DNA EVIDENCE FREES INNOCENT PRISONER, CAUSES CONVICTION OF NEGLIGENT PROSECUTOR

DNA EVIDENCE FREES INNOCENT PRISONER, CAUSES CONVICTION OF NEGLIGENT PROSECUTOR

In 1986, Michael Morton was convicted of murdering his wife in Texas. He spent nearly 25 years in prison for a crime he did not commit. What set him free? DNA evidence found on a bandana near the crime scene—evidence that had been there all along but was never properly considered.

The real killer, Mark Alan Norwood, was eventually identified through that DNA. By then, Morton had already lost decades of his life behind bars. It’s a story that should shake us all.

But here’s where the case becomes extraordinary. The prosecutor, Ken Anderson, who later even became a judge, was found guilty of misconduct. He had withheld exculpatory evidence—including the testimony of Morton’s young son, who said his father was not present at the time of the murder, and a neighbor’s report of a suspicious man near the house. These details could have saved Morton from wrongful conviction, but Anderson chose not to disclose them.

This was not a mistake. It was negligence, perhaps arrogance. And it came at a terrible cost.

In a historic ruling, Anderson himself was punished. He was sentenced to jail time, fined, required to do community service, removed from the bench, and disbarred. Imagine that—the prosecutor who sent an innocent man to prison ended up in prison himself, even if only for a short period. This was the first time in U.S. history that a prosecutor was jailed for such misconduct.

But the story does not end with Morton’s release or Anderson’s disgrace. Out of this tragedy came reform. In 2013, Texas passed the Michael Morton Act, a landmark law that forever changed criminal procedure in that state. The Act requires prosecutors to share all evidence with the defense—automatically and fully. No more discretion. No more hiding behind “prosecutorial privilege.” No waivers allowed. And, critically, the duty to disclose evidence continues indefinitely, even after conviction.

This, to me, is the real lesson: Morton didn’t stop at gaining his freedom. He turned his suffering into advocacy. He invested his time and effort to push for reforms that would protect others from the same injustice.

Now, let’s bring the discussion home to the Philippines. Our legal system also mandates disclosure of evidence, but the reality is uneven. There have been too many cases where accused persons feel blindsided by evidence that suddenly surfaces in court—or worse, never surfaces at all. Some lawyers and academicians are now advocating reforms inspired by the Michael Morton Act. They are calling for stronger disclosure rules, better oversight of prosecutors, and digitized case management systems that leave no room for hiding or manipulating evidence.

They are even inviting volunteers to join this advocacy—including ICT experts who can help design systems for recording, storing, and interpreting DNA and other forms of evidence. That’s a smart move. After all, modern justice is not just about laws—it’s about technology.

So here are my questions: Should we wait for a “Michael Morton” case to happen here before we act? Do we need an innocent Filipino to lose 25 years of his life before we strengthen prosecutorial accountability? Or can we learn from this precedent and move now, while trust in our justice system is already strained?

There’s also the matter of deterrence. Anderson’s punishment, though light compared to Morton’s suffering, sent a strong message: prosecutors are not above the law. They, too, can be held accountable. Should we not consider similar accountability measures here? Shouldn’t our prosecutors face real consequences—removal, disbarment, even imprisonment—if they knowingly withhold evidence?

DNA technology is already used in our courts, though sparingly. But are we prepared to handle it properly? Do we have the capacity to store, test, and interpret DNA samples without corruption or incompetence creeping in? If we don’t, then inviting ICT experts into this advocacy makes even more sense.

What happened in Texas shows us two things: first, that the justice system can fail in the most devastating ways; second, that it can also reform itself if pushed hard enough. For Morton, it took half a lifetime to get justice. For Anderson, it took disgrace to learn that power has limits. For Texas, it took one man’s ordeal to change the rules for everyone else.

Must we wait for our own Michael Morton before we act? Or will we take this as a warning and move toward reforms now? The choice, as always, is ours.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, 09088877282, senseneres.blogspot.com

10-26-2025