Transcript of Alice Sebold / Anthony Broadwater

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Listen to Monster BTK on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows. Hi, friends. I'm so excited to share this new season 2 episode of Truer Crime with you. If you want an ad-free listening experience, subscribe to Tenderfoot Plus at tenderfootplus. Com or on Apple Podcasts. Hi, friends. Thank you so much for all the love on the first few episodes of Season 2, from sharing the podcast in your Instagram stories to leaving sweet reviews and sending us thoughtful DMs. Honestly, it means the I'm so pumped. Truly, you're the reason that we get to keep doing this, and that's not lost on me. But I do have a quick favor to ask you. If you haven't already, could you just pause this episode right now and follow us on social media? The show's at Truer Crime Pod on Instagram, X and Threads, and I'm at Slecia Stanton on Instagram and TikTok. It's worth it, I promise. We are sharing case photos, behind the scenes moments, and lots of reels and TikToks diving into the stories we cover here. Plus, I'm dreaming up fun ways to connect, things like live Q&A's, polls, giveaways, collabs, but I need to know if that's even something you'd like.

So the best way to tell me is to follow us, and also you can let us know in the comments or DMs. All right, so go ahead. Seriously, pause, hit that follow button, and come back. I'll wait for you. All set? Perfect. Thanks again for being part of this little corner of the true crime we're building together, it means the world. Now, let's get into the show. Please be aware that today's episode contains references to sexual assault and physical violence. Please take care while listening. I remember being 14, sitting in a movie theater, eyes glued to the screen. It was early 2010, back in the days when Netflix was still primarily a male and DVD service and Hulu was free. The big screen was, to me, still the apex of movie watching. And that day, I was captivated. The film, an adaptation of a novel by the same name, was called The lovely bones. I'd learned later in a college psych class that human personalities often remain stable, unchanging throughout much of our lives. So knowing that now, it's hard to feel shocked that 14-year-old Silesia, who'd grow up to become a true crime podcaster felt entirely sucked in by the movie's plot.

A fictional drama about a girl of my same age who, after being raped and murdered, watches her friends and family from heaven as they struggle to move forward in the aftermath of her death. While the film would earn mixed reviews, the novel on which it was based was an undeniable success, selling 10 million copies worldwide. Years later, when I happened across the book in a thrift store, I purchased it. But what I didn't know then, that day in the theater, nor the one at the Goodwill, was that for Alice Seabold, the novel's author, The Lovely Bones had been a sophomore release. Had I known that, 14-year-old Silesia would certainly have read her first book, eager to hear more from a new favorite storyteller. This book, a memoir named Lucky, shares a subject matter equally as dark as the second, chronicling Alice's own traumatic experience as the victim of a brutal crime. But two years ago, when I finally did learn about Alice's debut work, much like in that theater in 2010, I felt drawn in. But this time, the things that stood out were different. Lucky wasn't some fabricated tale about tragedy. These were real events involving real people.

And I would soon uncover that major aspects of those events deserved a retelling. It's a story far different but running and meaningful parallel to the one Alice wrote in Lucky. And so today, we'll share both. This is the story of Alice Seabold and Anthony Broadwater. I'm Cécia Stanton, and you're listening to Truer Crime. Telling today's story means weaving together two narratives, two points of view that are, at times, painful in their juxtaposition, often at odds, yet always entwined. When I started working on this episode, I wondered where to begin, eventually deciding on the same place it began for Alice and Anthony. Journey, with the same story that inferls in the opening chapter of Alice Seabold's best-selling memoir, Lucky. In the early hours of May eighth, 1981, when Alice, a freshman at Syracuse University, is walking home alone along a mostly empty stretch of road near campus. According to the New York Times, Alice had just left her friend's end of semester party. Summer break was imminent. But any warm, lingering feelings after an event spent with friends are suddenly gone when she's grabbed from behind. A hand wraps over her mouth. I'll kill you if you scream, he tells her.

In her memoir, Alice writes that she never fought anyone before. No, she was the person people chose last in gym class. But trauma and tragedy are not known to spare the unprepared, so she fights back anyway. In the struggle, he drops a knife, which police will find later abandoned. Nearby, they'll also find Alice's broken glasses. He drags her to a nearby tunnel, and once inside, he commands her to take off her clothes. I have eight dollars, Alice says, but my mother has credit cards, and my sister does, too. Her attempts to bargain don't interest him. I don't want your money, he replies. Please don't rape me, she begs. But he will anyway. When it's over, his demeanor shapeshifts. I'm so sorry, he says. And moments later, Are you okay? Then, just as suddenly, his mood changes, and he's calling her a bitch. Calculating her best chances for survival, Alice begs him not to tell anyone about what had happened. Maybe if he thinks she'll keep her mouth shut, he'll let her out of here alive. She asks to leave. He asks for a kiss goodbye. She kiss him. He's remorseful again. More apologies. Take care of yourself, he tells her.

