Stand Tall

by Dewey Bozella

  With fifty-seven seconds left on the clock, Hopkins spit it out again. I came at him like a dog chasing the mailman. No way was I going to give up, and no way was he going to deliver a thing. Out popped the mouthpiece. This was getting irritating, and the crowd kept booing. The frustration was just fuel for me, and Hopkins could see I wasn’t going to let him down easy. It’s better to get disqualified than knocked out, though, and with thirty-six seconds left, the mouthpiece came flying out again. “Ref, how much time?” Hopkins asked. The ref schooled him: “Larry, keep your mouthpiece in, keep your mouthpiece in!” I didn’t wait for the fight to be stopped the sixth and last time Hopkins spit it out, smashing him with a right cross just as the final bell rang. He sagged against the ropes. The boos turned to cheers, and I heard the announcer’s voice boom out.

  “Bozella is the hero of the evening!”

  My family and friends swarmed me as the judges announced me the winner by a unanimous decision: 39-36, 38-37 and 38-36. I kissed Hopkins on the top of his head and raised my gloves in victory.

  Afterward, I faced the press one last time.

  “First and foremost, I’d like to thank God for this opportunity. It was something taken away from me as a kid,” I said, thinking back on that hungry, unwanted teenager who had once caught the attention of the great Floyd Patterson. Where would that Dewey Bozella be now, if he had gotten to live his life? What fights did he never have, what victories did he never know? Now all I could do was express my gratitude, the deepest gratitude possible, to the people who supported me and gave me this one belated chance. I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, ask for more.

  “This is my first and last fight,” I reiterated for their benefit, and for mine.

  It was time to move on, to live the life that finally belonged to me, to try to make a difference in a world that is seldom just, or honest, or even kind. My boxing legacy would say what had always been my truth and my salvation: Dewey Bozella was undefeated.

  EPILOGUE

  I KEEP A RUNNING LIST OF THINGS TO DO AND DREAMS TO STRIVE FOR on the side of the refrigerator. Love God is at the top, and everything flows, as I know it should, from there, all in the hungry shorthand of a man with half a life already squandered. Speaking, Getting Money, Family, People, Learn How to Forgive. That last one is what people seem to wonder most about me.

  Nearly three years after my release, Ross and Shauna received an e-mail from Wayne Moseley, one of the D.A.’s star witnesses against me. He wanted to set the record straight.

  “My coerced testimony is what got him convicted,” Moseley wrote my lawyers. “I would like it to be known that I was threatened by the District Attorney that if I did not ‘play ball’ with the District Attorneys [sic] office I would be prosecuted for the murder in question. I was told I had to confess to taking part in the murder and that I was with Dewey Bozella in the home of the victim. I confessed to this crime but did not commit it nor did I have any knowledge of this crime. I continued to tell the District Attorney I had no knowledge nor did I play any part in this crime but he continued to threaten me with the prosecution of it and if I did not cooperate with him he was going to offer the same deal to Mr. Bozella. This is how Dewey Bozella was convicted.”

  Moseley said the current D.A., Edward Whitesell, had also contacted him to testify against me during my Brady appeal, but Moseley had refused and threatened to tell the story of his alleged coercion if he was subpoenaed. Thirty-five years too late, Moseley was stepping forward to tell the truth. “I was as much a victim of false conviction as was Dewey Bozella based on the actions of the District Attorney,” Moseley concluded. His logic was as weak as his character. The letter offered no apology. Moseley’s buddy and coaccuser, Lamar Smith, vanished in the wind. My WilmerHale team tried to find him, but hit only dead ends. One day when I was visiting a friend at the Poughkeepsie jail, across from my old stomping grounds at Mansion Square Park, I stopped in a convenience store to buy a lottery ticket and was confronted by a man who looked an awful lot like Lamar.

