“Now cough.”
I coughed, knowing that my anus was flaring open for them to see if I had anything hidden there. This was only done to humiliate me. What kind of man enjoyed doing this to another man? What kind of joy did they get from going cell to cell and making a man bend over and show them his ass?
They kept me bent over with my ass cheeks spread longer than they needed to. It was a game. I wasn’t a man to them—I’m not even sure they thought of me as human.
“You can get dressed now. And clean this place up. We’ll be here all shift. We might be back.”
I kept my back to them as they walked out of my cell, and I pulled on my shorts slowly. Everything was a mess. My sheets were in the dirt on the floor. Their boots had stepped on my clean clothes and maybe even on my toothbrush, which lay in the corner next to the toilet.
I waited until they were off our tier, and I called out to Henry.
“Henry!” I said.
“Ray?”
“You okay?” I asked. “They throw your shit around too?”
“Not so bad,” he said. “They just lifted up my mattress.”
“I had to lift my testicles and my mattress,” I said, and then I smiled as Henry laughed.
“I was just going off on my honeymoon with Halle Berry too. They interrupted that right at the good part.”
“You been watching Queen, haven’t you?”
“You bet I have, and she’s my queen now.”
A few of the other guys around us laughed.
“Nothing like a little shakedown on a Sunday!” someone yelled.
I sat back down on my bed and put my head in my hands. Tomorrow, our regular guards would come back and pretend to be shocked at what happened. They wouldn’t mention that they had gone to one of the other prisons in Alabama and tore things up. This is how they kept themselves from being accountable. He threw out your picture of your mama? You got to be kidding me!
And that’s how it worked with a shakedown. You never saw it coming, and no one was ever responsible.
* * *
Alan Black filed an amended Rule 32 petition in 1994. In May of 1997, Henry got his execution date. June 6. We tried to keep it positive.
“Hold your head up, Henry.”
“You just never know what’s going to happen.”
“The governor could give you a stay.”
“Stay positive.”
Guys said these kinds of things to him in the yard, on the way to the shower. Compassion doesn’t know what color you are, and I think Henry felt more love from the black men on death row than he ever did at a KKK meeting or from his own father and mother.
We had met a few more times in book club and had read Your Blues Ain’t Like Mine, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Uncle Tom’s Cabin. All the books talked about race in the South, and Henry at first had shied away from the subject, almost pretending not to know how unfairly blacks were treated until we called him out on it. He was ashamed of how he had been brought up and ashamed of the beliefs that had brought him to the row. “You never knew what a person could grow up to become,” he’d say. “Why tell someone she can’t be a nurse or a guy he can’t be a doctor or a lawyer because they’re black? That person could discover a cure for AIDS or for cancer. You just never know.” I knew he was thinking of Michael Donald, the boy that he had killed. I knew he wondered what that boy might have grown up to become. Henry was the first white man to be put to death for killing a black in almost eighty-five years. His death meant something to people outside of the row. It was making a point about racism and justice and fairness like all the books we had been reading in book club, but to us, it was a family member being killed. There’s no racism on death row.
The guards were extra nice to you the week before they killed you. Asking you how you were and what they could get you. You could have visitors anytime you wanted, without any paperwork or hoops to jump through. You got something cold to drink and food from the vending machine or made special for you in the kitchen.
Before Henry was moved to the death room to wait for his execution, we talked one last time.
“I’m sorry, Ray; I’m sorry for what I done.”
“I know you are. God knows you are.”
“I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I have a brother named Ray. He’s my brother too.”
I could hear that Henry was crying, and my heart broke for him. In the end, none of it mattered. Who you were, what color your skin was, what you had done, whether you showed your victim compassion at the time of his death—none of it mattered. There was no past and no future on the row. We only had the moment we were in, and when you tried to survive moment to moment, there wasn’t the luxury of judgment. Henry was my friend. It wasn’t complicated. I would show him compassion, because that’s how I was raised. That’s how I could lay my head down at night in this hellhole and feel like I could make it through another day. A laugh here and there. A helping hand. Friendship. Compassion for another human who was suffering. I would keep my humanity. I wouldn’t let them take that from me, no matter what.