As she walks away, he asks her name. Alice, she says. Nice knowing you, Alice. See you around sometime, he calls before disappearing. Alice walks towards home, her face cut up and bruised, her hair filled with leaves. She can hear the voices of fellow students commenting on her appearance as she walks by, but she doesn't stop. Continues instead towards her dorm, towards home. When she makes it there, she reports the to her RA. Suddenly, it's a flurry of police, a girney in an ambulance, a bright white hospital room, painkillers and sedatives. According to local news outlet, syracuse. Com, an emergency room actor will conclude that she's certain Alice had been raped. But despite a rape kit, numerous injuries, and a knife and broken glasses found at the scene, police are less sure. The officer will conclude his report by saying, It is this writer's opinion that this case, as presented by the victim, is not completely factual. Never mind the fact that he will provide no reason for his doubt. Never mind the evidence, the professional opinion, never find the young girl who walked bravely to her dorm with cuts on her face and leaves in her hair because it is, after all, still 1981.

And nearly four decades later, when a two-word hashtag captures the attention of the world, we will still somehow be having this same conversation. So I suppose it isn't surprising that the case goes dark. Spring turns to summer, summer turns to fall, and Alice is left to pick up the pieces. Before the attack, Alice had always considered herself a bit of an outsider. According to The Guardian, most of her formative years were spent in a middle class suburb of Sofia, raised under the roof of two academics. Alice was often at odds with her parents and described her younger self as too smart, too fat, too loud, too arty. She did her own thing, which included customizing her clothes with embroidery and acrylic paint. As a teen, she fell madly in love with writing and acting. When it was time to plot out her path post high school, she enrolled at Syracuse to begin her college career. But now, her freshman year had ended in a trauma that would stick with her for life. She went home that summer and spent the coming months reeling from the attack. According to the New Yorker, she rarely left her parents home, her nightgown becoming her daily uniform.

She felt more ostracized than ever, and her general sense that her father blamed her for what happened certainly didn't help things. Alice considered for a while whether she would return to Syracuse. Her parents wanted her to stay in Philadelphia, but Alice held tight to her dreams of writing, of making meaning out of the worst thing that had ever happened to her. And so that fall, she did just that. Back at Syracuse, Alice began writing about her attack for the first time One day on her way to class, she stopped in town to grab a quick snack. Walking down Marshall Street, she saw someone she recognized, her attacker. Alice would write in her memoir, Lucky, that she ran through a mental checklist of what rapist looked like, compared her memory to the man now in front of her. He was the right height and build. His posture felt deeply familiar. Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? He called out to her. This was all the confirmation she needed. It was her attacker now, mocking her all these months later. According to the cut, as Alice left, she saw the man talking to a police officer.

He was taunting her, flexing his freedom, casually chatting and laughing right in front of her. Later, Alice called the cops to report the sighting. Without a name to go by, police began a search based on her description. And according to syracuse. Com, Alice hopped into a sergeant's car and drove around town in search of the man she'd seen earlier that morning. And reading all this, I felt such deep empathy for Alice. I couldn't imagine how she must have felt driving around that night, replaying over and over again the moment she saw him, his nerve to call out to her. Anthony Broadwater was walking on Marshall Street when he suddenly saw someone he recognized. Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? He called out. It was October of 1981, and Anthony, who was 20 years old, had been navigating a flurry of changes. According to the New York Times, he'd recently been discharged from the Marines after developing a cyst on his wrist. Now, back in Syracuse, he found work installing telephones for a telecom company. But Syracuse was familiar to Anthony. It's where he'd grown up. Syracuse. Com writes that he'd spent his childhood playing sports and getting up to antics with his brothers.

His mom had passed away when he was just five years old, and so his father, who worked as a custodian, raised Anthony and his brothers with the help of the boy's aunt. Despite being only 20, returning to Syracuse for Anthony had come with heavy adult responsibilities. His dad, whom he loved dearly, had recently been diagnosed with stomach cancer, and Anthony planned to spend time caring for him. However, on this particular day in October of 1981, Anthony was doing what most people his age did, walking around town with a friend. It's when his friend ducked into a store on Marshall Street that he saw that person he recognized, a police officer he'd known as a kid growing up in Syracuse, a police officer, not Alice. Hey, don't I you from somewhere, he called out. If you're into the stories I tell here on Truer Crime, you're going to love the podcast, Ice Cold Case. This investigation into the murder of John Cornelius McGee is about as personal as it gets. The host and daughter of the victim, Madison McGee, brings a powerful, personal, and deeply unique perspective to the true crime genre. Camera. She fearlessly tackles the unknown and will stop at nothing to find out what happened to her dad on July 11th, 2002.

Each episode takes you on a journey of her independent investigation in real-time. What I love about Ice Cold Case is how Madison is able to just balance the emotional side of this story while also focusing on fact-finding and truth-telling. This is the perfect podcast if you love a deep dive into one specific case and you want to put on your own detective hat and explore this riveting mystery. Part one and two are out now, and you can find Ice Cold Case wherever you listen to podcasts. Catch up before part three comes out this spring. After Alice's report, a sketch and description of the man she saw on Marshall Street circulated throughout the Syracuse Police Department. Eventually, Officer Paul Klapper recognized the man. He just talked to him. It was Anthony Broadwater. It was all the impetus needed to reopen Alice's case, and before long, Anthony was arrested and brought in for questioning. When speaking with police, Anthony was immediately cooperative. He knew he was innocent and felt he could prove it. He'd done nothing wrong and was eager to give investigators anything they wanted. But as syracuse. Com reported, his brothers weren't as optimistic. They warned him early on, saying they thought the cops were going to railroad him.

