He blew the whistle on a toxic dump — and says he paid for it with his freedom – Detroit Metro Times

This is the tenth installment in “Exploring Integrity: Reviewing Wrongful Conviction Remedies,” a series examining the impact of conviction integrity units on the American judicial system’s rate of wrongful conviction. Presented by the O’Brien Fellowship in Public Service Journalism, the investigation is supported by Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

After 25 years of what he calls unwarranted prison time Tod Houthoofd’s reply lands like a thud of understatement.

“Not too good,” he half-chuckles when a reporter asks how he’s doing.

Houthoofd, 67, might be more upbeat if not for multiple rejections of his case by the Michigan Conviction Integrity Unit (CIU), despite questionable evidence and procedural determinations that led to his 2006 conviction. Originally sentenced 40 to 60 years for solicitation of murder in what prosecutors described as a request to have a witness killed, Houthoofd insists he’s the victim of retaliation for whistle blowing on the job.

The convoluted case that Houthoofd and his defenders say led to a wrongful conviction involves elements that outwardly appear disjointed, such as:

• A campaign for union leadership
• a misplaced driver’s license
• a cop posing as a hit man named “Chucky”

Among the most questionable factors in Houthoofd’s conviction is the venue. Known as “forum shopping,” police investigators successfully advocated that Houthoofd be charged with solicitation of murder in Saginaw County after Arenac County — where the crime was alleged to have taken place — declined to prosecute. 

“And when I got convicted, that was my appeal,” says Houthoofd during a telephone call from Muskegon Correctional Facility.

Arenac’s refusal to charge after repeated requests from police hinged on doubts about a key witness’s credibility, says George Mullison, Houthoofd’s most recent lawyer. Bay County, a federal district attorney, and the Michigan Attorney General’s Office also rejected police attempts to have Houthoofd charged.

A 2010 Michigan Supreme Court ruling found that Saginaw County’s prosecution was indeed improper, but called the issue “harmless error” — despite the fact that Arenac’s refusal to charge would have negated any conviction.

“And it’s not harmless,” Houthoofd adds, “because I was tried by a court lacking jurisdiction.”

In a dissent from the Court’s ruling then-Chief Justice Marilyn Kelly agreed, writing: “… even if I accepted the majority’s decision to analyze venue errors using a harmless error analysis, I would disagree that harmless error occurred in this case. This defendant offers a more compelling argument than most who allege venue errors; he claims that prosecutors in Arenac County specifically declined to prosecute him for solicitation to commit murder. This assertion, if true, would establish that it is more probable than not that the outcome would have been different but for the venue error … Defendant persuasively argues that he would never have been charged with solicitation to commit murder if the case had not proceeded in Saginaw County.”

The solicitation conviction has punished Houthoofd with longer prison time than many inmates actually sentenced for murder, says Mullison. A former Bay County prosecutor, he has advocated for Houthoofd’s freedom for 10 years after initially representing him as an indigent defendant in a resentencing of 30 to 50 years. Mullison’s review of the trial led him to conclude, in addition to evidence he disputes, that Saginaw County’s prosecutor prejudiced the jury with statements offered as “background,” but having no relevance to Houthoofd’s guilt.

“You could convict the pope on some of that stuff, it’s so bad!” says Mullison.

Nine of 12 jurors later told the original trial lawyer they convicted Houthoofd because he was “a bad man,” according to a motion to overturn their verdict. The statements against his character, including unrelated and unproven allegations of violence by Houthoofd, should have warranted a new trial, Mullison adds. But following multiple correspondences and efforts since 2020, Mullison says he’s still trying to make headway with the conviction integrity unit about addressing the outcome, even now that he’s retired.

A July 2021 letter replying to Mullison about Houthoofd’s application for CIU relief states that the unit “did not find any new evidence that illustrates factual innocence that has not already been raised in appeals.” But not only does Mullison maintain that his application on Houthoofd’s behalf includes points never raised before a jury, Houthoofd and others who’ve been rejected in recent years say the Michigan CIU’s “new evidence” standard has been inconsistent.

