.
From there you have a couple of options. Some apps, like Wine Enthusiast, let you find the most highly rated wines at specific price levels, so you can quickly browse the store — or, if you’re in a restaurant, the wine list — for matches.
If you have Cor.kz or, to a lesser extent, Nat Decants, you can reverse the process, and look through the wine list or shelves until you find a promising label. Then it’s a matter of doing a quick check on its rating.
The second approach has limits, simply because it takes too long to type in, say, “2003 Hochheimer Königin Victoriaberg Riesling Beerenauslese,” to say nothing of the time it might take to click through the ratings and then move onto another bottle.
Smartphone mavens are already wondering why you can’t just use the phone’s camera to scan the bottle’s bar code and have the app display the wine’s rating? In the coming weeks, you’ll be able to get fairly close to that bit of grape-soaked geekery, thanks to a new feature from Cor.kz.
But first, more about the core features of this app, which will soon be available to BlackBerry users and owners of Android devices like T-Mobile’s MyTouch 3G.
Cor.kz stands on the shoulders of an Internet giant, CellarTracker.com, which houses more than a million reviews by roughly 82,000 wine aficionados. Cor.kz can also help users manage their wine cellar inventory, but it is perhaps best used by those who just want to buy more intelligently.
Type in the name of the wine you are considering — Del Dotto, say — and Cor.kz retrieves everything in CellarTracker’s data base about the wine.
This can be a blessing and a curse. Wines from Del Dotto, a small but much-beloved vintner in Napa Valley, Calif., yield 581 tasting notes. If you type something more specific into your iPhone, like “2005 Del Dotto Cabernet,” Cor.kz returns 95 matches.
Some of these results include a numerical rating. To save yourself wasted clicks, choose those listings. The rating represents the average from CellarTracker’s reviewers, and those entries will also include detailed reviews and retail prices.
The bar code scanning feature, cool as it sounds, will have handicaps. Wine makers often use the same bar code for every vintage, and some makers allow distributors to paste different bar codes on the bottles. Still, with this method, users should at least be able to retrieve a short list of bottles from which to choose.
The Wine Enthusiast Guide is simpler to navigate than Cor.kz, but it is much less comprehensive, with 73,000 wine reviews in the database. Del Dotto, as well as other wines like Educated Guess from Roots Run Deep Winery, are two examples of wines that the app overlooked.
To be fair, though, the Wine Enthusiast reviews cover many of the most widely sold wines, as well as a fair selection of lesser-known vintners.
When you type the name of a wine, the search results are nicely arrayed, with the maker’s various wines listed on the first page. Click through to a specific type of wine — like, say, the Lancaster Estates Cabernet Sauvignon, and the app offers a review and a rating for specific vintages.
The app also offers users the ability to select specific criteria — like price, rating and varietal — and browse a list of wines that qualify.
That feature is at the core of another wine-related app, Nat Decants, which is available on iPhones, BlackBerrys and Android devices, like the MyTouch 3G. But this app belongs in a different subset of wine-related software — those that help users pair wine with food.
Nat Decants is the creation of Natalie MacLean, a wine journalist and registered sommelier, and includes much of the information available on her Web site, Nat Decants (at NatalieMaclean.com). To use it, select from a drop-down menu of either food or wine, and the software offers you suitable options from nearly 400,000 food and wine pairings.
It only goes so far, in that you are given, for instance, 18 wine varieties that go well with lobster. If you want to drill down and read reviews on specific wines, you must click through to Ms. MacLean’s Web site and purchase a monthly subscription for about $2.
Ms. MacLean said she hoped to integrate her reviews into the app in the future, but in the meantime users who have a poor cellular connection will find this additional step a source of frustration.
To get pairing suggestions from the kitchen instead of the bar, consider Pair It! (on iTunes only), created by Bruce Riezenman, a chef based in Sonoma County, Calif. Compared to Ms. MacLean, Mr. Riezenman offers more context around his suggestions, which will help you refine your own choices.
I was initially surprised that, of the services I tested, none suggested the best wine to pair with a specific occasion — like, say, reaching the end of school vacation. But maybe that would be silly; the best choice for that, clearly, is the first bottle you can get your hands on.
Quick Calls
Wireless headsets help cyclists and hikers avoid tangles, but what if you want to share your tunes with the world around you? The CyFi wireless sports speaker mounts on handlebars or clips to your backpack, and wirelessly transmits music. It weighs four ounces and has a Bluetooth range of 30 feet ($149, at MyCyFi.com.). ... Those in the mood for private listening might consider one of the higher-end earphones to hit the market. The Mobile In-Ear Headset ($130 at Bose.com) includes a microphone for phone calls, but the earphones are, not surprisingly, the device’s strong suit. ... Boost Mobile, the prepaid specialist, has a new push-to-talk phone, the Motorola Debut i856 ($170). It also has a video camera. Sprint, meanwhile, released the HTC Touch Pro2 ($350 with two-year contract). HTC’s “TouchFlo” interface smoothes out the device’s otherwise clunky Windows Mobile 6.1 software.
Phone Smart
Choosing Wisely by Consulting the Sommelier in Your Pocket By BOB TEDESCHI
Shopping for wine is a lot like parenting a teenager. You feel stupid when you’re in the middle of it, and when you finally emerge, you’re desperately ready for a drink.
There is, alas, no app for raising teenagers. But mobile software developers have begun aiming at oenophiles, and in so doing, they have established one of the more useful categories of wireless apps.
Appropriately enough, choosing the right one can be puzzling and tedious. Some of the refined entries in the current vintage include Cor.kz ($4), Wine Enthusiast Guide ($5), Nat Decants Food & Wine Matcher ($3) and Pair It! ($3). I’d give them a rating of 85, with an asterisk. They’re fairly good now, and they should age nicely.
Before digging into the details, though, consider the overall value of these services for a moment. Let’s say you’re at your favorite wine shop with about 15 minutes to spare, and you want a bottle that will make your dinner guests coo, without maxing out your credit card.
The shop owner is helping someone near the Mouton Rothschild, and the other employees are 23-year-olds with extensive beer-stocking skills. Rather than choosing a random bottle or asking the beer guys, you can now just reach for the sommelier in your cellphone.
From there you have a couple of options. Some apps, like Wine Enthusiast, let you find the most highly rated wines at specific price levels, so you can quickly browse the store — or, if you’re in a restaurant, the wine list — for matches.
If you have Cor.kz or, to a lesser extent, Nat Decants, you can reverse the process, and look through the wine list or shelves until you find a promising label. Then it’s a matter of doing a quick check on its rating.
The second approach has limits, simply because it takes too long to type in, say, “2003 Hochheimer Königin Victoriaberg Riesling Beerenauslese,” to say nothing of the time it might take to click through the ratings and then move onto another bottle.
Smartphone mavens are already wondering why you can’t just use the phone’s camera to scan the bottle’s bar code and have the app display the wine’s rating? In the coming weeks, you’ll be able to get fairly close to that bit of grape-soaked geekery, thanks to a new feature from Cor.kz.
But first, more about the core features of this app, which will soon be available to BlackBerry users and owners of Android devices like T-Mobile’s MyTouch 3G.
Cor.kz stands on the shoulders of an Internet giant, CellarTracker.com, which houses more than a million reviews by roughly 82,000 wine aficionados. Cor.kz can also help users manage their wine cellar inventory, but it is perhaps best used by those who just want to buy more intelligently.
Type in the name of the wine you are considering — Del Dotto, say — and Cor.kz retrieves everything in CellarTracker’s data base about the wine.
This can be a blessing and a curse. Wines from Del Dotto, a small but much-beloved vintner in Napa Valley, Calif., yield 581 tasting notes. If you type something more specific into your iPhone, like “2005 Del Dotto Cabernet,” Cor.kz returns 95 matches.
Some of these results include a numerical rating. To save yourself wasted clicks, choose those listings. The rating represents the average from CellarTracker’s reviewers, and those entries will also include detailed reviews and retail prices.
The bar code scanning feature, cool as it sounds, will have handicaps. Wine makers often use the same bar code for every vintage, and some makers allow distributors to paste different bar codes on the bottles. Still, with this method, users should at least be able to retrieve a short list of bottles from which to choose.
The Wine Enthusiast Guide is simpler to navigate than Cor.kz, but it is much less comprehensive, with 73,000 wine reviews in the database. Del Dotto, as well as other wines like Educated Guess from Roots Run Deep Winery, are two examples of wines that the app overlooked.
To be fair, though, the Wine Enthusiast reviews cover many of the most widely sold wines, as well as a fair selection of lesser-known vintners.
When you type the name of a wine, the search results are nicely arrayed, with the maker’s various wines listed on the first page. Click through to a specific type of wine — like, say, the Lancaster Estates Cabernet Sauvignon, and the app offers a review and a rating for specific vintages.
The app also offers users the ability to select specific criteria — like price, rating and varietal — and browse a list of wines that qualify.
That feature is at the core of another wine-related app, Nat Decants, which is available on iPhones, BlackBerrys and Android devices, like the MyTouch 3G. But this app belongs in a different subset of wine-related software — those that help users pair wine with food.
Nat Decants is the creation of Natalie MacLean, a wine journalist and registered sommelier, and includes much of the information available on her Web site, Nat Decants (at NatalieMaclean.com). To use it, select from a drop-down menu of either food or wine, and the software offers you suitable options from nearly 400,000 food and wine pairings.
It only goes so far, in that you are given, for instance, 18 wine varieties that go well with lobster. If you want to drill down and read reviews on specific wines, you must click through to Ms. MacLean’s Web site and purchase a monthly subscription for about $2.
Ms. MacLean said she hoped to integrate her reviews into the app in the future, but in the meantime users who have a poor cellular connection will find this additional step a source of frustration.
To get pairing suggestions from the kitchen instead of the bar, consider Pair It! (on iTunes only), created by Bruce Riezenman, a chef based in Sonoma County, Calif. Compared to Ms. MacLean, Mr. Riezenman offers more context around his suggestions, which will help you refine your own choices.
I was initially surprised that, of the services I tested, none suggested the best wine to pair with a specific occasion — like, say, reaching the end of school vacation. But maybe that would be silly; the best choice for that, clearly, is the first bottle you can get your hands on.
Quick Calls
Wireless headsets help cyclists and hikers avoid tangles, but what if you want to share your tunes with the world around you? The CyFi wireless sports speaker mounts on handlebars or clips to your backpack, and wirelessly transmits music. It weighs four ounces and has a Bluetooth range of 30 feet ($149, at MyCyFi.com.). ... Those in the mood for private listening might consider one of the higher-end earphones to hit the market. The Mobile In-Ear Headset ($130 at Bose.com) includes a microphone for phone calls, but the earphones are, not surprisingly, the device’s strong suit. ... Boost Mobile, the prepaid specialist, has a new push-to-talk phone, the Motorola Debut i856 ($170). It also has a video camera. Sprint, meanwhile, released the HTC Touch Pro2 ($350 with two-year contract). HTC’s “TouchFlo” interface smoothes out the device’s otherwise clunky Windows Mobile 6.1 software.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Did Texas execute an innocent man? by David Grann September 7, 2009
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A Reporter at Large
Trial by Fire
Did Texas execute an innocent man? by David Grann September 7, 2009
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Cameron Todd Willingham in his cell on death row, in 1994. He insisted upon his innocence in the deaths of his children and refused an offer to plead guilty in return for a life sentence. Photograph by Ken Light.
Cameron Todd Willingham in his cell on death row, in 1994. He insisted upon his innocence in the deaths of his children and refused an offer to plead guilty in return for a life sentence. Photograph by Ken Light.
Related Links
Audio: Grann on the Texas execution that may change the death penalty debate.
Video: David Grann discusses the flaws of the Cameron Todd Willingham investigation.
Ask the Author: Live chat with Grann Wednesday, September 2 at 3 P.M. E.T.
Keywords
Arson;
Death Penalty;
Cameron Todd Willingham;
Corsicana, Texas;
Fires;
Elizabeth Gilbert;
Gerald Hurst
The fire moved quickly through the house, a one-story wood-frame structure in a working-class neighborhood of Corsicana, in northeast Texas. Flames spread along the walls, bursting through doorways, blistering paint and tiles and furniture. Smoke pressed against the ceiling, then banked downward, seeping into each room and through crevices in the windows, staining the morning sky.
Buffie Barbee, who was eleven years old and lived two houses down, was playing in her back yard when she smelled the smoke. She ran inside and told her mother, Diane, and they hurried up the street; that’s when they saw the smoldering house and Cameron Todd Willingham standing on the front porch, wearing only a pair of jeans, his chest blackened with soot, his hair and eyelids singed. He was screaming, “My babies are burning up!” His children—Karmon and Kameron, who were one-year-old twin girls, and two-year-old Amber—were trapped inside.
Willingham told the Barbees to call the Fire Department, and while Diane raced down the street to get help he found a stick and broke the children’s bedroom window. Fire lashed through the hole. He broke another window; flames burst through it, too, and he retreated into the yard, kneeling in front of the house. A neighbor later told police that Willingham intermittently cried, “My babies!” then fell silent, as if he had “blocked the fire out of his mind.”
Diane Barbee, returning to the scene, could feel intense heat radiating off the house. Moments later, the five windows of the children’s room exploded and flames “blew out,” as Barbee put it. Within minutes, the first firemen had arrived, and Willingham approached them, shouting that his children were in their bedroom, where the flames were thickest. A fireman sent word over his radio for rescue teams to “step on it.”
More men showed up, uncoiling hoses and aiming water at the blaze. One fireman, who had an air tank strapped to his back and a mask covering his face, slipped through a window but was hit by water from a hose and had to retreat. He then charged through the front door, into a swirl of smoke and fire. Heading down the main corridor, he reached the kitchen, where he saw a refrigerator blocking the back door.
Todd Willingham, looking on, appeared to grow more hysterical, and a police chaplain named George Monaghan led him to the back of a fire truck and tried to calm him down. Willingham explained that his wife, Stacy, had gone out earlier that morning, and that he had been jolted from sleep by Amber screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!”
“My little girl was trying to wake me up and tell me about the fire,” he said, adding, “I couldn’t get my babies out.”
While he was talking, a fireman emerged from the house, cradling Amber. As she was given C.P.R., Willingham, who was twenty-three years old and powerfully built, ran to see her, then suddenly headed toward the babies’ room. Monaghan and another man restrained him. “We had to wrestle with him and then handcuff him, for his and our protection,” Monaghan later told police. “I received a black eye.” One of the first firemen at the scene told investigators that, at an earlier point, he had also held Willingham back. “Based on what I saw on how the fire was burning, it would have been crazy for anyone to try and go into the house,” he said.
Willingham was taken to a hospital, where he was told that Amber—who had actually been found in the master bedroom—had died of smoke inhalation. Kameron and Karmon had been lying on the floor of the children’s bedroom, their bodies severely burned. According to the medical examiner, they, too, died from smoke inhalation.
News of the tragedy, which took place on December 23, 1991, spread through Corsicana. A small city fifty-five miles northeast of Waco, it had once been the center of Texas’s first oil boom, but many of the wells had since dried up, and more than a quarter of the city’s twenty thousand inhabitants had fallen into poverty. Several stores along the main street were shuttered, giving the place the feel of an abandoned outpost.
Willingham and his wife, who was twenty-two years old, had virtually no money. Stacy worked in her brother’s bar, called Some Other Place, and Willingham, an unemployed auto mechanic, had been caring for the kids. The community took up a collection to help the Willinghams pay for funeral arrangements.
Fire investigators, meanwhile, tried to determine the cause of the blaze. (Willingham gave authorities permission to search the house: “I know we might not ever know all the answers, but I’d just like to know why my babies were taken from me.”) Douglas Fogg, who was then the assistant fire chief in Corsicana, conducted the initial inspection. He was tall, with a crew cut, and his voice was raspy from years of inhaling smoke from fires and cigarettes. He had grown up in Corsicana and, after graduating from high school, in 1963, he had joined the Navy, serving as a medic in Vietnam, where he was wounded on four occasions. He was awarded a Purple Heart each time. After he returned from Vietnam, he became a firefighter, and by the time of the Willingham blaze he had been battling fire—or what he calls “the beast”—for more than twenty years, and had become a certified arson investigator. “You learn that fire talks to you,” he told me.
He was soon joined on the case by one of the state’s leading arson sleuths, a deputy fire marshal named Manuel Vasquez, who has since died. Short, with a paunch, Vasquez had investigated more than twelve hundred fires. Arson investigators have always been considered a special breed of detective. In the 1991 movie “Backdraft,” a heroic arson investigator says of fire, “It breathes, it eats, and it hates. The only way to beat it is to think like it. To know that this flame will spread this way across the door and up across the ceiling.” Vasquez, who had previously worked in Army intelligence, had several maxims of his own. One was “Fire does not destroy evidence—it creates it.” Another was “The fire tells the story. I am just the interpreter.” He cultivated a Sherlock Holmes-like aura of invincibility. Once, he was asked under oath whether he had ever been mistaken in a case. “If I have, sir, I don’t know,” he responded. “It’s never been pointed out.”
Vasquez and Fogg visited the Willinghams’ house four days after the blaze. Following protocol, they moved from the least burned areas toward the most damaged ones. “It is a systematic method,” Vasquez later testified, adding, “I’m just collecting information. . . . I have not made any determination. I don’t have any preconceived idea.”
The men slowly toured the perimeter of the house, taking notes and photographs, like archeologists mapping out a ruin. Upon opening the back door, Vasquez observed that there was just enough space to squeeze past the refrigerator blocking the exit. The air smelled of burned rubber and melted wires; a damp ash covered the ground, sticking to their boots. In the kitchen, Vasquez and Fogg discerned only smoke and heat damage—a sign that the fire had not originated there—and so they pushed deeper into the nine-hundred-and-seventy-five-square-foot building. A central corridor led past a utility room and the master bedroom, then past a small living room, on the left, and the children’s bedroom, on the right, ending at the front door, which opened onto the porch. Vasquez tried to take in everything, a process that he compared to entering one’s mother-in-law’s house for the first time: “I have the same curiosity.”
In the utility room, he noticed on the wall pictures of skulls and what he later described as an image of “the Grim Reaper.” Then he turned into the master bedroom, where Amber’s body had been found. Most of the damage there was also from smoke and heat, suggesting that the fire had started farther down the hallway, and he headed that way, stepping over debris and ducking under insulation and wiring that hung down from the exposed ceiling.
As he and Fogg removed some of the clutter, they noticed deep charring along the base of the walls. Because gases become buoyant when heated, flames ordinarily burn upward. But Vasquez and Fogg observed that the fire had burned extremely low down, and that there were peculiar char patterns on the floor, shaped like puddles.
Vasquez’s mood darkened. He followed the “burn trailer”—the path etched by the fire—which led from the hallway into the children’s bedroom. Sunlight filtering through the broken windows illuminated more of the irregularly shaped char patterns. A flammable or combustible liquid doused on a floor will cause a fire to concentrate in these kinds of pockets, which is why investigators refer to them as “pour patterns” or “puddle configurations.”
The fire had burned through layers of carpeting and tile and plywood flooring. Moreover, the metal springs under the children’s beds had turned white—a sign that intense heat had radiated beneath them. Seeing that the floor had some of the deepest burns, Vasquez deduced that it had been hotter than the ceiling, which, given that heat rises, was, in his words, “not normal.”
Fogg examined a piece of glass from one of the broken windows. It contained a spiderweb-like pattern—what fire investigators call “crazed glass.” Forensic textbooks had long described the effect as a key indicator that a fire had burned “fast and hot,” meaning that it had been fuelled by a liquid accelerant, causing the glass to fracture.
The men looked again at what appeared to be a distinct burn trailer through the house: it went from the children’s bedroom into the corridor, then turned sharply to the right and proceeded out the front door. To the investigators’ surprise, even the wood under the door’s aluminum threshold was charred. On the concrete floor of the porch, just outside the front door, Vasquez and Fogg noticed another unusual thing: brown stains, which, they reported, were consistent with the presence of an accelerant.
The men scanned the walls for soot marks that resembled a “V.” When an object catches on fire, it creates such a pattern, as heat and smoke radiate outward; the bottom of the “V” can therefore point to where a fire began. In the Willingham house, there was a distinct “V” in the main corridor. Examining it and other burn patterns, Vasquez identified three places where fire had originated: in the hallway, in the children’s bedroom, and at the front door. Vasquez later testified that multiple origins pointed to one conclusion: the fire was “intentionally set by human hands.”
By now, both investigators had a clear vision of what had happened. Someone had poured liquid accelerant throughout the children’s room, even under their beds, then poured some more along the adjoining hallway and out the front door, creating a “fire barrier” that prevented anyone from escaping; similarly, a prosecutor later suggested, the refrigerator in the kitchen had been moved to block the back-door exit. The house, in short, had been deliberately transformed into a death trap.