Anthony pushed back. How could he be railroaded if he hadn't done anything? Soon, he was placed in a criminal lineup, but his lawyer had objections. Aside from being black, none of the other men in the lineup looked anything like Anthony. So his lawyer suggested swapping out at least one of the men with someone else being held at the same jail, a man named Henry Hudson. In comparison to the other men, Henry at least looked somewhat similar to Anthony. And while researching for today's episode, I reviewed a photo of the lineup. In it, five black men stand shoulder to shoulder, straight-face, eyes to the camera. Anthony is fourth in the lineup, and Henry is to the right as the fifth. I'm struck by how different the men look from one another. All of them aside from Henry, are taller than Anthony. One man's face is round and young-looking, another looks older, his face punctuated by a distinct mustache. The photo is in black and white, so it's hard to tell the exact differences in skin tone, but Anthony and Henry seem to be darker than the other three. And though Henry and Anthony look the most similar, they still bear strong differences.

Henry has a square hairline while Anthony's is more rounded. Henry's straight eyebrows frame large round eyes, a stark contrast to Anthony's arched eyebrows and almond-shaped eyes. Criminal lineups are not uncommon, but as the American Psychological Association reports, eyewitness identifications and police lineups are prone to inaccuracies. Several studies have found that even small details of how the lineup is conducted can disrupt the accuracy of an identification. One study found that witnesses experiencing more negative emotions while more detailed in their descriptions were ultimately less accurate in their identifications. As a result, many organizations, including the National Institute of Justice and the Bar Association, have adopted reforms to line up procedures to help improve their accuracy. According to the Innocence Project, these research-back changes include things like, assuring the witness that a lack of identification won't stop the investigation, or suggesting that the perpetrator may or may not even be in the lineup. They suggest presenting people one by one instead of side by side, and having the witness state their confidence level after each identification. I got to be honest, reading through this list of reforms, it wasn't clear to me that any of these measures had taken place during Anthony's lineup.

I imagined Alice sitting on one end of a two-way mirror. A month had passed since she'd last seen Anthony, but now with five men in a lineup, she had to make a choice. Which of them was her attacker? Number five, she said. Anthony was number four. Alice had picked Henry. She felt like a failure. According to the New Yorker, her attorney was quick to reassure, though. Client claiming that Anthony had laid a trap. Henry, she told Alice, was a friend of Anthony's, and a misidentification was their hope all along. Later, in a memo, Alice's lawyer said the mixup was unsurprising, describing Henry as a dead Ringer for the defendant. I thought back to the photo I'd seen of the lineup. Dead Ringer? I wouldn't go that far. But despite this whole lineup debacle, prosecutors carried on with Anthony's case for indictment. And according to the New Yorker, it all happened that same day. In front of her grand jury, Alice testified and explained why she'd chosen Henry instead of her real attacker, Anthony. One juror raised a few questions about Alice his certainty, but when the prosecution claimed a pubic hair from Alice's rape kit matched a sample from Anthony, his fate was sealed.

Anthony was going to trial. According to syracuse. Com, Anthony's lawyer lawyer encouraged him to waive his right to a jury trial in favor of a bench trial, where his fate would be determined solely by the judge. It seemed an unconventional strategy, but Anthony's lawyer had real concerns that jury selection might lead to an all-white jury. He was worried about potential bias in a case where a white woman was accusing a black man of rape. In contrast, the judge assigned to Anthony's case had a reputation for being fair in his rulings. It seemed like the safer choice. The trial itself spanned two days and lasted just eight hours. Much of the prosecution's case hinsed on the testimony of two witnesses, a forensic chemist and Alice herself. Alice's testimony echoed what she told the grand jury and investigators leading up to the trial. When the prosecutor asked if her attacker was present, Alice pointed at Anthony. Later, she was asked if she had any doubts that the man who attacked her was the same man she'd seen walking down Marshall Street. No doubt whatsoever, she replied. Anthony's lawyer tried to question the reliability of Alice's identification. Everyone in the courtroom, aside from Anthony, was white.

She knew her attacker was Black, so of course she had to point to the only Black man in the room. How many Black people do you see in the room? She was asked. Her reply, I see only one Black person. As the New Yorker writes, it was a question that made her uncomfortable, but not the first or the last moment where she'd wish her attacker was white. When the forensic chemist took the stand, trial transcript showed he testified that a sample of hair taken from Alice after the attack was consistent as having come from Anthony. And while the expert witness did also mention the sample could have come from someone other than Anthony, microscopic hair analysis was just super well respected at the time. It all made it look like it was the science versus Anthony. But here's the thing. In the decades since, microscopic hair analysis has been proven to be highly inaccurate, and now it's basically considered junk science. In a Mother Jones article examining the history of hair analysis, writer Rene Abbersole notes that chemists and researchers began raising questions about the field scientific reliability all throughout the '90s. In the 1999 review, a group of independent experts found errors in 96 % of the cases completed by one of the Justice Department's most prolific hair analysis experts.

