The Sun Does Shine

by Anthony Ray Hinton

  “I do.” Bryan looked sad, but he was nodding at me.

  “I was at work. I didn’t try to rob and kill anyone. I was at work where a guard had to clock me in and clock me out. They told me it didn’t matter that it wasn’t me. They told me that a white man was going to say that I did it and that’s all it would take. I was going to be guilty because I was going to have a white jury and a white judge and a white prosecutor. My defense attorney wasn’t paid nothing. He couldn’t get money for an expert. They took my mom’s gun and said it was the gun that killed those men. My mom’s gun hadn’t been fired in twenty-five years. My expert only had one eye. I cried when he got off the stand. I knew they were going to find me guilty, but I didn’t do it. I dated some sisters and people lied and I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. A man called during the trial and said he was the one, but my attorney was mad he woke him up. That guy knew things. I didn’t know anything. I’d never hurt anyone. I didn’t do it. I’m innocent and they have me in here and I can’t get out. I’m suffocating in here. They’re killing people. They’re killing people right next to me. I have to smell my friends as they burn. Do you understand? I have to breathe in their death and it never leaves and they smile at you but someday they’re going to come for me too and I am innocent. I need to get home to my mom. She’s not feeling good. She doesn’t come to visit anymore, and she needs me at home. I need to go back home. I’m innocent. I can’t get out of here, and I’m innocent.”

  It all came out in a rush, and Bryan just sat there and listened to every word. I didn’t feel any doubt coming off him. He looked me in the eye the whole time. He asked me questions about my mom and about other family. I told him about Lester and how for twelve years he had come to see me every visiting day. Never missed a day. That was true friendship, and I told him that I wished everyone had a best friend like Lester. He asked me about my trial and who had testified at my sentencing. He seemed surprised that Perhacs hadn’t put Lester or my mom or anybody from church on the stand when I was sentenced. He asked me some questions about work and had me walk him through clocking in the night of the Smotherman incident.

  We talked for over two hours. I felt comfortable with him. I asked him if he was an Auburn fan and told him that Alan Black was a Red Sox fan and I should have known then it would never work out between us. I told him that after he got me out of here, we could go to a Yankees game.

  He laughed. I asked him about his work. Did he have any family? I told him funny stories about the guards, and I told him about book club and how the warden was shutting us down because some of the other guys were saying it wasn’t fair that we got to go out to book club and that either everyone goes or no one goes.

  I told him we needed some fans on death row, that it was too hot in the summer to even breathe right. He listened to everything I said. He didn’t seem in a rush to finish. He didn’t interrupt me. He just listened. It was a powerful thing to be listened to like that.

  “I have an idea about my case,” I said.

  “What is it?” he asked. He leaned toward me, like he was really interested.

  “Well, I don’t know if you’re an attorney who doesn’t like it if your client has ideas—” I didn’t want to offend him or put him off.

  “Ray,” he interrupted me. “I want to hear every idea you have. We are a team. Along with my staff at EJI, we’re going to do everything we can. I want to know what you’re thinking every step of the way. I’m going to review your transcript closely. Any idea you have is important to me. No matter what it is.”

  I smiled at him. This is what I wanted to hear. “I want you to get a ballistics expert.”

  “Yes, we’re going to do that; I think Alan got someone.”

  “I need you to get the best ballistics expert there is. The judges here are so biased. It can’t be a woman. It can’t be someone from up North. It has to be a man, preferably a white, Southern man. He needs to believe in the death penalty. He needs to be the best of the best, the guy who taught the State’s guys. He needs to have every reason in the world to want to see me die if I’m guilty, but he has to be honest. As long as he’s an honest, racist, Southern, white expert, I’ll be okay.”

  Bryan laughed. “I can see your point. That’s a good idea. We’ll look into it. I know someone from the FBI. I think we want to get more than one expert, but let me review your file. Let me see the reports from the State’s experts. Let me see what your expert said and did. I need to get up to speed on everything, and then I’ll come back to see you. Okay?”

  We shook hands again, and our eyes locked as we said goodbye. He didn’t promise me then he was going to get me out of there, but I saw it in his eyes. I saw the promise that he would make later. It was a promise I would hold on to through a lot of dark nights.

  The guard walked me back to my cell, and as soon as the door shut behind me, I dropped to my knees. I folded my hands and bowed my head. Thank you, God. Thank you for sending Bryan Stevenson. I trust things to happen in your time, so I’m not going to ask you why you didn’t send him earlier. Please, God, watch over Bryan Stevenson. Take care of him, because he’s doing your work. God, bless the men on death row. Bless my mom, and please put hope in her heart that her baby’s coming home. I’m going to tell her you sent your best lawyer to me. God, please keep her in good health. Please, God, let the truth come out. Thank you, God. I know you’ve sent your best lawyer, and I know you’ve reopened my case.

  I finished my prayer just as the first sob broke loose from my chest. I spent the next two hours on my knees sobbing like a baby.

