“The death penalty is not about whether people deserve to die for the crimes they commit. The real question of capital punishment in this country is, Do we deserve to kill?”
—Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption
Ray didn’t even realize they had executed Wayne Ritter until the middle of the night on August 28, 1987. There was the sound of a generator kicking on and then hissing and popping, and the lights in the hall outside his cell flickered on and off. And then through the night, the smell came. Ray couldn’t explain what death smelled like, but it burned his nose and stung his throat and made his eyes water and his stomach turn over. He spent the next day dry heaving, his stomach retching and twisting. All up and down the row, he could hear men blowing their noses, trying to get the smell away. There was no real ventilation or air circulation, so the smell of death seemed to settle into his hair and in his throat and mouth. He rubbed at his eyes until they were red and gritty. Ray heard one of the guys complain to a guard about the smell.
“You’ll get used to it.” The guard laughed. “Next year or one of these days, somebody’s going to be smelling you just the same. What do you think you gonna smell like to everyone? Not too good.” The guard laughed again, and Ray felt his stomach turn over and heave as he ran to the toilet. The nightmare that was death row only got worse.
Ray wanted to ask how long Ritter had been there. Did they kill people every week? Every month? He wanted to know if Ritter knew they were killing him that day, but Ray still wasn’t talking to anyone. He didn’t know when they would come for him. Could they come kill him even though he was on appeal? If Perhacs failed, would they come take him right away—pull him from his cell in the middle of the night and strap him to the electric chair without warning? Ray couldn’t stop his mind from racing and imagining what it would feel like to be sitting in that chair, and the fear, like a ton of bricks, crushed his chest until he thought he would stop breathing. Everything in him was fighting to run, but there was nowhere to go. It was like when you have a dream where you open your mouth to scream but no sound comes out and you stand there, mouth open and helpless, as danger descends. He wondered if he could get a gun from a guard on his way to the shower and then shoot his way out. Would that be a better way to die?
Ray spent months thinking about Ritter. He wondered if he had cried or pleaded for his life. Had he been guilty or innocent? Ray had never thought about the death penalty too much before being on death row. At trial, McGregor had asked Ray what he thought the appropriate sentence would be for someone who did what he was accused of doing, and he had said the death penalty would be appropriate. But was it? Who was he to say who was worthy of life or death? How could he or anyone know if someone was guilty or innocent? What happened to Ritter seemed like murder, and how was it okay to murder someone for murdering someone? Ray heard some guys say that after an execution, the cause of death listed on the death certificate was homicide. He didn’t know if this was true or not. How could it be true? The thoughts swirled in his head all day and all night while he waited to see who the guards would come for next.
They started practicing a couple of months before the next execution. They called themselves the Execution Team, but everyone knew what they really were—the Death Squad. The Death Squad would line up, twelve of them in all, and march solemnly down the row. One guard would pretend to be the inmate, and the other would lead him to the holding cell that prisoners stayed in before being executed. The death chamber was only about thirty feet or so from Ray’s cell. There was a guy a little younger than Ray in the cell below. Ray had never talked to him, but he knew his name was Michael Lindsey, and Ray knew Lindsey was the next to be executed. In the month leading up to his execution, Lindsey cried every day.
Ray had never heard anyone cry like that before; he remained silent. Michael Lindsey cried as the Death Squad practiced marching in front of his cell, and he cried as they went into the death chamber and turned the generator on to test Yellow Mama—that was the chair’s nickname. He cried as the lights flickered, and he cried at night when the lights went out. The guards practiced their ritual for killing him, and then they would ask him how he was doing and did he need anything—as if they weren’t rehearsing his murder. On the Monday before his execution, Ray could hear him begging and pleading with a guy named Jesse who had just started something called Project Hope to fight the death penalty from within Holman. Jesse had no power. He was on death row too. But Michael Lindsey begged him to save his life. It was heartbreaking and painful.
In the days leading up to your execution, you were allowed to have visitors all day each day. You were allowed to hug them and hold their hands—things you weren’t allowed to do on regular visits. In nearly eight years on death row, Michael Lindsey never had a visitor. He was twenty-eight years old when the Death Squad came for him in May 1989.