By 2009, the National Academy of Sciences discredited the practice entirely, reporting that there was no scientific support for microscopic hair analysis completed without supplemental DNA evidence. But Anthony's trial took place in 1982, decades before this research would be released. And so the defense called their only witness, Anthony himself. According to the New Yorker, Anthony testified near the end of the trial. His lawyer coached him through a description of his own facial features. The strategy was to identify all the aspects of Anthony that Alice hadn't mentioned in the description of her attacker, the scars on his face, his chipped tooth, defining features Alice had never mentioned in her report. But if Anthony's testimony might have caused Alice to doubt her identification, we'll never know. Because during this part of the trial, she wasn't even in the room. Instead, she was attending her sister's college graduation, an event her parents wouldn't let her miss. While her dad was there to support her during the rest of the trial, she told the New Yorker that he spent most of the time waiting in the lobby. As for Anthony, his family stayed home. As his cousin Dolores told the New Yorker, we knew he wasn't chosen in the lineup.

We knew he didn't have a mindset to do something like that. They expected an easy acquittal. The judge's verdict came almost immediately after the prosecutor had finished final comments. Guilty. Suddenly, at just 21 years old, Anthony Broadwater was sentenced to the maximum penalty, 8 to 25 years in lockup. Anthony tried to make the most of his time in prison, earning his GED and studying law. But incarceration is a tough road for anyone. And in 1983, just a year into his sentence, his father passed away from cancer. His brothers didn't maintain contact, and soon The only person who bothered to write at all was his aunt. He did make connections with other prisoners, but community couldn't protect him from the harsh realities of prison. According to the New Yorker, on one occasion, he watched his friend get stabbed to death throwing an altercation in the kitchen. Anthony survived by blocking his body with a metal baking tray. But honestly, staying safe in prison was a constant concern for Anthony. Everyone on the inside saw him as a sex offender, and in prison, almost nothing is worse. In one analysis of California prisons, the Associated Press uncovered that male sex offenders, despite comprising only 15% of the state's prison population, accounted for nearly 30% of those murdered while incarcerated.

And these dangers weren't lost on Anthony, who understandably lived in constant fear of being targeted. But forced to adapt to his circumstances, he quickly adopted a unique strategy, pleading his case. As he told the New Yorker, whenever he was transferred to a new prison, he'd seek out the folks at the top of the prison hierarchy, eager to give them his trial transcripts. Hey, who's the head of the Latin Kings? Who's the head of the Arianne Nation? Listen, they need to read this, he said. Recounting the time he was transferred to Attica, Anthony told the New Yorker that while waiting to hear back from gang leaders about what they thought of his case, he crafted a makeshift weapon. Tunafish can shoved in socks. Thankfully, he never needed to use it. You shouldn't be in prison, man, they told him. Anthony agreed. And eventually, he got a shot at getting out. An opportunity to head before the parole board. But the board, as it turned out, was not interested in releasing a man who, after eight years in prison, was still insisting on his innocence. He was denied. When a fresh opportunity arose two years later, Anthony, then 31, had completed sex offender counseling.

But still, he was unwilling to say he committed the time he'd been convicted of. He was denied again. Two years later, denied again. The fourth time he was offered the opportunity to appear before the board, he denied them. What What was even the point? For Alice, life had taken a completely different path. A few years after Anthony's conviction, she graduated from Syracuse and moved to Texas to study poetry. She tried to distance herself from the trial, never seeking updates on Anthony or his case. Still deeply impacted by the trauma of the attack and the trial, Alice started using drugs, dropped out of school, and moved to New York. By 1989, she started writing her experience publicly and published an article in the New York Times titled, Speaking of the Unspeakable. Alice described her attack and the ways the trauma rippled through her life. She discussed the shame and blame she and other victims and survivors often feel, sometimes even from their own families. She noted how often rape goes unreported and how cultural misunderstandings of who is a victim and who is a perpetrator keep many people from ever receiving recognition and support for what happened to them.

The article seemed to provide something women across the country were aching for, a voice to relate to, a story onto which they could lay their own. Somehow, the article passed across the desk of Oprah Winfrey who invited Alice on her show. Suddenly, Alice was becoming an advocate for rape victims and survivors nationwide. Years passed, and Alice kept writing. Now in her early 30s, she she moved to California and started a master's program. It was here that she began her first novel. The story revolved around a girl who, like her, had been the victim of rape. It was the beginning of what would later become the Lovely Bones. But before finishing, Alice decided to take a break from fiction. She wanted to examine her own story more closely. So she applied for a grant that would allow her to return to Syracuse and begin researching for her memoir, a memoir that would extensively detail the attack, her identification of Anthony, the trial that sent her attacker to prison, and how her life unfolded since then. Alice referenced Anthony throughout the book, but referred to him under the pseudonym Gregory Madison. She'd titled the Book, Lucky, in reference to what police had told her following the attack, that a girl had been murdered and dismembered in the same tunnel where she had been raped.

