17. Avery and Rulloff

The sad and puzzling case of Steven Avery had its brief moment in the national news, but since the setting of the case is semi-rural Wisconsin it will quickly disappear from bicoastal view.  Avery was convicted of raping a woman, based on her identification of him as her attacker.  Avery's prior record, which included a conviction for burning a cat – cruelty to animals is a classic indicator of psychopathy – was presumably not revealed to his jury.  But it makes it believable that he might have committed such a crime. 

Wisconsin's version of Project Innocence took over and, with help from the Wisconsin Legislature, arranged to have DNA evidence examined with techniques that were unavailable at the time of trial.  The evidence implicated another man – a convicted sex criminal – which was taken to exonerate Avery. 

Perhaps it really did prove his innocence.  Still, there's a significant difference between evidence that makes it impossible for the prosecution to prove a person's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, on the one hand, and evidence that proves a person's innocence, on the other hand.  Like I say, maybe the evidence in Avery's case fell into the second category; I don't know.  But it takes very little imagination to think of many ways in which DNA from two different men might be found on or in the victim of a sex crime. 

Be that as it may, Avery was released from prison, to scenes of rejoicing.  And then – well, read for yourself.  The criminal complaint makes for unusually gripping reading.  (Here's another link.)  Maybe Avery was warped by prison life, turning into the monster the authorities claimed him to be.  Or maybe, as his family members contend, he was framed.  Or maybe, just maybe, he spent his 17 years in prison thinking that his main mistake was leaving a witness.

The horrific turn of events brings to mind Edward H. Rulloff, whose story was once known far and wide.  The subject of a terrific recent book by Richard W. Bailey, Rogue Scholar: The Sinister Life and Celebrated Death of Edward H. Rulloff, Rulloff was a dedicated, self-taught scholar who devised a universal theory of language formation, convincing many, including Horace Greeley, of his genius. 

Regrettably, at an earlier stage of his career Ruloff was seen loading a remarkably bulky and heavy trunk onto a wagon, after which no one ever saw his wife and baby daughter again.  He was convicted of abducting his wife and served 10 years in prison for it.  Upon his release he was charged with the murder of his daughter.  A jury convicted him, but the New York Court of Appeals reversed in a landmark case that is still cited in the 21st century. 

In People v. Ruloff, 18 N.Y. 179 (1858), the court held that the failure of the prosecution to find the little girl's body meant there was no proof she was dead, even though 10 years had passed since anyone had seen her.  Therefore the jury's verdict must be overturned.  The court explained:

If it be objected that such a rule may compel the acquittal of one whom the jury are satisfied is guilty, the answer is, that the rule ... must be regarded as part of the humane policy of the common law, which affirms that it is better that many guilty should escape than that one innocent should suffer[.]

Once released from prison, Rulloff killed a store clerk during a robbery.  The humane common law had unknowingly decreed that the clerk, Frederick Merrick, should suffer rather than Rulloff. Or, rather, in addition to him, because Rulloff's second murder conviction was upheld and he was hanged.  In the end, Rulloff actually did aid the march of science, even if not in the way he envisioned: his second murder conviction helped establish the admissibility of photographic evidence in criminal trials.

Ruloff v. People  was cited as leading authority as recently in 2002, in the celebrated case of People v. Bierenbaum, the wife-pushed-out-of-the-plane case.  (748 N.Y.S.2d 563.)  But while Rulloff's case is remembered in the law for its contribution to the corpus delicti rule, it probably ought to be remembered instead for a lesson at least as old as Don Quixote, that an principle can be great and true in the abstract but dangerous in practice.