At a few minutes before midnight on June 5, I stood at the door of my cell. I took off my shoe, and I started banging on the bars and wire. I wanted Henry to hear me. I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. I knew when they shaved his head, and I heard when the generator kicked on. I banged louder, as did every guy up and down our tier and every tier. We banged on our bars for Henry Hays. Black. White. It didn’t matter. I knew he was scared. I knew he was alone. I knew that he was afraid that hell waited on the other side of death row because of what he had done. We banged and we yelled and we hollered as loud as we could. For fifteen minutes, I screamed until my throat was raw and hoarse. I screamed so Henry would know that he meant something. I screamed so that whoever was there to watch the State of Alabama kill in their name knew that we were real men and that you couldn’t hide us under a black hood and pretend we didn’t feel pain. I screamed because I knew that innocent men had been strapped into that horrid yellow chair, their heads shaved like a bad dog, their dignity stripped away little by little, their worth as humans tied up with electric wires and thrown away like garbage. Innocent men had died in that chair. Guilty men had died in that chair. Strong men had wept like babies, and weak men had held steady as they met their deaths. I yelled for Henry so he would hear me and so he would know that he didn’t have to meet his maker alone. And that whoever stared at him in that death chamber with cold eyes was no match against the heat of our cries. We screamed in protest and we screamed in unity and we screamed because there are times when screaming is all there is left to do.
* * *
You can’t watch a man die—see how one day he is there and the next he is gone—and not think about your own death. Alan Black hadn’t been back to see me, but I had received legal papers when he amended my petition again. When I received word he was coming for a visit, I was hoping it was good news.
He had been working on my case for over seven years. I was grateful to him.
“Ray, I got good news,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I’m working on a deal. I think I’ve got the State to the point where they will consider life without parole. I’m pretty sure we can get you off death row.”
He actually smiled at me when he said that. Like I should clap him on the back and be happy for that.
“But I don’t want life without parole. I’m innocent. I can’t get life without parole. That’s like admitting I did something that I didn’t do.” I was shaking my head at him. I had really thought he believed in me, that he knew I was innocent.
“It’s a way to save your life, Ray. It’s a great solution.”
I stared at him for a good five minutes.
“No,” I said quietly.
“What?” he asked. “No, what?”
“I’m not going to agree to that. If I get life without parole, I have no way of walking free. I can’t prove my innocence if I agree to
life without parole. I’m not going to spend my life in prison.”
“Ray, they’re going to kill you. They’re not going to let you go free. They don’t care if you’re innocent. They don’t have any reason to rule in your favor. The judge has given money for experts now because they don’t allow you to appeal for anything you could have appealed on before. They are denying everything we’re claiming. Life without parole is a good option.”
“What about them experts? What about the bullets?”
Alan Black just stared at me like I was an idiot.
“I need money,” he said. “I need $10,000.”
“I don’t have any money.” I couldn’t believe we were back to this again. “You do know that I’m in here for robbing people. Why do you lawyers seem to think I have money? Ask Bryan Stevenson if you need money. He’s the one who sent you. I don’t have any money, and neither does my mama. She’s been sick. Don’t go bothering her for money.”
“You need to ask at your church for the money. With $10,000, I can get you life without parole. Your church needs to collect the money. They’re nice people; they’re going to do that to save your life. Nobody wants to see you die, Ray. Not your mama, not me, not Bryan Stevenson, not your friends and your family, and not your church. Nobody wants that for you.” He was pleading his case.
I got up and stood over him. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about my innocence.
“I want to thank you for your time and for your help, but I won’t be needing your services anymore.”
His mouth fell open, and he laughed a little. “What are you talking about, Ray?”
