He’s 2 1/2 years out of prison, conviction dismissed, but his frustration remains

The last time I’d seen Arthur Carmona, he was turning 21 and fading to black. Out of prison for 2 1/2 years, his euphoria at having an armed robbery conviction dismissed had long since dissolved into disillusionment over his new life on the outside and utter uncertainty about the future.

Hardening the mixture was his ongoing anger over what he said was his wrongful conviction in the first place and what prison had done to his psyche. Hint: It didn’t improve it.

So, when he walked in the door of a North Hollywood church one night last week, I waited for a sign from the guy I hadn’t seen in 3 1/2 years. When he immediately walked over and gave me a hug and flashed a smile, the unforced affability told me in an instant what I wanted to know.

He was on the comeback trail.

Over the next couple hours, it became clear he was by no means all the way back. Many, many miles of uncharted territory lie ahead.

He is the first to concede that, at 24, he still hasn’t found the road map. But he talks like a young man who wants to get somewhere, and that represents major progress.

On this night, Carmona had driven up from San Diego, where he’s now living, to speak to a group at St. Charles Catholic Church about wrongful convictions.

The night had a slight air of surrealism to it. Carmona is by no means a polished public speaker, but he has made himself available through an informal speakers’ bureau network. Earlier this year, he took part in a conference at the UCLA School of Law.

Last week in North Hollywood, he stood in front of a group of a dozen or so people and described how he’d been arrested, identified by various eyewitnesses and then convicted for committing two armed robberies when he was 16.

It took a high-powered Los Angeles law firm, working for free after hearing of his case, to prepare a gigantic brief that convinced an appellate court to ask a lower court to review his conviction.

On the eve of a hearing to determine whether he should get a new trial, the Orange County district attorney’s office in August 2000 dropped the charges and asked the judge to free Carmona, then in Ironwood State Prison in Blythe.

In a way, I’ll always feel linked to Carmona.

From May 1999 to September 2000, I wrote a number of columns about his case. I came to believe -- even as it was impossible to know with certainty -- that he didn’t do the robberies. And because I believed it, I sympathized with a kid described by teachers and others as shy and good-natured who suddenly found himself in the state’s penal system.

In his remarks to the North Hollywood group, Carmona made brief, somewhat unfocused, comments and then fielded questions that took up the greater part of his hourlong talk and fleshed out his presentation. What I’ve always found interesting about him is how he can go from disjointed remarks to eloquence in the span of a few sentences.

He spoke of his frustration with the judicial system and how he had to don the mask of a tough guy in prison to survive. He earned his high school diploma while in jail, but says it means nothing because he didn’t take part in any normal high school activities. He says he got into a fight his first day in the California Youth Authority and almost stabbed someone in Ironwood to defend himself. He took drugs in prison and told family to quit visiting him because their visits proved too painful for him. He developed racial biases he’d never had. He says he wondered if he’d die in prison or if he should kill himself.

Referring to his arrest and immediate incarceration, he said, “I only got to be 16 for a couple days.”

He says he speaks publicly to persuade people to correct injustices, but the poignancy in that is that it seems virtually impossible to picture him as the messenger that people will listen to. That is, he wasn’t on death row or even convicted of a murder. He did 2 1/2 years, not 20.

And so, it’s hard to tell if he thinks he can make a difference, or if he just needs to tell his story. As he told the small Hollywood audience that he’d driven 100 miles to address, “I’m still not considered innocent in the court’s eyes,” he says, referring to the fact that the district attorney simply decided not to pursue the case, as opposed to other celebrated instances where DNA exonerated someone in custody.

Before his presentation, we talk privately and I say he seems more at peace with things. He smiles and agrees, but says the anger still emerges and that he’s frustrated in not being able to settle on a career path. He tells me about the incident earlier this year in Fullerton when he keyed someone’s car in retaliation for the person doing it to him. He was charged with a misdemeanor and given informal probation.

He’s been installing carpet with his father but says the work is too grueling. “It’s kind of taking wear and tear on my body,” he says with a laugh.

He says he wants to do more with his life but can’t focus. “I can’t direct my brain,” he says. “When I do something like this [public appearance], it feels good and I think maybe this is something I should look into. But I don’t know what I need to do to make it happen. We’ll see what happens.”

I remind him how despondent he seemed when we last talked. “Those were my dark days,” he says. “I don’t want to go back to those days. I actually felt worse out here than when I was in prison, for that period of time. I kind of learned to cope with it.”

I ask what he wants to achieve with his talks. “I want people to do what they’re supposed to do, to look and see if people are innocent.” He’s referring to private organizations that claim to be dedicated to such efforts, in addition to the legal system itself.

He says he’s “working on a legitimate case” involving another incarcerated man but can’t find a group to take it on. Even his public appearances can prove frustrating, because they don’t seem to produce results. “I’m starting to feel like it’s a waste of time, but I still do it,” he says.

And the anger? “I’m still angry,” he says. “Certain things tick me off, and it’s probably always going to be there.” He confides that what he most wants is for the Orange County district attorney to formally proclaim his innocence, but I tell him not to hold his breath.

I ask if the anger is directed at anyone. “Just at what I had to go through,” he says. “I should have never done any of that time. I should never have been anywhere near that place [prison].”

Time slips away, and I feel oddly sentimental talking to him. I have a hard time believing the bulk of my columns about him ended six years ago. I ask if the ordeal seems like a long time ago to him.

“It feels like it’s been a while,” he says, again without any sign of hardness in his voice. “But I can still remember everything to a T. Ask me about something that went on back then, and it’s so close, I can tell you what it smelled like.”