Investigator’s fall shows cracks in record
On TV, former Harris County Sheriff’s homicide investigator Craig Clopton was sure-footed, dedicated and considered a “closer” — a detective frequently tapped to interview stubborn suspects. But as he pleaded to regain the post he lost after his romantic interlude with a murder case witness, he showed little resemblance to the seasoned investigator many knew him to be.
Appearing before the county’s civil service commission in an effort to get last fall’s termination modified, Clopton expressed his contrition in tones occasionally barely audible in the small, crowded hearing room.
He explained he’d been off duty when his misconduct occurred and asked for commissioners to consider letting him retire from the department.
Working in his favor, he asserted, was his shining record as an investigator — much like his work chronicled in A&E’s crime documentary series, “The First 48.”
While his plea was unsuccessful — a three-member panel took just 15 minutes to uphold his firing
— Clopton’s testimony spotlighted one last time a storied career more nuanced than the one millions of viewers glimpsed on TV.
At last week’s hearing, Clopton described how much he loved police work, saying that interviewing suspects and eliciting confessions was his specialty.
“That was my thing,” he said, describing how other investigators often called upon him to assist with tight-lipped suspects.
From jailer to peace officer
A review of court records, however, provides a different view of Clopton’s interview techniques.
In a 2012 fatal stabbing, Clopton filed murder charges against 20-year-old Zein Ahmed that were later dismissed by prosecutors after they found the confession details were incorrect. Ahmed said Clopton coerced a confession from him after grilling him for more than eight hours.
In another case, an 18-year-old man was not read his Miranda rights until after he made a confession. In still another, a suspect was told he could not have a lawyer until after he was charged.
The purported Miranda irregularities were among arguments appeals lawyers unsuccessfully made on behalf of the latter two defendants.
Clopton and his attorney, Carson Joachim, declined comment.
Clopton, 52, joined the Harris County Sheriff ’s Office in July 1991 as a jailer, holding the job about three years before training to become a certified peace officer.
His career moved forward in an unremarkable manner. For nine years, Clopton worked on patrol in western Harris County, then he transferred to internal affairs, worked in the warrants division and, lastly, beginning in 2005, landed a job in homicide.
Clopton’s downfall began as he was asked to assist with the murder investigation of his colleague, sheriff’s deputy Darren Goforth, who was fatally shot in August during an unprovoked attack at a gas station.
Weeks after the murder, it emerged that Goforth had been having an affair with a woman who was with him when he was killed.
Within a few weeks, what began as Clopton’s routine questioning of the woman — a potential witness — grew into a consensual sexual encounter. Sheriff Ron Hickman fired Clopton in October after the incident was brought to light.
Before civil service commissioners, Joachim asserted that his client maintained a spotless record before the incident.
His file contained at least 10 letters of commendation. His work evaluations were stellar. Rarely did the detective call in sick. When he was fired, most of his sick days still were on the books.
“I remember just being a kid, I wanted to be a police officer and I wanted to work homicide, and the day that it came true, years later, I was then doing what I had always aspired to do,” Clopton told commissioners. “That job came natural to me.”
In his decade as a homicide investigator, Clopton filed more than 40 murder charges. More than half ended in convictions, according to court records.
“I think he was one hell of an investigator,” said former homicide Lt. John Denholm, Clopton’s one-time supervisor. “I always got compliments about him.”
While some investigators have strengths and weaknesses, Denholm said, Clopton was uniformly competent in all aspects of his job.
“Craig was like the whole package,” said Denholm, who now is a lawyer. “He was the kind of guy that if someone in your family was murdered, he was the guy you wanted investigating it.”
Clopton’s prowess as an investigator was celebrated in A&E’s serial
television documentary “The First 48.”
In an episode about the 2011 murder of Donald Frye, 42, who was fatally shot in his Atascosita driveway, Clopton confronted 18-year-old Giovanni Mora about fingerprints found on the victim’s Mercedes Benz.
“You need to tell me what happened,” the investigator told him.
“I didn’t shoot (anybody),” the teen responded. “I just wanted the car.”
Mora then implicated two others, and within days all three had been charged with capital murder.
‘An out-and-out lie’
The episode made great TV, but court records reveal a much more complex case.
They show that other investigators questioned the teen for nearly two hours before Clopton entered the room with the forensic fingerprint evidence. Forty minutes later, Mora implicated himself. But it was only then he was apprised of his Miranda rights.
The teen’s lawyers later argued that his statements should not have been admitted at trial because they came as the man was being interviewed as a potential witness, not a suspect.
“Once a forensic piece of evidence is brought in showing that someone is a suspect and not a witness, then the rules are that you have to read someone their rights,” said the teen’s appeals lawyer, Pat McCann. “They consistently pretend that suspects are witnesses. They consistently try to get them to commit to statements as witnesses instead of suspects, and it’s a lie.”
Prosecutors contended that Mora never was in custody prior to his admission and that he had come to investigators of his own accord.
Though not the gunman, the
teen was convicted of capital murder under Texas’ controversial law of parties. He was sentenced to life without parole; his conviction was upheld on appeal.
Clopton employed another investigative tactic when he interviewed Theron Owens, 47, who had been accused in the May 2008 fatal stabbings of his mother and grandmother.
About two days after the slayings, court records reveal, Owens came to the sheriff ’s homicide office to give a statement.
He was taken into custody immediately and read his Miranda rights, which entitled him to an attorney. Owens, who a psychologist later determined had an IQ of about 70 and suffered from brain damage due to long-term drug use, told Clopton and fellow investigator Roger Wedgeworth that he intended to cooperate but wanted an attorney present.
Neither Clopton nor Wedgeworth stopped the interview after his request. Instead, the investigators offered him a phone book, then told him he could use his cellphone to call an attorney.
Owens repeatedly told the detectives he could not afford a lawyer.
Finally, Wedgeworth told him that they could not get him a courtappointed attorney until he’d been charged, even though Miranda guarantees — upon arrest — the rights to remain silent and to have access to a lawyer. Free court-appointed counsel is provided to indigent suspects.
In this case, Owens ultimately agreed to talk without a lawyer present, admitting guilt.
Jani Maselli Wood, an assistant Harris County public defender, wrote Owens’ appeal and called what Clopton and Wedgeworth had done one of the worst interrogation tactics she’d ever seen in her nearly 25-year career. She and his trial attorneys both argued that Owens’ statements to investigators should not have been admissible at trial.
“I’ve never seen such an outand-out lie,” Maselli Wood said.
In a response to his appeal, prosecutors argued that Owens was not formally in custody when questioned. Even if he had been in custody, prosecutors argued, he had effectively waived his Miranda rights by initiating contact with authorities.
Owens was convicted and sentenced to life without parole.
“That one really bothered me,” Maselli Wood said. “Because they know they violated his constitutional rights. They know it and they chose to do it repeatedly, regardless of what their duty is. They chose to do it because they wanted a confession. They didn’t want the truth. They just wanted a confession.”
‘My own mistake’
At last week’s hearing, Clopton said his misconduct and the events following it had been incredibly difficult for him.
He sat at a long conference table, his hands folded in front of him, his gold wedding band on his left hand. He made eye contact only with attorneys and the commission members, rarely looking toward the news crews or members of the sheriff’s office also in the room.
He spoke softly and on occasion was asked by commissioners or the court reporter to speak up. His voice shook at times, especially when expressing regret about his actions with the witness.
“This whole incident has tarnished my image to a lot of what people looked up to me for, and I truly regret that, but I do stand behind what I did as my own mistake,” he said. “I regret that.”