He had been convicted of murdering a woman and stealing her Christmas presents. Ray thought about him crying and begging someone to save his life in those last days—and what it felt like for Lindsey to know there was nobody to save him, that the guards who were suddenly being so nice to him were going to be the same people who helped to kill him. He was only five years younger than Ray. He was healthy. A jury had recommended life in prison, but his judge had overruled that jury recommendation and sentenced him to death. Judges could do that in Alabama. Lindsey had been on death row for almost eight years. It was hard not to do the math—every inmate did the math when someone was executed—comparing how long the person killed had been there compared to how long you had been there.
Ray learned that they gave you an execution date around a month before you were executed. A month to feel terror. A month to beg and plead for your life. He didn’t want to spend his last month on this earth crying and begging for his life. He didn’t want to count down to his death. It was hard not to know when the Death Squad would come for you, but Ray thought it was even harder for the guys who knew.
Michael Lindsey had no last words. On Thursday night when they took him to the death chamber, Ray could hear him crying. They all could. He had no visitors in the days and hours before his death. He was completely alone. Shortly before midnight, when the inmates knew he was being strapped into that chair, they began to make some noise. Up and down the row, men began banging on the bars and doors of their cells. Ray heard some men yell, “Murderers!” to the guards. Some men screamed. Others called out Michael’s name. Others just roared and growled like feral animals. Ray made a fist, and slammed it against the door of his cell as loud and as long as he could—until his hand was red and raw. The noise was intense, and you could hear guys yelling from general population as well. Ray didn’t know Michael Lindsey, but he wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. He wanted him to know that he saw him and knew him and his life meant something and so did his death. The inmates yelled until the lights stopped flickering and the generator that powered the electric chair turned off. Ray kept banging on his bars, and then he got in his bunk and pulled the blanket over his head and wept. He cried for a man who had to die alone, and he cried for whoever was next to die. He didn’t want to see any more deaths. He didn’t want to look at the guards tomorrow and wonder which one of them had done what to Michael as they brought him his food. He didn’t want to live next to the death chamber, but there was nowhere to go. He would stay silent until he was set free.
Ray started to think about what must have driven Lindsey to steal Christmas presents, and he thought about his own family. They never had many Christmas presents, but he never felt like he was missing anything. Christmas had always been about love and celebrating the birth of Christ and family and good food and laughter. As crowded as his home was, it was fun and freedom, and he wanted nothing more than to be a kid again living in Praco and playing ball and roaming the hills and woods with Lester. He wanted open space, the smell of fresh-cut grass. He wanted to know that somewhere, somehow, there was a place where the sun shined and death didn’t come for you at midnight and put a bag over your head. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but all Ray heard was Michael Lindsey begging somebody, anybody, to save him.
A few weeks after Lindsey was killed, another inmate, Dunkins, was given an execution date. Ray listened to the talk on the row. Dunkins was also twenty-eight. Everyone believed he had significant developmental disabilities and nobody thought he should be put to death. Alabama seemed to be making up for lost time, because another guy, Richardson, also got an execution date. Dunkins’s was going to be in July ’89, and Richardson’s in August. It seemed like they were planning on executing one man per month now, and the row was tense and quiet. Right after Lindsey was killed, the heat had started up, and it seemed to get worse every day. No air circulated on the row, so it felt like sitting in a sauna all day and all night. Ray’s fingers were wet and puckered like he’d been in water too long; that’s how humid it was. He wanted to swim in cool water, and he was just imagining sitting in a cool stream when a guard came to his cell and opened the door.
“468!”
Ray just looked at him.
“468 … You got mail.”
Ray didn’t respond. He was Anthony Ray Hinton. People called him Ray. He wasn’t a number, and he wasn’t going to speak.
“Still not speaking? You not dumb. I saw you last visit, talking and carrying on with your people.”
Ray just looked down.
“You want this mail? It’s a legal letter,” he said. “You want it, you’d better say so.”
