Since 2010, hundreds of San Franciscans have won millions suing law enforcement for wrongful death, imprisonment, and use of force.
The amount of money plaintiffs are awarded varies wildly, from the price of a fancy night out — one excessive force case was settled for $250 — to multimillion-dollar, lottery-like wins. The three biggest settlements were for the wrongful imprisonment of Jamal Trulove, Maurice Caldwell, and Caramad Conley, who won $13.1 million, $8 million, and $3.5 million, respectively.
The impact of the money varies, too. For some, it is life-changing. For others, the cash is secondary to getting some degree of accountability from rogue officers.
So how are settlement amounts reached? And, once secured, how are they used?
The price of death and injury
“In general, the settlement is a function of the strength of the case,” said John Burris, perhaps California’s best known police-misconduct attorney. But, he added, the value of any settlement is also a reflection of how society views the people he represents.
“People do not respect our clients. They are young Black men with criminal records, and they are despised,” said Burris. “I am in an uphill battle to humanize them.”
These perceptions can lower the amount that a plaintiff might expect to win at trial. In turn, that means that representatives of the city can offer less in pretrial negotiations.
“Racism that exists within the judicial system exists within the settlements as well,” said Burris. “Black lives are worth less to the system than white lives.”
The way that damages are calculated is unfavorable to poorer people as well. A large part of the payout in death, injury, and wrongful imprisonment cases is the theoretical loss of income resulting from the incident. Rich people typically have more income to lose, so their settlements will often be higher.
“It is a difficult thing to put a number on,” said Burris. “No amount will ever really be enough.”
Although it is not uncommon for years of legal wrangling to precede a settlement agreement, recipients often say that their fight is not really about money. Case in point: Caramad Conley.
An overnight multimillionaire
Conley first heard that he was going to be released from prison when he read about it in the newspaper.
“My friend had a subscription to the Chronicle,” said Conley who, in 2010, was still in prison for a crime he always said he never committed. “So, he brought it to my cell. It was at that moment that shit really felt weird. You’re just like, ‘I want out right now.’”
Conley was convicted of the double murder of Roshawn Johnson and Charles Hughes in 1994. In the early 2000s, it came to light that the key witness, Clifford Polk, was a paid police informant, something that he had denied during the trial. Polk recanted in 2005, saying that he had lied about Conley’s involvement in the murders. After years of advocacy from the California Innocence Project and lawyer Dan Purcell, San Francisco Superior Court Judge Marla J. Miller overturned Conley’s conviction.
There were still hurdles to jump — the city could decide to retry his case — but in the end, he was released in early 2011. Sidestepping the amassed news cameras, he hopped in his brother’s truck and drove back to his aunt’s house near Zuckerberg San Francisco General Hospital.
“It felt like it was supposed to happen this way,” said Conley. “It wasn’t overwhelming at all.”
Conley immediately knew that he would be pursuing a civil suit against the city, to claim compensation for his 18 years behind bars. But the process would be slow. In the meantime, he lived with his brother in San Francisco. Lots of his time was spent talking about his case and life in prison — to law school students, juvenile detainees, even federal prison inmates.
Three years later, after a grueling mediation, the city awarded Conley $3.5 million. All of the money went directly to him in a lump sum. His lawyers were paid separately, and no tax was paid on the settlement, making him a multimillionaire overnight.
How to handle a windfall
During the lengthy negotiations, Conley said, he was frustrated and annoyed by a comment from the retired judge who was acting as mediator: “If you happen to settle this and you get some money, just don’t go buy a bunch of cars and jewelry.”
“He was stereotyping me,” said Conley. “Like all Black people do is spend their money on cars and jewelry.”
There was no temptation to make any extravagant purchases after his windfall, said Conley. Instead, he bought a “little 500-foot-squared, two-bedroom spot” of his own. He did not take any lavish vacations, he said, because “just walking out this house is a vacation for me.”
“I don’t need all that other stuff, after being in an environment like that,” said Conley.
Since Conley received his payout, he has grown the original sum through investing. He regularly puts up the cash for a house-flipping business in Los Angeles. He invests in stocks and encourages his many nieces and nephews — Conley is one of nine siblings — to do so as well, guaranteeing their deposits to coax them into learning about finance.
In 2016, Conley upgraded to a four-floor house in the hills above Oakland, where he still lives today. He is up early most mornings, biking and running up the steep slopes.