“When you got ‘em nailed, straight down, that’s when they change the rules,” says Houthoofd.

Danny Wimmer, spokesman for the Michigan attorney general and CIU, maintains that the unit’s guidelines “simply have not changed,” and that cases must show “clear and convincing innocence,” to qualify for CIU intervention. Wimmer says the unit determined Houthoofd’s case falls short of “new, credible, material evidence that has not been addressed on its merits by any court.”

“Our CIU has informed Mr. Houthoofd’s counsel numerous times of this necessary criteria and the claim’s specific deficiency on this point, including by letter in September 2025 to every attorney involved in this matter, on behalf of Mr. Houthoofd,” adds Wimmer. “Our office has explained this to Mr. Houthoofd’s counsel plainly and more than once.”

Regardless of the CIU’s established guidelines for the timing of evidence, Mullison argues that lawful obligation requires prosecutors to act on a defendant’s behalf when innocence is established.

“I believe that prosecutors have a duty to see that justice is done, and therefore the CIU cannot define their way out of their constitutional duty,” Mullison says.

As a former committee man for UAW Local 362, ironically, Houthoofd says enforcing proper standards is what helped lead to his decades-long legal predicament.

In solidarity

Houthoofd grew up in the mostly rural swath of Michigan’s thumb, Tuscola County. There he attended high school in Unionville, a village of a few hundred residents. Following graduation in 1976, he went directly to work at Bay City’s General Motors plant, Powertrain, beginning his career of the next 20 years. Houthoofd would find himself at GM locations in Adrian, Toledo, and Oklahoma City before returning to Michigan.

During a period in the 1980s, when he was laid-off from the plant, he relocated to Florida where he became a pilot and flew Gulfstream jets. But it was a relatively brief departure from the world that had shaped him professionally. Eventually back at Powertrain, Houthoofd continued as a machine specialist. By the late-1990s he’d also become active in the UAW, helping to address employee grievances. In 2001 he made a bid for leadership.

“Formally and officially, I was a union rep,” he recalls, “and I was campaigning for union president. And there was a PFAS pit, and that put a big target on me, because that was a billion-dollar clean-up.”

Known as PFAS or “forever chemicals,” polyfluoroalkyl substances are compounds that decompose at extremely slow rates. PFAS have been linked to harmful health effects in humans and animals. Houthoofd says he made eliminating a PFAS site on the Bay City plant’s grounds at 100 Fitzgerald St. central to his campaign to lead the UAW chapter. The “target” placed on him, he says, became evident when GM management admonished him about calling attention to the contamination. Cleaning up the site would lead to the plant’s closure and jobs lost, he recalls being told. But he persisted, saying employee safety was of more immediate concern. 

As recently as 2025 Houthfood wrote a letter from prison, cautioning Bay City Local No. 362 union members about the PFAS pit that he says remains a hazard: “This pit is still an illegal dump site with a few truckloads of dirt dumped on top, to conceal it. … How many members working at the factory even know that they are reporting to work in a dangerous, cancer-causing, illegal landfill just west a few feet from truck repair? How many members have died because of GM’s negligence? How many will soon take ill? … This is why I am in prison: putting light on this dangerous environmental problem.”

Before Houthoofd could ever finish campaigning he was disciplined for the first time, he says, in his two decades with the company.

“I had 23 years of seniority at that point,” he says.

Still, he was placed on leave, accused of “running bad parts,” or using car components that didn’t meet industry standard.

It should have been easy enough to fire him, Houthoofd says, except that the plant’s investigation yielded no proof of wrongdoing. GM instead spent thousands of dollars to pay him while he was on disciplinary leave, he says, more aiming to silence him about the PFAS. His eventual return to Powertrain revealed the company had been investigating him off the clock. Houthoofd says he was shown photos of himself out in public, the apparent work of a private investigator.