Ray looked at the envelope in his hand. He could see LAW OFFICES OF SHELDON PERHACS stamped on it. This could be the answer he had been waiting on from the Alabama Supreme Court. His freedom! He could feel the hope rise up in him. Maybe they had caught the guy who did it, or maybe they were going to give him a new trial and a better expert, or maybe they had found out that he couldn’t have been in two places at once, or maybe Reggie admitted to lying. He could feel the hope well up in him so big it even surprised him. Ray smiled at the guard. He didn’t mean to, but it just happened.
“Well, that’s something, then. At least you’re not just scowling at the ground. You got to learn to cooperate around here, and things will get easier,” the guard said. “You’d best be getting a better attitude if you want more privileges.”
He didn’t want more privileges, he wanted freedom. He wanted to get away from people who fed you one day and killed you the next. He had to get away from the smell of death and the heat of being in a small box twenty-three hours a day.
He took a deep breath and held out his hand. Ray and the guard both knew he had to give Ray legal mail, and the guard wasn’t allowed to read it first either.
“Here you go.” He handed Ray the letter. “And take a shower tonight. You stink.”
Ray kept his head down until the guard left. He could have just slipped the mail through the slot, but he’d wanted to mess with Ray. Ray sat down on the edge of the bed and held the letter up in front of his face. His hands were shaking.
June 19, 1989
Mr. Anthony Ray Hinton, #Z468 Holman Unit #37
Atmore, Alabama 36506
RE: Your appeal to the Alabama Supreme Court
Dear Anthony:
Although I have not received the opinion as of yet, my office received a phone call from the clerk of the Supreme Court on Friday afternoon. The clerk reported to our office that our appeal to obtain new trials was denied.
So they had lost. But Perhacs went on to say there was still one more chance, if they acted fast. Well, if someone did, and it wasn’t necessarily going to be Perhacs:
The appointment of me as your attorney of record does not continue from this point forward. In order for you to petition the U.S. Supreme Court for a review, you will have to hire an attorney. There is no requirement that you hire me, and there is no requirement that the federal government appoint an attorney to represent you. I will be more than happy to handle the appeal of your case from this point to the U.S. Supreme Court, but my fee to do that would be $15,000.00. The conditions for the payment of the fee are difficult; it would be my requirement that the entire fee be paid immediately in order for me to begin the appellate process. Please contact your family instantly and contact me immediately with your decision about what it is you would like to do.
Sincerely, Sheldon Perhacs
Ray was almost motionless for the next twenty-four hours. They came for him to take a shower, but he wouldn’t respond or get up off the bed, and eventually, they gave up and moved on to the next guy. Once again, it came down to money. Was Perhacs shaking him down? Shaking down his family? Ray was on death row for supposedly killing people so he could steal some money—where did he think Ray had $15,000 hiding? Ray called his office and spoke to his secretary.
“Can’t your mom mortgage her house?” she asked. “That’s what he’s thinking will have to happen.”
“Tell him thanks for everything,” Ray said.
“That’s it, then?” she asked.
“That’s it. If he won’t go on without money, then we’re done. I don’t have money. My family don’t have money. I’m not going to let my mom mortgage her house.”
He heard her sigh and say she would give Perhacs the message, and he’d get a message to the prison or come to see Ray to talk about it.
Ray knew he wouldn’t see him again.
When his mom and Lester came at the end of that week to visit, he pulled Lester aside so they could talk for a minute away from their moms.
“Listen,” Ray said. “Listen quick. Perhacs is done. My appeal is done. No matter what Perhacs says if he calls you, don’t let him get to my mother. He wants her to mortgage her house, and that’s just him still trying to shake us down for money. It’s over.”
Lester shook his head. “It can’t be over. There’s got to be something—”
“Listen,” Ray interrupted him. “When they give me a date, that’s it. I don’t want you watching or anyone watching me die. You bring them for a visit, and then you take them to a hotel nearby to spend the night.”
He could see Lester shaking his head.
“When I’m gone—it will be a little after midnight, but don’t wake her up; wait until morning—then you tell her, ‘He’s gone and he said he loves you.’”
