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Correction: Decade in Jail-No Trial story

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In this Jan. 18, 2017 photo, Chrycynthia Davis, mother of Kharon Davis, poses for a portrait in Dothan, Ala. Kharon Davis was 22-years-old when he was arrested on a capitol murder charge in 2007 and booked into the Houston County Jail. Davis has spent nearly a third of his life held without bond in the jail waiting for trial. (AP Photo/Brynn Anderson)

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DOTHAN, Ala. (AP) — In a story Feb. 18 about a man charged with murder who has waited nearly 10 years in jail without a trial, The Associated Press misspelled the first name of the victim's brother. His name is Malcolm Reaves, not Malcomb Reaves. The AP also erroneously reported what Reaves said about the trial's delays. Reaves did not say that it's wrong for the suspect to wait nearly a decade. He said he understands that some people say such a wait is wrong.

A corrected version of the story is below:

10 years in jail and still no trial for murder suspect

Kharon Davis is accused of fatally shooting a man in a drug deal gone wrong nearly 10 years ago

By KIM CHANDLER

Associated Press

DOTHAN, Ala. (AP) — Kharon Davis has spent nearly 10 years in jail. He's had four sets of attorneys, with two judges on the bench. His co-defendants' cases have wrapped up. Davis has appeared in court for several hearings, and new prosecutors are assigned.

But Davis has had no trial. There's been no jury, no verdict, no conviction. Police say he killed a man in a drug deal gone wrong, but he hasn't had his day in court. He's charged with capital murder and could face the death penalty. Trial dates have come and gone, and it's now scheduled for September. By then, 10 years and three months will have passed since the crime.

The Constitution guarantees suspects "the right to a speedy trial." Capital cases often take a year or longer to get to trial, but 10 years is rare — experts call it shocking and say it could be unconstitutional. Prisoner advocates and court-watchers say such delays take an exhaustive toll on suspects stuck behind bars and on victims' families, who are robbed of closure that can come from trials.

Davis' mother says her son is innocent but hasn't had the chance to prove it in court, and his health is suffering because of the long stretch in jail.

"It's like they snatched up my child, put him in a cage and threw away the key," Chrycynthia Ward Davis said.

Police say Davis, then 22, shot 29-year-old Pete Reaves inside his apartment June 9, 2007. Davis and two friends had gone to the apartment complex to buy marijuana from someone else, prosecutors say in court records. But that person wasn't home, so the group went into Reaves' apartment, with an open door, and tried to rob him of money and drugs - that's when Davis shot him, the records say.

Davis and his friends, Kevin McCloud and Lorenzo Stacey, were all charged with capital murder. Stacey went to trial in 2009 and was acquitted; his lawyer suggested Davis pulled the trigger while Stacey was outside, according to local media reports at the time. Two years later, McCloud pleaded guilty to a lesser murder charge, avoiding the death penalty and receiving a 99-year prison sentence.

That leaves Davis. He's held without bond — typical in capital cases.

As Davis waits, so does the family of Pete Reaves.

"I want justice for my parents, for my family," his brother Alvin Reaves said. "Every time it gets set back, it's taken a big toll on them."

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A capital case generally takes a year or two from arrest to sentence, said Steve Bright from the Southern Center for Human Rights — and 10 years is the longest wait he's ever heard of.

Richard Jaffe, a defense lawyer and author of "Quest for Justice: Defending the Damned," called the delay shocking. "If this were a wealthy person, there's no way it would've taken 10 years to get to trial," he said.

Lawyers — and Davis has had many — can be the crux of the timetable.

His mother first hired Benjamin Meredith, who represented her in a lawsuit after she was hit by an 18-wheeler. Chrycynthia Ward Davis said she trusted him, but she emptied her savings account paying the bills. When the money was gone, Meredith asked to become Davis' court-appointed lawyer.

Years had passed, but the case had none of the defense filings typical for capital murder charges — only simple motions for bond and a preliminary hearing. Judge Kevin Moulton took Meredith off the case completely because his son, a police officer, had investigated the shooting.

Derek Yarbrough was appointed Davis' attorney. As Yarbrough put it, it was basically starting over.

Yarbrough had another capital case ahead of Davis'. But he worked for his new client, hiring a private investigator, pushing to take the death penalty off the table and pressing prosecutors for information. Trial was scheduled for 2014, then 2015, then 2016.

Frustrated, Davis stopped talking to Yarbrough and asked that he be dismissed — even though the judge warned him it could delay his case further.

In an interview, Yarbrough admitted the case has gone on for a long time: "There's no doubt," he said. But he said mounting a vigorous defense was time-consuming.

Davis' next attorney withdrew after only a few weeks, citing a conflict of interest.

The fourth and current lead lawyer, Tommy Goggans, was appointed in June.

He'll face new prosecutors. Longtime District Attorney Doug Valeska left office in January, but his successor, Pat Jones, asked to step aside because he represented one of Davis' friends in the shooting. He wouldn't discuss the case with the AP. The state assigned prosecutors Kenneth E. Gibbs and Stephanie C. Billingslea this month; they wouldn't comment. Judge Moulton didn't return a telephone message about the case. The case's first judge, Sidney E. Jackson, retired in 2010 and said via phone that he didn't recall too many of its details. Valeska didn't return messages. Neither did Davis' first lawyer, Meredith.

Davis' current lawyer wouldn't talk, either. He told The AP he doesn't comment on pending cases and couldn't put a reporter in touch with Davis.

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Today, Kharon Davis spends 23 hours a day in his cell at the county jail. He's been kept in disciplinary segregation since 2014 for fighting and for having contraband — including a sweatshirt, a book, pornography and hair cream. He's allowed visitation only from clergy and his lawyers. He hasn't seen his mother in more than a year.

This segregation is different than solitary confinement; Davis is in a cell with other inmates. During the one hour a day they are allowed out of the cell, they can shower and exercise, jail commander Capt. Keith Reed told the AP in a phone interview. Reed said Davis wouldn't be allowed to speak with a reporter. The AP sent a letter to him in jail. He hasn't responded.

Davis has enough write-ups to remain in disciplinary segregation until April 2020, Reed said. Because he's had multiple violations, each piece of contraband or infraction means 30 additional days.

In October, Davis handwrote a request to be returned to the jail's general population, describing segregation as "No phone calls, no visitation, no television, no sunlight nor fresh air." He sent it to his mother, but it hasn't been filed in court.

"Since being confined and forgotten for so long, the defendant has reached a state of stress and depression from missing family visits and voice communication, and had been compelled to taking medications," Davis wrote.

Four miles from the jail, at Chrycynthia Ward Davis' small brick house where she lives with her mother, a corner is piled high with Christmas present she hopes to one day give her son. In another corner are photos of Kharon Davis as a child, grinning in a white button-down next to a Bible verse: "'I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord."

"He will say he is fine to keep me from worrying, but he is mentally torn down," Chrycynthia Ward Davis said.

But Reaves' family says Davis knows her son is alive — something they'll never have for Pete, the fun-loving, peacemaker middle child in a family of seven.

His brother Malcolm Reaves said he understands that some people say it's wrong for Davis to wait a decade to see trial, but it's also "wrong for my brother to be dead."

An Iraq war veteran, Malcolm Reaves remembers rushing home from his military station to find his mother sobbing, "They killed my baby!"

"His momma gets to go to a jail cell to see her son," Malcolm Reaves said. "My momma's got to go to a graveyard."

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Associated Press reporter Kate Brumback contributed from Atlanta.

 

 
 

 

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