The Trauma of Justice

Say goodbye to Mike Schmidt. Say hello to the truth.

Nobody is going to miss Multnomah County District Attorney Mike Schmidt more than Aliza Kaplan. He was the best friend a criminal defense attorney could have.

Kaplan is the Lewis and Clark law professor who runs the Criminal Justice Reform Clinic with her students. She authored and pushed the legislature to pass Senate Bill 819 allowing a district attorney and an “incarcerated person” to jointly petition the court for reconsideration of a conviction and sentence. Free offenders from prison. Wipe their criminal histories off the books.

“SB 819 can do what clemency can do … If we can get 10 people out under 819 it is worth it,” Kaplan said after it passed. (See “Ghosts of Crimes Past.”)

Schmidt and his “Justice Integrity Unit” did a lot better than 10 people. More like 90 — including violent felons. One of the first beneficiaries was Terrence Hayes, who served 12 years in prison for shooting a gang rival and later had his record expunged. (See “Wiping Away the Truth.”)

SB 819 was a natural fit for Schmidt. He had the heart and soul of a criminal defense attorney when he was elected DA in 2020 on a progressive platform. SB 819 gave DAs like Schmidt the power to reach back and invalidate cases they had nothing to do with.

Voters figured out what Schmidt’s progressive justice translated into: More crime, less consequences. They voted him out of office in May and elected Nathan Vasquez, a career prosecutor with a history of standing up for crime victims in even the toughest cases.

Schmidt refused to resign even a day early to make way for Vasquez, who was sworn in Jan. 4 with his term officially beginning Jan. 6. Schmidt hung on until the end, filing last-minute SB 819 petitions.

The sheer meanness of his last days as DA were a final insult to crime victims like Jean L. Stevenson, 75, whose body was found on the dining room floor of her house in the 6200 block of Northeast 32nd Avenue in 1992. She had been robbed of $8 and her wedding ring and died by asphyxiation.

On his way out the door, Schmidt asked a judge to release her killer next month. He also sought to set aside or reduce charges for two others convicted of violent felonies.

When Schmidt took one last swing with SB 819, Kaplan was in court to make sure things went smoothly.

Except things didn’t go as planned. There was a new dog in the hunt — the Oregon Criminal Justice Truth Project (hereinafter referred to as the Truth Project).

“First I am hearing from this organization. … It is very disconcerting,” Kaplan told Multnomah County Circuit Court Judge Melvin Oden-Orr.

After almost two decades of social justice groups successfully pushing the Oregon state legislature to pass new laws lenient towards criminal offenders, the Truth Project — a new nonprofit organization of retired prosecutors — is pushing back.

Last week, as the clock was ticking on Schmidt’s term, the Truth Project’s attorney, Jose Cienfuegos, hand-delivered a legal brief to Judge Oden-Orr stating that Schmidt had violated the legal requirement that all victims be provided written copies of SB 819 resentencing petitions 30 days prior to the hearing, which was now under way.

Just as Schmidt, in his brief early career as a prosecutor never handled tough felonies, he wasn’t in court to make a final appearance on behalf of his Justice Integrity Unit. Deputy DA Travis Sewell handled the arguments. He told the judge there were attempts to contact all known victims or their surviving family members in Stevenson’s case, but these efforts were not always successful.

Kaplan, sitting at the defense table, frequently nodded her head in agreement with prosecutor Sewell.

She called herself “one of the authors” of SB 819 and suggested that the Oregon District Attorneys Association and victim rights’ groups had input in the law.

“Our entire purpose was to ensure that victims be informed in a trauma-informed manner” and have input in the decision-making 30 days before the hearing, she said.

“That was actually done here,” Kaplan added.

Discussion turned to how much information the victims had been given. Did they see the formal court petition filed by Schmidt? Or were they given other information?

Kaplan noted that sometimes victims don’t want to see the petitions, as they could be re-traumatizing.

“These individuals are ready for their hearing,” she said, referring to her clients — not the victims.

One of them, Frank F. Swopes, Jr., was listening in by phone from Deer Ridge prison.

Swopes is the man who left Stevenson dead on her dining room floor after he and Alonzo S. Roper — then both 30 years old — broke into her home. They had been suspects in as many as 30 burglaries in the Concordia neighborhood, frequently preying on the elderly.

Swopes was particularly vicious. A week after killing Stevenson, he broke into the home of a 76-year-old woman, tied her up and brutalized her — including sexually — until she gave up her ATM code.

Eventually Swopes was convicted of felony murder, two counts of first-degree robbery, three counts of first-degree burglary, kidnapping, unauthorized use of a vehicle and eluding police. He was sentenced in 1993 to 35 years and 10 months in prison.