Lester put his hands up over his face. “I can’t tell her that you’re gone. I can’t.”
“You’re going to have to, and I’m sorry about that. I am.” He took a deep breath. “You remind her of what she’s always said: ‘There’s a time to live and a time to die.’ You remind her. You keep saying it to her. You tell her that I love her, and that I wasn’t scared, and that all of us is going to have to leave this world at some point and it was just my time. You tell her that when her time comes, I’m going to have some of her favorite food waiting, and I’ll have a nice place for her to stay, and I’ll be waiting.”
Lester was crying and wiping at his eyes.
“You going to have to bring her own words back on her, over and over again. That’s the only thing that will help her. Do you understand? You tell her what she’s always said. You tell her God makes no mistakes. Everything happens for a reason. And you play that back to her over and over no matter how she be crying and carrying on. Tell her, God come got what was his, and there’s a time to live and a time to die. That’s what she taught me. That’s what she’s got to remember.”
“Why do I have to do it? Can’t your sisters or one of your brothers?” Lester’s face had a pain in it Ray had never seen before, and its broke Ray’s heart to know that he was the cause.
“You’re my brother, Lester. You’re the best, closest family I have. Do you see anyone else here on visiting day? Do you see a line of my sisters and brothers waiting to see me? You’re the only one to do this for me, and she’ll listen to you. She’ll need you more than ever. Promise me you’ll look after her. Promise me you’ll comfort her. It’s going to break her heart, but you tell her God needed me and brought me home. Tell her that we all have a season for living and a season for dying. Tell her that. Tell her it was just my time and you tell her I died with joy in my heart and I wasn’t afraid, and I had God by my side.”
He grabbed Lester’s arm. “You lie to her, Lester. You lie to her until she’s at peace, you understand?”
“I’m not going to let them kill you.”
“Just promise me.”
“We’re going to find a way to get you out of here. I’m going to find someone else to help you. Someone besides Perhacs.”
“You just keep him from Mama’s house, you understand?”
Lester nodded, but he had a stubborn look about him that Ray recognized from when they were kids.
“There’s a time for living and a time for dying,” Ray said. “It’s true.”
“It ain’t true today.”
“It’s true today, Lester. It’s always true in this place.”
They killed Horace Dunkins on July 14. The inmates banged against the bars and the lights flickered and then they stopped.
And then ten minutes later, the generator went back on and the lights flickered again.
Human error, they called it. He had to be electrocuted twice over nineteen minutes because the guards hooked up the cables wrong.
Herbert Richardson was executed a month later. He was a Vietnam veteran, a man who had served his country, and now his country saw fit to end his life. He asked to be blindfolded before he was brought in so he couldn’t see the death chamber, or the people watching him, or anything. Ray and the other prisoners banged on the bars for Dunkins and for Richardson, just so they both knew they weren’t alone.
Ray found out after the execution that Richardson wasn’t alone. A young attorney named Bryan Stevenson had sat with him all day and stayed with him through the end, even as he tried to get the execution stayed. Ray heard the other inmates talking about it. He wondered again who this guy was and what it must be like for him to have to watch his clients die.
Ray spent his days waiting to hear when they would come to give him his death date and his nights reliving every moment of his trial. He thought of things he could have said. Witnesses Perhacs could have called. Why didn’t he bring up my family to tell the jury why I shouldn’t be killed? Why not bring up Lester? The people from church? My neighbors? He thought about McGregor, but some of his hate had dulled to a kind of listless apathy. He was the devil, but who was he to do anything about the devil? His Bible had been under his bed for almost three years.
Ray hadn’t spoken to anyone. He hadn’t gotten to know the guards or any other inmates except through what he overheard. He was completely alone. Even the miserable Perhacs was gone. That was it. He was going to die an innocent man, and nobody would know but him, Lester, and his mom.
“Hinton!” The guard yelled his name and startled him up out of the bed.
Ray heard the door open. Was this it? Were they giving him a death date? Taking him to the holding cell? Was it his time to be killed?
