The lineup also wasn't the only thing that led prosecutors to zero in on McGowan, Corley says. McGowan refused at first to give a blood sample, Corley says, and he evaded police when they went looking for him. When they found him, Corley says, he was "in this bad, bad hotel off Harry Hines, one of those you rent by the hour." He says McGowan was with a prostitute at the time. (McGowan says it was actually his girlfriend.)
"He did not want to go," Corley says. "He pretty much told me where I could stick it." Because around six months had passed, McGowan wasn't able to remember exactly where he'd been the day of the crime. "It doesn't matter," Corley recalls him saying. "I didn't do it."
Michelle Mallin wrongly identified Tim Cole as her attacker.
Cole died in prison.
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The results from the blood test came back inconclusive. But Corley felt there was enough circumstantial evidence for the case to go to a grand jury. "The car he drove matched exactly as what she'd given as the bad guy having. He fits the description to a T. He's acting very guilty. It's not the best case in the world, but I felt, 'Am I supposed to be the judge and the jury here? Let's give it to a grand jury.'"
Plus, Corley says, he trusted Debbie Jones. "There's nothing wrong with Debbie," he says plainly. "I had an intelligent, articulate, educated witness. I've worked 7-Eleven robberies where the guy comes in for 15 seconds and clerk's scared to death." In those cases, he says, the victim ID isn't as convincing. But here, he says, "Her face was a foot away from his face for a very extended period of time, and she's not — she's a smart person. I felt good with her identification. ... She was sure. She was absolutely positive. That's not the best case that you want, your case from heaven, but it's workable. There was not a red flag somewhere. It fit being him."
The grand jury agreed. McGowan was tried and convicted of burglary and rape. He got two consecutive life sentences. "I didn't think I was gonna ever get out," he says. Neither did Jones.
In early 2007, McGowan wrote a letter to the Innocence Project, begging them to look into his case. He didn't hear back for a long while. His hope started to wane. He feared he would die in prison. He feared his mother, who was in bad health, would die before he saw her face again.
"One night I was in my cell, and I started praying," he remembers. "I said, 'God, look, I don't know where else to turn. Get me out this prison where I can be with my mother before she goes to her grave. I don't wanna die in this prison. God, you get me out of this prison and I'll tell people the goodness you've done.'"
Three months later a letter arrived from the Innocence Project. They would take his case, they told him, and not a moment too soon. Under state law at that time, evidence was destroyed 25 years after a conviction. He'd been locked up for 23.
The Innocence Project contacted Dallas County prosecutors, who found Jones' rape kit and agreed to re-test it. Jones and her husband, who had since divorced, were asked to submit DNA samples. The DA's office assured her that it was a common request from convicts. But just days later, the results came back: the DNA evidence had excluded McGowan. He was innocent.
When she found out McGowan was getting out, Jones was convinced there had been a mix-up at the lab. "It's not something your mind can process," she says. In the decades since McGowan went to prison, Jones had moved on as best she could. But she'd gone to counseling at Parkland's rape crisis center exactly once, soon after the rape, and found that the counselor didn't seem particularly interested in talking about it, asking a lot of questions about her childhood instead. Jones never went back.
She had wanted badly to leave Texas. Her sister had left the state shortly after Jones' rape, not able to handle staying in the house they'd shared. Her church helped pay for the move. But no one bothered to tell Jones that the state had set up a victim compensation fund in 1979, which would have paid for her to move, plus counseling and medication. She and her husband did leave the state for about seven years, she says, but were eventually forced to move back for his job.
So when Corley and Hammond broke the news, Jones says, "It was like I was in the Twilight Zone. I seriously thought they were kidding, playing a joke on me. I could not process what they were saying. No way could they let Thomas out, because we all knew he did it."
Corley and Hammond showed Jones a piece of paper with the DNA results. She looked back at them, repeating over and over, "That's wrong. He did it. That's wrong."
"I know it's hard to believe," Corley told her. "I didn't believe it myself. But we have to believe it, because that's what the DNA shows."