  Some nights are just made for crying.

  18

  TESTING THE BULLETS

  Standing alone, the evidence in this case was simply insufficient to prove Mr. Hinton’s guilt.

  —BRYAN STEVENSON, OPPOSITION TO STATE’S PROPOSED ORDER, 2002

  My mom wanted to cook for Bryan Stevenson. It’s the way she showed love, and after I told her about him, all she wanted to do was show her love.

  “He’s going to be coming to talk to you,” I told her.

  “Well, what does he like to eat?” she asked. “I want to make him something special. You find out what his favorite meal is, and I’ll fix it right up. I’d like to give him some money also.”

  “No, Mama. You can’t give him money. He won’t take it. Please don’t try to give him money.”

  “Well, what does he say? When are you going to come home, baby? I’m ready for you to come home now.”

  My breath always hitched when she said that. She hadn’t been out to see me in a long time. The drive was just too difficult for her. I knew she was sick, in the way you know things about the people you love, but neither she nor Lester wanted to tell me anything. They didn’t want me to worry, and it just seemed easier to pretend things were different from how they were. I couldn’t be home to take care of her, and the pain of that fact was too much to face. I was a prisoner. It shouldn’t have been so hard for an innocent man to get out of prison, but it was. There is a point in a struggle where you have to surrender. You have to stop trying to swim upstream, stop fighting the current. I hadn’t given up the idea of walking out of prison, but I couldn’t fight it every single day and survive. You try your best to get home, and then at some point, you decide to make a home where you are. I had to make a home of Holman to survive. I had to block out my real home and block out the outside world. It didn’t matter anymore what other people did at 10:00 A.M. every day. For me, in my home, 10:00 A.M. was lunchtime. I had to accept that. I had to face the fact that in my home, men cried and screamed and moaned every day, all day. In my home, the rats and the roaches were free to come and go as they pleased, while I was not. In my home, people could come in at any time and turn my home upside down, and I had to take it. I had to say, “Yes, sir,” and “Thank you, sir,” in order to live. In my home, death was always at my door. It circled my house, watching and waiting and always present. I survived in my home mostly week to week—between visits
with Lester, but sometimes it was minute to minute and hour to hour. In my home, I always knew when my family would die. In the real world, I didn’t know that death stalked the ones I loved as well. I couldn’t face that reality. I couldn’t live in the real world—only in the world of my imagination and the world that existed in my cell.

  “It’s going to take some time, Mama. He has to undo what the other lawyers did. It’s like he’s starting over. But he promised me he was going to get me out of here. He knows I’m innocent, Mama; he believes me. He’s proven it.”

  “Of course you’re innocent. No child of mine would ever hurt someone. I didn’t like how that other attorney used your name. He didn’t do right by you. I don’t think he believed in you.”

  She was talking about McGregor. It was hard to hear how confused she got at times. Lester told me she was fine, just got tired easily and it pained her to sit in a car for seven hours in one day, which I understood. His mom still came to visit, but only every few months or so. They were getting older. We were all getting older.

  After Bryan had come to visit, I received a letter from him.

  November 1, 1998

  Anthony Ray Hinton, Z-468

  Holman State Prison

  Holman, 3700

  Atmore, Alabama 36503

  Dear Ray:

  We have reviewed the trial transcript of your case and prepared a case summary. We are now organizing the investigation. I am sending you a copy of the trial summary and would like you to review it. I will want to talk to you again about some of the evidence presented against you at trial, and it may be useful for you to refresh your recollection by reviewing the trial summary.

  I hope you are well. We are starting to make some progress in identifying areas where there may be a basis for moving your case in the right direction. I will be down to see you in the next couple of weeks. Hang in there.

  Sincerely,

  Bryan Stevenson

  Bryan did come to see me a few weeks later, and a few weeks after that, and on a regular basis. We got to know each other, and for parts of the visit he was my attorney, and for other parts he was my friend. Sometimes we would go an hour or more not talking about my case—not the ballistics or McGregor or Reggie White or anything to do with my innocence. Instead, we would talk about the weather in Alabama, the college football season, food we liked and food we hated. Some days, I could see he was tired, and I wondered about the wear on a person when so many lives depend on what you do each day. He carried a big burden, and it wasn’t just mine. He spoke of justice and of mercy and of a system that was so broken it locked up children and the mentally ill and the innocent. “No one is beyond redemption,” he would say. No one is undeserving of their own life or their own potential to change. He had such compassion for victims and for perpetrators, and an intolerance and even anger for those in power who abused that power. Bryan Stevenson was not happy with McGregor, and he wasn’t happy with Perhacs either. I learned he had a team of young lawyers, straight-A students from the best law schools in the country, working for him and volunteering to fight the good fight. “If those straight-A students can’t get it done,” I used to say, “you might want to bring in some of those C students. Those middle-of-the-class students sometimes know how to work the system. They have some hustle to them.”