In comparison to that girl, she was lucky. And in 1999, 10 years after a piece in the New York Times, Lucky was shipped to bookstores nationwide. Though it wouldn't gain real traction until three years later, when the Lovely Bones was released. Soon, Lucky was reissued in paperback selling more than a million copies. For many women, Alice was the face of bravery, of what it could look like for women to speak up about some of the hardest moments of their lives. Due to the content of her work and her own advocacy efforts, Alice's career became tightly entwined with the story of her attack in Anthony's trial. All while the real Anthony, now referred to under pseudonyms and broad descriptors, all but disappeared from the narrative. When Anthony Broadwater was released from prison on December 31st, 1998, he was 38 years old. He'd spent 16 and a half years on the inside. And while his attempts before the parole board had resulted in a slew of denials, he'd managed, after all these years, to reach his conditional release date. But now, a whole new battle waited him. Somehow, he needed to integrate back into the same society that had cast him off nearly two decades earlier.

He quickly found stable housing, living with a cousin. But as a convicted rapist, he was required to register as a sex offender. According to the New York Times, it was a life that came with numerous restrictions, like a curfew and monitored computer access. And of course, he was barred entirely from certain workplaces. It was a reality that made finding a job extremely difficult. He coped by hopping from gig to gig, often taking on unglamorous and physically demanding jobs like yard work, roofing, and once, even bagging potatoes. But Anthony's status as a sex offender didn't just limit his job prospects. It scarred his personal life as well. The conviction branded him socially, and he struggled to make friends. And through all of this, the trauma of everything he'd experienced lingered. He'd tell the New Yorker that though he utilized the VA's medical services to obtain therapy, he was never able to be fully honest during his sessions. He feared telling the female doctors what he went through. What if they labeled or judged him? What if they were scared of him? What if they didn't believe him? So he kept the rape conviction a secret. It, focusing instead on things that were easier to be forthcoming about, things like his mother's death or his discharge from the military.

But whether or not he spoke of it, the scars of the conviction were everywhere. He meticulously tracked his time, constantly worried that he might one day find himself accused again of something he didn't do. What if he didn't have a solid alibi to confirm his whereabouts? That, he decided, wouldn't happen. So night jobs were especially appealing, an ironclad alibi for darker hours when crime is more common. All the while, though, Anthony remained committed to proving his innocence, attempting appeals on at least six separate occasions. But finding someone to take up his case proved challenging. Syracuse. Com reports that in one instance, Anthony reached out to the Innocence Project, hoping that advancement in DNA science would help exonérate him, but the case would ultimately failed to launch. He only discovered later that the original rape kit had been destroyed. There wasn't even DNA left to re examine. In a separate incident, Anthony enlisted the services of an attorney named Andres Sobolewski, But after committing to assist, Sobolewski vanished, taking with him $1,400 in payment and all of Anthony's personal case documents. It would all resurface years later, hindering Anthony's legal efforts with a different lawyer when the new attorney, unable to retrieve Anthony's personal files from Sobolewski, ultimately gave up on Anthony's case.

According to the New York Times, at one point, Anthony even attempted to hire O. J. Simpson's lawyer, Johnny Cochran. Saving up his paycheck, he mailed a $1,000 check. But Cochran returned the money. His office didn't take on post-conviction cases. But despite making little legal traction, a year after Anthony's release, something good did happen. His cousin, deciding to play matchmaker, had set him up with a woman named Elizabeth. She was sweet, a homebody, and she shared Anthony's Baptist faith. Their first date went remarkably. But unwilling to get his hopes up just to end up broken-hearted, Anthony opted for the same strategy that had earned him some goodwill in prison. Handing over a stack of court documents, he asked Elizabeth to read them over. If you're going to be in a relationship with me, this is what I'm going to be fighting all my life, he called to the New York Times. They spent that night apart, she in his bedroom with the court documents, he in the living room with his thoughts. When she emerged the following morning, she was crying and empathetic. She believed him. According to the New Yorker, the two settled in the south side of Syracuse, in the same house Anthony's father had once called home.

Now, with its windows shattered and shielded by a tarp, Elizabeth had initially envisioned a future with children. But Anthony was adamant that it wouldn't be fair to burden their kids with the stigma of a father who'd been branded a rapist. They both ultimately agreed. No kids. In 2010, talk began about a movie adoption of Alice's Lucky. But according to The New Yorker, the original scriptwriter, Laurie Parker, quickly faced challenges when adapting the memoir for the big screen. Having read both Alice's book and transcripts of the trial, Laurie felt confused. How could someone be arrested, let alone sent to prison, when there were such limited evidence against them? But eventually, it was a memory from Laurie's own life that made her see the whole case in a new way. At 19, Laurie, like Alice, had been sexually assaulted. In the months following, she was so terrified of running into her attacker, and she moved to a different city. Months passed until one day, Laurie a man at the library. She was certain it was her attacker. In an interview with the New Yorker, she described feeling terrified, a feeling like she was brought back to the original attack.