The investigators collected samples of burned materials from the house and sent them to a laboratory that could detect the presence of a liquid accelerant. The lab’s chemist reported that one of the samples contained evidence of “mineral spirits,” a substance that is often found in charcoal-lighter fluid. The sample had been taken by the threshold of the front door.
The fire was now considered a triple homicide, and Todd Willingham—the only person, besides the victims, known to have been in the house at the time of the blaze—became the prime suspect.
Police and fire investigators canvassed the neighborhood, interviewing witnesses. Several, like Father Monaghan, initially portrayed Willingham as devastated by the fire. Yet, over time, an increasing number of witnesses offered damning statements. Diane Barbee said that she had not seen Willingham try to enter the house until after the authorities arrived, as if he were putting on a show. And when the children’s room exploded with flames, she added, he seemed more preoccupied with his car, which he moved down the driveway. Another neighbor reported that when Willingham cried out for his babies he “did not appear to be excited or concerned.” Even Father Monaghan wrote in a statement that, upon further reflection, “things were not as they seemed. I had the feeling that [Willingham] was in complete control.”
The police began to piece together a disturbing profile of Willingham. Born in Ardmore, Oklahoma, in 1968, he had been abandoned by his mother when he was a baby. His father, Gene, who had divorced his mother, eventually raised him with his stepmother, Eugenia. Gene, a former U.S. marine, worked in a salvage yard, and the family lived in a cramped house; at night, they could hear freight trains rattling past on a nearby track. Willingham, who had what the family called the “classic Willingham look”—a handsome face, thick black hair, and dark eyes—struggled in school, and as a teen-ager began to sniff paint. When he was seventeen, Oklahoma’s Department of Human Services evaluated him, and reported, “He likes ‘girls,’ music, fast cars, sharp trucks, swimming, and hunting, in that order.” Willingham dropped out of high school, and over time was arrested for, among other things, driving under the influence, stealing a bicycle, and shoplifting.
In 1988, he met Stacy, a senior in high school, who also came from a troubled background: when she was four years old, her stepfather had strangled her mother to death during a fight. Stacy and Willingham had a turbulent relationship. Willingham, who was unfaithful, drank too much Jack Daniel’s, and sometimes hit Stacy—even when she was pregnant. A neighbor said that he once heard Willingham yell at her, “Get up, bitch, and I’ll hit you again.”
On December 31st, the authorities brought Willingham in for questioning. Fogg and Vasquez were present for the interrogation, along with Jimmie Hensley, a police officer who was working his first arson case. Willingham said that Stacy had left the house around 9 A.M. to pick up a Christmas present for the kids, at the Salvation Army. “After she got out of the driveway, I heard the twins cry, so I got up and gave them a bottle,” he said. The children’s room had a safety gate across the doorway, which Amber could climb over but not the twins, and he and Stacy often let the twins nap on the floor after they drank their bottles. Amber was still in bed, Willingham said, so he went back into his room to sleep. “The next thing I remember is hearing ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ ” he recalled. “The house was already full of smoke.” He said that he got up, felt around the floor for a pair of pants, and put them on. He could no longer hear his daughter’s voice (“I heard that last ‘Daddy, Daddy’ and never heard her again”), and he hollered, “Oh God— Amber, get out of the house! Get out of the house!’ ”
He never sensed that Amber was in his room, he said. Perhaps she had already passed out by the time he stood up, or perhaps she came in after he left, through a second doorway, from the living room. He said that he went down the corridor and tried to reach the children’s bedroom. In the hallway, he said, “you couldn’t see nothing but black.” The air smelled the way it had when their microwave had blown up, three weeks earlier—like “wire and stuff like that.” He could hear sockets and light switches popping, and he crouched down, almost crawling. When he made it to the children’s bedroom, he said, he stood and his hair caught on fire. “Oh God, I never felt anything that hot before,” he said of the heat radiating out of the room.
After he patted out the fire on his hair, he said, he got down on the ground and groped in the dark. “I thought I found one of them once,” he said, “but it was a doll.” He couldn’t bear the heat any longer. “I felt myself passing out,” he said. Finally, he stumbled down the corridor and out the front door, trying to catch his breath. He saw Diane Barbee and yelled for her to call the Fire Department. After she left, he insisted, he tried without success to get back inside.
The investigators asked him if he had any idea how the fire had started. He said that he wasn’t sure, though it must have originated in the children’s room, since that was where he first saw flames; they were glowing like “bright lights.” He and Stacy used three space heaters to keep the house warm, and one of them was in the children’s room. “I taught Amber not to play with it,” he said, adding that she got “whuppings every once in a while for messing with it.” He said that he didn’t know if the heater, which had an internal flame, was turned on. (Vasquez later testified that when he had checked the heater, four days after the fire, it was in the “Off” position.) Willingham speculated that the fire might have been started by something electrical: he had heard all that popping and crackling.
When pressed whether someone might have a motive to hurt his family, he said that he couldn’t think of anyone that “cold-blooded.” He said of his children, “I just don’t understand why anybody would take them, you know? We had three of the most pretty babies anybody could have ever asked for.” He went on, “Me and Stacy’s been together for four years, but off and on we get into a fight and split up for a while and I think those babies is what brought us so close together . . . neither one of us . . . could live without them kids.” Thinking of Amber, he said, “To tell you the honest-to-God’s truth, I wish she hadn’t woke me up.”
During the interrogation, Vasquez let Fogg take the lead. Finally, Vasquez turned to Willingham and asked a seemingly random question: had he put on shoes before he fled the house?
“No, sir,” Willingham replied.
A map of the house was on a table between the men, and Vasquez pointed to it. “You walked out this way?” he said.
Willingham said yes.
Vasquez was now convinced that Willingham had killed his children. If the floor had been soaked with a liquid accelerant and the fire had burned low, as the evidence suggested, Willingham could not have run out of the house the way he had described without badly burning his feet. A medical report indicated that his feet had been unscathed.
Willingham insisted that, when he left the house, the fire was still around the top of the walls and not on the floor. “I didn’t have to jump through any flames,” he said. Vasquez believed that this was impossible, and that Willingham had lit the fire as he was retreating—first, torching the children’s room, then the hallway, and then, from the porch, the front door. Vasquez later said of Willingham, “He told me a story of pure fabrication. . . . He just talked and he talked and all he did was lie.”
Still, there was no clear motive. The children had life-insurance policies, but they amounted to only fifteen thousand dollars, and Stacy’s grandfather, who had paid for them, was listed as the primary beneficiary. Stacy told investigators that even though Willingham hit her he had never abused the children—“Our kids were spoiled rotten,” she said—and she did not believe that Willingham could have killed them.
Ultimately, the authorities concluded that Willingham was a man without a conscience whose serial crimes had climaxed, almost inexorably, in murder. John Jackson, who was then the assistant district attorney in Corsicana, was assigned to prosecute Willingham’s case. He later told the Dallas Morning News that he considered Willingham to be “an utterly sociopathic individual” who deemed his children “an impediment to his lifestyle.” Or, as the local district attorney, Pat Batchelor, put it, “The children were interfering with his beer drinking and dart throwing.”
On the night of January 8, 1992, two weeks after the fire, Willingham was riding in a car with Stacy when SWAT teams surrounded them, forcing them to the side of the road. “They pulled guns out like we had just robbed ten banks,” Stacy later recalled. “All we heard was ‘click, click.’ . . . Then they arrested him.”
Willingham was charged with murder. Because there were multiple victims, he was eligible for the death penalty, under Texas law. Unlike many other prosecutors in the state, Jackson, who had ambitions of becoming a judge, was personally opposed to capital punishment. “I don’t think it’s effective in deterring criminals,” he told me. “I just don’t think it works.” He also considered it wasteful: because of the expense of litigation and the appeals process, it costs, on average, $2.3 million to execute a prisoner in Texas—about three times the cost of incarcerating someone for forty years. Plus, Jackson said, “What’s the recourse if you make a mistake?” Yet his boss, Batchelor, believed that, as he once put it, “certain people who commit bad enough crimes give up the right to live,” and Jackson came to agree that the heinous nature of the crime in the Willingham case—“one of the worst in terms of body count” that he had ever tried—mandated death.
Willingham couldn’t afford to hire lawyers, and was assigned two by the state: David Martin, a former state trooper, and Robert Dunn, a local defense attorney who represented everyone from alleged murderers to spouses in divorce cases—a “Jack-of-all-trades,” as he calls himself. (“In a small town, you can’t say ‘I’m a so-and-so lawyer,’ because you’ll starve to death,” he told me.)
Not long after Willingham’s arrest, authorities received a message from a prison inmate named Johnny Webb, who was in the same jail as Willingham. Webb alleged that Willingham had confessed to him that he took “some kind of lighter fluid, squirting [it] around the walls and the floor, and set a fire.” The case against Willingham was considered airtight.
Even so, several of Stacy’s relatives—who, unlike her, believed that Willingham was guilty—told Jackson that they preferred to avoid the anguish of a trial. And so, shortly before jury selection, Jackson approached Willingham’s attorneys with an extraordinary offer: if their client pleaded guilty, the state would give him a life sentence. “I was really happy when I thought we might have a deal to avoid the death penalty,” Jackson recalls.
Willingham’s lawyers were equally pleased. They had little doubt that he had committed the murders and that, if the case went before a jury, he would be found guilty, and, subsequently, executed. “Everyone thinks defense lawyers must believe their clients are innocent, but that’s seldom true,” Martin told me. “Most of the time, they’re guilty as sin.” He added of Willingham, “All the evidence showed that he was one hundred per cent guilty. He poured accelerant all over the house and put lighter fluid under the kids’ beds.” It was, he said, “a classic arson case”: there were “puddle patterns all over the place—no disputing those.”
Martin and Dunn advised Willingham that he should accept the offer, but he refused. The lawyers asked his father and stepmother to speak to him. According to Eugenia, Martin showed them photographs of the burned children and said, “Look what your son did. You got to talk him into pleading, or he’s going to be executed.”
His parents went to see their son in jail. Though his father did not believe that he should plead guilty if he were innocent, his stepmother beseeched him to take the deal. “I just wanted to keep my boy alive,” she told me.
Willingham was implacable. “I ain’t gonna plead to something I didn’t do, especially killing my own kids,” he said. It was his final decision. Martin says, “I thought it was nuts at the time—and I think it’s nuts now.”
Willingham’s refusal to accept the deal confirmed the view of the prosecution, and even that of his defense lawyers, that he was an unrepentant killer.
In August, 1992, the trial commenced in the old stone courthouse in downtown Corsicana. Jackson and a team of prosecutors summoned a procession of witnesses, including Johnny Webb and the Barbees. The crux of the state’s case, though, remained the scientific evidence gathered by Vasquez and Fogg. On the stand, Vasquez detailed what he called more than “twenty indicators” of arson.
“Do you have an opinion as to who started the fire?” one of the prosecutors asked.
“Yes, sir,” Vasquez said. “Mr. Willingham.”
The prosecutor asked Vasquez what he thought Willingham’s intent was in lighting the fire. “To kill the little girls,” he said.
The defense had tried to find a fire expert to counter Vasquez and Fogg’s testimony, but the one they contacted concurred with the prosecution. Ultimately, the defense presented only one witness to the jury: the Willinghams’ babysitter, who said she could not believe that Willingham could have killed his children. (Dunn told me that Willingham had wanted to testify, but Martin and Dunn thought that he would make a bad witness.) The trial ended after two days.
During his closing arguments, Jackson said that the puddle configurations and pour patterns were Willingham’s inadvertent “confession,” burned into the floor. Showing a Bible that had been salvaged from the fire, Jackson paraphrased the words of Jesus from the Gospel of Matthew: “Whomsoever shall harm one of my children, it’s better for a millstone to be hung around his neck and for him to be cast in the sea.”
The jury was out for barely an hour before returning with a unanimous guilty verdict. As Vasquez put it, “The fire does not lie.”
II
When Elizabeth Gilbert approached the prison guard, on a spring day in 1999, and said Cameron Todd Willingham’s name, she was uncertain about what she was doing. A forty-seven-year-old French teacher and playwright from Houston, Gilbert was divorced with two children. She had never visited a prison before. Several weeks earlier, a friend, who worked at an organization that opposed the death penalty, had encouraged her to volunteer as a pen pal for an inmate on death row, and Gilbert had offered her name and address. Not long after, a short letter, written with unsteady penmanship, arrived from Willingham. “If you wish to write back, I would be honored to correspond with you,” he said. He also asked if she might visit him. Perhaps out of a writer’s curiosity, or perhaps because she didn’t feel quite herself (she had just been upset by news that her ex-husband was dying of cancer), she agreed. Now she was standing in front of the decrepit penitentiary in Huntsville, Texas—a place that inmates referred to as “the death pit.”
She filed past a razor-wire fence, a series of floodlights, and a checkpoint, where she was patted down, until she entered a small chamber. Only a few feet in front of her was a man convicted of multiple infanticide. He was wearing a white jumpsuit with “DR”—for death row—printed on the back, in large black letters. He had a tattoo of a serpent and a skull on his left biceps. He stood nearly six feet tall and was muscular, though his legs had atrophied after years of confinement.
A Plexiglas window separated Willingham from her; still, Gilbert, who had short brown hair and a bookish manner, stared at him uneasily. Willingham had once fought another prisoner who called him a “baby killer,” and since he had been incarcerated, seven years earlier, he had committed a series of disciplinary infractions that had periodically landed him in the segregation unit, which was known as “the dungeon.”
Willingham greeted her politely. He seemed grateful that she had come. After his conviction, Stacy had campaigned for his release. She wrote to Ann Richards, then the governor of Texas, saying, “I know him in ways that no one else does when it comes to our children. Therefore, I believe that there is no way he could have possibly committed this crime.” But within a year Stacy had filed for divorce, and Willingham had few visitors except for his parents, who drove from Oklahoma to see him once a month. “I really have no one outside my parents to remind me that I am a human being, not the animal the state professes I am,” he told Gilbert at one point.
He didn’t want to talk about death row. “Hell, I live here,” he later wrote her. “When I have a visit, I want to escape from here.” He asked her questions about her teaching and art. He expressed fear that, as a playwright, she might find him a “one-dimensional character,” and apologized for lacking social graces; he now had trouble separating the mores in prison from those of the outside world.
When Gilbert asked him if he wanted something to eat or drink from the vending machines, he declined. “I hope I did not offend you by not accepting any snacks,” he later wrote her. “I didn’t want you to feel I was there just for something like that.”
She had been warned that prisoners often tried to con visitors. He appeared to realize this, subsequently telling her, “I am just a simple man. Nothing else. And to most other people a convicted killer looking for someone to manipulate.”
Their visit lasted for two hours, and afterward they continued to correspond. She was struck by his letters, which seemed introspective, and were not at all what she had expected. “I am a very honest person with my feelings,” he wrote her. “I will not bullshit you on how I feel or what I think.” He said that he used to be stoic, like his father. But, he added, “losing my three daughters . . . my home, wife and my life, you tend to wake up a little. I have learned to open myself.”
She agreed to visit him again, and when she returned, several weeks later, he was visibly moved. “Here I am this person who nobody on the outside is ever going to know as a human, who has lost so much, but still trying to hold on,” he wrote her afterward. “But you came back! I don’t think you will ever know of what importance that visit was in my existence.”
They kept exchanging letters, and she began asking him about the fire. He insisted that he was innocent and that, if someone had poured accelerant through the house and lit it, then the killer remained free. Gilbert wasn’t naïve—she assumed that he was guilty. She did not mind giving him solace, but she was not there to absolve him.
Still, she had become curious about the case, and one day that fall she drove down to the courthouse in Corsicana to review the trial records. Many people in the community remembered the tragedy, and a clerk expressed bewilderment that anyone would be interested in a man who had burned his children alive.
Gilbert took the files and sat down at a small table. As she examined the eyewitness accounts, she noticed several contradictions. Diane Barbee had reported that, before the authorities arrived at the fire, Willingham never tried to get back into the house—yet she had been absent for some time while calling the Fire Department. Meanwhile, her daughter Buffie had reported witnessing Willingham on the porch breaking a window, in an apparent effort to reach his children. And the firemen and police on the scene had described Willingham frantically trying to get into the house.
The witnesses’ testimony also grew more damning after authorities had concluded, in the beginning of January, 1992, that Willingham was likely guilty of murder. In Diane Barbee’s initial statement to authorities, she had portrayed Willingham as “hysterical,” and described the front of the house exploding. But on January 4th, after arson investigators began suspecting Willingham of murder, Barbee suggested that he could have gone back inside to rescue his children, for at the outset she had seen only “smoke coming from out of the front of the house”—smoke that was not “real thick.”
An even starker shift occurred with Father Monaghan’s testimony. In his first statement, he had depicted Willingham as a devastated father who had to be repeatedly restrained from risking his life. Yet, as investigators were preparing to arrest Willingham, he concluded that Willingham had been too emotional (“He seemed to have the type of distress that a woman who had given birth would have upon seeing her children die”); and he expressed a “gut feeling” that Willingham had “something to do with the setting of the fire.”
Dozens of studies have shown that witnesses’ memories of events often change when they are supplied with new contextual information. Itiel Dror, a cognitive psychologist who has done extensive research on eyewitness and expert testimony in criminal investigations, told me, “The mind is not a passive machine. Once you believe in something—once you expect something—it changes the way you perceive information and the way your memory recalls it.”
After Gilbert’s visit to the courthouse, she kept wondering about Willingham’s motive, and she pressed him on the matter. In response, he wrote, of the death of his children, “I do not talk about it much anymore and it is still a very powerfully emotional pain inside my being.” He admitted that he had been a “sorry-ass husband” who had hit Stacy—something he deeply regretted. But he said that he had loved his children and would never have hurt them. Fatherhood, he said, had changed him; he stopped being a hoodlum and “settled down” and “became a man.” Nearly three months before the fire, he and Stacy, who had never married, wed at a small ceremony in his home town of Ardmore. He said that the prosecution had seized upon incidents from his past and from the day of the fire to create a portrait of a “demon,” as Jackson, the prosecutor, referred to him. For instance, Willingham said, he had moved the car during the fire simply because he didn’t want it to explode by the house, further threatening the children.
Gilbert was unsure what to make of his story, and she began to approach people who were involved in the case, asking them questions. “My friends thought I was crazy,” Gilbert recalls. “I’d never done anything like this in my life.”
One morning, when Willingham’s parents came to visit him, Gilbert arranged to see them first, at a coffee shop near the prison. Gene, who was in his seventies, had the Willingham look, though his black hair had gray streaks and his dark eyes were magnified by glasses. Eugenia, who was in her fifties, with silvery hair, was as sweet and talkative as her husband was stern and reserved. The drive from Oklahoma to Texas took six hours, and they had woken at three in the morning; because they could not afford a motel, they would have to return home later that day. “I feel like a real burden to them,” Willingham had written Gilbert.
As Gene and Eugenia sipped coffee, they told Gilbert how grateful they were that someone had finally taken an interest in Todd’s case. Gene said that his son, though he had flaws, was no killer.
The evening before the fire, Eugenia said, she had spoken on the phone with Todd. She and Gene were planning on visiting two days later, on Christmas Eve, and Todd told her that he and Stacy and the kids had just picked up family photographs. “He said, ‘We got your pictures for Christmas,’ ” she recalled. “He put Amber on the phone, and she was tattling on one of the twins. Todd didn’t seem upset. If something was bothering him, I would have known.”
Gene and Eugenia got up to go: they didn’t want to miss any of the four hours that were allotted for the visit with their son. Before they left, Gene said, “You’ll let us know if you find anything, won’t you?”
Over the next few weeks, Gilbert continued to track down sources. Many of them, including the Barbees, remained convinced that Willingham was guilty, but several of his friends and relatives had doubts. So did some people in law enforcement. Willingham’s former probation officer in Oklahoma, Polly Goodin, recently told me that Willingham had never demonstrated bizarre or sociopathic behavior. “He was probably one of my favorite kids,” she said. Even a former judge named Bebe Bridges—who had often stood, as she put it, on the “opposite side” of Willingham in the legal system, and who had sent him to jail for stealing—told me that she could not imagine him killing his children. “He was polite, and he seemed to care,” she said. “His convictions had been for dumb-kid stuff. Even the things stolen weren’t significant.” Several months before the fire, Willingham tracked Goodin down at her office, and proudly showed her photographs of Stacy and the kids. “He wanted Bebe and me to know he’d been doing good,” Goodin recalled.
