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Police are investigating a shooting that left a year-old man dead and a year-old girl injured on Tuesday at a Detroit gas station. Detroit police are seeking a missing year-old man named William Richardson Jr. A year-old man is facing charges after police said he assaulted women in downtown Ann Arbor.


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Fred Mitchell could chase down a deep fly and catch it over his shoulder, just like the Say Hey Kid. When they were not playing baseball, Phillips and Mitchell and their friends skipped school and played with BB guns and drank beer in alleys and fought in backyards and played hide-and-seek with the cops. Two days after he was sentenced to life in prison inPhillips wrote a poem.

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Some lies require more lies. Undoubtedly, the justice system failed him.

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He played around with some pranksters at work, and one prank went too far. The stepfather told him to go to school Monday and get it back. The police caught him the next day. But on that cold day in the prison yard, as he walked toward the Blind Spot with the homemade knife under his sleeve, Richard Phillips was not thinking about a nameless, faceless system. That night he slept on the hard floor of a vacant house, aware that he had no one in the world but himself.

The belt struck again, and again, and again, and finally it shattered some internal barrier.

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The police failed. He began singing when he was a boy, and kept singing in prison, and now sings in the car, and at the dinner table, sustaining that one long note, as if nothing in the world could stop the music. The black man stood watch near the door. Around this time, Fred Mitchell got out of prison. Richard Phillips is a tall man with broad shoulders and a habit of singing to himself, usually without words, a deep and joyful sound that seems to rise from his soul. After a joyriding conviction led to a brief prison sentence, he took a typing class and learned to type 72 words per minute.

Phillips denied it, but he lost his job anyway. Phillips stood firm.

The stepfather asked once more for a confession. Phillips had a strong jaw and an easy manner. They called him Dago. Fred Mitchell? How to escape into his own mind by drawing pictures: an airplane, or Superman, or even the Mona Lisa, with a pencil on a piece of cardboard. The prosecution failed. He wondered about the color of raindrops, the color of the sky, the color of his heart, the color of his words when he sang aloud, and the color of his need for someone to hold.

They were juvenile delinquents on the verge of becoming hardened criminals in a city where violent crime was all around. Yes, the boy said, just to make it stop, and the young man who emerged from that beating told himself that was the last false confession he would ever make.

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Then he asked again: Did you steal my watch? Phillips stayed with Theresa, and their daughter was born, and they got married and had a son. He was 26 years old, and had left high school in tenth grade, and now, with plenty of time to wonder, he took a pencil and set his wondering down on the .

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A single issue of the Detroit Daily Dispatch newspaper gives a sense of the chaos and desperation. But on a cold day in the prison yard, he carried a knife and thought about revenge.

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His stepfather beat him again. The three men went to shows at night and snorted heroin in motel rooms. On January 1,a date confirmed by his journal, Phillips was in his room when another inmate walked in with some news. And alone in the attic or on the streets of Detroit, Phillips taught himself how to survive.

This was Fred Mitchell, who quarreled with another young man and then shot him to death. Phillips could see it all in his mind. They rented a modest apartment on Gltone, and Phillips bought a Buick Electra He gave his children the things he never had: abundant love, fancy new clothes, armlo of presents under the Christmas tree. It was a cold gray Monday at the Jackson prison, and Phillips had not seen his children in 2, days.

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Theresa worked in a bank. The trial judge failed. Richard Phillips survived the longest wrongful prison sentence in American history by writing poetry and painting with watercolors. He waited, and waited.

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Little is known about the life of Fred Mitchell beyond a few memories of old acquaintances and the occasional mention in official records. The stepfather beat him with the belt for a long time. Jobless and shiftless, with his marriage floundering, Phillips returned to his old friend.

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His daughter, Rita, was 4. One appeal failed inanother in About four years later he had enough to pay one of the best appellate lawyers in Michigan, so he sent in the money and waited for freedom. His defense attorney failed. The National Registry of Exonerations lists more than 2, people who were convicted of crimes and later found innocent, and Phillips served more time than anyone else on that list.

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His mother watched, too afraid to intervene. Did you steal my watch? It may have been the first poem he ever wrote.

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Phillips knew what to do. It was December 13, At the bottom of 2 was a brief item about a year-old man pleading guilty to manslaughter. Phillips went up to sleep in the roach-infested attic, as he did every night, and wondered how to conjure a watch out of thin air.

That night Phillips went out and never came home. Phillips and his friend each held one under a sleeve as they stood outside the chow hall, waiting for Mitchell to emerge. One day in September, he took the children to the Michigan State Fair. He charmed the young ladies. He was thinking about the man who put him there: his old friend Fred Mitchell. All the while he thought of his children, and remembered the taste of homemade ice cream, and wrote love poems to women, both real and imaginary, featuring beds made of violets and warm baths made of tears.

Phillips lived a double life, dangerous and unsustainable, a drug addict by night and a father by day. The jury failed.

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He put on a suit in the morning and rode the bus to work, spending less time with the old crew. One day a girlfriend named Theresa told him she was pregnant, and the baby was his. The prison was home to several factories.

This meant easy access to raw materials, including scrap metal, which also meant an abundance of homemade knives. The beating continued. Here he was, walking across the yard, unaware of the two men walking behind him. And he just might get away with it.

The appellate judges failed. Phillips said no.

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The next morning he ran away. Inthe year Phillips turned 25, things began to unravel. He gathered a can of pork and beans and a can opener and a few slices of bread and an empty syrup bottle full of Kool-Aid and he crammed them into his lunchbox and walked outside into his new life. His son, Richard Jr. They rode the Ferris wheel, crashed around in the bumper cars, and posed together for an instant photograph that was printed on a round metal button. It was a Friday night in Detroit around The stepfather had a thick leather belt. By this time, Phillips had taken a better path.

Forty-six years later, legal observers would say Richard Phillips had served the longest known wrongful prison sentence in American history.