Books. Duped

• Author: Kevin Davis
• Pages: 27-29

I spent over a year soaking in these

realizations. I got a job as a paralegal at

a big law rm, but like my college jobs,

I knew this was not what I wanted to

do forever. I eventually decided that we

needed more prosecutors with my lived

experiences, so I set my sights on law

school. I eventually chose Temple Uni-

versity in Philadelphia. This was a big

life change for someone who had never

crossed the Mason-Dixon Line. Not

only was Temple a great law school that

offered me a fair scholarship, but it was

also in a city that recently had elected

a district attorney who campaigned on

prosecuting the “right” way.

Heading into law school, the pre-

vious frustration I felt because of my

father’s situation was replaced by a

renewed relationship with him. I had a

searing eagerness to help x the crimi-

nal justice system. I was excited about a

new life lled with new friends and new

opportunities. Life, however, had one

more major twist to throw at me.

Prosecution becomes

personal

I was at home one evening during my

rst semester 1L year working on a

memo when I got a phone call from my

stepfather. Strange, I thought, because

he didn’t call me often. I answered.

He was sobbing. My stomach turned.

Through tears, he told me that my

mother—whom I had spoken to mere

hours before—had been killed in a

botched carjacking. Stunned, speechless

and shaking, I was rattled to my core.

The new city and new life suddenly

felt like an ocean separating me from

my family. In a matter of hours, I went

from writing a memo to writing my

mother’s eulogy. The offenders—all

teenagers—were found and prosecuted.

I took a sentencing class during my 2L

year—the same year I returned home to

participate in their sentencing hearing. I

even spoke to the local news afterward

about it. Anything I learned in school

was incomparable to being in that room

as a co-victim of homicide.

Though my world paused, the rest of

the world did not—so I carried on with

a strengthened resolve. My mother’s

situation taught me the importance of

prosecution to provide accountability

for those who harm others, safety for

communities and some level of re-

solve for victims. My father’s situation

showed me the importance of fairness,

prosecutorial integrity and the collateral

consequences of incarceration. Back at

school, I zeroed in on creating my own

path. I took more criminal law classes.

I founded the organization for rst-gen-

eration law students at my school. I

earned internships, rst with the federal

prosecutors and later with the district

attorney’s ofce.

Then, in March 2020, COVID-19

hit. My exciting second-year sum-

mer internship with the Philadelphia

District Attorney’s Ofce became a

summer-long Zoom meeting conduct-

ed from my living room. Despite this,

I enjoyed the taste of the job, and I

informed them of my interest. Months

later, I got what I wanted years ago:

an offer to be not only a lawyer but a

prosecutor.

I am now several months into my

role as an assistant district attorney

with the Philadelphia District Attorney’s

Ofce. Each day I spend hours in court

and hours in the ofce doing my best to

keep communities safe while being fair

to those accused of crimes. Each day

brings both challenges to gure out and

opportunities to be better. Just as I was

excited on my rst day of law school to

pursue this path, I now wake up each

day grateful that I have the opportunity,

position and discretion to do the right

thing with the full backing of my lived

experiences. Q

Amando Dominick is an assistant

district attorney with the Philadelphia

District Attorney’s Ofce. He earned

his JD from Temple University Beasley

School of Law, where he founded the

First Gen Law Owls—an organization

for students who are rst in their family

to attend law school.

This column reects the opinions of the

author and not necessarily the views of

the ABA Journal—or the American Bar

Association.

BOOKS

Duped

New book explores what makes

people confess to crimes they

didn’t commit

BY KEVIN DAVIS

Hanging on a wall in Saul

Kassin’s ofce at John Jay

College of Criminal Justice

in New York City are

photos of 28 people who confessed to

crimes they didn’t commit. He period-

ically updates this collection, which he

calls his “wall of faces,” as more false

confessions come to light.

“I put up this wall because the

images are hard to escape. There are

men, women, people of different ages,

different colors, different ethnic back-

grounds, different countries,” Kassin

says. “These are people from all walks

of life. And the one thing they all have

in common is that they gave a false

confession.”

Kassin, a distinguished professor of

psychology, shows these images during

talks and lectures around the country.

“Everyone’s rst reaction when I talk

about false confessions is, ‘What is

wrong with those people?’”

Nothing, he says: “This can happen

to anyone. This can happen to you.”

Kassin has written a new book

exploring this phenomenon. Duped:

Why Innocent People Confess and Why

ABA JOURNAL | APRIL–MAY 2022

27

Inter Alia | BOOKS