  “Yo, aren’t you the boxer Dewey Bozella?” he asked. People sometimes recognize me from my speaking appearances or the ESPN documentary about me. I’m always a little on guard when people approach me, though, especially in seedier parts of town. And being that close to the jail, there was always the chance that this was some hood rat who knew someone locked up who had some beef with me or wanted something. Everybody on the street has their hustle.

  “Yeah,” I said, keeping it neutral while I sized up the stranger. He looked to be in his twenties.

  “Yeah, man, I would like to talk to you a minute,” he said. We stepped outside for some privacy, and I waited for him to say what was on his mind. The words that came tumbling out of his mouth left me speechless.

  “Yo, man, I’m Lamar’s son.”

  And then: “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Did my father testify against you?”

  I heard an urgency in the kid’s voice. He didn’t just want to know, but needed to know the answer to this painful question. I kept my own emotions in check and replied as calmly and evenly as I could.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, he did.”

  The kid looked like I’d landed a haymaker straight to his gut.

  “My father told me he didn’t,” he countered, and I could see how much he wanted to believe that. Fuck you and your mouth full of lies, Lamar, I thought.

  “Well, I hate to tell you, man,” I said, “he’s your father, but he testified and put me in jail for twenty years to life.”

  Lamar’s son sagged. “Did he really do that? That’s messed up!” He asked to take my picture—proof, I assumed, so he could confront his lying father later—and I let him.

  Then, not long ago, I was in a club when the friend I was hanging with spotted someone he wanted me to meet. The man he brought back to the table froze when he saw me. It was Lamar. I was just as stunned as he was. Neither of us said a word at first, then Lamar launched right in about my case.

  “Yo, man, I don’t wanna talk about it,” I interrupted, but Lamar kept going on and on. I pulled out a chair and told him to sit down. Lamar sat, still babbling. His words evaporated the second they left his mouth: there was nothing he could ever say to justify what he did to me, no way he could ever make up for the lies that falsely branded me a murderer and got me sentenced not once, but twice, to twenty years to life. I let Lamar talk until my own silence finally seemed to register. I asked him to stand up, and I stood up as well. Looking into his eyes, I could see that he was facing his worst fear in that moment, and it was me. Neither of us had any doubt that I could whip his ass in a matter of seconds. Instead, I put my hand out to shake his.

  “You know what, man? I’m going to let this shit go.”

  I have to forgive, even when no apologies are offered. It’s for me, not them.

  Both of my two surviving brothers, Michael and Albert, reached out after seeing me on TV. I wish with all my heart that we could become close as brothers, but we all need to do our own healing first. Leon was the only one who knew how to push aside all the demons of the past and just be family. He was the only one who visited me in prison, who made me feel loved regardless of my circumstances. After he died, I got a small lion tattooed on my chest; I couldn’t be there to protect Leon the way a big brother should, but now I carry him close to my heart always. The only thread of my lost family I still hold on to is Maurice. The young son of my foster parents called me out of the blue one day. “Geese!” I laughed when I heard his grown-up voice over the phone from Atlanta, where he’s got a good career and family of his own now. His folks are gone, and we don’t dredge up the bad memories. We keep it Fourth of July happy.

  As the people and agencies responsible for my wrongful conviction attempted to bury my legal team with tons of briefs, motions, and other paperwork, my lawsuit slowly made its way through the court system. The longer they stalled, the more costly the fight became, but WilmerHale nev
er blinked. When our attempts to reach a settlement out of court were met with silence, Ross started to prepare me for trial. It would get ugly, he warned. Their key strategy would be to portray me in the worst light possible, tear my character to shreds, and make me too unsympathetic for any judge to believe worthy of restitution. The bottom line was, they were out to prove I was a piece of garbage. Ross would spend years in a paper war with them, filing legal briefs thicker than the New York City phone book. I had my own message to the system inked across my back after I got out. The word FREEDOM, dripping with blood, is emblazoned over two clenched fists breaking free from the chains that bind them. A pair of handcuffs lie on the grass below. There is a moon in the scene, too, representing light in the darkest hours.