He clenched his fists. He wasn’t going to willingly walk to his death. He was innocent. He didn’t deserve to be electrocuted. No one did. No one deserved to die like this. They were all children of God. He wanted to reach his hand under the bed and pull out his Bible. Why had he left God? Why had he turned his back on his comfort? Ray needed him now. He was going to have his head shaved and a bag thrown over his face, and he wasn’t going to be able to look anyone in the eyes so they could see that he faced his death an innocent man.
It was time to fight. He would grab the guard’s gun. He would make a run for it. He wanted to die a free man. He wanted to die on his terms. His mind was racing, and his heart was pounding. Adrenaline shot through his veins. He had to make his move. It was time. He couldn’t be led like a lamb to slaughter. He couldn’t. This was not God’s will for him. This was not why he was born into this life. He was Anthony Ray Hinton. People called him Ray. This was wrong, and he was going to fight his death to the end.
He wanted to go home.
He needed to go home.
“Hinton! Legal visit!” The guard stood staring at Ray, his hand on his gun. What had he seen in Ray’s face? Ray had been seconds away from lunging at him.
Ray followed him up to the visiting area. There were no other inmates in the room. A solitary white woman, about his age, with short brown hair, sat at one of the tables.
She stood up and gave Ray a huge smile. Then she held out her hand for him to shake.
He just stared at her.
“Mr. Hinton, I’m Santha Sonenberg from Washington, D.C. I’m your new attorney.”
Ray shook her hand, but he was sure his confusion showed.
She cocked her head to the side and gave him another smile. “Mr. Hinton, please sit down.”
Ray sat.
“I’m going to file your writ of certiorari petition in the U.S. Supreme Court.”
“I don’t have any money.”
She looked at him sharply. “I’m not asking you for money. No one expects you to pay any money.”
“But my first attorney wanted $15,000 to file this writ thing. He wanted my mom to mortgage her house. That’s not going to happen. I will die first.”
Santha inhaled and exhaled loudly. “Okay. Let’s take it one step at a time. There’s no money involved. I will file the petition, and honestly, it’s not likely that the U.S. Supreme Court is going to do anything; they typically don’t. The certiorari petition is basically asking the Supreme Court to review the lower court’s ruling. They don’t grant a review all that often. But the actual petition asking them to review is not a big deal to prepare. We’re going to handle it in the time frame needed. Then we’re going to investigate and do what’s called a Rule 32 petition back in the circuit court in Jefferson County.”
Ray just stared at her. He didn’t understand much of what she was saying, but she was there. She was going to investigate. She was going to file some new stuff.
“I want you to know I’m innocent,” he said. “I didn’t kill anyone. I hope you can believe me.”
“I believe you.” She took a deep breath.
“In my transcripts, you’ll see that Perhacs got a phone call from someone who claimed he was the real killer. My mom got a call too. You have to find a way to trace that number. Nobody found him. He gave a fake name. We need to find him. You need to find him.”
Santha nodded like she knew all about it. “We’re going to investigate everything. But first I’m going to ask you a lot of questions—about your life, your family, what it was like growing up, the trial, your relationships, everything that matters. I’m going to review the trial transcript and Perhacs’s records. I’m going to look at all the evidence, and we’re going to see what we can do, okay? I want you to stay strong. Are you doing okay here?”
“Can they put me to death while you are investigating and we’re appealing?” He held his breath.
“No, Mr. Hinton. They can’t put you to death while your case is in the courts.”
He put his head down on the table and took a few breaths. When he lifted his head back up, he knew he had tears in his eyes, but Santha didn’t say anything about that.
“I’m going to need your help. We’re going to have to work together on this. Do I have your permission to represent you?” She was staring at Ray intently. “Mr. Hinton, are you going to be okay?”
He smiled at her. “Yes, you have my permission, but call me Ray.”
“Okay, Ray. Let’s get to work.”
“Just one more thing,” he asked. “How did you become my attorney? Did Lester call you?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who Lester is.”
“How are you here?” Ray asked. “How did you know about me?”
Santha Sonenberg smiled.
“Bryan Stevenson sent me. He knows about everyone.”