Eventually, Gilbert returned to Corsicana to interview Stacy, who had agreed to meet at the bed-and-breakfast where Gilbert was staying. Stacy was slightly plump, with pale, round cheeks and feathered dark-blond hair; her bangs were held in place by gel, and her face was heavily made up. According to a tape recording of the conversation, Stacy said that nothing unusual had happened in the days before the fire. She and Willingham had not fought, and were preparing for the holiday. Though Vasquez, the arson expert, had recalled finding the space heater off, Stacy was sure that, at least on the day of the incident—a cool winter morning—it had been on. “I remember turning it down,” she recalled. “I always thought, Gosh, could Amber have put something in there?” Stacy added that, more than once, she had caught Amber “putting things too close to it.”
Willingham had often not treated her well, she recalled, and after his incarceration she had left him for a man who did. But she didn’t think that her former husband should be on death row. “I don’t think he did it,” she said, crying.
Though only the babysitter had appeared as a witness for the defense during the main trial, several family members, including Stacy, testified during the penalty phase, asking the jury to spare Willingham’s life. When Stacy was on the stand, Jackson grilled her about the “significance” of Willingham’s “very large tattoo of a skull, encircled by some kind of a serpent.”
“It’s just a tattoo,” Stacy responded.
“He just likes skulls and snakes. Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. He just had—he got a tattoo on him.”
The prosecution cited such evidence in asserting that Willingham fit the profile of a sociopath, and brought forth two medical experts to confirm the theory. Neither had met Willingham. One of them was Tim Gregory, a psychologist with a master’s degree in marriage and family issues, who had previously gone goose hunting with Jackson, and had not published any research in the field of sociopathic behavior. His practice was devoted to family counselling.
At one point, Jackson showed Gregory Exhibit No. 60—a photograph of an Iron Maiden poster that had hung in Willingham’s house—and asked the psychologist to interpret it. “This one is a picture of a skull, with a fist being punched through the skull,” Gregory said; the image displayed “violence” and “death.” Gregory looked at photographs of other music posters owned by Willingham. “There’s a hooded skull, with wings and a hatchet,” Gregory continued. “And all of these are in fire, depicting—it reminds me of something like Hell. And there’s a picture—a Led Zeppelin picture of a falling angel. . . . I see there’s an association many times with cultive-type of activities. A focus on death, dying. Many times individuals that have a lot of this type of art have interest in satanic-type activities.”
The other medical expert was James P. Grigson, a forensic psychiatrist. He testified so often for the prosecution in capital-punishment cases that he had become known as Dr. Death. (A Texas appellate judge once wrote that when Grigson appeared on the stand the defendant might as well “commence writing out his last will and testament.”) Grigson suggested that Willingham was an “extremely severe sociopath,” and that “no pill” or treatment could help him. Grigson had previously used nearly the same words in helping to secure a death sentence against Randall Dale Adams, who had been convicted of murdering a police officer, in 1977. After Adams, who had no prior criminal record, spent a dozen years on death row—and once came within seventy-two hours of being executed—new evidence emerged that absolved him, and he was released. In 1995, three years after Willingham’s trial, Grigson was expelled from the American Psychiatric Association for violating ethics. The association stated that Grigson had repeatedly arrived at a “psychiatric diagnosis without first having examined the individuals in question, and for indicating, while testifying in court as an expert witness, that he could predict with 100-per-cent certainty that the individuals would engage in future violent acts.”
After speaking to Stacy, Gilbert had one more person she wanted to interview: the jailhouse informant Johnny Webb, who was incarcerated in Iowa Park, Texas. She wrote to Webb, who said that she could see him, and they met in the prison visiting room. A man in his late twenties, he had pallid skin and a closely shaved head; his eyes were jumpy, and his entire body seemed to tremble. A reporter who once met him described him to me as “nervous as a cat around rocking chairs.” Webb had begun taking drugs when he was nine years old, and had been convicted of, among other things, car theft, selling marijuana, forgery, and robbery.
As Gilbert chatted with him, she thought that he seemed paranoid. During Willingham’s trial, Webb disclosed that he had been given a diagnosis of “post-traumatic stress disorder” after he was sexually assaulted in prison, in 1988, and that he often suffered from “mental impairment.” Under cross-examination, Webb testified that he had no recollection of a robbery that he had pleaded guilty to only months earlier.
Webb repeated for her what he had said in court: he had passed by Willingham’s cell, and as they spoke through a food slot Willingham broke down and told him that he intentionally set the house on fire. Gilbert was dubious. It was hard to believe that Willingham, who had otherwise insisted on his innocence, had suddenly confessed to an inmate he barely knew. The conversation had purportedly taken place by a speaker system that allowed any of the guards to listen—an unlikely spot for an inmate to reveal a secret. What’s more, Webb alleged that Willingham had told him that Stacy had hurt one of the kids, and that the fire was set to cover up the crime. The autopsies, however, had revealed no bruises or signs of trauma on the children’s bodies.
Jailhouse informants, many of whom are seeking reduced time or special privileges, are notoriously unreliable. According to a 2004 study by the Center on Wrongful Convictions, at Northwestern University Law School, lying police and jailhouse informants are the leading cause of wrongful convictions in capital cases in the United States. At the time that Webb came forward against Willingham, he was facing charges of robbery and forgery. During Willingham’s trial, another inmate planned to testify that he had overheard Webb saying to another prisoner that he was hoping to “get time cut,” but the testimony was ruled inadmissible, because it was hearsay. Webb, who pleaded guilty to the robbery and forgery charges, received a sentence of fifteen years. Jackson, the prosecutor, told me that he generally considered Webb “an unreliable kind of guy,” but added, “I saw no real motive for him to make a statement like this if it wasn’t true. We didn’t cut him any slack.” In 1997, five years after Willingham’s trial, Jackson urged the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles to grant Webb parole. “I asked them to cut him loose early,” Jackson told me. The reason, Jackson said, was that Webb had been targeted by the Aryan Brotherhood. The board granted Webb parole, but within months of his release he was caught with cocaine and returned to prison.
In March, 2000, several months after Gilbert’s visit, Webb unexpectedly sent Jackson a Motion to Recant Testimony, declaring, “Mr. Willingham is innocent of all charges.” But Willingham’s lawyer was not informed of this development, and soon afterward Webb, without explanation, recanted his recantation. When I recently asked Webb, who was released from prison two years ago, about the turnabout and why Willingham would have confessed to a virtual stranger, he said that he knew only what “the dude told me.” After I pressed him, he said, “It’s very possible I misunderstood what he said.” Since the trial, Webb has been given an additional diagnosis, bipolar disorder. “Being locked up in that little cell makes you kind of crazy,” he said. “My memory is in bits and pieces. I was on a lot of medication at the time. Everyone knew that.” He paused, then said, “The statute of limitations has run out on perjury, hasn’t it?”
Aside from the scientific evidence of arson, the case against Willingham did not stand up to scrutiny. Jackson, the prosecutor, said of Webb’s testimony, “You can take it or leave it.” Even the refrigerator’s placement by the back door of the house turned out to be innocuous; there were two refrigerators in the cramped kitchen, and one of them was by the back door. Jimmie Hensley, the police detective, and Douglas Fogg, the assistant fire chief, both of whom investigated the fire, told me recently that they had never believed that the fridge was part of the arson plot. “It didn’t have nothing to do with the fire,” Fogg said.
After months of investigating the case, Gilbert found that her faith in the prosecution was shaken. As she told me, “What if Todd really was innocent?”
III
In the summer of 1660, an Englishman named William Harrison vanished on a walk, near the village of Charingworth, in Gloucestershire. His bloodstained hat was soon discovered on the side of a local road. Police interrogated Harrison’s servant, John Perry, and eventually Perry gave a statement that his mother and his brother had killed Harrison for money. Perry, his mother, and his brother were hanged.
Two years later, Harrison reappeared. He insisted, fancifully, that he had been abducted by a band of criminals and sold into slavery. Whatever happened, one thing was indisputable: he had not been murdered by the Perrys.
The fear that an innocent person might be executed has long haunted jurors and lawyers and judges. During America’s Colonial period, dozens of crimes were punishable by death, including horse thievery, blasphemy, “man-stealing,” and highway robbery. After independence, the number of crimes eligible for the death penalty was gradually reduced, but doubts persisted over whether legal procedures were sufficient to prevent an innocent person from being executed. In 1868, John Stuart Mill made one of the most eloquent defenses of capital punishment, arguing that executing a murderer did not display a wanton disregard for life but, rather, proof of its value. “We show, on the contrary, most emphatically our regard for it by the adoption of a rule that he who violates that right in another forfeits it for himself,” he said. For Mill, there was one counterargument that carried weight—“that if by an error of justice an innocent person is put to death, the mistake can never be corrected.”
The modern legal system, with its lengthy appeals process and clemency boards, was widely assumed to protect the kind of “error of justice” that Mill feared. In 2000, while George W. Bush was governor of Texas, he said, “I know there are some in the country who don’t care for the death penalty, but . . . we’ve adequately answered innocence or guilt.” His top policy adviser on issues of criminal justice emphasized that there is “super due process to make sure that no innocent defendants are executed.”
In recent years, though, questions have mounted over whether the system is fail-safe. Since 1976, more than a hundred and thirty people on death row have been exonerated. DNA testing, which was developed in the eighties, saved seventeen of them, but the technique can be used only in rare instances. Barry Scheck, a co-founder of the Innocence Project, which has used DNA testing to exonerate prisoners, estimates that about eighty per cent of felonies do not involve biological evidence.
In 2000, after thirteen people on death row in Illinois were exonerated, George Ryan, who was then governor of the state, suspended the death penalty. Though he had been a longtime advocate of capital punishment, he declared that he could no longer support a system that has “come so close to the ultimate nightmare—the state’s taking of innocent life.” Former Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor has said that the “execution of a legally and factually innocent person would be a constitutionally intolerable event.”
Such a case has become a kind of grisly Holy Grail among opponents of capital punishment. In his 2002 book “The Death Penalty,” Stuart Banner observes, “The prospect of killing an innocent person seemed to be the one thing that could cause people to rethink their support for capital punishment. Some who were not troubled by statistical arguments against the death penalty—claims about deterrence or racial disparities—were deeply troubled that such an extreme injustice might occur in an individual case.” Opponents of the death penalty have pointed to several questionable cases. In 1993, Ruben Cantu was executed in Texas for fatally shooting a man during a robbery. Years later, a second victim, who survived the shooting, told the Houston Chronicle that he had been pressured by police to identify Cantu as the gunman, even though he believed Cantu to be innocent. Sam Millsap, the district attorney in the case, who had once supported capital punishment (“I’m no wild-eyed, pointy-headed liberal”), said that he was disturbed by the thought that he had made a mistake.
In 1995, Larry Griffin was put to death in Missouri, for a drive-by shooting of a drug dealer. The case rested largely on the eyewitness testimony of a career criminal named Robert Fitzgerald, who had been an informant for prosecutors before and was in the witness-protection program. Fitzgerald maintained that he happened to be at the scene because his car had broken down. After Griffin’s execution, a probe sponsored by the N.A.A.C.P.’s Legal Defense and Educational Fund revealed that a man who had been wounded during the incident insisted that Griffin was not the shooter. Moreover, the first police officer at the scene disputed that Fitzgerald had witnessed the crime.
These cases, however, stopped short of offering irrefutable proof that a “legally and factually innocent person” was executed. In 2005, a St. Louis prosecutor, Jennifer Joyce, launched an investigation of the Griffin case, upon being presented with what she called “compelling” evidence of Griffin’s potential innocence. After two years of reviewing the evidence, and interviewing a new eyewitness, Joyce said that she and her team were convinced that the “right person was convicted.”
Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, in 2006, voted with a majority to uphold the death penalty in a Kansas case. In his opinion, Scalia declared that, in the modern judicial system, there has not been “a single case—not one—in which it is clear that a person was executed for a crime he did not commit. If such an event had occurred in recent years, we would not have to hunt for it; the innocent’s name would be shouted from the rooftops.”
“My problems are simple,” Willingham wrote Gilbert in September, 1999. “Try to keep them from killing me at all costs. End of story.”
During his first years on death row, Willingham had pleaded with his lawyer, David Martin, to rescue him. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to be here, with people I have no business even being around,” he wrote.
For a while, Willingham shared a cell with Ricky Lee Green, a serial killer, who castrated and fatally stabbed his victims, including a sixteen-year-old boy. (Green was executed in 1997.) Another of Willingham’s cellmates, who had an I.Q. below seventy and the emotional development of an eight-year-old, was raped by an inmate. “You remember me telling you I had a new celly?” Willingham wrote in a letter to his parents. “The little retarded boy. . . . There was this guy here on the wing who is a shit sorry coward (who is the same one I got into it with a little over a month ago). Well, he raped [my cellmate] in the 3 row shower week before last.” Willingham said that he couldn’t believe that someone would “rape a boy who cannot even defend himself. Pretty damn low.”
Because Willingham was known as a “baby killer,” he was a target of attacks. “Prison is a rough place, and with a case like mine they never give you the benefit of a doubt,” he wrote his parents. After he tried to fight one prisoner who threatened him, Willingham told a friend that if he hadn’t stood up for himself several inmates would have “beaten me up or raped or”—his thought trailed off.
Over the years, Willingham’s letters home became increasingly despairing. “This is a hard place, and it makes a person hard inside,” he wrote. “I told myself that was one thing I did not want and that was for this place to make me bitter, but it is hard.” He went on, “They have [executed] at least one person every month I have been here. It is senseless and brutal. . . . You see, we are not living in here, we are only existing.” In 1996, he wrote, “I just been trying to figure out why after having a wife and 3 beautiful children that I loved my life has to end like this. And sometimes it just seems like it is not worth it all. . . . In the 3 1/2 years I been here I have never felt that my life was as worthless and desolate as it is now.” Since the fire, he wrote, he had the sense that his life was slowly being erased. He obsessively looked at photographs of his children and Stacy, which he stored in his cell. “So long ago, so far away,” he wrote in a poem. “Was everything truly there?”
Inmates on death row are housed in a prison within a prison, where there are no attempts at rehabilitation, and no educational or training programs. In 1999, after seven prisoners tried to escape from Huntsville, Willingham and four hundred and fifty-nine other inmates on death row were moved to a more secure facility, in Livingston, Texas. Willingham was held in isolation in a sixty-square-foot cell, twenty-three hours a day. He tried to distract himself by drawing—“amateur stuff,” as he put it—and writing poems. In a poem about his children, he wrote, “There is nothing more beautiful than you on this earth.” When Gilbert once suggested some possible revisions to his poems, he explained that he wrote them simply as expressions, however crude, of his feelings. “So to me to cut them up and try to improve on them just for creative-writing purposes would be to destroy what I was doing to start with,” he said.
Despite his efforts to occupy his thoughts, he wrote in his diary that his mind “deteriorates each passing day.” He stopped working out and gained weight. He questioned his faith: “No God who cared about his creation would abandon the innocent.” He seemed not to care if another inmate attacked him. “A person who is already dead inside does not fear” death, he wrote.
One by one, the people he knew in prison were escorted into the execution chamber. There was Clifton Russell, Jr., who, at the age of eighteen, stabbed and beat a man to death, and who said, in his last statement, “I thank my Father, God in Heaven, for the grace he has granted me—I am ready.” There was Jeffery Dean Motley, who kidnapped and fatally shot a woman, and who declared, in his final words, “I love you, Mom. Goodbye.” And there was John Fearance, who murdered his neighbor, and who turned to God in his last moments and said, “I hope He will forgive me for what I done.”
Willingham had grown close to some of his prison mates, even though he knew that they were guilty of brutal crimes. In March, 2000, Willingham’s friend Ponchai Wilkerson—a twenty-eight-year-old who had shot and killed a clerk during a jewelry heist—was executed. Afterward, Willingham wrote in his diary that he felt “an emptiness that has not been touched since my children were taken from me.” A year later, another friend who was about to be executed—“one of the few real people I have met here not caught up in the bravado of prison”—asked Willingham to make him a final drawing. “Man, I never thought drawing a simple Rose could be so emotionally hard,” Willingham wrote. “The hard part is knowing that this will be the last thing I can do for him.”
Another inmate, Ernest Ray Willis, had a case that was freakishly similar to Willingham’s. In 1987, Willis had been convicted of setting a fire, in West Texas, that killed two women. Willis told investigators that he had been sleeping on a friend’s living-room couch and woke up to a house full of smoke. He said that he tried to rouse one of the women, who was sleeping in another room, but the flames and smoke drove him back, and he ran out the front door before the house exploded with flames. Witnesses maintained that Willis had acted suspiciously; he moved his car out of the yard, and didn’t show “any emotion,” as one volunteer firefighter put it. Authorities also wondered how Willis could have escaped the house without burning his bare feet. Fire investigators found pour patterns, puddle configurations, and other signs of arson. The authorities could discern no motive for the crime, but concluded that Willis, who had no previous record of violence, was a sociopath—a “demon,” as the prosecutor put it. Willis was charged with capital murder and sentenced to death.
Willis had eventually obtained what Willingham called, enviously, a “bad-ass lawyer.” James Blank, a noted patent attorney in New York, was assigned Willis’s case as part of his firm’s pro-bono work. Convinced that Willis was innocent, Blank devoted more than a dozen years to the case, and his firm spent millions, on fire consultants, private investigators, forensic experts, and the like. Willingham, meanwhile, relied on David Martin, his court-appointed lawyer, and one of Martin’s colleagues to handle his appeals. Willingham often told his parents, “You don’t know what it’s like to have lawyers who won’t even believe you’re innocent.” Like many inmates on death row, Willingham eventually filed a claim of inadequate legal representation. (When I recently asked Martin about his representation of Willingham, he said, “There were no grounds for reversal, and the verdict was absolutely the right one.” He said of the case, “Shit, it’s incredible that anyone’s even thinking about it.”)
Willingham tried to study the law himself, reading books such as “Tact in Court, or How Lawyers Win: Containing Sketches of Cases Won by Skill, Wit, Art, Tact, Courage and Eloquence.” Still, he confessed to a friend, “The law is so complicated it is hard for me to understand.” In 1996, he obtained a new court-appointed lawyer, Walter Reaves, who told me that he was appalled by the quality of Willingham’s defense at trial and on appeal. Reaves prepared for him a state writ of habeas corpus, known as a Great Writ. In the byzantine appeals process of death-penalty cases, which frequently takes more than ten years, the writ is the most critical stage: a prisoner can introduce new evidence detailing such things as perjured testimony, unreliable medical experts, and bogus scientific findings. Yet most indigent inmates, like Willingham, who constitute the bulk of those on death row, lack the resources to track down new witnesses or dig up fresh evidence. They must depend on court-appointed lawyers, many of whom are “unqualified, irresponsible, or overburdened,” as a study by the Texas Defender Service, a nonprofit organization, put it. In 2000, a Dallas Morning News investigation revealed that roughly a quarter of the inmates condemned to death in Texas were represented by court-appointed attorneys who had, at some point in their careers, been “reprimanded, placed on probation, suspended or banned from practicing law by the State Bar.” Although Reaves was more competent, he had few resources to reinvestigate the case, and his writ introduced no new exculpatory evidence: nothing further about Webb, or the reliability of the eyewitness testimony, or the credibility of the medical experts. It focussed primarily on procedural questions, such as whether the trial court erred in its instructions to the jury.
The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals was known for upholding convictions even when overwhelming exculpatory evidence came to light. In 1997, DNA testing proved that sperm collected from a rape victim did not match Roy Criner, who had been sentenced to ninety-nine years for the crime. Two lower courts recommended that the verdict be overturned, but the Court of Criminal Appeals upheld it, arguing that Criner might have worn a condom or might not have ejaculated. Sharon Keller, who is now the presiding judge on the court, stated in a majority opinion, “The new evidence does not establish innocence.” In 2000, George W. Bush pardoned Criner. (Keller was recently charged with judicial misconduct, for refusing to keep open past five o’clock a clerk’s office in order to allow a last-minute petition from a man who was executed later that night.)
On October 31, 1997, the Court of Criminal Appeals denied Willingham’s writ. After Willingham filed another writ of habeas corpus, this time in federal court, he was granted a temporary stay. In a poem, Willingham wrote, “One more chance, one more strike / Another bullet dodged, another date escaped.”
Willingham was entering his final stage of appeals. As his anxieties mounted, he increasingly relied upon Gilbert to investigate his case and for emotional support. “She may never know what a change she brought into my life,” he wrote in his diary. “For the first time in many years she gave me a purpose, something to look forward to.”
As their friendship deepened, he asked her to promise him that she would never disappear without explanation. “I already have that in my life,” he told her.
Together, they pored over clues and testimony. Gilbert says that she would send Reaves leads to follow up, but although he was sympathetic, nothing seemed to come of them. In 2002, a federal district court of appeals denied Willingham’s writ without even a hearing. “Now I start the last leg of my journey,” Willingham wrote to Gilbert. “Got to get things in order.”
He appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court, but in December, 2003, he was notified that it had declined to hear his case. He soon received a court order announcing that “the Director of the Department of Criminal Justice at Huntsville, Texas, acting by and through the executioner designated by said Director . . . is hereby DIRECTED and COMMANDED, at some hour after 6:00 p.m. on the 17th day of February, 2004, at the Department of Criminal Justice in Huntsville, Texas, to carry out this sentence of death by intravenous injection of a substance or substances in a lethal quantity sufficient to cause the death of said Cameron Todd Willingham.”
Willingham wrote a letter to his parents. “Are you sitting down?” he asked, before breaking the news. “I love you both so much,” he said.
His only remaining recourse was to appeal to the governor of Texas, Rick Perry, a Republican, for clemency. The process, considered the last gatekeeper to the executioner, has been called by the U.S. Supreme Court “the ‘fail safe’ in our criminal justice system.”
IV
One day in January, 2004, Dr. Gerald Hurst, an acclaimed scientist and fire investigator, received a file describing all the evidence of arson gathered in Willingham’s case. Gilbert had come across Hurst’s name and, along with one of Willingham’s relatives, had contacted him, seeking his help. After their pleas, Hurst had agreed to look at the case pro bono, and Reaves, Willingham’s lawyer, had sent him the relevant documents, in the hope that there were grounds for clemency.
Hurst opened the file in the basement of his house in Austin, which served as a laboratory and an office, and was cluttered with microscopes and diagrams of half-finished experiments. Hurst was nearly six and half feet tall, though his stooped shoulders made him seem considerably shorter, and he had a gaunt face that was partly shrouded by long gray hair. He was wearing his customary outfit: black shoes, black socks, a black T-shirt, and loose-fitting black pants supported by black suspenders. In his mouth was a wad of chewing tobacco.
A child prodigy who was raised by a sharecropper during the Great Depression, Hurst used to prowl junk yards, collecting magnets and copper wires in order to build radios and other contraptions. In the early sixties, he received a Ph.D. in chemistry from Cambridge University, where he started to experiment with fluorine and other explosive chemicals, and once detonated his lab. Later, he worked as the chief scientist on secret weapons programs for several American companies, designing rockets and deadly fire bombs—or what he calls “god-awful things.” He helped patent what has been described, with only slight exaggeration, as “the world’s most powerful nonnuclear explosive”: an Astrolite bomb. He experimented with toxins so lethal that a fraction of a drop would rot human flesh, and in his laboratory he often had to wear a pressurized moon suit; despite such precautions, exposure to chemicals likely caused his liver to fail, and in 1994 he required a transplant. Working on what he calls “the dark side of arson,” he retrofitted napalm bombs with Astrolite, and developed ways for covert operatives in Vietnam to create bombs from local materials, such as chicken manure and sugar. He also perfected a method for making an exploding T-shirt by nitrating its fibres.
His conscience eventually began pricking him. “One day, you wonder, What the hell am I doing?” he recalls. He left the defense industry, and went on to invent the Mylar balloon, an improved version of Liquid Paper, and Kinepak, a kind of explosive that reduces the risk of accidental detonation. Because of his extraordinary knowledge of fire and explosives, companies in civil litigation frequently sought his help in determining the cause of a blaze. By the nineties, Hurst had begun devoting significant time to criminal-arson cases, and, as he was exposed to the methods of local and state fire investigators, he was shocked by what he saw.
Many arson investigators, it turned out, had only a high-school education. In most states, in order to be certified, investigators had to take a forty-hour course on fire investigation, and pass a written exam. Often, the bulk of an investigator’s training came on the job, learning from “old-timers” in the field, who passed down a body of wisdom about the telltale signs of arson, even though a study in 1977 warned that there was nothing in “the scientific literature to substantiate their validity.”
In 1992, the National Fire Protection Association, which promotes fire prevention and safety, published its first scientifically based guidelines to arson investigation. Still, many arson investigators believed that what they did was more an art than a science—a blend of experience and intuition. In 1997, the International Association of Arson Investigators filed a legal brief arguing that arson sleuths should not be bound by a 1993 Supreme Court decision requiring experts who testified at trials to adhere to the scientific method. What arson sleuths did, the brief claimed, was “less scientific.” By 2000, after the courts had rejected such claims, arson investigators increasingly recognized the scientific method, but there remained great variance in the field, with many practitioners still relying on the unverified techniques that had been used for generations. “People investigated fire largely with a flat-earth approach,” Hurst told me. “It looks like arson—therefore, it’s arson.” He went on, “My view is you have to have a scientific basis. Otherwise, it’s no different than witch-hunting.”
In 1998, Hurst investigated the case of a woman from North Carolina named Terri Hinson, who was charged with setting a fire that killed her seventeen-month-old son, and faced the death penalty. Hurst ran a series of experiments re-creating the conditions of the fire, which suggested that it had not been arson, as the investigators had claimed; rather, it had started accidentally, from a faulty electrical wire in the attic. Because of this research, Hinson was freed. John Lentini, a fire expert and the author of a leading scientific textbook on arson, describes Hurst as “brilliant.” A Texas prosecutor once told the Chicago Tribune, of Hurst, “If he says it was an arson fire, then it was. If he says it wasn’t, then it wasn’t.”
Hurst’s patents yielded considerable royalties, and he could afford to work pro bono on an arson case for months, even years. But he received the files on Willingham’s case only a few weeks before Willingham was scheduled to be executed. As Hurst looked through the case records, a statement by Manuel Vasquez, the state deputy fire marshal, jumped out at him. Vasquez had testified that, of the roughly twelve hundred to fifteen hundred fires he had investigated, “most all of them” were arson. This was an oddly high estimate; the Texas State Fire Marshals Office typically found arson in only fifty per cent of its cases.
Hurst was also struck by Vasquez’s claim that the Willingham blaze had “burned fast and hot” because of a liquid accelerant. The notion that a flammable or combustible liquid caused flames to reach higher temperatures had been repeated in court by arson sleuths for decades. Yet the theory was nonsense: experiments have proved that wood and gasoline-fuelled fires burn at essentially the same temperature.
Vasquez and Fogg had cited as proof of arson the fact that the front door’s aluminum threshold had melted. “The only thing that can cause that to react is an accelerant,” Vasquez said. Hurst was incredulous. A natural-wood fire can reach temperatures as high as two thousand degrees Fahrenheit—far hotter than the melting point for aluminum alloys, which ranges from a thousand to twelve hundred degrees. And, like many other investigators, Vasquez and Fogg mistakenly assumed that wood charring beneath the aluminum threshold was evidence that, as Vasquez put it, “a liquid accelerant flowed underneath and burned.” Hurst had conducted myriad experiments showing that such charring was caused simply by the aluminum conducting so much heat. In fact, when liquid accelerant is poured under a threshold a fire will extinguish, because of a lack of oxygen. (Other scientists had reached the same conclusion.) “Liquid accelerants can no more burn under an aluminum threshold than can grease burn in a skillet even with a loose-fitting lid,” Hurst declared in his report on the Willingham case.
Hurst then examined Fogg and Vasquez’s claim that the “brown stains” on Willingham’s front porch were evidence of “liquid accelerant,” which had not had time to soak into the concrete. Hurst had previously performed a test in his garage, in which he poured charcoal-lighter fluid on the concrete floor, and lit it. When the fire went out, there were no brown stains, only smudges of soot. Hurst had run the same experiment many times, with different kinds of liquid accelerants, and the result was always the same. Brown stains were common in fires; they were usually composed of rust or gunk from charred debris that had mixed with water from fire hoses.
Another crucial piece of evidence implicating Willingham was the “crazed glass” that Vasquez had attributed to the rapid heating from a fire fuelled with liquid accelerant. Yet, in November of 1991, a team of fire investigators had inspected fifty houses in the hills of Oakland, California, which had been ravaged by brush fires. In a dozen houses, the investigators discovered crazed glass, even though a liquid accelerant had not been used. Most of these houses were on the outskirts of the blaze, where firefighters had shot streams of water; as the investigators later wrote in a published study, they theorized that the fracturing had been induced by rapid cooling, rather than by sudden heating—thermal shock had caused the glass to contract so quickly that it settled disjointedly. The investigators then tested this hypothesis in a laboratory. When they heated glass, nothing happened. But each time they applied water to the heated glass the intricate patterns appeared. Hurst had seen the same phenomenon when he had blowtorched and cooled glass during his research at Cambridge. In his report, Hurst wrote that Vasquez and Fogg’s notion of crazed glass was no more than an “old wives’ tale.”
Hurst then confronted some of the most devastating arson evidence against Willingham: the burn trailer, the pour patterns and puddle configurations, the V-shape and other burn marks indicating that the fire had multiple points of origin, the burning underneath the children’s beds. There was also the positive test for mineral spirits by the front door, and Willingham’s seemingly implausible story that he had run out of the house without burning his bare feet.
As Hurst read through more of the files, he noticed that Willingham and his neighbors had described the windows in the front of the house suddenly exploding and flames roaring forth. It was then that Hurst thought of the legendary Lime Street Fire, one of the most pivotal in the history of arson investigation.
On the evening of October 15, 1990, a thirty-five-year-old man named Gerald Wayne Lewis was found standing in front of his house on Lime Street, in Jacksonville, Florida, holding his three-year-old son. His two-story wood-frame home was engulfed in flames. By the time the fire had been extinguished, six people were dead, including Lewis’s wife. Lewis said that he had rescued his son but was unable to get to the others, who were upstairs.
When fire investigators examined the scene, they found the classic signs of arson: low burns along the walls and floors, pour patterns and puddle configurations, and a burn trailer running from the living room into the hallway. Lewis claimed that the fire had started accidentally, on a couch in the living room—his son had been playing with matches. But a V-shaped pattern by one of the doors suggested that the fire had originated elsewhere. Some witnesses told authorities that Lewis seemed too calm during the fire and had never tried to get help. According to the Los Angeles Times, Lewis had previously been arrested for abusing his wife, who had taken out a restraining order against him. After a chemist said that he had detected the presence of gasoline on Lewis’s clothing and shoes, a report by the sheriff’s office concluded, “The fire was started as a result of a petroleum product being poured on the front porch, foyer, living room, stairwell and second floor bedroom.” Lewis was arrested and charged with six counts of murder. He faced the death penalty.
Subsequent tests, however, revealed that the laboratory identification of gasoline was wrong. Moreover, a local news television camera had captured Lewis in a clearly agitated state at the scene of the fire, and investigators discovered that at one point he had jumped in front of a moving car, asking the driver to call the Fire Department.
Seeking to bolster their theory of the crime, prosecutors turned to John Lentini, the fire expert, and John DeHaan, another leading investigator and textbook author. Despite some of the weaknesses of the case, Lentini told me that, given the classic burn patterns and puddle configurations in the house, he was sure that Lewis had set the fire: “I was prepared to testify and send this guy to Old Sparky”—the electric chair.
To discover the truth, the investigators, with the backing of the prosecution, decided to conduct an elaborate experiment and re-create the fire scene. Local officials gave the investigators permission to use a condemned house next to Lewis’s home, which was about to be torn down. The two houses were virtually identical, and the investigators refurbished the condemned one with the same kind of carpeting, curtains, and furniture that had been in Lewis’s home. The scientists also wired the building with heat and gas sensors that could withstand fire. The cost of the experiment came to twenty thousand dollars. Without using liquid accelerant, Lentini and DeHaan set the couch in the living room on fire, expecting that the experiment would demonstrate that Lewis’s version of events was implausible.
The investigators watched as the fire quickly consumed the couch, sending upward a plume of smoke that hit the ceiling and spread outward, creating a thick layer of hot gases overhead—an efficient radiator of heat. Within three minutes, this cloud, absorbing more gases from the fire below, was banking down the walls and filling the living room. As the cloud approached the floor, its temperature rose, in some areas, to more than eleven hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Suddenly, the entire room exploded in flames, as the radiant heat ignited every piece of furniture, every curtain, every possible fuel source, even the carpeting. The windows shattered.
The fire had reached what is called “flashover”—the point at which radiant heat causes a fire in a room to become a room on fire. Arson investigators knew about the concept of flashover, but it was widely believed to take much longer to occur, especially without a liquid accelerant. From a single fuel source—a couch—the room had reached flashover in four and a half minutes.
Because all the furniture in the living room had ignited, the blaze went from a fuel-controlled fire to a ventilation-controlled fire—or what scientists call “post-flashover.” During post-flashover, the path of the fire depends on new sources of oxygen, from an open door or window. One of the fire investigators, who had been standing by an open door in the living room, escaped moments before the oxygen-starved fire roared out of the room into the hallway—a fireball that caused the corridor to go quickly into flashover as well, propelling the fire out the front door and onto the porch.
After the fire was extinguished, the investigators inspected the hallway and living room. On the floor were irregularly shaped burn patterns that perfectly resembled pour patterns and puddle configurations. It turned out that these classic signs of arson can also appear on their own, after flashover. With the naked eye, it is impossible to distinguish between the pour patterns and puddle configurations caused by an accelerant and those caused naturally by post-flashover. The only reliable way to tell the difference is to take samples from the burn patterns and test them in a laboratory for the presence of flammable or combustible liquids.
During the Lime Street experiment, other things happened that were supposed to occur only in a fire fuelled by liquid accelerant: charring along the base of the walls and doorways, and burning under furniture. There was also a V-shaped pattern by the living-room doorway, far from where the fire had started on the couch. In a small fire, a V-shaped burn mark may pinpoint where a fire began, but during post-flashover these patterns can occur repeatedly, when various objects ignite.
One of the investigators muttered that they had just helped prove the defense’s case. Given the reasonable doubt raised by the experiment, the charges against Lewis were soon dropped. The Lime Street experiment had demolished prevailing notions about fire behavior. Subsequent tests by scientists showed that, during post-flashover, burning under beds and furniture was common, entire doors were consumed, and aluminum thresholds melted.
John Lentini says of the Lime Street Fire, “This was my epiphany. I almost sent a man to die based on theories that were a load of crap.”
Hurst next examined a floor plan of Willingham’s house that Vasquez had drawn, which delineated all the purported pour patterns and puddle configurations. Because the windows had blown out of the children’s room, Hurst knew that the fire had reached flashover. With his finger, Hurst traced along Vasquez’s diagram the burn trailer that had gone from the children’s room, turned right in the hallway, and headed out the front door. John Jackson, the prosecutor, had told me that the path was so “bizarre” that it had to have been caused by a liquid accelerant. But Hurst concluded that it was a natural product of the dynamics of fire during post-flashover. Willingham had fled out the front door, and the fire simply followed the ventilation path, toward the opening. Similarly, when Willingham had broken the windows in the children’s room, flames had shot outward.
Hurst recalled that Vasquez and Fogg had considered it impossible for Willingham to have run down the burning hallway without scorching his bare feet. But if the pour patterns and puddle configurations were a result of a flashover, Hurst reasoned, then they were consonant with Willingham’s explanation of events. When Willingham exited his bedroom, the hallway was not yet on fire; the flames were contained within the children’s bedroom, where, along the ceiling, he saw the “bright lights.” Just as the investigator safely stood by the door in the Lime Street experiment seconds before flashover, Willingham could have stood close to the children’s room without being harmed. (Prior to the Lime Street case, fire investigators had generally assumed that carbon monoxide diffuses quickly through a house during a fire. In fact, up until flashover, levels of carbon monoxide can be remarkably low beneath and outside the thermal cloud.) By the time the Corsicana fire achieved flashover, Willingham had already fled outside and was in the front yard.
Vasquez had made a videotape of the fire scene, and Hurst looked at the footage of the burn trailer. Even after repeated viewings, he could not detect three points of origin, as Vasquez had. (Fogg recently told me that he also saw a continuous trailer and disagreed with Vasquez, but added that nobody from the prosecution or the defense ever asked him on the stand about his opinion on the subject.)
After Hurst had reviewed Fogg and Vasquez’s list of more than twenty arson indicators, he believed that only one had any potential validity: the positive test for mineral spirits by the threshold of the front door. But why had the fire investigators obtained a positive reading only in that location? According to Fogg and Vasquez’s theory of the crime, Willingham had poured accelerant throughout the children’s bedroom and down the hallway. Officials had tested extensively in these areas—including where all the pour patterns and puddle configurations were—and turned up nothing. Jackson told me that he “never did understand why they weren’t able to recover” positive tests in these parts.
Hurst found it hard to imagine Willingham pouring accelerant on the front porch, where neighbors could have seen him. Scanning the files for clues, Hurst noticed a photograph of the porch taken before the fire, which had been entered into evidence. Sitting on the tiny porch was a charcoal grill. The porch was where the family barbecued. Court testimony from witnesses confirmed that there had been a grill, along with a container of lighter fluid, and that both had burned when the fire roared onto the porch during post-flashover. By the time Vasquez inspected the house, the grill had been removed from the porch, during cleanup. Though he cited the container of lighter fluid in his report, he made no mention of the grill. At the trial, he insisted that he had never been told of the grill’s earlier placement. Other authorities were aware of the grill but did not see its relevance. Hurst, however, was convinced that he had solved the mystery: when firefighters had blasted the porch with water, they had likely spread charcoal-lighter fluid from the melted container.
Without having visited the fire scene, Hurst says, it was impossible to pinpoint the cause of the blaze. But, based on the evidence, he had little doubt that it was an accidental fire—one caused most likely by the space heater or faulty electrical wiring. It explained why there had never been a motive for the crime. Hurst concluded that there was no evidence of arson, and that a man who had already lost his three children and spent twelve years in jail was about to be executed based on “junk science.” Hurst wrote his report in such a rush that he didn’t pause to fix the typos.
V
“I am a realist and I will not live a fantasy,” Willingham once told Gilbert about the prospect of proving his innocence. But in February, 2004, he began to have hope. Hurst’s findings had helped to exonerate more than ten people. Hurst even reviewed the scientific evidence against Willingham’s friend Ernest Willis, who had been on death row for the strikingly similar arson charge. Hurst says, “It was like I was looking at the same case. Just change the names.” In his report on the Willis case, Hurst concluded that not “a single item of physical evidence . . . supports a finding of arson.” A second fire expert hired by Ori White, the new district attorney in Willis’s district, concurred. After seventeen years on death row, Willis was set free. “I don’t turn killers loose,” White said at the time. “If Willis was guilty, I’d be retrying him right now. And I’d use Hurst as my witness. He’s a brilliant scientist.” White noted how close the system had come to murdering an innocent man. “He did not get executed, and I thank God for that,” he said.
On February 13th, four days before Willingham was scheduled to be executed, he got a call from Reaves, his attorney. Reaves told him that the fifteen members of the Board of Pardons and Paroles, which reviews an application for clemency and had been sent Hurst’s report, had made their decision.
“What is it?” Willingham asked.
“I’m sorry,” Reaves said. “They denied your petition.”
The vote was unanimous. Reaves could not offer an explanation: the board deliberates in secret, and its members are not bound by any specific criteria. The board members did not even have to review Willingham’s materials, and usually don’t debate a case in person; rather, they cast their votes by fax—a process that has become known as “death by fax.” Between 1976 and 2004, when Willingham filed his petition, the State of Texas had approved only one application for clemency from a prisoner on death row. A Texas appellate judge has called the clemency system “a legal fiction.” Reaves said of the board members, “They never asked me to attend a hearing or answer any questions.”
The Innocence Project obtained, through the Freedom of Information Act, all the records from the governor’s office and the board pertaining to Hurst’s report. “The documents show that they received the report, but neither office has any record of anyone acknowledging it, taking note of its significance, responding to it, or calling any attention to it within the government,” Barry Scheck said. “The only reasonable conclusion is that the governor’s office and the Board of Pardons and Paroles ignored scientific evidence.”
LaFayette Collins, who was a member of the board at the time, told me of the process, “You don’t vote guilt or innocence. You don’t retry the trial. You just make sure everything is in order and there are no glaring errors.” He noted that although the rules allowed for a hearing to consider important new evidence, “in my time there had never been one called.” When I asked him why Hurst’s report didn’t constitute evidence of “glaring errors,” he said, “We get all kinds of reports, but we don’t have the mechanisms to vet them.” Alvin Shaw, another board member at the time, said that the case didn’t “ring a bell,” adding, angrily, “Why would I want to talk about it?” Hurst calls the board’s actions “unconscionable.”
Though Reaves told Willingham that there was still a chance that Governor Perry might grant a thirty-day stay, Willingham began to prepare his last will and testament. He had earlier written Stacy a letter apologizing for not being a better husband and thanking her for everything she had given him, especially their three daughters. “I still know Amber’s voice, her smile, her cool Dude saying and how she said: I wanna hold you! Still feel the touch of Karmon and Kameron’s hands on my face.” He said that he hoped that “some day, somehow the truth will be known and my name cleared.”
