Exonerated from death row
Freedom is a ‘beautiful dream’ for Clemente Aguirre-Jarquin
Clemente Aguirre-Jarquin wakes up whenever he wants. He can take a shower in privacy. People aren’t screaming at him, and he is no longer forced to walk around in shackles.
The former death-row inmate, who was exonerated earlier this month after spending 14 years behind bars for two murders that someone else confessed to, now relishes simple pleasures.
“The fresh air alone — that is something I never, ever want to give up again,” he said.
But Aguirre-Jarquin’s future is still unsettled. The undocumented immigrant from Honduras is facing the threat of deportation and will eventually face a judge once again — this time in immigration court.
Aguirre-Jarquin, now 38, was convicted and sentenced to die for the 2004 murders of his nextdoor neighbors, Cheryl Williams and Carol Bareis. But his conviction and death sentence were unanimously overturned by the Florida Supreme Court after Samantha Williams, Cheryl’s daughter and Bareis’ grand-
daughter, confessed to several people that she killed her relatives.
In its order overturning Aguirre-Jarquin’s conviction, the state court called him “a scapegoat for her crimes.” Samantha Williams has not been charged in the deaths of her mother and grandmother. The Seminole County Sheriff’s Office says it will meet with the State Attorney’s Office in the future to “review this matter further.”
The Innocence Project, a legal-aid group that seeks to exonerate those who have been wrongly convicted, provided lawyers for Aguirre-Jarquin’s defense.
The Seminole-Brevard State Attorney’s Office opted to re-try Aguirre-Jarquin, again seeking the death penalty. Prosecutors dropped the case against him on Nov. 5 after additional evidence surfaced that undermined Samantha Williams’ alibi. He became the 28th person exonerated from Florida’s death row.
“I was afraid it was a beautiful dream that I can wake up from, and the nightmare will continue,” Aguirre-Jarquin said. “I feel like it’s not real.”
The night he was released, Aguirre-Jarquin enjoyed a steak dinner with his lawyers. He now lives at the Sunny Center, a cluster of four yellow-painted homes in Tampa meant to help reintegrate people who spent years in prison after being wrongly convicted with the support of donations. His next-door neighbor, Derrick Jamison, spent 20 years on Ohio’s death row before he was exonerated in 2005.
“That’s my little brother,” Jamison said of Aguirre-Jarquin. “We got that bond that can’t nobody break. We were living in hell.”
The Sunny Center is in a quiet neighborhood — that’s how Aguirre-Jarquin prefers it. Instead of hearing the constant and clamorous echo of cell doors slamming day and night, he can now listen to the birds chirp while he sits in a small chair in the rock garden outside his front door.
That chair is AguirreJarquin’s sanctuary. He avoids crowds because he says he’s afraid of being once again accused of something he didn’t do. A recent trip to Publix made him anxious; he isn’t used to having his back toward so many people. After seeing a police car drive down the street, he’s hesitant to even walk around the neighborhood because he doesn’t want to give the impression he’s up to no good.
“I try to be invisible,” he said. “I don’t want to be accused of nothing.”
Aguirre-Jarquin,who arrived in the United States just over a year before Williams’ and Bareis’ murders, was taken into custody by federal authorities after the charges against him were dropped and later released on bond.
He intends to seek asylum. Being forced back to Honduras, where gangs threatened his life and murdered his friends, would essentially amount to a second death sentence.
When he arrived at the Seminole County Jail after he was arrested, AguirreJarquin had plenty of company. He barely spoke a word of English but was surrounded by Spanish speakers.
But after he was convicted, sentenced to die and sent to state prison, things changed. He says the guards beat him because they thought he was only pretending not to understand their instructions.
“They emasculate you, they degrade you, and they punish you because they think you’re acting that you don’t speak English,” Aguirre-Jarquin said. “I really didn’t.”
Aguirre-Jarquin began reading books, case law and his original trial transcript to learn English with the help of a Spanish dictionary. He now says being surrounded by English speakers during his incarceration was a blessing in hindsight because it helped force him to learn the language.
“I have been alone for a long time,” he said. “I have been lonely for a long time.”
Aguirre-Jarquin, who is deeply religious, says he began to question his faith in God.
“It hurts me now because I can’t believe I hurt God like that,” he said. “Question him like, ‘Are you really out there? Why would you let this happen? Why won’t you put the truth out there? … You say you love everybody, why don’t you love me?’”
He blames his original lawyer for doing a shoddy job representing him at his original trial. He blames Samantha Williams, whose testimony put him in prison for a crime evidence strongly suggests he did not commit, though he’s said he’s since forgiven her. He primarily blames Seminole County Sheriff’s investigators for not considering other suspects.
“I used to hate with passion,” he said. “The hate was like a cancer. It was destroying me. I want to go to heaven one day, you know? I would like to meet Jesus … The hate was killing me inside so bad that either I let it go or I die. So I let it go.”
In a statement, Seminole County Sheriff Dennis Lemma said, “The original report provided by the state’s key witnesses was supported by strong physical evidence collected from the scene. It is our understanding that since that time additional evidence and witnesses, which were not known, have come forward which has called into question the credibility of certain witnesses.”
Now that he’s free, he’s overly polite, likes his pizza with extra cheese and is happy he no longer has to eat bologna sandwiches and potatoes for every meal. His smartphone, provided by the Innocence Project, is filled with songs by Alicia Keys, AC/DC and 2Pac.
He doesn’t watch much TV but recently started episodes of “The Walking Dead.” He’s a die-hard Boston Red Sox fan.
Instead of waiting months for letters from his friends back in Honduras, he can now instantly communicate. He says the technology is overwhelming, and he doesn’t like how people spend so much time on their phones these days.
“Maybe I am the one who changed,” he said. “Maybe I am the one who got stuck back there 15 years ago.”
Despite what he’s been through, Aguirre-Jarquin says he still sees good in this world. He sees kindness whenever children approach him in public to say hi. And he sees it whenever he visits with his team of eight lawyers — many of whom worked pro bono to help save the life of the man they now consider a friend.
“There’s more good than bad,” he said. “I will always believe that. No matter what hell I’ve been through, I’m always going to believe there’s light at the end of the tunnel.”