“I won’t be needing your services any longer. You’re not my attorney. I’m firing you.”
“You’re firing me?”
“Yes, I’m firing you. Thank you for everything up until now, but I’d rather die for the truth than live a lie. I’m not agreeing to life without parole. I’ll rot and die in here before I agree to that. But thank you for working so hard.”
I waved to the guard and walked out of the visiting area. I didn’t look back at Alan Black, so I don’t know if he still sat there with his mouth hanging open or if he had gotten up to try to follow me. I didn’t care. He didn’t believe in me, and I didn’t believe in him.
I would bend over when the guards made me do it. I had no choice.
But I wasn’t going to let anybody else shake me down.
I wasn’t ready to give up on my life. I was going to walk out of this place as an innocent man, or I was going to die trying. Nothing more and nothing less.
17
GOD’S BEST LAWYER
We have a choice. We can embrace our humanness, which means embracing our broken natures and the compassion that remains our best hope for healing. Or we can deny our brokenness, forswear compassion, and, as a result, deny our humanity.
—BRYAN STEVENSON, JUST MERCY
After firing Alan Black, I felt alone again—alone in a way I hadn’t felt since my conviction. What did I do now? Where did I turn? There was a bad joke that ran up and down the row, with guys repeating it all the time:
“What does capital punishment mean?”
“It means a guy without capital gets punished.”
It wasn’t funny, but it was true. It felt even truer now that I officially didn’t have an attorney working on my appeal. I wondered how soon it would be before the courts found out I wasn’t represented. I feared getting an execution date more than anything else. I asked one of the guards as he was making rounds if he could get me a phone number.
“What number you need?” he asked.
“I need to talk to your wife. She is sending you to work with some suspicious-looking lunch meat, and I want to ask her why she’s trying to kill you. I’m trying to save your life.”
He laughed.
“Who you trying to call? I have the yellow pages in the office.”
“I would appreciate it if you could get me the number and the address for the Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery.”
He cocked his head to the side and stared at me for a moment. “You trying to get ahold of Bryan Stevenson?”
I nodded.
The guard smiled at me. “I hope that works out for you, Ray, I do. You’re not like the other guys in here.”
“We’re all the same in here.”
“Not in my opinion. I have his number; I’ll bring it to you later on.” He walked on, and I sat down on my bed to write a letter.
Hello, Mr. Stevenson,
My name is Anthony Ray Hinton, and I’m on Alabama death row. I would like to thank you for the lawyer from Boston; as you most likely know by now, it didn’t work out. I know you’re probably wanting to send a new lawyer, but I would like for you to be my lawyer. Please read my transcript, and if you can find one thing that points to my guilt, then don’t worry about being my lawyer. I will take the punishment that Alabama is seeking. I don’t have any money to pay you for your time, but if you would come see me, I can pay you for your gas. I am an innocent man. I would never kill anyone. I hope to hear from you soon. May the God who made us all, continue to bless us all.
Sincerely,
Ray Hinton, Z468
When the guard brought me the address and phone number later that night, I put the letter in an envelope and carefully wrote out the address. I left it unsealed and wrote Legal Correspondence on the front. The guards would still read it. They read everything.
The next day when it was time to go on the yard, I went to use the phone instead. I called Equal Justice Initiative—or EJI as it was called for short—collect. A woman answered, and I waited while the recording told her it was an inmate calling collect from Holman Prison. She accepted the charges.
“I’d like to speak to Bryan Stevenson,” I said. “This is Anthony Ray Hinton from down at Holman, death row.”
She had the kind of voice where you could hear a smile in it. “Why, nice to meet you, Mr. Hinton. Please hold and I will get Mr. Stevenson on the line.”
Some generic hold music started playing, and I wondered how much it cost EJI to put collect calls on hold. I waited a few minutes, and then a man’s voice came on the line.
“This is Bryan Stevenson.” He sounded rushed and hurried.