After multiple requests General Motors provided no comment in response to Houthoofd’s claims.

9-1-1

It was Thanksgiving weekend when Houthoofd received a “9-1-1” message on his pager, telling him he should head immediately to Powertrain’s parking lot. Upon arriving, Houthoofd was ordered to get on his knees, then arrested by Michigan State Police. At the station he learned he’d been named as a suspect in the shooting of a house window, the address of the woman who’d placed him on disciplinary leave.

The investigation was later closed without a charge against Houthoofd, but after his arrest, his home had been searched, and his truck, $15,000, and personal property were seized by police, he says. A handwritten habeas corpus petition filed in Chippewa Circuit Court last year details his account.

“GM set the whole thing in progress for the Michigan State Police,” he says.

By 2002 what Houthoofd describes as a harmless discovery years earlier boomeranged into his path of escalating trouble. While purchasing farm equipment in 1999 he happened across a driver’s license that had been left in the tractor for sale.

“That was found innocently enough,” he recalls. “There was nothing criminal, on my part.”

Houthoofd didn’t attempt to contact the owner of the license, but stashed it on the visor of his truck.

“I just knew it was safe with me,” he says, “and then I forgot about it.”

His girlfriend, Roberta Haertel, also thought little of the discovery. She’d accompanied Houthoofd during the drive to Delta College where the tractor’s seller worked.

“I counted $10,500 on the way there,” she recalls.

At Delta she visited the ladies room, she says, and by the time she returned Houthoofd had already “kicked the tires” of the tractor and finished the transaction. Haertel insisted he get a receipt, further proving how he acquired the vehicle, she says.

But while police had his pickup truck — a seizure his lawyer, Mullison, says took place unlawfully — the license was located and linked to a theft investigation: Back in 1998 when the tractor was rental equipment it was leased, but not returned, by a suspect who used the same ID; a wallet containing it had been reported missing. Now Houthoofd was charged with stealing the tractor through false pretenses, due to his possession of the document.

Mullison says the charges should have never been issued, not only because the search of Houthoofd’s truck had been illegally conducted, but because the wallet wasn’t reported missing until the day after the license had already been used in the rental transaction. Doubts about how he came to possess the document notwithstanding, he couldn’t have rented the tractor with it on April 13, 1998, Mullison says, since the wallet and license weren’t yet missing.

‘They ruined our lives’

Among other issues of evidence, there were discrepancies between the stolen tractor’s serial number and model year and those of the tractor Houthoofd purchased. The theft by false pretenses trial resulted in a hung jury. Houthoofd says he was told the case would be dismissed, not retried. Comforted by the words he says came from the prosecutor, his relief was short-lived. A re-trial was scheduled for June 2004. But in the interim, while Houthoofd was free on bond, Michael VanHorn, a State Police investigator in the tractor case, reported that he received a phone call from an unidentified man.

“I saw you in court,” the voice allegedly said, “and I know where you live.”

Despite later testimony by VanHorn that he immediately recognized Houthoofd’s voice because Houthoofd had seen him in the court hallway several days prior, saying, “Fuck off, VanHorn! Fuck off!” Mullison argues Houthoofd had no motive to call the detective — he’d been told there’d be no second trial. Additionally, a second officer testified there was no mention in the police incident report of VanHorn recognizing the caller’s voice. But a cell phone belonging to a woman who said she misplaced it was identified as the one used to contact VanHorn, plus Houthoofd’s girlfriend Haertel and a GM number, court records show. Despite the fact that no evidence of his having spoken to anyone while using the lost phone was produced, Houthoofd was charged with witness intimidation, along with the stolen tractor.

One witness even testified he’d received a peculiar call from the same number, in which the conversation was steered toward questions about how the caller could contact Houthoofd. It struck Haertel, who observed most of the proceedings, as no coincidence that the Green Hut, a Bay City bar frequented by cops, and the Fraternal Order of Police lodge were locations the woman testified to having visited during the period when her phone was misplaced.