  DESIGN CLOTHES LINE, LIVE TO 90S, GOOD FOOD, OWN A BOXING GYM.

  With my one pro fight checked off the list, I decided to focus my energy on my biggest dream of all: finding a permanent place for myself in the boxing world, so I could use my skills and my story to help give struggling young people the direction, discipline, and passion they needed to succeed in life. With help from WilmerHale, I launched the nonprofit Dewey Bozella Foundation and started searching for space to open my own gym in the same hostile streets where I had sometimes slept when my options ran out. The few buildings on the market with the space to accommodate a boxing gym were either too dilapidated to fix up or quickly snatched up by buyers with deeper pockets than mine. More than a year into the search, I was starting to lose hope when my foundation received a windfall offer: the huge old armory in Newburgh—already home to various after-school programs—had more than enough room and was willing to open its doors to us. We could even put up a boxing ring. Summer was just around the corner. We hired an administrator and began scrambling to put together a program. It was happening! It was finally happening! I felt proud and excited. I couldn’t wait to meet my future boxers.

  The thirty-five kids who signed up were full of the childlike energy and practiced boredom typical of middle-schoolers. I saw a little bit of myself in every single one, straight up. I was eager to jump right in with them, but none of the equipment we’d ordered showed up on time, and I had to fume while the kids went swimming or on field trips that had nothing to do with my vision for the camp. Finally, with gloves, punching bags, jump ropes, and other equipment in place, I gathered the kids in groups of eight for their first training sessions. I spent all of a single morning just trying to show them how to properly wrap their hands while half the boys played mummy and a few slipped out of the gym unnoticed. I had wrapped my own hand more than thirty times in demonstration and was trying to ignore the girl playing rodeo queen with a jump rope by the time the program manager I’d hired hurried in with bad news: my fugitive stragglers had gone and royally pissed off the Armory people by swinging from an indoor soccer goal and then cussing out the coach who demanded they stop. Now all our kids were banned from the soccer field. I confronted the culprits. “If you don’t want to participate, then go,” I lectured them. “I made that mistake, and it cost me thirty years of my life! It cost me my freedom. You drop out, and you have two choices: you pick yourself up or you go on the street. Don’t waste my time.”

  In prison, time was endless, but now it was slipping by too fast. I looked at all those young faces, those laughing, earnest, goofing, scared faces, and I had to wonder if there was time to catch them, to protect them, to motivate them. We spent the rest of the day working out. I did every squat, push-up, and jumping jack with them even as my aching back and hip screamed in protest. We ended the day practicing jabs, and I taught the kids the art of the fake-out. “You’re in an amateur fight and your opponent’s up against the rope. He’s tired. You look like you’re done with him, then sneak up on him. It’s never done when you think it is. Don’t give up, don’t give in. Give more.”

  The program was so popular that we were able to extend it by two weeks. Then the bottom fell out: the Armory was kicking me out of the big, open space I’d had and into a small classroom in the basement. I couldn’t fit the boxing ring I wanted to put up, or do all the training I hoped to. The dream went back on the refrigerator list. Just as well for now, I glumly thought. Judge Cathy Seibel had finally agreed that my lawsuit could go to trial and had set a date just a few months away, in January 2015. At the same time, she noted that there was strong evidence in my favor and urged Dutchess County—the sole defendant remaining—to settle the matter out of court. Ross waited for an offer, but none came until the eve of trial. On a Saturday night before the Monday of my court date, the county agreed to pay me a significant amount of damages. They would not admit to any wrongdoing. I accepted. It was time to move on. What happened will live with me until I die, but I can move on.

  That said, I’m still trying to find my way in a world that was never open to me, figuring out day by day who I am and where I fit in. Freedom and independence are two different things. I was just a kid when I got locked up; I never really knew what it was like to make your own choices, to build the life you wanted, to belong to yourself. I spend time each day at an old friend’s gym, helping out the aspiring young fighters there, but I ’m still hoping for a place of my own. I’ll train anyone who’s serious, whether they’re ten years old or fifty, and maybe the good Lord will let me coach someone to a world championship so I can cross that one off my refrigerator list. Because when everything’s said and done, I know I still have some fight left in me.

