On August 17, 2009, my life was permanently altered when I was charged with second-degree murder.

At the time, I was twenty-two years old and had just become a father. I was married shortly after. I was working, driving, and doing what I believed was the right thing—building a future for my family. Then, without warning, I found myself on Rikers Island, a place I had never been, facing a charge that carried the possibility of spending the rest of my life in prison.

Rikers forces choices on you quickly. You either break or you change. I had to become a different man—not because I wanted to, but because survival demanded it. I stayed alive for my son, for my family, and for the hope that one day I would make it home.

I lost at trial. Inside, we call it “blowing trial.” What that really means is realizing that freedom has just moved out of reach. I was sentenced to twenty years to life. People lower their heads when they hear numbers like that. Hope becomes dangerous.

What kept me standing was my brother—my soul, my heart. He kept me sharp. He kept me alive.

I watched my son grow up from a visiting room table. I watched him stretch taller, stronger. We arm-wrestled through thick glass and plastic tables, both pretending that moment was normal. Those visits made it clear: this wasn’t temporary. This was my life.

In 2014, two extraordinary attorneys filed a motion under New York Criminal Procedure Law § 440, challenging the validity of my conviction. For the first time in years, I believed I was going home. Even the trial judge agreed that serious errors had occurred—but ruled they had “minimal effect” on the outcome of the trial. The conviction stood.

I lost again.

It wasn’t until 2019—ten years after my arrest—that the New York Court of Appeals ordered a new trial. On paper, it sounded like justice. In reality, it meant another eighteen months fighting for bail on a collapsing, overcrowded, COVID-ridden Rikers Island.

In 2020, I finally made bail.

I didn’t realize then that I was leaving New York for good.

I relocated to Dallas, Texas, while still returning to New York for court dates. Living with a pending murder case—even one dating back to 2008—made employment nearly impossible. Applications ended in silence. Background checks closed doors before I could explain. Still, Dallas gave me distance from the trauma I associated with New York. It gave me space to breathe.

On December 19, 2025, after 5,978 days under accusation, the Assistant District Attorney stood in court and announced that all charges against me were being dismissed.

My attorney, Erin Dracy, my son, and the court heard it at the same time.

I didn’t jump. I didn’t cry. My body stayed still. But inside my mind, I was doing backflips and cartwheels. For nearly sixteen years, my thoughts had never rested. My nervous system had never powered down.

That day, for the first time since 2009, my mind was allowed to be quiet.

This is what a wrongful conviction looks like—not just lost years, but lost peace, lost opportunities, and a childhood taken from a son who learned to know his father through visiting rooms and court dates.

I survived. But survival is not the same as justice.

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On December 19, 2025, The Legal Aid Society secured the dismissal of the murder charge against Derrick Ulett. The result followed six years of renewed investigation and litigation, which revealed that prosecutors had withheld key evidence, ultimately leading to a reversal by the New York Court of Appeals. Legal Aid’s Homicide Defense Task Force assumed representation of Mr. Ulett in 2019.