She couldn't move. After about 30 minutes frozen in fear, Laurie found the strength to leave the library. Passing the man on the way out, she realized she'd been wrong. It wasn't her attacker, not at all. As it turns out, Laurie's experience is really not that unique. Witness misidentification is a well-documented and studied phenomenon. According to the New Jersey State Bar Association, despite eyewitness testimony being viewed as one of the most convincing forms of criminal trial evidence, research suggests that eyewitness testimony is prone to error. And this happens for a number of reasons. For one, memory often isn't perfectly recollected. Rather, psychologists have found that memories are reconstructed, not replayed, scene by scene, as many believe. In addition, flawed visual perception, the length of an offense, and the extent of violence experienced by the witness all have been shown to influence the accuracy of a memory. But witness testimony is still highly compelling to jurors, meaning that witness misidentification is a real problem with lasting consequences. In fact, according to the University of Colorado, Boulder, 28% of all exonérations involve mistaken eyewitness testimony. Meaning that more than one in four people who have been wrongfully convicted were sent to prison, at least in part due to witness misidentification.

And all of this, it's even worse when the witness and perpetrator are different races. Research shows that people are far better at identifying folks who look like themselves. It's called the cross-race effect. It's a widely studied psychological phenomenon that's been replicated in a multitude of studies. According to the Innocence Project, many witnesses struggle to correctly identify the facial characteristics of people of a race different than their own. The consequences, well, frankly, they're horrifying, especially when it comes to assaults on white women by Black men. According to the National Registry of Exoneration, these cases account for nearly half of all witness misidentifications that lead to exoneration. While I imagine Lori didn't know the statistics and research behind witness misidentification, she experienced it firsthand. It made finishing the script complicated. When it was finally done, the whole project fell through soon after. According to The New Yorker, a year and a half later, a new writer was hired to make Lucky the Movie a reality. This writer finished the script closely to the arc of Alice's Memoir, and on recommendation, reached out to actor Adrian Walters to portray Gregory Madison, the character based on Anthony. After a call with the movie's team, Adrian sat on the decision of whether to accept the role.

He felt conflicted until one day, when weighing the choice, he saw a news report about a Black man who'd been killed by police. For Adrian, it felt like a sign from God. This wasn't the role he wanted to represent his community. He turned down the offer. Haunted by a difficult casting process, the writer advised the lucky script to include a key change. Alice's attacker would now be White. Soon, producers would land Victoria Padretti, star of Netflix's popular show, You, to play Alice. But the movie would face another delay when producer, Timothy Muccianti's funds never came through. Soon removed from the film, Timothy launched an investigation into Alice's story. He'd already felt skeptical, his doubts first peaking when Anthony's race was changed in the script. It was time to get to the bottom of things, he decided, and he hired private Detective Dan Myers. When Dan Myers tracked on Anthony Broadwater, he was standing in the front yard of his house, the same house that had once been Anthony's father's, that had borne the brunt of time and leather, windows now covered in plastic tarp. The same house that had never been filled with the sounds of tiny feet running down halls.

The house, I thought, was such a perfect symbol for Anthony's story, a reminder of the trauma he endured, the futures he was robbed of, and also the resilience he'd forged. Because in 2021, when Dan Meyer showed up, the house was still standing. But so was Anthony. I wondered how he felt about Dan, a stranger, coming up to him at his home to ask about a case that had defined the darkest points of his life. But Dan had information he knew Anthony would be interested in. He shared that he'd been looking into things, that he'd even spoken with an officer who worked the case all those years ago in 1981, that the officer believed Anthony was innocent. Whatever initial feelings Anthony had quickly made way for excitement and enthusiasm. Finally, someone interested in setting the record straight. When Dan asked if Anthony was up for a fight, he was immediately on board. Hell, yeah, he recalled to the New Yorker. I'm on board with that 100 %. According to the New York Times, Dan connected Anthony with a lawyer named David Hammond, who quickly recruited fellow attorney Melissa Swartz. The newly The transformed legal duo took only a short time to find what they felt would make a compelling argument for Anthony's exoneration.

The dubious hair evidence, an overreliance on Alice's eyewitness identification, and the poorly executed police lineup. The team then called district Attorney William Fitzpatrick to get his insight on the case. After reading the trial transcripts, he was floored. He told the New Yorker, I couldn't believe that in 1981, in a non-jury trial, a guy could be convicted on that. Suddenly, Currently, Anthony had a team of lawyers and the district attorney on his side. But for the DA, someone else still deserved an update. He emailed Alice, explaining that Anthony was working with the legal team to overturn his conviction. I read pieces of his email in The New Yorker. He appeared sensitive, writing, You've done remarkable things in removing some of the barriers encountered by sexual assault victims. The problem is the hair testimony. Later, he'd follow up to ask how she'd describe the police lineup in her memoir, Lucky. He told her that if it had happened the way she described it, there were significant implications to consider. The inference could be drawn that you were coached on how to handle the issue at trial, which is not an ethical approach by law enforcement, he wrote.