An additional phone call to VanHorn, however, sparked new questions when VanHorn said a male voice he didn’t recognize repeatedly told him, “I know where you live, motherfucker.” By then Houthoofd was in the Saginaw County Jail, awaiting trial, and Mullison says evidence not then available to the defense revealed a Bay County pay telephone booth and a palm print on the phone used to make the call. Even VanHorn later stated that he thought the second caller’s voice might have belonged to James Franklin, against whom the detective had testified.

“VanHorn’s credibility is central to this charge,” adds Mullison. “There is evidence on this question which was not brought before the jury.”

“Paul Sequin, a defense witness in the first tractor trial, testified that he was interviewed by VanHorn,” Mullison says. “Sequin said that, during the interview, he asked VanHorn to read back some of the notes he was making. The witness told VanHorn that what VanHorn was reading back was nothing like what the witness had said. At that point the witness said that a mistrust developed as to what VanHorn was up to.”

Still, for Houthoofd, the worst was yet to come. Michael “Ajax” Dotson, once a fellow inmate in Arenac County, where Houthoofd was held until early 2002, told police Houthoofd had tried hiring a killer. The alleged target? A witness from the equipment rental company who said Houthoofd resembled the tractor thief.

Mullison points to trial testimony that police told the witness the tractor’s renter was in their suspect “lineup,” violating protocol for independent visual identification.

When police later arranged for Dotson to call Houthoofd, so they could secretly record evidence of the alleged solicitation, Houthoofd dismissed a question about whether they were going to do anything to the witness.

“Nah, nah, no,” Houthoofd is recorded saying during the exchange. “I got a real good case … my lawyer will pick [the witness’s] fucking wings off.”

State Police Detective Michael Eberhardt, posing as the killer-for-hire Dotson recruited, got in touch with Houthoofd, according to court records.

“This was extremely important evidence,” says Mullison.

Playing the role of “Chucky,” Eberhardt had several conversations with Houthoofd, documenting no proof that Houthoofd wanted a witness murdered.

“Eberhardt closed his part of the investigation as unfounded!” adds Mullison.

But neither the detective’s report, nor even his name, were disclosed to Houthoofd’s defense team, and Eberhardt wasn’t called to testify, Mullison says: “The prosecutor said that the Michigan State Police had not told him of that name, and the MSP said that they had, but which version is true doesn’t matter, since, either way, it was state action that kept this information from the defense, and is thus a constitutional violation.”

Dotson admitted “milking” money from Houthoofd, and hoping to con him by pretending to facilitate the hit, but again, Mullison says the jury lacked a complete picture. Dotson had a criminal background, which doesn’t automatically make him a liar, Mullison adds, but he’d been convicted of domestic violence and subject to arrest for violating “no contact” orders to stay away from his girlfriend; Dotson stated that he was in debt to police for not taking him into custody. He also gave inconsistent testimony about times and locations where discussions of the alleged solicitation occurred, court records show.

“It is my opinion,” adds Mullison, “that Dotson’s credibility is so suspect that it is impossible to believe anything that he says which is not specifically provable by independent, direct evidence.”

Apart from the evidence being brought against him, Houthoofd says it came out during jury selection that the foreman was a GM employee. He wondered if Powertrain staff at the court proceedings, including the woman whose house window had been shot, might have found ways to intimidate the foreman.

Although the solicitation of murder charge originated at Arenac County Jail, a Saginaw County jury found Houthoofd guilty.

While more common in civil complaints, forum shopping in crimes such as terrorism, or offenses spanning jurisdictions, is an occasional strategy of prosecutors, not typically of cops. 

“When I heard ‘40 to 60 years,’” says Haertel, “I can’t even put the feeling into words.”

She still has flashbacks of the trial, such as when VanHorn testified he didn’t “recall” unlawfully seizing $15,000 from Houthoofd’s house. 

“That’s not the same as saying, ‘I never did that. What are you talking about?’” she says.

“These police officers, they ruined our lives.”