He asked Stacy if his tombstone could be erected next to their children’s graves. Stacy, who had for so long expressed belief in Willingham’s innocence, had recently taken her first look at the original court records and arson findings. Unaware of Hurst’s report, she had determined that Willingham was guilty. She denied him his wish, later telling a reporter, “He took my kids away from me.”
Gilbert felt as if she had failed Willingham. Even before his pleas for clemency were denied, she told him that all she could give him was her friendship. He told her that it was enough “to be a part of your life in some small way so that in my passing I can know I was at last able to have felt the heart of another who might remember me when I’m gone.” He added, “There is nothing to forgive you for.” He told her that he would need her to be present at his execution, to help him cope with “my fears, thoughts, and feelings.”
On February 17th, the day he was set to die, Willingham’s parents and several relatives gathered in the prison visiting room. Plexiglas still separated Willingham from them. “I wish I could touch and hold both of you,” Willingham had written to them earlier. “I always hugged Mom but I never hugged Pop much.”
As Willingham looked at the group, he kept asking where Gilbert was. Gilbert had recently been driving home from a store when another car ran a red light and smashed into her. Willingham used to tell her to stay in her kitchen for a day, without leaving, to comprehend what it was like to be confined in prison, but she had always found an excuse not to do it. Now she was paralyzed from the neck down.
While she was in an intensive-care unit, she had tried to get a message to Willingham, but apparently failed. Gilbert’s daughter later read her a letter that Willingham had sent her, telling her how much he had grown to love her. He had written a poem: “Do you want to see beauty—like you have never seen? / Then close your eyes, and open your mind, and come along with me.”
Gilbert, who spent years in physical rehabilitation, gradually regaining motion in her arms and upper body, says, “All that time, I thought I was saving Willingham, and I realized then that he was saving me, giving me the strength to get through this. I know I will one day walk again, and I know it is because Willingham showed me the kind of courage it takes to survive.”
Willingham had requested a final meal, and at 4 P.M. on the seventeenth he was served it: three barbecued pork ribs, two orders of onion rings, fried okra, three beef enchiladas with cheese, and two slices of lemon cream pie. He received word that Governor Perry had refused to grant him a stay. (A spokesperson for Perry says, “The Governor made his decision based on the facts of the case.”) Willingham’s mother and father began to cry. “Don’t be sad, Momma,” Willingham said. “In fifty-five minutes, I’m a free man. I’m going home to see my kids.” Earlier, he had confessed to his parents that there was one thing about the day of the fire he had lied about. He said that he had never actually crawled into the children’s room. “I just didn’t want people to think I was a coward,” he said. Hurst told me, “People who have never been in a fire don’t understand why those who survive often can’t rescue the victims. They have no concept of what a fire is like.”
The warden told Willingham that it was time. Willingham, refusing to assist the process, lay down; he was carried into a chamber eight feet wide and ten feet long. The walls were painted green, and in the center of the room, where an electric chair used to be, was a sheeted gurney. Several guards strapped Willingham down with leather belts, snapping buckles across his arms and legs and chest. A medical team then inserted intravenous tubes into his arms. Each official had a separate role in the process, so that no one person felt responsible for taking a life.
Willingham had asked that his parents and family not be present in the gallery during this process, but as he looked out he could see Stacy watching. The warden pushed a remote control, and sodium thiopental, a barbiturate, was pumped into Willingham’s body. Then came a second drug, pancuronium bromide, which paralyzes the diaphragm, making it impossible to breathe. Finally, a third drug, potassium chloride, filled his veins, until his heart stopped, at 6:20 P.M. On his death certificate, the cause was listed as “Homicide.”
After his death, his parents were allowed to touch his face for the first time in more than a decade. Later, at Willingham’s request, they cremated his body and secretly spread some of his ashes over his children’s graves. He had told his parents, “Please don’t ever stop fighting to vindicate me.”
In December, 2004, questions about the scientific evidence in the Willingham case began to surface. Maurice Possley and Steve Mills, of the Chicago Tribune, had published an investigative series on flaws in forensic science; upon learning of Hurst’s report, Possley and Mills asked three fire experts, including John Lentini, to examine the original investigation. The experts concurred with Hurst’s report. Nearly two years later, the Innocence Project commissioned Lentini and three other top fire investigators to conduct an independent review of the arson evidence in the Willingham case. The panel concluded that “each and every one” of the indicators of arson had been “scientifically proven to be invalid.”
In 2005, Texas established a government commission to investigate allegations of error and misconduct by forensic scientists. The first cases that are being reviewed by the commission are those of Willingham and Willis. In mid-August, the noted fire scientist Craig Beyler, who was hired by the commission, completed his investigation. In a scathing report, he concluded that investigators in the Willingham case had no scientific basis for claiming that the fire was arson, ignored evidence that contradicted their theory, had no comprehension of flashover and fire dynamics, relied on discredited folklore, and failed to eliminate potential accidental or alternative causes of the fire. He said that Vasquez’s approach seemed to deny “rational reasoning” and was more “characteristic of mystics or psychics.” What’s more, Beyler determined that the investigation violated, as he put it to me, “not only the standards of today but even of the time period.” The commission is reviewing his findings, and plans to release its own report next year. Some legal scholars believe that the commission may narrowly assess the reliability of the scientific evidence. There is a chance, however, that Texas could become the first state to acknowledge officially that, since the advent of the modern judicial system, it had carried out the “execution of a legally and factually innocent person.”
Just before Willingham received the lethal injection, he was asked if he had any last words. He said, “The only statement I want to make is that I am an innocent man convicted of a crime I did not commit. I have been persecuted for twelve years for something I did not do. From God’s dust I came and to dust I will return, so the Earth shall become my throne.” ♦
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A Reporter at Large
Trial by Fire
Did Texas execute an innocent man? by David Grann September 7, 2009
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Cameron Todd Willingham in his cell on death row, in 1994. He insisted upon his innocence in the deaths of his children and refused an offer to plead guilty in return for a life sentence. Photograph by Ken Light.
Cameron Todd Willingham in his cell on death row, in 1994. He insisted upon his innocence in the deaths of his children and refused an offer to plead guilty in return for a life sentence. Photograph by Ken Light.
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Audio: Grann on the Texas execution that may change the death penalty debate.
Video: David Grann discusses the flaws of the Cameron Todd Willingham investigation.
Ask the Author: Live chat with Grann Wednesday, September 2 at 3 P.M. E.T.
Keywords
Arson;
Death Penalty;
Cameron Todd Willingham;
Corsicana, Texas;
Fires;
Elizabeth Gilbert;
Gerald Hurst
The fire moved quickly through the house, a one-story wood-frame structure in a working-class neighborhood of Corsicana, in northeast Texas. Flames spread along the walls, bursting through doorways, blistering paint and tiles and furniture. Smoke pressed against the ceiling, then banked downward, seeping into each room and through crevices in the windows, staining the morning sky.
Buffie Barbee, who was eleven years old and lived two houses down, was playing in her back yard when she smelled the smoke. She ran inside and told her mother, Diane, and they hurried up the street; that’s when they saw the smoldering house and Cameron Todd Willingham standing on the front porch, wearing only a pair of jeans, his chest blackened with soot, his hair and eyelids singed. He was screaming, “My babies are burning up!” His children—Karmon and Kameron, who were one-year-old twin girls, and two-year-old Amber—were trapped inside.
Willingham told the Barbees to call the Fire Department, and while Diane raced down the street to get help he found a stick and broke the children’s bedroom window. Fire lashed through the hole. He broke another window; flames burst through it, too, and he retreated into the yard, kneeling in front of the house. A neighbor later told police that Willingham intermittently cried, “My babies!” then fell silent, as if he had “blocked the fire out of his mind.”
Diane Barbee, returning to the scene, could feel intense heat radiating off the house. Moments later, the five windows of the children’s room exploded and flames “blew out,” as Barbee put it. Within minutes, the first firemen had arrived, and Willingham approached them, shouting that his children were in their bedroom, where the flames were thickest. A fireman sent word over his radio for rescue teams to “step on it.”
More men showed up, uncoiling hoses and aiming water at the blaze. One fireman, who had an air tank strapped to his back and a mask covering his face, slipped through a window but was hit by water from a hose and had to retreat. He then charged through the front door, into a swirl of smoke and fire. Heading down the main corridor, he reached the kitchen, where he saw a refrigerator blocking the back door.
Todd Willingham, looking on, appeared to grow more hysterical, and a police chaplain named George Monaghan led him to the back of a fire truck and tried to calm him down. Willingham explained that his wife, Stacy, had gone out earlier that morning, and that he had been jolted from sleep by Amber screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!”
“My little girl was trying to wake me up and tell me about the fire,” he said, adding, “I couldn’t get my babies out.”
While he was talking, a fireman emerged from the house, cradling Amber. As she was given C.P.R., Willingham, who was twenty-three years old and powerfully built, ran to see her, then suddenly headed toward the babies’ room. Monaghan and another man restrained him. “We had to wrestle with him and then handcuff him, for his and our protection,” Monaghan later told police. “I received a black eye.” One of the first firemen at the scene told investigators that, at an earlier point, he had also held Willingham back. “Based on what I saw on how the fire was burning, it would have been crazy for anyone to try and go into the house,” he said.
Willingham was taken to a hospital, where he was told that Amber—who had actually been found in the master bedroom—had died of smoke inhalation. Kameron and Karmon had been lying on the floor of the children’s bedroom, their bodies severely burned. According to the medical examiner, they, too, died from smoke inhalation.
News of the tragedy, which took place on December 23, 1991, spread through Corsicana. A small city fifty-five miles northeast of Waco, it had once been the center of Texas’s first oil boom, but many of the wells had since dried up, and more than a quarter of the city’s twenty thousand inhabitants had fallen into poverty. Several stores along the main street were shuttered, giving the place the feel of an abandoned outpost.
Willingham and his wife, who was twenty-two years old, had virtually no money. Stacy worked in her brother’s bar, called Some Other Place, and Willingham, an unemployed auto mechanic, had been caring for the kids. The community took up a collection to help the Willinghams pay for funeral arrangements.
Fire investigators, meanwhile, tried to determine the cause of the blaze. (Willingham gave authorities permission to search the house: “I know we might not ever know all the answers, but I’d just like to know why my babies were taken from me.”) Douglas Fogg, who was then the assistant fire chief in Corsicana, conducted the initial inspection. He was tall, with a crew cut, and his voice was raspy from years of inhaling smoke from fires and cigarettes. He had grown up in Corsicana and, after graduating from high school, in 1963, he had joined the Navy, serving as a medic in Vietnam, where he was wounded on four occasions. He was awarded a Purple Heart each time. After he returned from Vietnam, he became a firefighter, and by the time of the Willingham blaze he had been battling fire—or what he calls “the beast”—for more than twenty years, and had become a certified arson investigator. “You learn that fire talks to you,” he told me.
He was soon joined on the case by one of the state’s leading arson sleuths, a deputy fire marshal named Manuel Vasquez, who has since died. Short, with a paunch, Vasquez had investigated more than twelve hundred fires. Arson investigators have always been considered a special breed of detective. In the 1991 movie “Backdraft,” a heroic arson investigator says of fire, “It breathes, it eats, and it hates. The only way to beat it is to think like it. To know that this flame will spread this way across the door and up across the ceiling.” Vasquez, who had previously worked in Army intelligence, had several maxims of his own. One was “Fire does not destroy evidence—it creates it.” Another was “The fire tells the story. I am just the interpreter.” He cultivated a Sherlock Holmes-like aura of invincibility. Once, he was asked under oath whether he had ever been mistaken in a case. “If I have, sir, I don’t know,” he responded. “It’s never been pointed out.”
Vasquez and Fogg visited the Willinghams’ house four days after the blaze. Following protocol, they moved from the least burned areas toward the most damaged ones. “It is a systematic method,” Vasquez later testified, adding, “I’m just collecting information. . . . I have not made any determination. I don’t have any preconceived idea.”
The men slowly toured the perimeter of the house, taking notes and photographs, like archeologists mapping out a ruin. Upon opening the back door, Vasquez observed that there was just enough space to squeeze past the refrigerator blocking the exit. The air smelled of burned rubber and melted wires; a damp ash covered the ground, sticking to their boots. In the kitchen, Vasquez and Fogg discerned only smoke and heat damage—a sign that the fire had not originated there—and so they pushed deeper into the nine-hundred-and-seventy-five-square-foot building. A central corridor led past a utility room and the master bedroom, then past a small living room, on the left, and the children’s bedroom, on the right, ending at the front door, which opened onto the porch. Vasquez tried to take in everything, a process that he compared to entering one’s mother-in-law’s house for the first time: “I have the same curiosity.”
In the utility room, he noticed on the wall pictures of skulls and what he later described as an image of “the Grim Reaper.” Then he turned into the master bedroom, where Amber’s body had been found. Most of the damage there was also from smoke and heat, suggesting that the fire had started farther down the hallway, and he headed that way, stepping over debris and ducking under insulation and wiring that hung down from the exposed ceiling.
As he and Fogg removed some of the clutter, they noticed deep charring along the base of the walls. Because gases become buoyant when heated, flames ordinarily burn upward. But Vasquez and Fogg observed that the fire had burned extremely low down, and that there were peculiar char patterns on the floor, shaped like puddles.
Vasquez’s mood darkened. He followed the “burn trailer”—the path etched by the fire—which led from the hallway into the children’s bedroom. Sunlight filtering through the broken windows illuminated more of the irregularly shaped char patterns. A flammable or combustible liquid doused on a floor will cause a fire to concentrate in these kinds of pockets, which is why investigators refer to them as “pour patterns” or “puddle configurations.”
The fire had burned through layers of carpeting and tile and plywood flooring. Moreover, the metal springs under the children’s beds had turned white—a sign that intense heat had radiated beneath them. Seeing that the floor had some of the deepest burns, Vasquez deduced that it had been hotter than the ceiling, which, given that heat rises, was, in his words, “not normal.”
Fogg examined a piece of glass from one of the broken windows. It contained a spiderweb-like pattern—what fire investigators call “crazed glass.” Forensic textbooks had long described the effect as a key indicator that a fire had burned “fast and hot,” meaning that it had been fuelled by a liquid accelerant, causing the glass to fracture.
The men looked again at what appeared to be a distinct burn trailer through the house: it went from the children’s bedroom into the corridor, then turned sharply to the right and proceeded out the front door. To the investigators’ surprise, even the wood under the door’s aluminum threshold was charred. On the concrete floor of the porch, just outside the front door, Vasquez and Fogg noticed another unusual thing: brown stains, which, they reported, were consistent with the presence of an accelerant.
The men scanned the walls for soot marks that resembled a “V.” When an object catches on fire, it creates such a pattern, as heat and smoke radiate outward; the bottom of the “V” can therefore point to where a fire began. In the Willingham house, there was a distinct “V” in the main corridor. Examining it and other burn patterns, Vasquez identified three places where fire had originated: in the hallway, in the children’s bedroom, and at the front door. Vasquez later testified that multiple origins pointed to one conclusion: the fire was “intentionally set by human hands.”
By now, both investigators had a clear vision of what had happened. Someone had poured liquid accelerant throughout the children’s room, even under their beds, then poured some more along the adjoining hallway and out the front door, creating a “fire barrier” that prevented anyone from escaping; similarly, a prosecutor later suggested, the refrigerator in the kitchen had been moved to block the back-door exit. The house, in short, had been deliberately transformed into a death trap.
The investigators collected samples of burned materials from the house and sent them to a laboratory that could detect the presence of a liquid accelerant. The lab’s chemist reported that one of the samples contained evidence of “mineral spirits,” a substance that is often found in charcoal-lighter fluid. The sample had been taken by the threshold of the front door.
The fire was now considered a triple homicide, and Todd Willingham—the only person, besides the victims, known to have been in the house at the time of the blaze—became the prime suspect.
Police and fire investigators canvassed the neighborhood, interviewing witnesses. Several, like Father Monaghan, initially portrayed Willingham as devastated by the fire. Yet, over time, an increasing number of witnesses offered damning statements. Diane Barbee said that she had not seen Willingham try to enter the house until after the authorities arrived, as if he were putting on a show. And when the children’s room exploded with flames, she added, he seemed more preoccupied with his car, which he moved down the driveway. Another neighbor reported that when Willingham cried out for his babies he “did not appear to be excited or concerned.” Even Father Monaghan wrote in a statement that, upon further reflection, “things were not as they seemed. I had the feeling that [Willingham] was in complete control.”
The police began to piece together a disturbing profile of Willingham. Born in Ardmore, Oklahoma, in 1968, he had been abandoned by his mother when he was a baby. His father, Gene, who had divorced his mother, eventually raised him with his stepmother, Eugenia. Gene, a former U.S. marine, worked in a salvage yard, and the family lived in a cramped house; at night, they could hear freight trains rattling past on a nearby track. Willingham, who had what the family called the “classic Willingham look”—a handsome face, thick black hair, and dark eyes—struggled in school, and as a teen-ager began to sniff paint. When he was seventeen, Oklahoma’s Department of Human Services evaluated him, and reported, “He likes ‘girls,’ music, fast cars, sharp trucks, swimming, and hunting, in that order.” Willingham dropped out of high school, and over time was arrested for, among other things, driving under the influence, stealing a bicycle, and shoplifting.
In 1988, he met Stacy, a senior in high school, who also came from a troubled background: when she was four years old, her stepfather had strangled her mother to death during a fight. Stacy and Willingham had a turbulent relationship. Willingham, who was unfaithful, drank too much Jack Daniel’s, and sometimes hit Stacy—even when she was pregnant. A neighbor said that he once heard Willingham yell at her, “Get up, bitch, and I’ll hit you again.”
On December 31st, the authorities brought Willingham in for questioning. Fogg and Vasquez were present for the interrogation, along with Jimmie Hensley, a police officer who was working his first arson case. Willingham said that Stacy had left the house around 9 A.M. to pick up a Christmas present for the kids, at the Salvation Army. “After she got out of the driveway, I heard the twins cry, so I got up and gave them a bottle,” he said. The children’s room had a safety gate across the doorway, which Amber could climb over but not the twins, and he and Stacy often let the twins nap on the floor after they drank their bottles. Amber was still in bed, Willingham said, so he went back into his room to sleep. “The next thing I remember is hearing ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ ” he recalled. “The house was already full of smoke.” He said that he got up, felt around the floor for a pair of pants, and put them on. He could no longer hear his daughter’s voice (“I heard that last ‘Daddy, Daddy’ and never heard her again”), and he hollered, “Oh God— Amber, get out of the house! Get out of the house!’ ”
He never sensed that Amber was in his room, he said. Perhaps she had already passed out by the time he stood up, or perhaps she came in after he left, through a second doorway, from the living room. He said that he went down the corridor and tried to reach the children’s bedroom. In the hallway, he said, “you couldn’t see nothing but black.” The air smelled the way it had when their microwave had blown up, three weeks earlier—like “wire and stuff like that.” He could hear sockets and light switches popping, and he crouched down, almost crawling. When he made it to the children’s bedroom, he said, he stood and his hair caught on fire. “Oh God, I never felt anything that hot before,” he said of the heat radiating out of the room.
After he patted out the fire on his hair, he said, he got down on the ground and groped in the dark. “I thought I found one of them once,” he said, “but it was a doll.” He couldn’t bear the heat any longer. “I felt myself passing out,” he said. Finally, he stumbled down the corridor and out the front door, trying to catch his breath. He saw Diane Barbee and yelled for her to call the Fire Department. After she left, he insisted, he tried without success to get back inside.
The investigators asked him if he had any idea how the fire had started. He said that he wasn’t sure, though it must have originated in the children’s room, since that was where he first saw flames; they were glowing like “bright lights.” He and Stacy used three space heaters to keep the house warm, and one of them was in the children’s room. “I taught Amber not to play with it,” he said, adding that she got “whuppings every once in a while for messing with it.” He said that he didn’t know if the heater, which had an internal flame, was turned on. (Vasquez later testified that when he had checked the heater, four days after the fire, it was in the “Off” position.) Willingham speculated that the fire might have been started by something electrical: he had heard all that popping and crackling.
When pressed whether someone might have a motive to hurt his family, he said that he couldn’t think of anyone that “cold-blooded.” He said of his children, “I just don’t understand why anybody would take them, you know? We had three of the most pretty babies anybody could have ever asked for.” He went on, “Me and Stacy’s been together for four years, but off and on we get into a fight and split up for a while and I think those babies is what brought us so close together . . . neither one of us . . . could live without them kids.” Thinking of Amber, he said, “To tell you the honest-to-God’s truth, I wish she hadn’t woke me up.”
During the interrogation, Vasquez let Fogg take the lead. Finally, Vasquez turned to Willingham and asked a seemingly random question: had he put on shoes before he fled the house?
“No, sir,” Willingham replied.
