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Thomas McGowan, center, celebrates his exoneration at the Crowley Courthouse. He spent 23 years in prison for a rape he didn't commit.
When Debbie Jones saw her mother, she knew the news was bad.
Michelle Mallin wrongly identified Tim Cole as her attacker.
Cole died in prison.
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For weeks, Jones had been waiting to hear from the Dallas County District Attorney's Office about the results of a DNA test. Now, on a sunny April morning in 2008, one of the DA's investigators, Jim Hammond, had shown up at Jones' office, her mother by his side. With them was Mike Corley, who Jones had met almost three decades before, when he was a young detective. He was an assistant chief of police now, but through the years he'd always remembered Jones' case. He wanted to help cushion the blow.
They led Jones to an empty conference room and sat her down. The DNA results were in, Hammond said. They showed that Thomas McGowan, the man Jones believed had raped her at knife-point 24 years before, was innocent. He would soon become the 16th official exoneree in Dallas County, one of dozens of wrongfully imprisoned men cleared by DNA evidence. Many of them were locked up on charges of rape or sexual assault, and for most, McGowan included, victim testimony played a crucial role in convictions. Jones had IDed McGowan. Now he was going free. They had no idea who raped her.
Sitting in the empty conference room, Jones was still certain that McGowan was guilty. She had stared into his face as he raped her, memorizing each detail. And now, because of some stupid test, he was going to go free, and he would find her, and he would kill her, just as he'd threatened to do in the courtroom during his trial.
McGowan would be released in two days. That left two days to sit her three sons down, tell them for the first time what happened to her, and warn them about the man who did it. All these years later, she was still dealing with the aftermath of the rape. She startled easily. She often bolted awake, frantic and screaming. And now this.
"Great, you're going to let a prisoner out," she told the men, bitterly. "Who lets me out of prison?"
The last thing Debbie Jones had to do that spring was sell her car. It was 1985, and Jones, who's been given a pseudonym for this story, was 19, a few months away from starting college. She was living in a townhouse in Richardson with her sister, working and saving. Soon she'd be joining her boyfriend at the University of North Texas, where she planned to study genetics.
On May 7, Jones took the day off work. She finally had a buyer for her Cutlass Supreme. The buyer, an elderly man, gave her a ride home afterward. They pulled up to her townhouse around 11 a.m. A car was parked in her space, but Jones didn't notice it.
"Do you want me to walk you to the door?" the buyer asked.
"No, thanks," Jones said, a little unsettled. She found the offer strange and got out quickly.
She walked inside, settled onto the couch and called her sister. She wanted to tell her what she'd gotten for the car. After they hung up, her boyfriend called and offered to take her to lunch. They said goodbye, and as Jones walked toward the kitchen, she noticed that her stereo and TV were piled messily onto the floor.
She stared at the pile for several long moments, as she tried to process what it meant. Then, suddenly, she was being hit again and again, so hard she thought there must be at least three people attacking her. As the blows came down on every part of her, she realized it was only one man: a stranger, black, with odd, greased-down hair. He had a knife.
"You better pray to God I don't kill you," he told her.
He kept beating her. He forced her to undress, bound her hands with a belt and raped her, the knife at her throat. Throughout, she prayed silently. God, please keep me alive. Please just keep me alive. She tried to stare at his face, willing herself to remember as many details as she could.
"Stop looking at me," he kept saying. He hit her more, and put clothes over her face so she couldn't see.
After a while they heard knocking at the door. It was Jones' boyfriend. He was there to take her to lunch. Jones and her attacker could see the boyfriend through a window, but because of the light he couldn't see them. He kept knocking, then tried the door. Although it was broken — the rapist had gotten into the house by easily pushing it open — it felt locked. He knocked again.
The rapist lay on Jones' back, the knife still pressed against her throat. He whispered in her ear.
"If you make a noise, I'm gonna kill him and kill you, too."
She lay still. After a moment, she heard her boyfriend leave. A few minutes later, the phone started to ring. It was him, trying to find Debbie. She watched as her rapist ripped both of the downstairs phones out of the wall.
After what felt like days, the rapist lifted himself off her, opened the refrigerator, casually popped the top off a beer bottle and drank it. He warned that he'd kill her if she told anyone, then walked out the front door. After a moment, Jones tore the belt off her hands, ran upstairs and called her sister. "I've been raped. Call 911," she instructed, and put the phone down.