Right versus rules

Much of Haertel’s daily routine revolves around Houthoofd. Phone calls from Muskegon and weekly visits with him in prison have been their primary interaction.

She’d met Houthoofd through a grade-school friend who worked with him at GM, a few years before all the trouble began.

“When I met Tod I thought I’d died and gone to heaven,” Haertel says. “I never met a guy who was so together.”

After watching the man she loves lose his career and freedom, she was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress syndrome. She sees a therapist now, coping and hoping they will have a life together again. Meanwhile, Haertel, Mullison and Houthoofd all scratch their heads about what might convince the Michigan CIU to intervene, since receiving its fourth rejection last year.

“I want that more than anything in the world, and I believe Tod deserves that,” says Haertel. “I’m positive he does. Four times in a row, instead of protecting an innocent man, they’ve sided with these police officers.”

Wimmer, the CIU spokesperson, however, defends its record: “The Conviction Integrity Unit exists to review convictions over which a claim of innocence is made. The vast majority of these convictions are rightful and just. The work of the CIU should not be wholly measured by the simple sum of exonerations. In total, the Conviction Integrity Unit has reviewed approximately 1,800 cases, recommending specific relief in eight cases since its formation, including two cases since 2024.”

Wimmer rejects Houthoofd’s assertion that the state’s “checkbook,” including a 2016 law requiring $50,000 per year compensation to citizens proven wrongfully convicted, plays a role in the case.

“This is simply untrue,” says Wimmer. “Claims for compensation under the state WICA [Wrongful Imprisonment Compensation Act] are handled by different attorneys, not the Conviction Integrity Unit. CIU attorneys do not consider potential WICA awards when evaluating claims of innocence.”

Mullison, who wound up devoting hundreds of pro bono hours to the case, says he can only speculate about the CIU’s rejections, even with his background as an elected prosecutor. Houthoofd has already served the maximum amount of time he was sentenced for theft by false pretenses and witness intimidation.

“I am very convinced that he is completely innocent in all three cases,” says Mullison.

Since Mullison’s first communication with the CIU in 2021, he says, revised innocence arguments including what should qualify as new evidence, or evidence not previously presented in court, have been repeatedly presented to meet the unit’s general standard. 

He adds, “The CIU did use additional criteria when they added ‘information that was brought up on appeal.’ I think this means there is almost no case that would fit their criteria; there is almost no case where matters aren’t brought up at trial, or in a motion for a new trial, or on appeal.”

But new or old shouldn’t matter when it comes to exculpatory proof, he says, citing Schlup vs. Delo and House vs. Bell as case references for “probabilistic determination” of innocence. “Basically that’s just what they say,” Mullison adds. “Determination of actual innocence means you don’t just look at the trial transcripts and not go beyond that. That’s the thing about it: They’re not bound by the legality of procedure, because they’re prosecutors. They can consider anything they want to.”

He sympathizes with the possibility that the unit’s understaffed and likely can’t review every claim in its case load, but insists “they can’t define their way out of their responsibilities.”

A letter to Attorney General Dana Nessel, dated March 6, 2026, stresses his position: “I believe that the unit’s approach fundamentally misapprehends the distinction between the role of courts, and the independent and constitutional ethical obligations of prosecutors,” it reads in part.

“The duty to ‘seek justice, not merely to convict’ is a bedrock ethical principle that binds every prosecutor in this country,” the letter adds.

The second of several conversations between Houthoofd and Metro Times occurs minutes after the first; Houthfood explains that he “paid” a fellow inmate with ramen noodles, in exchange for the inmate’s place in line at the Muskegon Correctional phone. Houthoofd’s eager to have his story told, he says, even if he’s not as optimistic as he’d once been about the state granting him relief.

“They don’t care that their officers lie under oath,” he adds, “and the state don’t care. The courts don’t care.

“I hoped that they would do the right thing. I had no feeling about them — the only feeling I had about them was, ‘Now I have people who will do the right thing.’”

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