A map of the house was on a table between the men, and Vasquez pointed to it. “You walked out this way?” he said.
Willingham said yes.
Vasquez was now convinced that Willingham had killed his children. If the floor had been soaked with a liquid accelerant and the fire had burned low, as the evidence suggested, Willingham could not have run out of the house the way he had described without badly burning his feet. A medical report indicated that his feet had been unscathed.
Willingham insisted that, when he left the house, the fire was still around the top of the walls and not on the floor. “I didn’t have to jump through any flames,” he said. Vasquez believed that this was impossible, and that Willingham had lit the fire as he was retreating—first, torching the children’s room, then the hallway, and then, from the porch, the front door. Vasquez later said of Willingham, “He told me a story of pure fabrication. . . . He just talked and he talked and all he did was lie.”
Still, there was no clear motive. The children had life-insurance policies, but they amounted to only fifteen thousand dollars, and Stacy’s grandfather, who had paid for them, was listed as the primary beneficiary. Stacy told investigators that even though Willingham hit her he had never abused the children—“Our kids were spoiled rotten,” she said—and she did not believe that Willingham could have killed them.
Ultimately, the authorities concluded that Willingham was a man without a conscience whose serial crimes had climaxed, almost inexorably, in murder. John Jackson, who was then the assistant district attorney in Corsicana, was assigned to prosecute Willingham’s case. He later told the Dallas Morning News that he considered Willingham to be “an utterly sociopathic individual” who deemed his children “an impediment to his lifestyle.” Or, as the local district attorney, Pat Batchelor, put it, “The children were interfering with his beer drinking and dart throwing.”
On the night of January 8, 1992, two weeks after the fire, Willingham was riding in a car with Stacy when SWAT teams surrounded them, forcing them to the side of the road. “They pulled guns out like we had just robbed ten banks,” Stacy later recalled. “All we heard was ‘click, click.’ . . . Then they arrested him.”
Willingham was charged with murder. Because there were multiple victims, he was eligible for the death penalty, under Texas law. Unlike many other prosecutors in the state, Jackson, who had ambitions of becoming a judge, was personally opposed to capital punishment. “I don’t think it’s effective in deterring criminals,” he told me. “I just don’t think it works.” He also considered it wasteful: because of the expense of litigation and the appeals process, it costs, on average, $2.3 million to execute a prisoner in Texas—about three times the cost of incarcerating someone for forty years. Plus, Jackson said, “What’s the recourse if you make a mistake?” Yet his boss, Batchelor, believed that, as he once put it, “certain people who commit bad enough crimes give up the right to live,” and Jackson came to agree that the heinous nature of the crime in the Willingham case—“one of the worst in terms of body count” that he had ever tried—mandated death.
Willingham couldn’t afford to hire lawyers, and was assigned two by the state: David Martin, a former state trooper, and Robert Dunn, a local defense attorney who represented everyone from alleged murderers to spouses in divorce cases—a “Jack-of-all-trades,” as he calls himself. (“In a small town, you can’t say ‘I’m a so-and-so lawyer,’ because you’ll starve to death,” he told me.)
Not long after Willingham’s arrest, authorities received a message from a prison inmate named Johnny Webb, who was in the same jail as Willingham. Webb alleged that Willingham had confessed to him that he took “some kind of lighter fluid, squirting [it] around the walls and the floor, and set a fire.” The case against Willingham was considered airtight.
Even so, several of Stacy’s relatives—who, unlike her, believed that Willingham was guilty—told Jackson that they preferred to avoid the anguish of a trial. And so, shortly before jury selection, Jackson approached Willingham’s attorneys with an extraordinary offer: if their client pleaded guilty, the state would give him a life sentence. “I was really happy when I thought we might have a deal to avoid the death penalty,” Jackson recalls.
Willingham’s lawyers were equally pleased. They had little doubt that he had committed the murders and that, if the case went before a jury, he would be found guilty, and, subsequently, executed. “Everyone thinks defense lawyers must believe their clients are innocent, but that’s seldom true,” Martin told me. “Most of the time, they’re guilty as sin.” He added of Willingham, “All the evidence showed that he was one hundred per cent guilty. He poured accelerant all over the house and put lighter fluid under the kids’ beds.” It was, he said, “a classic arson case”: there were “puddle patterns all over the place—no disputing those.”
Martin and Dunn advised Willingham that he should accept the offer, but he refused. The lawyers asked his father and stepmother to speak to him. According to Eugenia, Martin showed them photographs of the burned children and said, “Look what your son did. You got to talk him into pleading, or he’s going to be executed.”
His parents went to see their son in jail. Though his father did not believe that he should plead guilty if he were innocent, his stepmother beseeched him to take the deal. “I just wanted to keep my boy alive,” she told me.
Willingham was implacable. “I ain’t gonna plead to something I didn’t do, especially killing my own kids,” he said. It was his final decision. Martin says, “I thought it was nuts at the time—and I think it’s nuts now.”
Willingham’s refusal to accept the deal confirmed the view of the prosecution, and even that of his defense lawyers, that he was an unrepentant killer.
In August, 1992, the trial commenced in the old stone courthouse in downtown Corsicana. Jackson and a team of prosecutors summoned a procession of witnesses, including Johnny Webb and the Barbees. The crux of the state’s case, though, remained the scientific evidence gathered by Vasquez and Fogg. On the stand, Vasquez detailed what he called more than “twenty indicators” of arson.
“Do you have an opinion as to who started the fire?” one of the prosecutors asked.
“Yes, sir,” Vasquez said. “Mr. Willingham.”
The prosecutor asked Vasquez what he thought Willingham’s intent was in lighting the fire. “To kill the little girls,” he said.
The defense had tried to find a fire expert to counter Vasquez and Fogg’s testimony, but the one they contacted concurred with the prosecution. Ultimately, the defense presented only one witness to the jury: the Willinghams’ babysitter, who said she could not believe that Willingham could have killed his children. (Dunn told me that Willingham had wanted to testify, but Martin and Dunn thought that he would make a bad witness.) The trial ended after two days.
During his closing arguments, Jackson said that the puddle configurations and pour patterns were Willingham’s inadvertent “confession,” burned into the floor. Showing a Bible that had been salvaged from the fire, Jackson paraphrased the words of Jesus from the Gospel of Matthew: “Whomsoever shall harm one of my children, it’s better for a millstone to be hung around his neck and for him to be cast in the sea.”
The jury was out for barely an hour before returning with a unanimous guilty verdict. As Vasquez put it, “The fire does not lie.”
II
When Elizabeth Gilbert approached the prison guard, on a spring day in 1999, and said Cameron Todd Willingham’s name, she was uncertain about what she was doing. A forty-seven-year-old French teacher and playwright from Houston, Gilbert was divorced with two children. She had never visited a prison before. Several weeks earlier, a friend, who worked at an organization that opposed the death penalty, had encouraged her to volunteer as a pen pal for an inmate on death row, and Gilbert had offered her name and address. Not long after, a short letter, written with unsteady penmanship, arrived from Willingham. “If you wish to write back, I would be honored to correspond with you,” he said. He also asked if she might visit him. Perhaps out of a writer’s curiosity, or perhaps because she didn’t feel quite herself (she had just been upset by news that her ex-husband was dying of cancer), she agreed. Now she was standing in front of the decrepit penitentiary in Huntsville, Texas—a place that inmates referred to as “the death pit.”
She filed past a razor-wire fence, a series of floodlights, and a checkpoint, where she was patted down, until she entered a small chamber. Only a few feet in front of her was a man convicted of multiple infanticide. He was wearing a white jumpsuit with “DR”—for death row—printed on the back, in large black letters. He had a tattoo of a serpent and a skull on his left biceps. He stood nearly six feet tall and was muscular, though his legs had atrophied after years of confinement.
A Plexiglas window separated Willingham from her; still, Gilbert, who had short brown hair and a bookish manner, stared at him uneasily. Willingham had once fought another prisoner who called him a “baby killer,” and since he had been incarcerated, seven years earlier, he had committed a series of disciplinary infractions that had periodically landed him in the segregation unit, which was known as “the dungeon.”
Willingham greeted her politely. He seemed grateful that she had come. After his conviction, Stacy had campaigned for his release. She wrote to Ann Richards, then the governor of Texas, saying, “I know him in ways that no one else does when it comes to our children. Therefore, I believe that there is no way he could have possibly committed this crime.” But within a year Stacy had filed for divorce, and Willingham had few visitors except for his parents, who drove from Oklahoma to see him once a month. “I really have no one outside my parents to remind me that I am a human being, not the animal the state professes I am,” he told Gilbert at one point.
He didn’t want to talk about death row. “Hell, I live here,” he later wrote her. “When I have a visit, I want to escape from here.” He asked her questions about her teaching and art. He expressed fear that, as a playwright, she might find him a “one-dimensional character,” and apologized for lacking social graces; he now had trouble separating the mores in prison from those of the outside world.
When Gilbert asked him if he wanted something to eat or drink from the vending machines, he declined. “I hope I did not offend you by not accepting any snacks,” he later wrote her. “I didn’t want you to feel I was there just for something like that.”
She had been warned that prisoners often tried to con visitors. He appeared to realize this, subsequently telling her, “I am just a simple man. Nothing else. And to most other people a convicted killer looking for someone to manipulate.”
Their visit lasted for two hours, and afterward they continued to correspond. She was struck by his letters, which seemed introspective, and were not at all what she had expected. “I am a very honest person with my feelings,” he wrote her. “I will not bullshit you on how I feel or what I think.” He said that he used to be stoic, like his father. But, he added, “losing my three daughters . . . my home, wife and my life, you tend to wake up a little. I have learned to open myself.”
She agreed to visit him again, and when she returned, several weeks later, he was visibly moved. “Here I am this person who nobody on the outside is ever going to know as a human, who has lost so much, but still trying to hold on,” he wrote her afterward. “But you came back! I don’t think you will ever know of what importance that visit was in my existence.”
They kept exchanging letters, and she began asking him about the fire. He insisted that he was innocent and that, if someone had poured accelerant through the house and lit it, then the killer remained free. Gilbert wasn’t naïve—she assumed that he was guilty. She did not mind giving him solace, but she was not there to absolve him.
Still, she had become curious about the case, and one day that fall she drove down to the courthouse in Corsicana to review the trial records. Many people in the community remembered the tragedy, and a clerk expressed bewilderment that anyone would be interested in a man who had burned his children alive.
Gilbert took the files and sat down at a small table. As she examined the eyewitness accounts, she noticed several contradictions. Diane Barbee had reported that, before the authorities arrived at the fire, Willingham never tried to get back into the house—yet she had been absent for some time while calling the Fire Department. Meanwhile, her daughter Buffie had reported witnessing Willingham on the porch breaking a window, in an apparent effort to reach his children. And the firemen and police on the scene had described Willingham frantically trying to get into the house.
The witnesses’ testimony also grew more damning after authorities had concluded, in the beginning of January, 1992, that Willingham was likely guilty of murder. In Diane Barbee’s initial statement to authorities, she had portrayed Willingham as “hysterical,” and described the front of the house exploding. But on January 4th, after arson investigators began suspecting Willingham of murder, Barbee suggested that he could have gone back inside to rescue his children, for at the outset she had seen only “smoke coming from out of the front of the house”—smoke that was not “real thick.”
An even starker shift occurred with Father Monaghan’s testimony. In his first statement, he had depicted Willingham as a devastated father who had to be repeatedly restrained from risking his life. Yet, as investigators were preparing to arrest Willingham, he concluded that Willingham had been too emotional (“He seemed to have the type of distress that a woman who had given birth would have upon seeing her children die”); and he expressed a “gut feeling” that Willingham had “something to do with the setting of the fire.”
Dozens of studies have shown that witnesses’ memories of events often change when they are supplied with new contextual information. Itiel Dror, a cognitive psychologist who has done extensive research on eyewitness and expert testimony in criminal investigations, told me, “The mind is not a passive machine. Once you believe in something—once you expect something—it changes the way you perceive information and the way your memory recalls it.”
After Gilbert’s visit to the courthouse, she kept wondering about Willingham’s motive, and she pressed him on the matter. In response, he wrote, of the death of his children, “I do not talk about it much anymore and it is still a very powerfully emotional pain inside my being.” He admitted that he had been a “sorry-ass husband” who had hit Stacy—something he deeply regretted. But he said that he had loved his children and would never have hurt them. Fatherhood, he said, had changed him; he stopped being a hoodlum and “settled down” and “became a man.” Nearly three months before the fire, he and Stacy, who had never married, wed at a small ceremony in his home town of Ardmore. He said that the prosecution had seized upon incidents from his past and from the day of the fire to create a portrait of a “demon,” as Jackson, the prosecutor, referred to him. For instance, Willingham said, he had moved the car during the fire simply because he didn’t want it to explode by the house, further threatening the children.
Gilbert was unsure what to make of his story, and she began to approach people who were involved in the case, asking them questions. “My friends thought I was crazy,” Gilbert recalls. “I’d never done anything like this in my life.”
One morning, when Willingham’s parents came to visit him, Gilbert arranged to see them first, at a coffee shop near the prison. Gene, who was in his seventies, had the Willingham look, though his black hair had gray streaks and his dark eyes were magnified by glasses. Eugenia, who was in her fifties, with silvery hair, was as sweet and talkative as her husband was stern and reserved. The drive from Oklahoma to Texas took six hours, and they had woken at three in the morning; because they could not afford a motel, they would have to return home later that day. “I feel like a real burden to them,” Willingham had written Gilbert.
As Gene and Eugenia sipped coffee, they told Gilbert how grateful they were that someone had finally taken an interest in Todd’s case. Gene said that his son, though he had flaws, was no killer.
The evening before the fire, Eugenia said, she had spoken on the phone with Todd. She and Gene were planning on visiting two days later, on Christmas Eve, and Todd told her that he and Stacy and the kids had just picked up family photographs. “He said, ‘We got your pictures for Christmas,’ ” she recalled. “He put Amber on the phone, and she was tattling on one of the twins. Todd didn’t seem upset. If something was bothering him, I would have known.”
Gene and Eugenia got up to go: they didn’t want to miss any of the four hours that were allotted for the visit with their son. Before they left, Gene said, “You’ll let us know if you find anything, won’t you?”
Over the next few weeks, Gilbert continued to track down sources. Many of them, including the Barbees, remained convinced that Willingham was guilty, but several of his friends and relatives had doubts. So did some people in law enforcement. Willingham’s former probation officer in Oklahoma, Polly Goodin, recently told me that Willingham had never demonstrated bizarre or sociopathic behavior. “He was probably one of my favorite kids,” she said. Even a former judge named Bebe Bridges—who had often stood, as she put it, on the “opposite side” of Willingham in the legal system, and who had sent him to jail for stealing—told me that she could not imagine him killing his children. “He was polite, and he seemed to care,” she said. “His convictions had been for dumb-kid stuff. Even the things stolen weren’t significant.” Several months before the fire, Willingham tracked Goodin down at her office, and proudly showed her photographs of Stacy and the kids. “He wanted Bebe and me to know he’d been doing good,” Goodin recalled.
Eventually, Gilbert returned to Corsicana to interview Stacy, who had agreed to meet at the bed-and-breakfast where Gilbert was staying. Stacy was slightly plump, with pale, round cheeks and feathered dark-blond hair; her bangs were held in place by gel, and her face was heavily made up. According to a tape recording of the conversation, Stacy said that nothing unusual had happened in the days before the fire. She and Willingham had not fought, and were preparing for the holiday. Though Vasquez, the arson expert, had recalled finding the space heater off, Stacy was sure that, at least on the day of the incident—a cool winter morning—it had been on. “I remember turning it down,” she recalled. “I always thought, Gosh, could Amber have put something in there?” Stacy added that, more than once, she had caught Amber “putting things too close to it.”
Willingham had often not treated her well, she recalled, and after his incarceration she had left him for a man who did. But she didn’t think that her former husband should be on death row. “I don’t think he did it,” she said, crying.
Though only the babysitter had appeared as a witness for the defense during the main trial, several family members, including Stacy, testified during the penalty phase, asking the jury to spare Willingham’s life. When Stacy was on the stand, Jackson grilled her about the “significance” of Willingham’s “very large tattoo of a skull, encircled by some kind of a serpent.”
“It’s just a tattoo,” Stacy responded.
“He just likes skulls and snakes. Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. He just had—he got a tattoo on him.”
The prosecution cited such evidence in asserting that Willingham fit the profile of a sociopath, and brought forth two medical experts to confirm the theory. Neither had met Willingham. One of them was Tim Gregory, a psychologist with a master’s degree in marriage and family issues, who had previously gone goose hunting with Jackson, and had not published any research in the field of sociopathic behavior. His practice was devoted to family counselling.
At one point, Jackson showed Gregory Exhibit No. 60—a photograph of an Iron Maiden poster that had hung in Willingham’s house—and asked the psychologist to interpret it. “This one is a picture of a skull, with a fist being punched through the skull,” Gregory said; the image displayed “violence” and “death.” Gregory looked at photographs of other music posters owned by Willingham. “There’s a hooded skull, with wings and a hatchet,” Gregory continued. “And all of these are in fire, depicting—it reminds me of something like Hell. And there’s a picture—a Led Zeppelin picture of a falling angel. . . . I see there’s an association many times with cultive-type of activities. A focus on death, dying. Many times individuals that have a lot of this type of art have interest in satanic-type activities.”
The other medical expert was James P. Grigson, a forensic psychiatrist. He testified so often for the prosecution in capital-punishment cases that he had become known as Dr. Death. (A Texas appellate judge once wrote that when Grigson appeared on the stand the defendant might as well “commence writing out his last will and testament.”) Grigson suggested that Willingham was an “extremely severe sociopath,” and that “no pill” or treatment could help him. Grigson had previously used nearly the same words in helping to secure a death sentence against Randall Dale Adams, who had been convicted of murdering a police officer, in 1977. After Adams, who had no prior criminal record, spent a dozen years on death row—and once came within seventy-two hours of being executed—new evidence emerged that absolved him, and he was released. In 1995, three years after Willingham’s trial, Grigson was expelled from the American Psychiatric Association for violating ethics. The association stated that Grigson had repeatedly arrived at a “psychiatric diagnosis without first having examined the individuals in question, and for indicating, while testifying in court as an expert witness, that he could predict with 100-per-cent certainty that the individuals would engage in future violent acts.”
After speaking to Stacy, Gilbert had one more person she wanted to interview: the jailhouse informant Johnny Webb, who was incarcerated in Iowa Park, Texas. She wrote to Webb, who said that she could see him, and they met in the prison visiting room. A man in his late twenties, he had pallid skin and a closely shaved head; his eyes were jumpy, and his entire body seemed to tremble. A reporter who once met him described him to me as “nervous as a cat around rocking chairs.” Webb had begun taking drugs when he was nine years old, and had been convicted of, among other things, car theft, selling marijuana, forgery, and robbery.
As Gilbert chatted with him, she thought that he seemed paranoid. During Willingham’s trial, Webb disclosed that he had been given a diagnosis of “post-traumatic stress disorder” after he was sexually assaulted in prison, in 1988, and that he often suffered from “mental impairment.” Under cross-examination, Webb testified that he had no recollection of a robbery that he had pleaded guilty to only months earlier.
Webb repeated for her what he had said in court: he had passed by Willingham’s cell, and as they spoke through a food slot Willingham broke down and told him that he intentionally set the house on fire. Gilbert was dubious. It was hard to believe that Willingham, who had otherwise insisted on his innocence, had suddenly confessed to an inmate he barely knew. The conversation had purportedly taken place by a speaker system that allowed any of the guards to listen—an unlikely spot for an inmate to reveal a secret. What’s more, Webb alleged that Willingham had told him that Stacy had hurt one of the kids, and that the fire was set to cover up the crime. The autopsies, however, had revealed no bruises or signs of trauma on the children’s bodies.
Jailhouse informants, many of whom are seeking reduced time or special privileges, are notoriously unreliable. According to a 2004 study by the Center on Wrongful Convictions, at Northwestern University Law School, lying police and jailhouse informants are the leading cause of wrongful convictions in capital cases in the United States. At the time that Webb came forward against Willingham, he was facing charges of robbery and forgery. During Willingham’s trial, another inmate planned to testify that he had overheard Webb saying to another prisoner that he was hoping to “get time cut,” but the testimony was ruled inadmissible, because it was hearsay. Webb, who pleaded guilty to the robbery and forgery charges, received a sentence of fifteen years. Jackson, the prosecutor, told me that he generally considered Webb “an unreliable kind of guy,” but added, “I saw no real motive for him to make a statement like this if it wasn’t true. We didn’t cut him any slack.” In 1997, five years after Willingham’s trial, Jackson urged the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles to grant Webb parole. “I asked them to cut him loose early,” Jackson told me. The reason, Jackson said, was that Webb had been targeted by the Aryan Brotherhood. The board granted Webb parole, but within months of his release he was caught with cocaine and returned to prison.