  I liked making him laugh. He wore his work and his passion for his work on his face, but sometimes you could see it fall away and we were just two guys shooting the shit. Talking about football and politics and good barbecue and guys we knew who could act the fool. I wasn’t condemned, and he wasn’t a lawyer. We were just Ray and Bryan, more alike than different. We both knew my life was in his hands—but that’s a burden we had to set aside now and then. It was always there for us to pick up again, but sometimes life is so damn heavy the only choice is to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. It was a relief to know he truly believed in my innocence. There was no talk of life without parole. I was innocent, and he was going to yell and argue and fight until the State agreed to acknowledge it had made a mistake.

  I hoped it would be soon.

  I prayed it would be soon.

  Hope can be a four-letter word in prison. It can tease a man by staying close but just out of reach. I had hope. I had lots of hope. But I was impatient at times. My life was passing me by quickly, and every year, I grieved for the year I lost. I was grateful to not be executed, but it was like existing in limbo—floating somewhere between life and death and never knowing where I was going to land.

  The original case summary Bryan prepared was almost two hundred pages long. I liked that he wanted me to review it. I liked that he asked my opinion. I liked finally feeling that I had a voice in my own defense.

  May 18, 1999

  Anthony Ray Hinton, Z-468

  Holman State Prison

  Holman, 3700

  Atmore, Alabama 36503

  Dear Ray:

  We have had a couple of useful days investigating your case. On Sunday, we spoke with Tom Dahl, who was your supervisor on the night of the Quincy’s robbery. Dahl was very helpful and gave us additional information to support your alibi. We have also located two of the other Manpower employees who were working with you at Bruno’s on the night of the crime. We are still looking for others. If you can think of anyone who you worked with on that night, please send me their name.

  Earlier this month I met your mother in her home and we really enjoyed speaking with her. We were able to speak with Donna Baker, Wesley Mae Williams, and Rev. Calvin Parker from the church. We are tracking down a couple of other folks who would have been at the church that night.

  I have spoken to Alan Black who understands that we will be filing an amended petition and formally entering our notice of appearance in your case next week. We will be up in Dora and Birmingham for three days next week investigating your case. I will give you an update at that time as to where we are. There is still a hearing scheduled for June 25, but I expect that will be postponed in a couple of weeks. I’m now thinking that the best time for a hearing for us will be sometime between August and October of this year.

  Let me know if you need anything and hang in there. I’ll be in touch with you soon.

  Sincerely,

  Bryan Stevenson

  He always told me to “hang in there,” and those words weren’t throwaway words. They weren’t just a way to end a letter or a phone call. We both knew a lot of guys on the row—eleven, to be exact, since I was there—who’d chosen not to hang in there. Giving up was always a temptation. Taking your own life sometimes seemed like a better choice than letting the State take it for you.

  I wasn’t going to take my own life, but I always appreciated Bryan’s telling me to hang in there. It got me through another day. Another long night. I took comfort in his letters and his visits. He was working for me, and I prayed for him each and every night.

  He found two good old boy experts from Texas and another from the FBI. They were the best of the best in the country. They usually only testified for the prosecutors in a case. They were white. They were honest. They had credentials that made Higgins and Yates look like hacks. They were unimpeachable, as Bryan liked to say.

  “Ray, I have good news.” Bryan’s voice sounded excited. Like a little kid on Christmas.

  “What’s that?” I had gotten word from the guard that Bryan had wanted to talk to me and I should call him right away. He had an understanding with the guards that he could call them and they would give me a message to call him collect. Sometimes it seemed like the guards wanted to see me leave death row just as much as I did.

  “I got the reports from Emanuel, Cooper, and Dillon. Their report says that none of the bullets from all three locations match your mother’s gun. They also said that the recovered bullets and the test bullets do not match. We also found out that Higgins and Yates had worksheets that the State didn’t turn over to your attorney. Their worksheets showed question marks and missing information. They didn’t fo
llow proper procedures, and they didn’t record any land or groove information for any of the six bullets. We can prove this. We can prove that the only evidence against you is false. There’s no way the bullets match your mother’s gun.”

  I took a deep breath. Finally! “So what do we do now?” I asked. “When can I get out of here?” I was ready to pack it up right then and there. “Come pick me up, Bryan; I’m ready to go home!”

  “Well, it’s usual for experts to meet and review the tests together when they have conflicting results. It’s a professional courtesy and part of their procedure according to their code of ethics. Emanuel, Cooper, and Dillon will have to meet with Higgins and Yates. It’s a process, Ray, but we’re on the right track. I’m going to make sure they understand there’s a problem with your case. The ballistics are all they have; without that, they have no conviction. They said that in your trial. They conceded that fact.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Bryan, I can’t tell you enough how grateful I am to you.” I started to choke up.

  “We’re not home yet, Ray, but we’re on our way.”

  “I’ll be here,” I said. “You just let me know when it’s time to go home.”