  TELLING PEOPLE MY STORY is the best way I’ve found to turn bitterness into hope. I was excited when I got invited in June 2015 to Brazil to speak to legislators, police chiefs, and judges about the importance of preserving DNA evidence to prevent the miscarriage of justice. While there I took an afternoon off to try hang gliding for the first time. We trekked up into the mountains to a high ridge, and I had to will myself to go through with it as my guide got me rigged up and led me to the cliff’s edge.

  Just keep walking, I urged myself. Don’t look down. Keep your head up, keep moving forward, you know how to do that.

  I stepped off the earth and into the sky. All fear left me, and all I felt was free.

  PHOTO SECTION

  When I was eighteen years old with a friend Allison. My only picture from my youth before going to prison. 1977.

  Shariff is the man who helped change my life in prison. 1985.

  Me and Trena on our wedding day, March 30, 1996.

  Trena, Diamond, and me when we became a family. 1996.

  Graduating college with a bachelor’s degree in 2005.

  Class of 2006, New York Theological Seminary in Professional Studies.

  On my way to the International Boxing Hall of Fame. 2013.

  Trena, Diamond, and me during a cookout after my release. 2014.

  I tattooed my back so I would never forget how much work went into my freedom. 2014.

  Getting ready for trial. This is the team at WilmerHale who helped me win my case. 2015.

  I spoke before a group of law enforcement officials in Brazil about passing a law for the wrongfully convicted. 2015.

  Ready to hang glide in Brazil. 2015.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Mickey Steiman and David Steinberg for their dedication and hard work on my case for my two trials. I know it has been a long journey of thirty-two years to prove my innocence. I have been blessed with the cooperation and support of the Innocence Project. They did a wonderful job of believing in me when all odds were against me. I am grateful for the hard work and dedication of Barry C. Scheck, Angela Amel, and Olga Akselrod. Together, they went above and beyond to secure my freedom. I would also like to thank Wilmer Cutler Pickering Hale and Dorr, based in New York City. I was blessed with the counsel of three exceptional lawyers: Peter J. Macdonald, Ross E. Firsenbaum, and Shauna Friedman, all of whom worked on my case for free. I’d like to thank them, and their staff, for helping me get back my freedom. Special thanks to Maura Mandt for having me at the ESPN ESPY Awards, where I was awar
ded the Arthur Ashe Award for Courage. That was one of the greatest moments of my life. I would also like to thank José Morales, who directed the ESPN film 26 Years: The Dewey Bozella Story. Special thanks to Beth Rasin for helping to start the Dewey Bozella Foundation, which has helped teenagers stay out of trouble out in the streets. Lastly, I want to thank everyone who helped bring this book into the world. Thank you, and God bless you all.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In 1983, BOZELLA’s life took a dramatic turn when he was convicted of a murder he did not commit. Sentenced to twenty years to life in Sing Sing prison, Bozella maintained his innocence and exhausted every appeal. He was offered more than four separate chances for an early release if he would only admit guilt and show remorse, but Bozella consistently refused to accept freedom under such conditions. Anger at his imprisonment gave way to determination and instead of becoming embittered, he became a model prisoner: earning his GED and bachelor’s and master’s degrees; working as a counselor for other prisoners; and eventually even falling in love and getting married. Through it all, Bozella found strength and purpose through boxing, becoming the light-heavyweight champion of Sing Sing prison.

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  CREDITS

  COVER DESIGN BY ALLISON SALTZMAN

  COVER PHOTOGRAPH © SCOTT DUNCAN

  All photo section images are from the author’s collection

  COPYRIGHT

  The names and identifying characteristics of some of the individuals featured throughout this book have been changed to protect their privacy.