In March, 2000, several months after Gilbert’s visit, Webb unexpectedly sent Jackson a Motion to Recant Testimony, declaring, “Mr. Willingham is innocent of all charges.” But Willingham’s lawyer was not informed of this development, and soon afterward Webb, without explanation, recanted his recantation. When I recently asked Webb, who was released from prison two years ago, about the turnabout and why Willingham would have confessed to a virtual stranger, he said that he knew only what “the dude told me.” After I pressed him, he said, “It’s very possible I misunderstood what he said.” Since the trial, Webb has been given an additional diagnosis, bipolar disorder. “Being locked up in that little cell makes you kind of crazy,” he said. “My memory is in bits and pieces. I was on a lot of medication at the time. Everyone knew that.” He paused, then said, “The statute of limitations has run out on perjury, hasn’t it?”
Aside from the scientific evidence of arson, the case against Willingham did not stand up to scrutiny. Jackson, the prosecutor, said of Webb’s testimony, “You can take it or leave it.” Even the refrigerator’s placement by the back door of the house turned out to be innocuous; there were two refrigerators in the cramped kitchen, and one of them was by the back door. Jimmie Hensley, the police detective, and Douglas Fogg, the assistant fire chief, both of whom investigated the fire, told me recently that they had never believed that the fridge was part of the arson plot. “It didn’t have nothing to do with the fire,” Fogg said.
After months of investigating the case, Gilbert found that her faith in the prosecution was shaken. As she told me, “What if Todd really was innocent?”
III
In the summer of 1660, an Englishman named William Harrison vanished on a walk, near the village of Charingworth, in Gloucestershire. His bloodstained hat was soon discovered on the side of a local road. Police interrogated Harrison’s servant, John Perry, and eventually Perry gave a statement that his mother and his brother had killed Harrison for money. Perry, his mother, and his brother were hanged.
Two years later, Harrison reappeared. He insisted, fancifully, that he had been abducted by a band of criminals and sold into slavery. Whatever happened, one thing was indisputable: he had not been murdered by the Perrys.
The fear that an innocent person might be executed has long haunted jurors and lawyers and judges. During America’s Colonial period, dozens of crimes were punishable by death, including horse thievery, blasphemy, “man-stealing,” and highway robbery. After independence, the number of crimes eligible for the death penalty was gradually reduced, but doubts persisted over whether legal procedures were sufficient to prevent an innocent person from being executed. In 1868, John Stuart Mill made one of the most eloquent defenses of capital punishment, arguing that executing a murderer did not display a wanton disregard for life but, rather, proof of its value. “We show, on the contrary, most emphatically our regard for it by the adoption of a rule that he who violates that right in another forfeits it for himself,” he said. For Mill, there was one counterargument that carried weight—“that if by an error of justice an innocent person is put to death, the mistake can never be corrected.”
The modern legal system, with its lengthy appeals process and clemency boards, was widely assumed to protect the kind of “error of justice” that Mill feared. In 2000, while George W. Bush was governor of Texas, he said, “I know there are some in the country who don’t care for the death penalty, but . . . we’ve adequately answered innocence or guilt.” His top policy adviser on issues of criminal justice emphasized that there is “super due process to make sure that no innocent defendants are executed.”
In recent years, though, questions have mounted over whether the system is fail-safe. Since 1976, more than a hundred and thirty people on death row have been exonerated. DNA testing, which was developed in the eighties, saved seventeen of them, but the technique can be used only in rare instances. Barry Scheck, a co-founder of the Innocence Project, which has used DNA testing to exonerate prisoners, estimates that about eighty per cent of felonies do not involve biological evidence.
In 2000, after thirteen people on death row in Illinois were exonerated, George Ryan, who was then governor of the state, suspended the death penalty. Though he had been a longtime advocate of capital punishment, he declared that he could no longer support a system that has “come so close to the ultimate nightmare—the state’s taking of innocent life.” Former Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor has said that the “execution of a legally and factually innocent person would be a constitutionally intolerable event.”
Such a case has become a kind of grisly Holy Grail among opponents of capital punishment. In his 2002 book “The Death Penalty,” Stuart Banner observes, “The prospect of killing an innocent person seemed to be the one thing that could cause people to rethink their support for capital punishment. Some who were not troubled by statistical arguments against the death penalty—claims about deterrence or racial disparities—were deeply troubled that such an extreme injustice might occur in an individual case.” Opponents of the death penalty have pointed to several questionable cases. In 1993, Ruben Cantu was executed in Texas for fatally shooting a man during a robbery. Years later, a second victim, who survived the shooting, told the Houston Chronicle that he had been pressured by police to identify Cantu as the gunman, even though he believed Cantu to be innocent. Sam Millsap, the district attorney in the case, who had once supported capital punishment (“I’m no wild-eyed, pointy-headed liberal”), said that he was disturbed by the thought that he had made a mistake.
In 1995, Larry Griffin was put to death in Missouri, for a drive-by shooting of a drug dealer. The case rested largely on the eyewitness testimony of a career criminal named Robert Fitzgerald, who had been an informant for prosecutors before and was in the witness-protection program. Fitzgerald maintained that he happened to be at the scene because his car had broken down. After Griffin’s execution, a probe sponsored by the N.A.A.C.P.’s Legal Defense and Educational Fund revealed that a man who had been wounded during the incident insisted that Griffin was not the shooter. Moreover, the first police officer at the scene disputed that Fitzgerald had witnessed the crime.
These cases, however, stopped short of offering irrefutable proof that a “legally and factually innocent person” was executed. In 2005, a St. Louis prosecutor, Jennifer Joyce, launched an investigation of the Griffin case, upon being presented with what she called “compelling” evidence of Griffin’s potential innocence. After two years of reviewing the evidence, and interviewing a new eyewitness, Joyce said that she and her team were convinced that the “right person was convicted.”
Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, in 2006, voted with a majority to uphold the death penalty in a Kansas case. In his opinion, Scalia declared that, in the modern judicial system, there has not been “a single case—not one—in which it is clear that a person was executed for a crime he did not commit. If such an event had occurred in recent years, we would not have to hunt for it; the innocent’s name would be shouted from the rooftops.”
“My problems are simple,” Willingham wrote Gilbert in September, 1999. “Try to keep them from killing me at all costs. End of story.”
During his first years on death row, Willingham had pleaded with his lawyer, David Martin, to rescue him. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to be here, with people I have no business even being around,” he wrote.
For a while, Willingham shared a cell with Ricky Lee Green, a serial killer, who castrated and fatally stabbed his victims, including a sixteen-year-old boy. (Green was executed in 1997.) Another of Willingham’s cellmates, who had an I.Q. below seventy and the emotional development of an eight-year-old, was raped by an inmate. “You remember me telling you I had a new celly?” Willingham wrote in a letter to his parents. “The little retarded boy. . . . There was this guy here on the wing who is a shit sorry coward (who is the same one I got into it with a little over a month ago). Well, he raped [my cellmate] in the 3 row shower week before last.” Willingham said that he couldn’t believe that someone would “rape a boy who cannot even defend himself. Pretty damn low.”
Because Willingham was known as a “baby killer,” he was a target of attacks. “Prison is a rough place, and with a case like mine they never give you the benefit of a doubt,” he wrote his parents. After he tried to fight one prisoner who threatened him, Willingham told a friend that if he hadn’t stood up for himself several inmates would have “beaten me up or raped or”—his thought trailed off.
Over the years, Willingham’s letters home became increasingly despairing. “This is a hard place, and it makes a person hard inside,” he wrote. “I told myself that was one thing I did not want and that was for this place to make me bitter, but it is hard.” He went on, “They have [executed] at least one person every month I have been here. It is senseless and brutal. . . . You see, we are not living in here, we are only existing.” In 1996, he wrote, “I just been trying to figure out why after having a wife and 3 beautiful children that I loved my life has to end like this. And sometimes it just seems like it is not worth it all. . . . In the 3 1/2 years I been here I have never felt that my life was as worthless and desolate as it is now.” Since the fire, he wrote, he had the sense that his life was slowly being erased. He obsessively looked at photographs of his children and Stacy, which he stored in his cell. “So long ago, so far away,” he wrote in a poem. “Was everything truly there?”
Inmates on death row are housed in a prison within a prison, where there are no attempts at rehabilitation, and no educational or training programs. In 1999, after seven prisoners tried to escape from Huntsville, Willingham and four hundred and fifty-nine other inmates on death row were moved to a more secure facility, in Livingston, Texas. Willingham was held in isolation in a sixty-square-foot cell, twenty-three hours a day. He tried to distract himself by drawing—“amateur stuff,” as he put it—and writing poems. In a poem about his children, he wrote, “There is nothing more beautiful than you on this earth.” When Gilbert once suggested some possible revisions to his poems, he explained that he wrote them simply as expressions, however crude, of his feelings. “So to me to cut them up and try to improve on them just for creative-writing purposes would be to destroy what I was doing to start with,” he said.
Despite his efforts to occupy his thoughts, he wrote in his diary that his mind “deteriorates each passing day.” He stopped working out and gained weight. He questioned his faith: “No God who cared about his creation would abandon the innocent.” He seemed not to care if another inmate attacked him. “A person who is already dead inside does not fear” death, he wrote.
One by one, the people he knew in prison were escorted into the execution chamber. There was Clifton Russell, Jr., who, at the age of eighteen, stabbed and beat a man to death, and who said, in his last statement, “I thank my Father, God in Heaven, for the grace he has granted me—I am ready.” There was Jeffery Dean Motley, who kidnapped and fatally shot a woman, and who declared, in his final words, “I love you, Mom. Goodbye.” And there was John Fearance, who murdered his neighbor, and who turned to God in his last moments and said, “I hope He will forgive me for what I done.”
Willingham had grown close to some of his prison mates, even though he knew that they were guilty of brutal crimes. In March, 2000, Willingham’s friend Ponchai Wilkerson—a twenty-eight-year-old who had shot and killed a clerk during a jewelry heist—was executed. Afterward, Willingham wrote in his diary that he felt “an emptiness that has not been touched since my children were taken from me.” A year later, another friend who was about to be executed—“one of the few real people I have met here not caught up in the bravado of prison”—asked Willingham to make him a final drawing. “Man, I never thought drawing a simple Rose could be so emotionally hard,” Willingham wrote. “The hard part is knowing that this will be the last thing I can do for him.”
Another inmate, Ernest Ray Willis, had a case that was freakishly similar to Willingham’s. In 1987, Willis had been convicted of setting a fire, in West Texas, that killed two women. Willis told investigators that he had been sleeping on a friend’s living-room couch and woke up to a house full of smoke. He said that he tried to rouse one of the women, who was sleeping in another room, but the flames and smoke drove him back, and he ran out the front door before the house exploded with flames. Witnesses maintained that Willis had acted suspiciously; he moved his car out of the yard, and didn’t show “any emotion,” as one volunteer firefighter put it. Authorities also wondered how Willis could have escaped the house without burning his bare feet. Fire investigators found pour patterns, puddle configurations, and other signs of arson. The authorities could discern no motive for the crime, but concluded that Willis, who had no previous record of violence, was a sociopath—a “demon,” as the prosecutor put it. Willis was charged with capital murder and sentenced to death.
Willis had eventually obtained what Willingham called, enviously, a “bad-ass lawyer.” James Blank, a noted patent attorney in New York, was assigned Willis’s case as part of his firm’s pro-bono work. Convinced that Willis was innocent, Blank devoted more than a dozen years to the case, and his firm spent millions, on fire consultants, private investigators, forensic experts, and the like. Willingham, meanwhile, relied on David Martin, his court-appointed lawyer, and one of Martin’s colleagues to handle his appeals. Willingham often told his parents, “You don’t know what it’s like to have lawyers who won’t even believe you’re innocent.” Like many inmates on death row, Willingham eventually filed a claim of inadequate legal representation. (When I recently asked Martin about his representation of Willingham, he said, “There were no grounds for reversal, and the verdict was absolutely the right one.” He said of the case, “Shit, it’s incredible that anyone’s even thinking about it.”)
Willingham tried to study the law himself, reading books such as “Tact in Court, or How Lawyers Win: Containing Sketches of Cases Won by Skill, Wit, Art, Tact, Courage and Eloquence.” Still, he confessed to a friend, “The law is so complicated it is hard for me to understand.” In 1996, he obtained a new court-appointed lawyer, Walter Reaves, who told me that he was appalled by the quality of Willingham’s defense at trial and on appeal. Reaves prepared for him a state writ of habeas corpus, known as a Great Writ. In the byzantine appeals process of death-penalty cases, which frequently takes more than ten years, the writ is the most critical stage: a prisoner can introduce new evidence detailing such things as perjured testimony, unreliable medical experts, and bogus scientific findings. Yet most indigent inmates, like Willingham, who constitute the bulk of those on death row, lack the resources to track down new witnesses or dig up fresh evidence. They must depend on court-appointed lawyers, many of whom are “unqualified, irresponsible, or overburdened,” as a study by the Texas Defender Service, a nonprofit organization, put it. In 2000, a Dallas Morning News investigation revealed that roughly a quarter of the inmates condemned to death in Texas were represented by court-appointed attorneys who had, at some point in their careers, been “reprimanded, placed on probation, suspended or banned from practicing law by the State Bar.” Although Reaves was more competent, he had few resources to reinvestigate the case, and his writ introduced no new exculpatory evidence: nothing further about Webb, or the reliability of the eyewitness testimony, or the credibility of the medical experts. It focussed primarily on procedural questions, such as whether the trial court erred in its instructions to the jury.
The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals was known for upholding convictions even when overwhelming exculpatory evidence came to light. In 1997, DNA testing proved that sperm collected from a rape victim did not match Roy Criner, who had been sentenced to ninety-nine years for the crime. Two lower courts recommended that the verdict be overturned, but the Court of Criminal Appeals upheld it, arguing that Criner might have worn a condom or might not have ejaculated. Sharon Keller, who is now the presiding judge on the court, stated in a majority opinion, “The new evidence does not establish innocence.” In 2000, George W. Bush pardoned Criner. (Keller was recently charged with judicial misconduct, for refusing to keep open past five o’clock a clerk’s office in order to allow a last-minute petition from a man who was executed later that night.)
On October 31, 1997, the Court of Criminal Appeals denied Willingham’s writ. After Willingham filed another writ of habeas corpus, this time in federal court, he was granted a temporary stay. In a poem, Willingham wrote, “One more chance, one more strike / Another bullet dodged, another date escaped.”
Willingham was entering his final stage of appeals. As his anxieties mounted, he increasingly relied upon Gilbert to investigate his case and for emotional support. “She may never know what a change she brought into my life,” he wrote in his diary. “For the first time in many years she gave me a purpose, something to look forward to.”
As their friendship deepened, he asked her to promise him that she would never disappear without explanation. “I already have that in my life,” he told her.
Together, they pored over clues and testimony. Gilbert says that she would send Reaves leads to follow up, but although he was sympathetic, nothing seemed to come of them. In 2002, a federal district court of appeals denied Willingham’s writ without even a hearing. “Now I start the last leg of my journey,” Willingham wrote to Gilbert. “Got to get things in order.”
He appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court, but in December, 2003, he was notified that it had declined to hear his case. He soon received a court order announcing that “the Director of the Department of Criminal Justice at Huntsville, Texas, acting by and through the executioner designated by said Director . . . is hereby DIRECTED and COMMANDED, at some hour after 6:00 p.m. on the 17th day of February, 2004, at the Department of Criminal Justice in Huntsville, Texas, to carry out this sentence of death by intravenous injection of a substance or substances in a lethal quantity sufficient to cause the death of said Cameron Todd Willingham.”
Willingham wrote a letter to his parents. “Are you sitting down?” he asked, before breaking the news. “I love you both so much,” he said.
His only remaining recourse was to appeal to the governor of Texas, Rick Perry, a Republican, for clemency. The process, considered the last gatekeeper to the executioner, has been called by the U.S. Supreme Court “the ‘fail safe’ in our criminal justice system.”
IV
One day in January, 2004, Dr. Gerald Hurst, an acclaimed scientist and fire investigator, received a file describing all the evidence of arson gathered in Willingham’s case. Gilbert had come across Hurst’s name and, along with one of Willingham’s relatives, had contacted him, seeking his help. After their pleas, Hurst had agreed to look at the case pro bono, and Reaves, Willingham’s lawyer, had sent him the relevant documents, in the hope that there were grounds for clemency.
Hurst opened the file in the basement of his house in Austin, which served as a laboratory and an office, and was cluttered with microscopes and diagrams of half-finished experiments. Hurst was nearly six and half feet tall, though his stooped shoulders made him seem considerably shorter, and he had a gaunt face that was partly shrouded by long gray hair. He was wearing his customary outfit: black shoes, black socks, a black T-shirt, and loose-fitting black pants supported by black suspenders. In his mouth was a wad of chewing tobacco.
A child prodigy who was raised by a sharecropper during the Great Depression, Hurst used to prowl junk yards, collecting magnets and copper wires in order to build radios and other contraptions. In the early sixties, he received a Ph.D. in chemistry from Cambridge University, where he started to experiment with fluorine and other explosive chemicals, and once detonated his lab. Later, he worked as the chief scientist on secret weapons programs for several American companies, designing rockets and deadly fire bombs—or what he calls “god-awful things.” He helped patent what has been described, with only slight exaggeration, as “the world’s most powerful nonnuclear explosive”: an Astrolite bomb. He experimented with toxins so lethal that a fraction of a drop would rot human flesh, and in his laboratory he often had to wear a pressurized moon suit; despite such precautions, exposure to chemicals likely caused his liver to fail, and in 1994 he required a transplant. Working on what he calls “the dark side of arson,” he retrofitted napalm bombs with Astrolite, and developed ways for covert operatives in Vietnam to create bombs from local materials, such as chicken manure and sugar. He also perfected a method for making an exploding T-shirt by nitrating its fibres.
His conscience eventually began pricking him. “One day, you wonder, What the hell am I doing?” he recalls. He left the defense industry, and went on to invent the Mylar balloon, an improved version of Liquid Paper, and Kinepak, a kind of explosive that reduces the risk of accidental detonation. Because of his extraordinary knowledge of fire and explosives, companies in civil litigation frequently sought his help in determining the cause of a blaze. By the nineties, Hurst had begun devoting significant time to criminal-arson cases, and, as he was exposed to the methods of local and state fire investigators, he was shocked by what he saw.
Many arson investigators, it turned out, had only a high-school education. In most states, in order to be certified, investigators had to take a forty-hour course on fire investigation, and pass a written exam. Often, the bulk of an investigator’s training came on the job, learning from “old-timers” in the field, who passed down a body of wisdom about the telltale signs of arson, even though a study in 1977 warned that there was nothing in “the scientific literature to substantiate their validity.”
In 1992, the National Fire Protection Association, which promotes fire prevention and safety, published its first scientifically based guidelines to arson investigation. Still, many arson investigators believed that what they did was more an art than a science—a blend of experience and intuition. In 1997, the International Association of Arson Investigators filed a legal brief arguing that arson sleuths should not be bound by a 1993 Supreme Court decision requiring experts who testified at trials to adhere to the scientific method. What arson sleuths did, the brief claimed, was “less scientific.” By 2000, after the courts had rejected such claims, arson investigators increasingly recognized the scientific method, but there remained great variance in the field, with many practitioners still relying on the unverified techniques that had been used for generations. “People investigated fire largely with a flat-earth approach,” Hurst told me. “It looks like arson—therefore, it’s arson.” He went on, “My view is you have to have a scientific basis. Otherwise, it’s no different than witch-hunting.”
In 1998, Hurst investigated the case of a woman from North Carolina named Terri Hinson, who was charged with setting a fire that killed her seventeen-month-old son, and faced the death penalty. Hurst ran a series of experiments re-creating the conditions of the fire, which suggested that it had not been arson, as the investigators had claimed; rather, it had started accidentally, from a faulty electrical wire in the attic. Because of this research, Hinson was freed. John Lentini, a fire expert and the author of a leading scientific textbook on arson, describes Hurst as “brilliant.” A Texas prosecutor once told the Chicago Tribune, of Hurst, “If he says it was an arson fire, then it was. If he says it wasn’t, then it wasn’t.”
Hurst’s patents yielded considerable royalties, and he could afford to work pro bono on an arson case for months, even years. But he received the files on Willingham’s case only a few weeks before Willingham was scheduled to be executed. As Hurst looked through the case records, a statement by Manuel Vasquez, the state deputy fire marshal, jumped out at him. Vasquez had testified that, of the roughly twelve hundred to fifteen hundred fires he had investigated, “most all of them” were arson. This was an oddly high estimate; the Texas State Fire Marshals Office typically found arson in only fifty per cent of its cases.