Now 62, Swopes has served 32 years of what Kaplan and Schmidt call an excessive prison term. Swopes wants an early release next month. He blames Roper for telling him to quiet Stevenson. Roper’s sentence was 17 years.

Kaplan questioned the timing of the Truth Project coming into court. It felt like a spectacle to her. The media were present, including KOIN and KGW.

She insisted the victims had plenty of time.

“Without question I would like to proceed,” she said,

Whether in the courtroom or before a legislative hearing, Kaplan can be persuasive and often gets her way. She had a hand in then-Gov. Kate Brown’s record-setting commutations in 2021. Kaplan successfully fought to overturn non-unanimous verdicts. She successfully fought to remove violent teenagers from Measure 11, making it easier for accused rapists and killers to have their cases tried out of the public eye.

In Oden-Orr’s courtroom she cut a distinctive figure, looking fit and trim in a black suit, black shoes, black nail polish. She fussed with her thick hair, pulling it into a knot, then letting it go. Kaplan frequently wears a closed-mouth smile, even when disagreeing with someone. A trauma-informed smile?

Aliza Kaplan

In this case, her arguments weren’t gaining traction. It appeared the judge was going to set over some of the SB 819 hearings for 30 days. By then, new DA Nathan Vasquez would be running the prosecution side of things. He was sitting in the audience watching the proceedings.

Finally, Kaplan asked Judge Oden-Orr, “Does this organization (the Truth Project) have standing?”

“I am not ruling they have standing,” he replied. The issue was providing legal notice to victims.

“To be clear,” said Kaplan. “They (the Truth Project) don’t represent any of the victims.”

At another point, she raised the question: What about a case where there is no victim, such as Stevenson who was murdered?

It’s an issue worth exploring. Aren’t there always victims in crime? When Swopes was preying on the elderly, what kind of effect did he have on that portion of the public? It’s now understood that when one segment of the population is singled out in criminal acts, others in that cohort can be impacted by fear. Consider “hate crimes.”

In the state of Oregon, indictment language charging a crime usually concludes with a reference that the conduct is contrary to the statutes “and against the peace and dignity of the State of Oregon.”

Who doesn’t have standing when the issue is crime, and anyone can be a victim?

The truth, as Oregon state legislators know, is some people are more likely to be victims than others. Legislators are more willing to play with some people’s safety. Oregon’s criminal justice system has been going in reverse for well over a decade.

When then-Gov. John Kitzhaber appointed a special Commission on Public Safety in 2011, the intent was to find ways to lower the cost of prisons (how else will the state pay for its ever-increasing Public Employee Retirement System).

In the first meeting, Craig Prins, then-executive director of the Criminal Justice Commission (who would later be replaced by Mike Schmidt) displayed numerous charts and graphs to show that crime had decreased dramatically in Oregon and the nation after tough sentencing laws passed. He didn’t attribute the crime drop to these laws. He focused instead on who was benefiting.

Prins noted that most crime victims are poor: “The poor and destitute … have received the benefit of this drop in crime,” he said.

Maybe then, but not now. Too many people feel surrounded by injustice. Violent felons can now be cast as victims.

Back in Judge Oden-Orr’s courtroom, he ultimately decided that four of the SB 819 resentencing hearings — including Swopes — would be continued to Feb 13. Vasquez will decide then how to proceed.

The lesser cases involving convictions for child neglect and drug dealing would proceed, and they did.

In one, Tanya Stoudamire, now 52, was convicted in 2006 of two counts of child neglect and put on two years of probation. She had pleaded guilty to allowing her children to reside on premises where drugs were sold. She wanted her child neglect convictions erased so she could pursue a career in social work or act as a foster parent for a cousin’s children. She currently works for the Urban League of Portland where she helps clients secure housing. She has been conviction-free for 18 years.

Her victims were her young children who are now grown. They wrote letters in support of their mom.

“I would like to hear a little bit about your kids…,” Judge Oden-Orr said. “I read the letters.”

“My daughter lives in Dallas and works as a makeup artist. … My son thinks he’s the best chef. … He is learning the craft of what his father did and becoming a businessman. …They are beautiful kids.”

Oden-Orr referred to the letters they wrote.

“The description that they gave…” his voice trailed off. He reached for a tissue and wiped his eyes. “It’s my mother’s birthday… .”

The judge asked for a minute and left the bench. He returned and said he was delighted to grant her petition to have her convictions erased forever.

It has to be one of the more enjoyable parts of being a judge — like getting to be god. There’s nothing exactly equivalent a judge can do for victims.

The truth is, a judge can’t undo a crime.