Investigators also told Jones something shocking: Woodson had been in the photo lineup along with McGowan.
"I didn't even catch that it was him," she says, shaking her head. For one thing, she says, Woodson was much heavier in the photo. "The hair was way different," she adds. "They did warn me that he could have cut his hair. His hair was real weird. It was all slicked down [during the rape]. They said that they do that so you remember it a different way."
Michelle Mallin wrongly identified Tim Cole as her attacker.
Cole died in prison.
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Jones heard the tape of his confession a month or so later. It helped her realize, finally, that McGowan was truly innocent. Woodson knew so much about the attack. "There are things only he and I could know," she says softly. In that confession, Jones says, Woodson told the investigators he's relieved they've finally found him. "That's a load off," he said. "That's been keeping me awake at night."
Since she learned about Woodson, whom she knows by the name Kenneth Bell, one thing has eaten away at Jones more than any other. When she talks about it, she starts to cry so hard she can barely breathe.
A year after he raped her, the DA's office says, he raped another woman in the same way: broke into her house, robbed her, assaulted her with a knife at her throat.
"You know if you'd picked the right person, then you would have prevented somebody else from being raped," she says. "It's a lot to deal with. I've never met her and I don't even know if I can. But because we didn't get Kenneth Bell off the street, he turned around and he raped someone else."
In that, Jones and Mallin have another painful thing in common: Both of their actual rapists have been identified, and both will soon get out of prison without being tried for the rapes because of a statute of limitations. The state changed that rule for cases with DNA evidence in 1997, but that doesn't help Mallin or Jones, whose rapes occurred in the 1980s.
Kenneth Woodson gets out in 2016.
"I want the law changed," Jones says. "I want to be able to hold Kenneth Bell responsible. ... If you made the law, you can change it."
To do that, Jones says, "I need my story to be heard."
She, Corley and McGowan have spoken to various church groups and law enforcement conventions several times. The first was in Denver, not long after McGowan's exoneration. That trip was the start of the healing process for Jones, McGowan and even Corley.
The Innocence Project had paid for McGowan to go, but it hadn't sent anyone to accompany him. He was lost and overwhelmed. Corley and his wife helped McGowan pick up his bags and find his way to his hotel. Later, as Corley prepared to give his portion of the presentation, his wife and sister took McGowan to walk around the convention hall. His sister is a pastor, and she and McGowan immediately hit it off.
"I never ever could have imagined that I would actually be friends with him," Jones says. "That I would sit on a plane with him. That I could speak with him. That I could hug him." Today, they exchange emails and text messages now and then, and speak of each other warmly.
For McGowan, it's as though God has finally set everything right. "God gave me my life back," he says simply. "Whatever he takes from you, he gives back to you with more abundance. Now I just try to be like a man would be at this age in the retirement stage and live it out like that, nice, easy, breezy and sunny."
Things are less breezy for Jones. She's learned a lot about forgiveness, about dealing with the pain of victimization, and she tries to share it with others, she says. She's found that she can't even be as angry at Kenneth Woodson as she was at McGowan for so many years. But it's been a long process.
"The pain is like standing in front of a brick wall a million feet tall," she says. "How do you get through? You just start chipping through it, little by little."