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60 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 3.16 6 0 the described suspect — even though, Dudley says, approximately 75 percent of wrongful convictions are due to eyewit- ness misidentifcation. Te use of faulty or improper forensics. Cops coercing confessions with threats of an exaggerated sentence. Jail informants with incentives (usually time of their sentence, maybe money) to testify. ("Te snitch is paid and defense attorneys never know that during trial — only prosecutors and po- lice do," Smith says.) Tere is taping over important videos — in Chandler's case, a questionable surveillance tape of him supposedly murdering a cashier was "inad- vertently" erased before trial and replaced with a TV show. Tere is the overworked public defender unable to gather enough evidence, call enough witnesses and who, Dudley says, might even fall asleep during trial. "Unfortunately it's the poor and less educated that slip through the cracks," he says. "I can't tell you how many defense at- torneys say, 'I can tell my client is lying,'" Smith says. "Who are you? Jesus? Until we all have a computer chip in our heads, the best way to ensure reliability is to improve criminal-justice reform." KIP proposes ofering a sequential pho- to I.D. lineup instead of all at once. "Six people on a page, you feel compelled to pick one of those," Dudley says. KIP also seeks complete interrogation recordings. "A lot of time, you can spend four or fve or six hours being interrogated and there's only a 30-minute tape of the 'fnal story,'" Dudley says. To avoid snitches, KIP says the credibility of witnesses must be ques- tioned, their background information and possible motivation accessible. "It could easily be me or you (on trial) just because somebody said something," Dudley says. Smith and Dudley live the stuf of Serial and Making a Murderer, which have start- ed conversations on prosecutorial tactics and the true meaning of reasonable doubt. Tey've raised awareness of a bent (bro- ken?) system. Te public fnally learning what Smith and Dudley have known all along — that wrongful-conviction cases happen everywhere, all the time, with the following two stories closer to home. Michael VonAllmen Convicted in 1983 of rape, sodomy and robbery and sentenced to 35 years in prison. Served 11 years before being paroled in 1994. Eyewitness misidentifcation led to his exoneration in 2010. Michael VonAllmen's voice is soft, but loud enough to be heard over the world's muddles and messes. It is the voice of the common man, a "knuckle- head." It is an accommodating voice that wants you to be comfortable. He will switch seats with you to save bright sun from your eyes at a Starbucks on Central Avenue and Tird Street, where he talks for almost seven hours about his exoner- ation. His voice is the voice of a 58-year- old glad to work as a plumber, pay the bills, occasionally bicker with the "old lady," wear T-shirts, order Chinese take- out and eat it in his South End home. When he was young and growing into a man, his voice swelled with pride. Prov- enance prominent: high school and the strength to shove shorties against lock- ers; Lynyrd Skynyrd and sweaty Rolling Stones concerts, the wild '70s; two Navy tours in the Mediterranean; age 23 and back in Louisville's South End, where he grew up. "Didn't know life could be so good," VonAllmen says. He got a job revamping water wells in Louisville and dreamt of Colorado — drilling for oil and mulling old memories of a family vacation to the beautiful Rockies, prairie dogs darting across the campground, kids cuddled in the pop-up trailer. Te good life: a lady in his arms and more ladies at his door. Could've been the charm in his maturing voice. Could've been the Mac Davis hairdo, the curly 'fro he still has now. But most likely it was the weed. He says he sold it. Lots of it. Says he got caught with a quarter-pound brown bag of marijuana once. Was pulled over for speeding and cufed for being drunk in a public place (still buzzing from two- for-one Wild Turkey night), reckless driv- ing and possession of marijuana. A misde- meanor and his frst scrape with the law. Back then, he says, he was a pot-smok- ing, beer-drinking whiner and complainer. "Destined to grow up and be Walter," VonAllmen says, referring to the ventril- oquist voice by comedian Jef Dunham. "Typical Republican type: old, grumpy white guy." Much like VonAllmen's own father, who mailed his son far-right propa- ganda all the way till the end. VonAllmen says his father believed criminal justice was best served by public hangings, a "let the dirty bastards get what they deserve" attitude. Would Dad call that justice even for his own? His then-24-year-old son was convicted of the Oct. 10, 1981, rape and robbery of a 22-year-old woman in Iro- quois Park. Would Dad arrange the noose around the neck, righteousness in the wringing? Would there be sunlight caught in his tears, or sternness? Who removes the base on which his good son stands? Who lets the body dangle free? On the night of Oct. 11, 1981, VonAllmen says he went to what was then called Ernie's Bar on Taylor Boule- vard. It was a Sunday night, technically Monday. Late. Four a.m. and VonAllmen drinking a Sterling. "It wasn't my regular spot, but I was there to sell this junkie some weed," he says. Wasn't much hap- pening at the place. Bartender chilling. Owner closing up shop. At no point did VonAllmen see the composite drawing inside the bar, the one that had been circulated to all the bars in the area the day before; nor did he know that the woman who was raped in Iroquois Park had been abducted from this very drinking hole. He didn't see the similarities in the sketch, the mess of dark curly hair. Didn't see the flled-in blanks: white male, 5'11", 200-plus pounds. A lot like him. But the owner of the bar did. Von- Allmen later found out that the owner followed him home that night. Saw Von- Allmen pull his blue Volkswagen into his apartment's driveway, park next to a green car. Green car. Ding, ding. Tat was an- other blank on the composite drawing at the bar. Te owner dialing: nine, one, one. Ring, ring. VonAllmen showed up at the police station when he found out cops had been knocking on his door, said, "Heard y'all have been looking for me?" Told what he knew. Te green car? Te neighbor's Chevy. Did he have a red plaid shirt? Uh, he guessed so, yeah. (He says now: "When I told my girlfriend they asked me that later, she held up the plaid shirt and said, 'Tis isn't red, it's brown!' Turns out I'm colorblind.") Te night of "A lot of time, you can spend four or five or six hours being interrogated and there's only a 30-minute tape of the 'final story,'" Jimmer Dudley of the Kentucky Innocence Project says.