“Hello, Mr. Stevenson. This is Anthony Ray Hinton from Holman. Death row.”
“Hello?” he said, but it sounded like more of a question.
“I wanted to thank you for sending Alan Black, but I wanted to let you know that I had to fire him.”
There was silence on the other end. It stretched out for what felt like minutes.
“You fired him?”
“Yes, sir. I had to fire him. He asked me for $10,000. He wanted me to get my church to get him money. I don’t have that kind of money.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hinton. Let me call him and talk to him.”
“I sent you a letter; I need you to read that letter. I don’t want Alan Black to be my attorney. He was trying to get me life without parole. I can’t do that. Do you understand? Will you read my letter?” I knew I only had a little bit of time before the phone cut off, so I was rushing my words.
“Let me talk to him, and I will get word to you. We’ll figure this out. We’ll figure out something,” he said. His voice sounded sincere, but I had been down this road with attorneys before.
“Just promise me you’ll read my letter and consider it.”
“Of course. I promise.”
Months later, I received word that I had a legal visit. I walked slowly to the visiting area, and seated at a table was a black man, bald, who looked a bit younger than I was. He was dressed in a suit and tie. I walked up to him, and he stood and gave me a wide smile.
“Mr. Hinton, I’m Bryan Stevenson.” He held out his hand to shake mine, and when I lifted my arm to extend my own hand, it almost felt like I was moving in slow motion.
“Mr. Stevenson, it’s nice to meet you,” I said.
He grasped my hand in his, and we shoo
k hands, and in that moment, I felt a strength and a compassion and a hope so big it seemed to shoot out of his hand and into mine. It was almost like an electric shock, and I gave him my best strong handshake back.
I sat down at the table and I looked into his eyes, and it felt like I could take a deep breath for the first time in over twelve years. There are some people you meet and you know they are going to change your life forever. Meeting Bryan was like that. I looked at his face and I saw compassion and kindness. He looked smart. He also looked tired. There were lines around his eyes and a sort of sadness hidden in the creases.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Well, I’m fine, thank you. How are you, Mr. Hinton? Everything going okay for you here? Any problems?”
“You can call me Ray,” I said.
“All right, then. You can call me Bryan.”
“Thank you for coming to see me. It means a lot to me. I know you do a lot for the guys around here.”
He nodded.
“I talked to Alan Black. I’m sorry about that.”
“Are you going to be my attorney?” I asked. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Right now, I’m just here to meet you and get to know you. Just talk for a bit. I’d like to hear about your case and your trial and your family.”
He smiled at me, and I felt that same hope bloom in my heart. I knew he was sent by God.
“You know, when I was convicted, I told that courtroom that someday God was going to open my case again.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I did. But I didn’t know it was going to take so long. I’ve been here almost twelve years. I can’t even believe I’ve been here so long. It’s been hell. I can’t even tell you the kind of hell it’s been.”
Bryan looked into my eyes, and I saw that he knew. He understood. He had been to executions here. He had lost people too.
“But today is a good day. Because today, God sent me his best lawyer. Today is the day that God opened up my case.”
Bryan laughed. And then he got quiet and said, “Tell me what happened.”
“I’m innocent. I’ve never been violent in my life.” I took a deep breath and continued. I needed this man. I needed this lawyer on my side. I knew it stronger than I had ever known anything. I needed him to believe me. I needed him to believe I was innocent. “I made some mistakes. I drove off in a car that didn’t belong to me. I wrote some checks, but I wrote them in my own name. I’ve made some mistakes. Sometimes I think God’s punishing me for those mistakes, and other times I think God’s got another plan for me, and that’s why I’m here. I have a mother that loves me. She loves me more than any human deserves to be loved. Unconditionally. Do you know what that’s like? Unconditional love. Not many guys here know that kind of love. A lot of them grew up without any kind of love at all. That hurts a man. It breaks him. It breaks him in ways that no person should be broken. You know what I mean?”
The Sun Does Shine Page 19