Alice replied both times, grateful to Fitzpatrick for his updates. It sounds like Broadwater's attorney is doing the right thing on behalf of her client and that there will be many steps going forward before there's an end result one way or another, she said. And about the lineup, I felt an immense responsibility to portray things as truthfully as I was capable of. For Alice, these revelations were an earthquake to a foundation she never knew was faulty. I was very passionate in my belief that he was guilty, she wrote. In the last 20 years of no one saying anything would only underscore that. Later, she told the New York Times, It's hard to unravel a truth that has been a part of my life for 40 years and my work for 20 without my whole understanding of truth and justice falling apart. Three days before Thanksgiving, Anthony and his lawyers filed into a courtroom. According to the New York Times, this courthouse was only a block away from the one he'd first entered at just 20 years old. Now, '61, days and months and years had passed since that original guilty ruling. But still, in many ways, Anthony's life had become defined by that original courthouse.

Since then, he'd spent 16 years in prison, and even his time on the outside was now dominated by the 23 years he'd spent as a registered sex offender. Now, even in a new appeal squirt with a new team of lawyers, I imagined Anthony still prepared himself for disappointment. He'd been here before, each time with little to show for it. But somehow, sitting in that courthouse, Anthony still clung strongly to hope. There's a video of this moment, Anthony facing the judge, his lawyer's positioned to his left and right. He holds a stack of tissues and blots his eyes while the appeal process plays out. Behind him are rows of spectators, and I spot his wife in the crowd. It's 2021, so everyone is wearing masks, patiently awaiting the judge's verdict. Mr. Broadwater cannot get those 16 years back. But based upon my review of the motions and representations of counsel, this court grants defendants' motion. They take this conviction. And the indictment is hereby. Thank you, Judge. That concludes. Thank you, Your Honor. Thank you, Judge. It might be hard to tell in the audio, but as soon as Judge Cuffee announced his decision, Anthony let out a sigh that turned into sobs.

He hung his head as he cried, and his attorneys leaned in to hug him. Finally, after a lifetime of being wrong he was locally convicted. Anthony's innocence was upheld in a court of law. Outside the courtroom, Anthony told Syracuse. Com reporters how he'd felt during the hearing. He stood tall and held back tears, his wife on one side, his lawyers on the other. I couldn't help but cry. The relief that a district attorney of that magnitude would side with me. Concerning this case, it's so profound. I did everything I could do to always show people that, Hey, I'm never that type of guy. I never could be that type of guy. A lot of doors have been slammed in my face for jobs. She wanted children. I wouldn't bring children in the world because of this. And now we're past the age, we can't have children. Anthony left the courthouse and went to his father's gravesite. He told his add the good news. I wish to God he was here, he told NBC. Elsewhere, Alice struggled to make sense of her new reality. According to the New Yorker, she stopped writing and reading. Her love of writing had from her grasp, and she no longer felt she had the authority to say much of anything at all.

As Alice told the New York Times, to go from thinking he was the man who raped me to believing he was an innocent victim is an earth-shattering change. Nine days after Anthony's hearing, Alice posted a public apology and statement on medium. The piece, titled Statement from Alice Seabold, opens with an apology. First, I want to say that I am truly sorry to Anthony Broadwater, and I deeply regret what you have been through. Alice continues, noting that 40 years ago, she was a traumatized 18-year-old rape victim who chose to put her faith in the American legal system. Her goal at the time was justice, but her statement now recognize that isn't really what happened. She said she felt grateful that Anthony's story was now corrected, but knows it's all too little, too late. The damage has already been done. She ended the letter with another apology stating, saying, Throughout my life, I have always tried to act with integrity and to speak from a place of honesty. And so I state here clearly that I will remain sorry for the rest of my life, that while pursuing justice through the legal system, my own misfortune resulted in Mr. Broadwater's unfair conviction for which he has served not only 16 years behind bars, but in ways that further serve to wound and stigmatize, nearly a full life sentence.

After her apology was released, Alice's publisher announced they cease all distribution of lucky. In researching this story, I did attempt to reach out to Anthony myself to hear more in his own words, but I haven't yet been able to get a hold of him directly. That said, here's what I know. In 2023, the state of New York agreed to a five and a half million dollar settlement for Anthony's wrongful conviction and imprisonment. He told the New York Times, I'm just grateful, man, that I have the normalcy now of being a decent person to people's eyes. He hopes for an untrouled, peaceful future with Elizabeth, one filled with loved ones, maybe even a bit of travel. His big dream is to purchase a house in the country on a large plot of land. As of the most recent reporting I could find, Alice and Anthony haven't yet met. For many years, Anthony had been under the impression that Alice knew about his exoneration attempts, that she'd cruelly failed to recognize the truth of her misidentification. When he finally learned that she'd been entirely unaware of his legal fight, he felt empathetic, telling the New Yorker, I thank the good Lord I made it to the point where I'm strong enough mentally to say, Hey, it was the court, it was the system.

