Photograph by Whitney Curtis
Sentenced to life in prison for the 1984 killing of Donald Ball, Darryl Burton has maintained his innocence ever since pleading not guilty before a St. Louis judge in 1985. No physical evidence linked Burton to the murder, and during his two-day trial, prosecutors presented only two witnesses, who testified, at times contradictorily, that they’d seen Burton murder Ball at a St. Louis gas station on the night of June 28, 1984. One of the witnesses, a heavy drinker who was described by his ex-wife as “a liar,” died in 1996. The other witness, Claudex Simmons, a career criminal who cut a deal with prosecutors for his testimony and is now serving a life sentence for the 2005 death of Affton Fire Chief Jerry Buehne, recanted his testimony in 1985, stating that he’d “submitted perjury.”
But it wasn’t until 2000, when Burton attracted the attention of Cheryl Pilate, a Kansas City attorney, and Jim McCloskey, founder of the New Jersey–based Centurion Ministries, that his innocence claim gained traction. Last August, a Cole County judge found that Burton was wrongfully convicted, exonerating him after 24 years in prison. Burton now lives in Kansas City, but returned recently to St. Louis to visit his family and attend the funeral of
his grandfather.
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How did you fight the case from prison? Back in 1989, I started on a letter-writing campaign. I wrote all the organizations. I wrote lawyers, judges, governors, senators, presidents. I wrote letters all the way to Canada. I must have written 700 letters. Only a few organizations responded. Centurion Ministries responded, and they told me, “We’re a small organization with limited resources. We may not be able to take your case for the next 10 years—if we take it.” That was in 1990, so I said, “Well, I’ll write you for 10 years.” I had life without parole. What else was I going to do?
What’s the hardest part about being in prison? Living in that place all those years, your family members start passing away, and you can’t be there. That’s painful. Some guys don’t know how to process that. If you’re innocent, then it’s compounded. My grandfather just died, and I’m so glad that I can be there for my mother. This is her father, and I can be there. I wanted to see him alive, but I was a pallbearer at my grandfather’s funeral. It may sound strange, but I was so proud: I was carrying my mother’s father to his final resting place. I was proud of that.
It’s hard for people on the outside to imagine the anger, frustration and sense of helplessness you must have felt as an innocent man sentenced to spend the rest of your life in prison. How did you deal with the anger? That anger can consume you. It can eat you up in the worst way. It can have you fighting guys, stabbing guys, fighting guards, stabbing guards. It can bring you to a point of self-destruction. But that was not an option for me, because I was determined to give the judge back his time—to prove that I was innocent. But anger’s not a bad thing. It’s an emotion, and it can be used for good purposes. In my case, it fueled my energy to learn the law and figure out how to work this case and get it overturned.
Are you still angry? Is there anyone you can’t forgive? No, not at this point. Everybody’s forgiven. I’m not angry or upset at no one.
You were locked up for 24 years. How can you not be angry with Claudex Simmons, the man who perjured himself against you? I was extremely angry at Claudex Simmons. This guy came in the courtroom and lied on me and cost me the rest of my life in prison. Why? Because he was facing some charges for something he did? But I’m past it now. God has given me a heart of forgiveness. I don’t want to sit down and have dinner or coffee with Claudex Simmons. I’m not at that place, but I’m not angry with the guy. In fact, I pray for him. I’m not angry, but I haven’t forgotten. What upsets me is the system, because there are still people in there that shouldn’t be there. That needs to be corrected. Falsifying records? They manufactured this case against me, and if they did that to me, then they’re doing it to people all over the country.
Doing time must be hard enough, but knowing you’re innocent, that takes it to another level … Prisons are not designed to build you up; they break you down. You’re powerless, man. You feel powerless and hopeless. How many guys have been innocent in that place and committed suicide? Only God knows. How many guys have turned to the prison culture and become somebody’s boy-toy—in layman’s terms, somebody’s punk? They know they’re innocent, but somebody’s pressing their face to the bunk and punking them out every night. Or selling them—these are things that are not told. There’s white slavery that’s going on in there. A guy will buy you for five boxes of cigarettes and go and sell you for 10 boxes of cigarettes. You’re a piece of property.
What’s the hardest thing about being out? It’s probably just adjusting to today’s technologies. I’m still asking a lot of questions, like a 2-year-old. I was just asking today how to turn the channel on the television. You have to use one remote to turn it on, one remote to change the channel, one remote for cable and another remote to play games.
You were effectively pulled off the street and put in prison. Now that you’re free, do you worry it will happen again? Yes. I’m scared that they can come around the corner—any corner—and grab me and put me back in the cage. I’m concerned that just walking down the street I could be mistaken for someone I’m not. I have these little fears. Everything is still new to me. I feel like I just need to keep an alibi with me. I keep everything in my daily planner—including the article about me getting exonerated. That way if I get pulled over, flagged or whatever, I can say there’s no mistake about it: I just
got exonerated.
Do you feel you are owed something by the state of Missouri? They didn’t give me an apology. I think they owe me an apology. I also think they would owe me some assistance to get from point A, where I’m at, to maybe not Z, but at least where I’d be after 24 years. I know I need some psychological counseling, just like I need some financial help. I don’t have these things—basic things that people who haven’t been in prison for 24 years probably have—like a retirement plan. Other than that, I try to practice forgiveness.
How do people respond when you tell them the story of your incarceration? I was asking about a job up at a museum in Kansas City. The woman was very cordial and nice and said she thought they were hiring. Then I said, “Well, I probably need to tell you something. I’ve just been exonerated after spending 24 years in prison for capital murder—a wrongful conviction.” I pulled out the article and showed it to her, but she had a whole different demeanor. She said, “I don’t know if they’re hiring here, but I think they may be hiring at this other place,” and rattled off something. I kind of chuckled, because I figured that would be the reaction.
Were you prepared for her reaction? How do you get ready for something like that?
Now that you’re free, what do you want to do with the rest of your life? I owe those who are incarcerated like myself but actually innocent. I owe it to them to be a voice—to be a spokesperson—to speak on their behalf. Because I know some of them are thinking about ending it all—because I did. There were many times when I wished I wouldn’t wake up. The physical, emotional, mental—the psychological trauma you deal with in prison is unbearable. You’re put in a cell with a guy who may not have any regard for human life—and you’re living with that guy in an8-by-12 closet. You don’t know if one of these guys is going to wake up one morning and think, “This is a good day to go to death row.”
I know that some [of the wrongfully convicted] have ended it, because everybody doesn’t have the same mental and spiritual constitution or strength. Even some of the strongest ones are let go—you never know what is a man’s breaking point. My hope is to speak out on behalf of them, because they’re a lost nation of people. They’re lost in the judicial system right here in America.
What’s the best thing about being out? Choices. I can go to the icebox and decide whether I want a glass of water, juice, Kool-Aid. I can go out and sit on the front porch and watch the stars as late as I want. I can get up in the morning whenever I feel like and go make an egg sandwich, or just make a cup of hot cocoa, or just go do nothing at all. I can take a bath when I want to, or a shower, or just wash under my arms with a rag. Choices. Choices, that’s a freedom I took for granted. But that’s a liberty you don’t have in prison, and now that I have this liberty—these choices—it’s just so wonderful.