“The only reason I bought a home like this is because I wanted to invest in some property and have a space for family, friends and business,” said Conley.
“Honestly, I was totally fine in a small space.”
Settlement money is not always put to good use. Burris said that when he represents clients, he typically does not keep track of how they use their new funds. However, he tries to set up any minors with trusts to keep the money safe until they are older.
“These kids may never get this kind of money again,” said Burris. “The way I see it, my job isn’t just getting them the money, it’s helping them keep it.”
One of the most painful cases he ever worked on, he said, involved teenager Matthew Watson. Watson was beaten in 2000 by the infamous Riders, a group of rogue Oakland police officers who were ultimately charged with kidnapping, assault, and false imprisonment. Watson won a settlement of over $100,000.
“He soon accumulated a lot of friends,” said Burris. “Within six months he had drained the account.”
Watson was later killed in a carjacking. Burris said that the case cemented his conviction in helping minors handle their money.
“I give them advice and they may or may not follow it,” said Burris. “It’s often a struggle.”
Money and justice
There is a paradox in how Conley thinks about his settlement money. On the one hand, Conley said, he does not need it to be happy, and would be content with less. On the other hand, he says the amount he was awarded does not feel like justice.
“I’m not satisfied with that settlement,” said Conley. “Because if you divide that up by all the years I was in prison, that’s less than $200,000 for each year. Would I be willing to spend a year in a maximum security prison for that amount of money? Hell, no.”
Conley saw his fair share of violence and unpleasant conditions while behind bars. A scar by his left eye serves as a reminder of the day he was stabbed by white supremacists. While still in the county jail, he slept for a time in the cell next to infamous serial killer Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker.
Conley said that he wished that he had brought his civil case to trial, rather than settling through mediation, a process he called a “facade of justice.” He said that knowing investigator Earl Sanders, who put Conley away in the 1990s before briefly becoming police chief, retired with an annual pension of almost $200,000 made the final outcome more galling.
It is not uncommon for recipients of settlement money to see the civil process as an imperfect means of trying to find justice. Another example: Dolores Piper.
Piper was the grand-aunt of Derrick Gaines, a 15-year-old boy who was shot and killed in South San Francisco in 2013 by Officer Joshua Cabillo. Although she was the boy’s guardian, she did not have standing to sue, so Gaines’ parents brought a civil case against the city. They received a $250,000 settlement.
Some was used to pay bills, and some was put into a trust for Gaines’ baby brother, said Piper.
“The attorneys took a pretty good percentage, and they deserve it,” she said. “The suit was never about money. It was about justice for this young man and bringing public awareness.”
Piper said that they might have won more if they had taken the case to trial rather than settling out of court, but that would have meant the risk of losing — and getting no accountability at all.
“The only way to get the officers to answer for anything is in civil court,” said Piper. “Nothing is ever done in criminal court.”
No officer or deputy in San Francisco has ever been found guilty of on-duty homicide.
Cabillo went on to have a decade-long career with the SFPD, where he was successfully sued for use-of-force several times. He left the department in 2022.
Following Gaines’ death, Piper became active in protests against police violence and went along to support other families during their court appearances. For instance, she connected with Travis Hall when he was allegedly attacked by Cabillo and other officers in 2015. Hall ended up settling the case for $40,000. She also took part in a working group helping the police implement reforms from the Department of Justices’ 2016 recommendations.
Piper said that she feels cautious optimism at a “movement across the nation” that is increasingly unwilling to tolerate police misconduct. But, she added, there is still a long way to go: “It ebbs and flows. You need to keep a constant watch if you want things to improve.”
Since Conley left prison, he too has advocated for criminal justice reform. He still regularly visits inmates in the prisons he left behind, and has even written a movie about former San Quentin inmate Curtis Carroll, who taught his fellow prisoners about financial literacy. Conley hopes to get Ryan Coogler or Michael B. Jordan — or both — attached to the project.
“My revenge is to utilize what I have wisely,” he said. “To grow it.”
This is a crucial series on SFPD’s disgraceful conduct and its cascading impacts on victims, families and their communities, and the costs to the general population. The data is all here— the serial abusers, the coverups, and the staggering sums taxpayers dole out for them. Part 4 focus on the victims’ lives post-settlement, particularly Mr. Conley, brings it all into focus. Wish Will Jarrett could multiply himself throughout the country, we need more journalism like this.