Two stories of justice delayed—and some say, denied—have emerged from opposite coasts, highlighting the harrowing journeys of Americans who spent decades behind bars for crimes they insist they did not commit. In New Jersey, Darren Boykins remains incarcerated after 44 years for a 1981 murder, even as a retired attorney fights to exonerate him. Across the country, Jane Dorotik, who served over 20 years in a California prison before her conviction was overturned, recently settled her civil rights suit for a fraction of what she sought, claiming prosecutors pressured her into accepting less.
Both cases, reported by New Jersey Monitor and Axios, have reignited debate over the criminal justice system’s ability to correct its own mistakes, compensate the wrongfully convicted, and provide real accountability for official misconduct. The details are as troubling as they are familiar: questionable investigations, alleged suppression of exculpatory evidence, and life-altering consequences for those caught in the system’s gears.
Start with Newark, New Jersey, where the 1981 slaying of carpet salesman Milton Laufer led to the arrest and conviction of then-19-year-old Darren Boykins. Now 64, Boykins has spent more than four decades in New Jersey State Prison in Trenton, under psychiatric care, steadfastly maintaining his innocence. According to the New Jersey Monitor, attorney John Crayton has launched a last-ditch legal effort to vacate Boykins’ conviction, filing a petition in Essex County Superior Court that accuses police, prosecutors, and judges of misconduct, including the failure to disclose evidence that could have cleared Boykins.
“I still am hoping that someone will read what I’ve sent them before and look at what I just filed—and take a hard look at the case and come to the difficult but courageous decision that what happened to Darren 44 years ago was terribly wrong,” Crayton told the Monitor. He’s not alone in his frustration. Despite an alibi for the day of the murder, the absence of a murder weapon, and two witnesses who repeatedly failed to identify him as the killer, Boykins was convicted largely on the testimony of a jailhouse informant—who later recanted—and a photo lineup conducted 39 days after the crime, which Crayton argues was improper.
The attorney spent six months reinvestigating the case, compiling a detailed report sent to authorities last winter. He’s pressed both for New Jersey Governor Phil Murphy to grant clemency and for the Essex County Prosecutor’s Conviction Integrity Unit to review the case. So far, neither effort has succeeded. Carmen Martin, spokesperson for the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office, declined to comment when contacted by the Monitor.
Boykins’ prospects for release remain slim. He’s been eligible for parole since 2006 but has been denied twice by a board that critics say routinely rejects parole-eligible prisoners. He’ll have another chance in March 2026. Crayton is seeking limited guardianship to represent Boykins before the parole board and is working to secure a psychiatric placement in the community, should Boykins finally walk free. The attorney sees the case as a double failure—of the criminal justice system that put Boykins behind bars, and of reformers whose inaction has left him there. “Why in the world is a soon-to-be 74-year-old, semi-retired attorney sitting in his garage office bringing forward a potential exoneration case in New Jersey?” Crayton asked. “Somebody else ought to be doing that.”
Meanwhile, in California, Jane Dorotik’s story has reached a bittersweet coda. In February 2000, her husband Bob went for a run in Valley Center and was found dead the next morning. Dorotik was arrested, convicted of murder, and spent over 20 years in prison. The Innocence Project took up her case, and after a judge vacated her conviction, she was released in 2020. Dorotik then sued San Diego County, alleging a botched investigation and police misconduct, and sought $20 million in damages. But as Axios reports, her case settled this month for just under $500,000—a sum Dorotik dismisses as a “pittance.”
In her first interview since the settlement, Dorotik told Axios that the San Diego County District Attorney’s Office used “threats” to force her to accept the offer. She claimed the DA’s office threatened to retry her or even investigate her daughter Claire, who had been floated as a possible suspect during the original trial, though never charged. “The DA’s office was saying to my lawyers that even if you carry it all the way to trial and win at trial, what we’re going to immediately do is turn around and appeal, and we’ll keep it tied up for 10 years, and by the time it’s ever settled, she’ll be dead,” Dorotik said. She added that her age—now 79—was used against her, and the emotional toll on her family was too great to risk another trial: “So I just basically threw in the towel and said, ‘Screw it, let’s get whatever pittance we can get out of them and make it be over.’”
The DA’s office, for its part, flatly denies Dorotik’s allegations. Spokesperson Tanya Sierra told Axios that Dorotik’s claim about threats was “completely false,” adding, “There were absolutely no admissions of wrongdoing by the District Attorney, nor were there any findings of prosecutorial misconduct attributed to the prosecutors who handled the case.” Sierra emphasized that the allegations in Dorotik’s lawsuit were “just that—allegations.”
For Dorotik, the experience has left her determined to share her story. She’s in discussions with ghostwriter Kay Diehl about a book and a movie “that exposes what’s wrong with this crazy system.” She faces no gag order as part of her settlement. The original case against her, Dorotik notes, relied on forensic methods such as blood spatter and tire track analysis—techniques her legal team has called pseudoscience. The Innocence Project, which championed her cause, does not track average settlements for wrongful imprisonment, but recent cases suggest Dorotik’s payout was on the low end. Maurice Hastings, exonerated after 38 years in California prison, received $25 million, and Craig Coley, who spent 40 years behind bars, secured $21 million.
Both Boykins’ and Dorotik’s ordeals underscore the enormous human cost of wrongful convictions. For Boykins, the fight for freedom continues, with advocates arguing that “proof of injustice” has not been enough to move the system. For Dorotik, freedom came with a price—one she says was dictated by the same power dynamics that put her behind bars in the first place. Their stories serve as a stark reminder that justice, when delayed or denied, leaves scars that no settlement or parole hearing can fully erase.
As these cases move forward—one still seeking exoneration, the other seeking to tell her truth—questions about accountability, restitution, and reform remain unresolved. The lessons, and the wounds, linger on.