Hurst was also struck by Vasquez’s claim that the Willingham blaze had “burned fast and hot” because of a liquid accelerant. The notion that a flammable or combustible liquid caused flames to reach higher temperatures had been repeated in court by arson sleuths for decades. Yet the theory was nonsense: experiments have proved that wood and gasoline-fuelled fires burn at essentially the same temperature.
Vasquez and Fogg had cited as proof of arson the fact that the front door’s aluminum threshold had melted. “The only thing that can cause that to react is an accelerant,” Vasquez said. Hurst was incredulous. A natural-wood fire can reach temperatures as high as two thousand degrees Fahrenheit—far hotter than the melting point for aluminum alloys, which ranges from a thousand to twelve hundred degrees. And, like many other investigators, Vasquez and Fogg mistakenly assumed that wood charring beneath the aluminum threshold was evidence that, as Vasquez put it, “a liquid accelerant flowed underneath and burned.” Hurst had conducted myriad experiments showing that such charring was caused simply by the aluminum conducting so much heat. In fact, when liquid accelerant is poured under a threshold a fire will extinguish, because of a lack of oxygen. (Other scientists had reached the same conclusion.) “Liquid accelerants can no more burn under an aluminum threshold than can grease burn in a skillet even with a loose-fitting lid,” Hurst declared in his report on the Willingham case.
Hurst then examined Fogg and Vasquez’s claim that the “brown stains” on Willingham’s front porch were evidence of “liquid accelerant,” which had not had time to soak into the concrete. Hurst had previously performed a test in his garage, in which he poured charcoal-lighter fluid on the concrete floor, and lit it. When the fire went out, there were no brown stains, only smudges of soot. Hurst had run the same experiment many times, with different kinds of liquid accelerants, and the result was always the same. Brown stains were common in fires; they were usually composed of rust or gunk from charred debris that had mixed with water from fire hoses.
Another crucial piece of evidence implicating Willingham was the “crazed glass” that Vasquez had attributed to the rapid heating from a fire fuelled with liquid accelerant. Yet, in November of 1991, a team of fire investigators had inspected fifty houses in the hills of Oakland, California, which had been ravaged by brush fires. In a dozen houses, the investigators discovered crazed glass, even though a liquid accelerant had not been used. Most of these houses were on the outskirts of the blaze, where firefighters had shot streams of water; as the investigators later wrote in a published study, they theorized that the fracturing had been induced by rapid cooling, rather than by sudden heating—thermal shock had caused the glass to contract so quickly that it settled disjointedly. The investigators then tested this hypothesis in a laboratory. When they heated glass, nothing happened. But each time they applied water to the heated glass the intricate patterns appeared. Hurst had seen the same phenomenon when he had blowtorched and cooled glass during his research at Cambridge. In his report, Hurst wrote that Vasquez and Fogg’s notion of crazed glass was no more than an “old wives’ tale.”
Hurst then confronted some of the most devastating arson evidence against Willingham: the burn trailer, the pour patterns and puddle configurations, the V-shape and other burn marks indicating that the fire had multiple points of origin, the burning underneath the children’s beds. There was also the positive test for mineral spirits by the front door, and Willingham’s seemingly implausible story that he had run out of the house without burning his bare feet.
As Hurst read through more of the files, he noticed that Willingham and his neighbors had described the windows in the front of the house suddenly exploding and flames roaring forth. It was then that Hurst thought of the legendary Lime Street Fire, one of the most pivotal in the history of arson investigation.
On the evening of October 15, 1990, a thirty-five-year-old man named Gerald Wayne Lewis was found standing in front of his house on Lime Street, in Jacksonville, Florida, holding his three-year-old son. His two-story wood-frame home was engulfed in flames. By the time the fire had been extinguished, six people were dead, including Lewis’s wife. Lewis said that he had rescued his son but was unable to get to the others, who were upstairs.
When fire investigators examined the scene, they found the classic signs of arson: low burns along the walls and floors, pour patterns and puddle configurations, and a burn trailer running from the living room into the hallway. Lewis claimed that the fire had started accidentally, on a couch in the living room—his son had been playing with matches. But a V-shaped pattern by one of the doors suggested that the fire had originated elsewhere. Some witnesses told authorities that Lewis seemed too calm during the fire and had never tried to get help. According to the Los Angeles Times, Lewis had previously been arrested for abusing his wife, who had taken out a restraining order against him. After a chemist said that he had detected the presence of gasoline on Lewis’s clothing and shoes, a report by the sheriff’s office concluded, “The fire was started as a result of a petroleum product being poured on the front porch, foyer, living room, stairwell and second floor bedroom.” Lewis was arrested and charged with six counts of murder. He faced the death penalty.
Subsequent tests, however, revealed that the laboratory identification of gasoline was wrong. Moreover, a local news television camera had captured Lewis in a clearly agitated state at the scene of the fire, and investigators discovered that at one point he had jumped in front of a moving car, asking the driver to call the Fire Department.
Seeking to bolster their theory of the crime, prosecutors turned to John Lentini, the fire expert, and John DeHaan, another leading investigator and textbook author. Despite some of the weaknesses of the case, Lentini told me that, given the classic burn patterns and puddle configurations in the house, he was sure that Lewis had set the fire: “I was prepared to testify and send this guy to Old Sparky”—the electric chair.
To discover the truth, the investigators, with the backing of the prosecution, decided to conduct an elaborate experiment and re-create the fire scene. Local officials gave the investigators permission to use a condemned house next to Lewis’s home, which was about to be torn down. The two houses were virtually identical, and the investigators refurbished the condemned one with the same kind of carpeting, curtains, and furniture that had been in Lewis’s home. The scientists also wired the building with heat and gas sensors that could withstand fire. The cost of the experiment came to twenty thousand dollars. Without using liquid accelerant, Lentini and DeHaan set the couch in the living room on fire, expecting that the experiment would demonstrate that Lewis’s version of events was implausible.
The investigators watched as the fire quickly consumed the couch, sending upward a plume of smoke that hit the ceiling and spread outward, creating a thick layer of hot gases overhead—an efficient radiator of heat. Within three minutes, this cloud, absorbing more gases from the fire below, was banking down the walls and filling the living room. As the cloud approached the floor, its temperature rose, in some areas, to more than eleven hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Suddenly, the entire room exploded in flames, as the radiant heat ignited every piece of furniture, every curtain, every possible fuel source, even the carpeting. The windows shattered.
The fire had reached what is called “flashover”—the point at which radiant heat causes a fire in a room to become a room on fire. Arson investigators knew about the concept of flashover, but it was widely believed to take much longer to occur, especially without a liquid accelerant. From a single fuel source—a couch—the room had reached flashover in four and a half minutes.
Because all the furniture in the living room had ignited, the blaze went from a fuel-controlled fire to a ventilation-controlled fire—or what scientists call “post-flashover.” During post-flashover, the path of the fire depends on new sources of oxygen, from an open door or window. One of the fire investigators, who had been standing by an open door in the living room, escaped moments before the oxygen-starved fire roared out of the room into the hallway—a fireball that caused the corridor to go quickly into flashover as well, propelling the fire out the front door and onto the porch.
After the fire was extinguished, the investigators inspected the hallway and living room. On the floor were irregularly shaped burn patterns that perfectly resembled pour patterns and puddle configurations. It turned out that these classic signs of arson can also appear on their own, after flashover. With the naked eye, it is impossible to distinguish between the pour patterns and puddle configurations caused by an accelerant and those caused naturally by post-flashover. The only reliable way to tell the difference is to take samples from the burn patterns and test them in a laboratory for the presence of flammable or combustible liquids.
During the Lime Street experiment, other things happened that were supposed to occur only in a fire fuelled by liquid accelerant: charring along the base of the walls and doorways, and burning under furniture. There was also a V-shaped pattern by the living-room doorway, far from where the fire had started on the couch. In a small fire, a V-shaped burn mark may pinpoint where a fire began, but during post-flashover these patterns can occur repeatedly, when various objects ignite.
One of the investigators muttered that they had just helped prove the defense’s case. Given the reasonable doubt raised by the experiment, the charges against Lewis were soon dropped. The Lime Street experiment had demolished prevailing notions about fire behavior. Subsequent tests by scientists showed that, during post-flashover, burning under beds and furniture was common, entire doors were consumed, and aluminum thresholds melted.
John Lentini says of the Lime Street Fire, “This was my epiphany. I almost sent a man to die based on theories that were a load of crap.”
Hurst next examined a floor plan of Willingham’s house that Vasquez had drawn, which delineated all the purported pour patterns and puddle configurations. Because the windows had blown out of the children’s room, Hurst knew that the fire had reached flashover. With his finger, Hurst traced along Vasquez’s diagram the burn trailer that had gone from the children’s room, turned right in the hallway, and headed out the front door. John Jackson, the prosecutor, had told me that the path was so “bizarre” that it had to have been caused by a liquid accelerant. But Hurst concluded that it was a natural product of the dynamics of fire during post-flashover. Willingham had fled out the front door, and the fire simply followed the ventilation path, toward the opening. Similarly, when Willingham had broken the windows in the children’s room, flames had shot outward.
Hurst recalled that Vasquez and Fogg had considered it impossible for Willingham to have run down the burning hallway without scorching his bare feet. But if the pour patterns and puddle configurations were a result of a flashover, Hurst reasoned, then they were consonant with Willingham’s explanation of events. When Willingham exited his bedroom, the hallway was not yet on fire; the flames were contained within the children’s bedroom, where, along the ceiling, he saw the “bright lights.” Just as the investigator safely stood by the door in the Lime Street experiment seconds before flashover, Willingham could have stood close to the children’s room without being harmed. (Prior to the Lime Street case, fire investigators had generally assumed that carbon monoxide diffuses quickly through a house during a fire. In fact, up until flashover, levels of carbon monoxide can be remarkably low beneath and outside the thermal cloud.) By the time the Corsicana fire achieved flashover, Willingham had already fled outside and was in the front yard.
Vasquez had made a videotape of the fire scene, and Hurst looked at the footage of the burn trailer. Even after repeated viewings, he could not detect three points of origin, as Vasquez had. (Fogg recently told me that he also saw a continuous trailer and disagreed with Vasquez, but added that nobody from the prosecution or the defense ever asked him on the stand about his opinion on the subject.)
After Hurst had reviewed Fogg and Vasquez’s list of more than twenty arson indicators, he believed that only one had any potential validity: the positive test for mineral spirits by the threshold of the front door. But why had the fire investigators obtained a positive reading only in that location? According to Fogg and Vasquez’s theory of the crime, Willingham had poured accelerant throughout the children’s bedroom and down the hallway. Officials had tested extensively in these areas—including where all the pour patterns and puddle configurations were—and turned up nothing. Jackson told me that he “never did understand why they weren’t able to recover” positive tests in these parts.
Hurst found it hard to imagine Willingham pouring accelerant on the front porch, where neighbors could have seen him. Scanning the files for clues, Hurst noticed a photograph of the porch taken before the fire, which had been entered into evidence. Sitting on the tiny porch was a charcoal grill. The porch was where the family barbecued. Court testimony from witnesses confirmed that there had been a grill, along with a container of lighter fluid, and that both had burned when the fire roared onto the porch during post-flashover. By the time Vasquez inspected the house, the grill had been removed from the porch, during cleanup. Though he cited the container of lighter fluid in his report, he made no mention of the grill. At the trial, he insisted that he had never been told of the grill’s earlier placement. Other authorities were aware of the grill but did not see its relevance. Hurst, however, was convinced that he had solved the mystery: when firefighters had blasted the porch with water, they had likely spread charcoal-lighter fluid from the melted container.
Without having visited the fire scene, Hurst says, it was impossible to pinpoint the cause of the blaze. But, based on the evidence, he had little doubt that it was an accidental fire—one caused most likely by the space heater or faulty electrical wiring. It explained why there had never been a motive for the crime. Hurst concluded that there was no evidence of arson, and that a man who had already lost his three children and spent twelve years in jail was about to be executed based on “junk science.” Hurst wrote his report in such a rush that he didn’t pause to fix the typos.
V
“I am a realist and I will not live a fantasy,” Willingham once told Gilbert about the prospect of proving his innocence. But in February, 2004, he began to have hope. Hurst’s findings had helped to exonerate more than ten people. Hurst even reviewed the scientific evidence against Willingham’s friend Ernest Willis, who had been on death row for the strikingly similar arson charge. Hurst says, “It was like I was looking at the same case. Just change the names.” In his report on the Willis case, Hurst concluded that not “a single item of physical evidence . . . supports a finding of arson.” A second fire expert hired by Ori White, the new district attorney in Willis’s district, concurred. After seventeen years on death row, Willis was set free. “I don’t turn killers loose,” White said at the time. “If Willis was guilty, I’d be retrying him right now. And I’d use Hurst as my witness. He’s a brilliant scientist.” White noted how close the system had come to murdering an innocent man. “He did not get executed, and I thank God for that,” he said.
On February 13th, four days before Willingham was scheduled to be executed, he got a call from Reaves, his attorney. Reaves told him that the fifteen members of the Board of Pardons and Paroles, which reviews an application for clemency and had been sent Hurst’s report, had made their decision.
“What is it?” Willingham asked.
“I’m sorry,” Reaves said. “They denied your petition.”
The vote was unanimous. Reaves could not offer an explanation: the board deliberates in secret, and its members are not bound by any specific criteria. The board members did not even have to review Willingham’s materials, and usually don’t debate a case in person; rather, they cast their votes by fax—a process that has become known as “death by fax.” Between 1976 and 2004, when Willingham filed his petition, the State of Texas had approved only one application for clemency from a prisoner on death row. A Texas appellate judge has called the clemency system “a legal fiction.” Reaves said of the board members, “They never asked me to attend a hearing or answer any questions.”
The Innocence Project obtained, through the Freedom of Information Act, all the records from the governor’s office and the board pertaining to Hurst’s report. “The documents show that they received the report, but neither office has any record of anyone acknowledging it, taking note of its significance, responding to it, or calling any attention to it within the government,” Barry Scheck said. “The only reasonable conclusion is that the governor’s office and the Board of Pardons and Paroles ignored scientific evidence.”
LaFayette Collins, who was a member of the board at the time, told me of the process, “You don’t vote guilt or innocence. You don’t retry the trial. You just make sure everything is in order and there are no glaring errors.” He noted that although the rules allowed for a hearing to consider important new evidence, “in my time there had never been one called.” When I asked him why Hurst’s report didn’t constitute evidence of “glaring errors,” he said, “We get all kinds of reports, but we don’t have the mechanisms to vet them.” Alvin Shaw, another board member at the time, said that the case didn’t “ring a bell,” adding, angrily, “Why would I want to talk about it?” Hurst calls the board’s actions “unconscionable.”
Though Reaves told Willingham that there was still a chance that Governor Perry might grant a thirty-day stay, Willingham began to prepare his last will and testament. He had earlier written Stacy a letter apologizing for not being a better husband and thanking her for everything she had given him, especially their three daughters. “I still know Amber’s voice, her smile, her cool Dude saying and how she said: I wanna hold you! Still feel the touch of Karmon and Kameron’s hands on my face.” He said that he hoped that “some day, somehow the truth will be known and my name cleared.”
He asked Stacy if his tombstone could be erected next to their children’s graves. Stacy, who had for so long expressed belief in Willingham’s innocence, had recently taken her first look at the original court records and arson findings. Unaware of Hurst’s report, she had determined that Willingham was guilty. She denied him his wish, later telling a reporter, “He took my kids away from me.”
Gilbert felt as if she had failed Willingham. Even before his pleas for clemency were denied, she told him that all she could give him was her friendship. He told her that it was enough “to be a part of your life in some small way so that in my passing I can know I was at last able to have felt the heart of another who might remember me when I’m gone.” He added, “There is nothing to forgive you for.” He told her that he would need her to be present at his execution, to help him cope with “my fears, thoughts, and feelings.”
On February 17th, the day he was set to die, Willingham’s parents and several relatives gathered in the prison visiting room. Plexiglas still separated Willingham from them. “I wish I could touch and hold both of you,” Willingham had written to them earlier. “I always hugged Mom but I never hugged Pop much.”
As Willingham looked at the group, he kept asking where Gilbert was. Gilbert had recently been driving home from a store when another car ran a red light and smashed into her. Willingham used to tell her to stay in her kitchen for a day, without leaving, to comprehend what it was like to be confined in prison, but she had always found an excuse not to do it. Now she was paralyzed from the neck down.
While she was in an intensive-care unit, she had tried to get a message to Willingham, but apparently failed. Gilbert’s daughter later read her a letter that Willingham had sent her, telling her how much he had grown to love her. He had written a poem: “Do you want to see beauty—like you have never seen? / Then close your eyes, and open your mind, and come along with me.”
Gilbert, who spent years in physical rehabilitation, gradually regaining motion in her arms and upper body, says, “All that time, I thought I was saving Willingham, and I realized then that he was saving me, giving me the strength to get through this. I know I will one day walk again, and I know it is because Willingham showed me the kind of courage it takes to survive.”
Willingham had requested a final meal, and at 4 P.M. on the seventeenth he was served it: three barbecued pork ribs, two orders of onion rings, fried okra, three beef enchiladas with cheese, and two slices of lemon cream pie. He received word that Governor Perry had refused to grant him a stay. (A spokesperson for Perry says, “The Governor made his decision based on the facts of the case.”) Willingham’s mother and father began to cry. “Don’t be sad, Momma,” Willingham said. “In fifty-five minutes, I’m a free man. I’m going home to see my kids.” Earlier, he had confessed to his parents that there was one thing about the day of the fire he had lied about. He said that he had never actually crawled into the children’s room. “I just didn’t want people to think I was a coward,” he said. Hurst told me, “People who have never been in a fire don’t understand why those who survive often can’t rescue the victims. They have no concept of what a fire is like.”
The warden told Willingham that it was time. Willingham, refusing to assist the process, lay down; he was carried into a chamber eight feet wide and ten feet long. The walls were painted green, and in the center of the room, where an electric chair used to be, was a sheeted gurney. Several guards strapped Willingham down with leather belts, snapping buckles across his arms and legs and chest. A medical team then inserted intravenous tubes into his arms. Each official had a separate role in the process, so that no one person felt responsible for taking a life.
Willingham had asked that his parents and family not be present in the gallery during this process, but as he looked out he could see Stacy watching. The warden pushed a remote control, and sodium thiopental, a barbiturate, was pumped into Willingham’s body. Then came a second drug, pancuronium bromide, which paralyzes the diaphragm, making it impossible to breathe. Finally, a third drug, potassium chloride, filled his veins, until his heart stopped, at 6:20 P.M. On his death certificate, the cause was listed as “Homicide.”
After his death, his parents were allowed to touch his face for the first time in more than a decade. Later, at Willingham’s request, they cremated his body and secretly spread some of his ashes over his children’s graves. He had told his parents, “Please don’t ever stop fighting to vindicate me.”
In December, 2004, questions about the scientific evidence in the Willingham case began to surface. Maurice Possley and Steve Mills, of the Chicago Tribune, had published an investigative series on flaws in forensic science; upon learning of Hurst’s report, Possley and Mills asked three fire experts, including John Lentini, to examine the original investigation. The experts concurred with Hurst’s report. Nearly two years later, the Innocence Project commissioned Lentini and three other top fire investigators to conduct an independent review of the arson evidence in the Willingham case. The panel concluded that “each and every one” of the indicators of arson had been “scientifically proven to be invalid.”
In 2005, Texas established a government commission to investigate allegations of error and misconduct by forensic scientists. The first cases that are being reviewed by the commission are those of Willingham and Willis. In mid-August, the noted fire scientist Craig Beyler, who was hired by the commission, completed his investigation. In a scathing report, he concluded that investigators in the Willingham case had no scientific basis for claiming that the fire was arson, ignored evidence that contradicted their theory, had no comprehension of flashover and fire dynamics, relied on discredited folklore, and failed to eliminate potential accidental or alternative causes of the fire. He said that Vasquez’s approach seemed to deny “rational reasoning” and was more “characteristic of mystics or psychics.” What’s more, Beyler determined that the investigation violated, as he put it to me, “not only the standards of today but even of the time period.” The commission is reviewing his findings, and plans to release its own report next year. Some legal scholars believe that the commission may narrowly assess the reliability of the scientific evidence. There is a chance, however, that Texas could become the first state to acknowledge officially that, since the advent of the modern judicial system, it had carried out the “execution of a legally and factually innocent person.”
Just before Willingham received the lethal injection, he was asked if he had any last words. He said, “The only statement I want to make is that I am an innocent man convicted of a crime I did not commit. I have been persecuted for twelve years for something I did not do. From God’s dust I came and to dust I will return, so the Earth shall become my throne.” ♦
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