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Federal officials have charged 14 people from Wayne and Macomb counties in connection with a fraud scheme to steal COVID unemployment benefits.


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Officials have charged a man with second-degree murder after they say he stabbed his girlfriend to death at a Romulus hotel. Detroit police are shutting down a bar where four people were shot, 1 fatally, earlier this week, saying an year-old was among the people there hours after it should have closed and that officers have been called there 42 times since

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The stepfather beat him with the belt for a long time. 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 .

An innocent man spent 46 years in prison. and made a plan to kill the man who framed him.

Fred Mitchell? 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. The police caught him the next day. Phillips knew what to do. This was Fred Mitchell, who quarreled with another young man and then shot him to death. Phillips said no. Richard Phillips survived the longest wrongful prison sentence in American history by writing poetry and painting with watercolors.

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The prosecution failed. His mother watched, too afraid to intervene. 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. Forty-six years later, legal observers would say Richard Phillips had served the longest known wrongful prison sentence in American history. Phillips denied it, but he lost his job anyway. Phillips had a strong jaw and an easy manner. The appellate judges failed.

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He charmed the young ladies. It was a Friday night in Detroit around The stepfather had a thick leather belt. 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.

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. Inthe year Phillips turned 25, things began to unravel. He played around with some pranksters at work, and one prank went too far. Two days after he was sentenced to life in prison inPhillips wrote a poem. 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.

The stepfather asked once more for a confession. Jobless and shiftless, with his marriage floundering, Phillips returned to his old friend. The next morning he ran away. The white man pulled a gun and demanded money. On January 1,a date confirmed by his journal, Phillips was in his room when another inmate walked in with some news.

The prison was home to several factories. And alone in the attic or on the streets of Detroit, Phillips taught himself how to survive. 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.

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The three men went to shows at night and snorted heroin in motel rooms. It was a cold gray Monday at the Jackson prison, and Phillips had not seen his children in 2, days. His defense attorney failed. Phillips stayed with Theresa, and their daughter was born, and they got married and had a son.

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This meant easy access to raw materials, including scrap metal, which also meant an abundance of homemade knives. 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.

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.

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The stepfather told him to go to school Monday and get it back. 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.

That night Phillips went out and never came home.

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Around this time, Fred Mitchell got out of prison. One day in September, he took the children to the Michigan State Fair. The beating continued. 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.

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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. His stepfather beat him again. 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.

He put on a suit in the morning and rode the bus to work, spending less time with the old crew. Phillips and his friend each held one under a sleeve as they stood outside the chow hall, waiting for Mitchell to emerge.

It was December 13, At the bottom of 2 was a brief item about a year-old man pleading guilty to manslaughter. He was thinking about the man who put him there: his old friend Fred Mitchell.

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Phillips stood firm. One day a girlfriend named Theresa told him she was pregnant, and the baby was his. The belt struck again, and again, and again, and finally it shattered some internal barrier. Then he asked again: Did you steal my watch? Little is known about the life of Fred Mitchell beyond a few memories of old acquaintances and the occasional mention in official records. They were juvenile delinquents on the verge of becoming hardened criminals in a city where violent crime was all around.

And he just might get away with it. Phillips could see it all in his mind. His daughter, Rita, was 4. The police failed. 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. By this time, Phillips had taken a better path.

Did you steal my watch? But on a cold day in the prison yard, he carried a knife and thought about revenge. That night he slept on the hard floor of a vacant house, aware that he had no one in the world but himself. It may have been the first poem he ever wrote.

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The trial judge failed. The black man stood watch near the door. Phillips lived a double life, dangerous and unsustainable, a drug addict by night and a father by day. Undoubtedly, the justice system failed him.

They called him Dago. Theresa worked in a bank. 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. A single issue of the Detroit Daily Dispatch newspaper gives a sense of the chaos and desperation. After a joyriding conviction led to a brief prison sentence, he took a typing class and learned to type 72 words per minute. He waited, and waited. Here he was, walking across the yard, unaware of the two men walking behind him. Some lies require more lies. The jury failed.