It's not the victim's fault. Alice told the same reporter that she was working on sending Anthony a letter. She also shared that the remarks Anthony made after his exoneration gave her the sense that he was a remarkable person, an admission that brought both Anthony and Elizabeth to tears when they were told. But Anthony hopes the two will eventually end up in the same room, that they'll finally meet face to face. I was part of it, Anthony told the New Yorker. Whatever she's recollecting, each day and moment, I experienced it, too. I don't think I can judge her pain, but I know that for me, it was war. His words remind me of all the ways Anthony has continually been erased from his own narrative. First at the trial, and then with the publication of Lucky, but still, even now in the aftermath. I keep thinking about how much of the research I reviewed for today's episode centered only on Alice's story and experience. Sometimes in large ways, but often more subtly. Even the New Yorker article, which I reference heavily in today's episode, while a beautifully written and reported piece, is titled The Tortured Bond of Alice Seibold and the Man Convicted of Her Rape.

Anthony's full personhood defined not by his name, but instead by the most traumatic experience of his life. But it's not just other people, not just reporters and journalists and folks on social media, it's me, too. So often, while putting this episode together, I'd reference it by shorthand, the Alice Seabold episode, I'd called it. When I discussed the story with family and friends, I would almost always frame it first around Alice. Today's episode opens similarly. None of it is sinister. Certainly, none of it is maliciously calculated. Also, the things we're sitting with so rarely are. But I suppose even opening the episode the way I did is its own calculation, a belief, an understanding, really, that scandal, tragedy, and fame are compelling. That it's easier to have empathy for a victim we can understand, for someone we feel we can relate to. But I think that's the key in many ways to this story. These two narratives separate but entwined, that Alice and Anthony are both people worth seeing, worth believing, worth relating to. While we can't turn back the clock, can't protect that young woman in 1981, nor the young man facing years behind bars, we can take the time to correct the record, to preserve something a little more nuanced, a little closer to the truth.

Before you go, can you stay for just a few more minutes? Two organizations could really use our support, and I'd really love for us to stay engaged with their work to bring some takeaways from today's episode out into the real world. First is After Innocence, and that's an organization that provides free post-release assistance for folks like Anthony, people who are wrongfully convicted. According to their website, an innocent person is exonerated in the United States every 54 hours. And what's crazy is that most of those people return to the free world with little more than the clothes on their back. Many of them are going to receive zero support in their process of readjusting to normal life, and none of them are going to automatically receive meaningful compensation for all the trauma and the time lost during incarceration. So since 2016, after Innocence has supported more than 800 exonerated people through their programs. They have things like post-release transition support, dental care, pro bono legal help, health care, tax relief, and tons of other stuff. If you want to seek help for yourself or a loved one, or if you want to donate and support this critical work, you can visit them at after-after.

Com. Innocence. Org. When you're done, head over to Know Your Nine. This is a survivor and youth-led organization that aims to empower students to end sexual and dating violence in their schools. Their work seeks to actualize the full potential of the civil rights law, Title Nine. They do that by educating college and high school students on their legal rights, offering training, doing organizing, and supporting student survivor activists. They also advocate for policy changes at the campus, state, and federal level. You can learn more about them and donate at knowyourix. Org. To keep up with Truer Crime, follow us on Instagram and x@truercrimepod. To keep up with me, you can check out my Instagram and TikTok @slicia Stanton, or subscribe to my weekly newsletter, Sincerely Slicia, at sincerelycelestia. Substack. Com. A full list of sources and resources related to today's episode is available on our website at truercrimepodcast. Com. Truer Crime is created, hosted, and written by me, Celestia Stanton, and is a production of Tenderfoot TV in Association with Odyssey. Additional Writing and research by Olivia Husingfeld. Executive producers are myself, Donald Albright, and Payne Lindsay. Additional production by Olivia Husingfeld and Jamie Albright. Editing by Liam Luxon, with additional editing support by Sydney Evans and Jaja Muhammad.

Our supervising producer is Tracy Kaplan. Artwork by Station 16. Original music by Jay Ragsdale. Mix by Daten Cole. Thank you to Oren Rosenbaum and the team at UTA, Beck Media and Marketing, and the Nord Group. For more podcasts like Truer Crime, search Tenderfoot TV on your favorite podcast app, or visit us at tenderfoot. Tv. Thanks for listening. Thanks for listening to this season 2 episode of Truer Crime. If you want an ad-free version of this show and other great shows from Tenderfoot TV, you can subscribe to Tenderfoot Plus at tenderfootplus. Com. Or on Apple Podcasts. Hi, listeners. I've got a podcast recommendation that you absolutely need to check out. It's called Nobody Should Believe Me. This award-winning investigative Truer Crime podcast dives deep into the world of Munchausen by proxy, and it's hosted by author Andrea Dunlop. Through powerful storytelling and expert insights, Andrea explores this heroine condition from the perspective of those who lived it. The New York Times even called it a Rich and Heroine Chronicle of the condition. With over 10 million downloads and consistently ranked high on Apple true crime charts, this show is making ways for a good reason. And in season five, you'll hear the gripping story of Sophie Hartman, an evangelical missionary whose adoption journey from Zambia took a shocking turn when she faced charges of Munchausen by proxy abuse.

It's a season you won't want to miss. And the best part? All episodes from the first four seasons are ready for you to binge right now wherever you listen to podcasts. So go ahead, search for Nobody Should Believe Me, and start listening today.