“To take a life when life has been lost is revenge, not justice.”
—Archbishop Desmond Tutu
The U.S. Supreme Court denied Ray’s petition on November 13, 1989.
There was no explanation.
Four days later, Arthur Julius was executed.
Ray banged on the bars of his cell with the others until about ten minutes after midnight, and then the guards came through and angrily told them to quiet down. “He heard you,” one of them said. “Everyone heard you.”
Ray didn’t know Arthur or if he had done it or not, but he assumed he had. Ray was under no illusion that everyone on death row was innocent, but he also knew that not everyone was guilty.
Ray knew Santha was working on his case, but he still wasn’t speaking to anyone, and even though he didn’t think they were going to come for him in the night and strap him to that terrible yellow chair, he still had fear and anxiety that never went away. Apart from his visits with Lester and the moms, Ray spent his time lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. He had no energy to eat, talk, or even clean his cell. What was the point? He didn’t want to make a home out of hell. He didn’t want to make it okay that they had him there.
McGregor had called him Mr. Sneak. Mr. Robber. Mr. Executioner. Why had he decided Ray was so evil he had to make it his personal mission to bend and twist the truth in ways that defied logic and common sense? Ray wanted to ask him: Why me? Or could it have been any Black man? Every second of his arrest and his trial ran like a loop in his head. Ray worried that he would lose it before his next appeal even got started. McGregor was everything he accused Ray of being. He was the executioner. He was the liar and the sneak and the robber, because he had robbed Ray of his life. His exact words to the jury played over and over in Ray’s head. “Look at the evidence, take the time to,” he had said to them, “and I’m going to ask you to find the truth. Find the truth in this case. Look at the evidence. Remember the testimony. You find the truth, and you do justice.”
Those sentences played in an endless loop, like a song that just keeps starting over from the beginning. McGregor deserves to die, not me. He is the guilty one. He is the murderer. He should be the one who felt afraid every time he walked to the shower, or went outside with killers, or smelled the burning flesh of dying men. He should be condemned. McGregor was not innocent.
It had to be well after midnight when Ray heard the first sob. There were always men yelling and moaning and crying—every single night. But it had been strangely quiet for about twenty minutes, so when he heard the noise, it jolted him. He had gotten used to tuning out the endless sounds of pain on death row. It was just background noise and not any of his business.
But there was something about that first sob.
It was a sound low and guttural, almost more growl than cry. Then a guard walked past his cell door. Ray could see the silhouette of his legs from the light in the corridor.
There was another sob and a catch, like someone was trying to hold it in. The sound was close to him. It had to be the guy next to him or one cell over. Ray couldn’t tell. The sobbing got a bit louder, and Ray tried to tune it out, go back to McGregor and Reggie and Perhacs and Judge Garrett.
They should have tried harder to find the guy who called Perhacs to say he was the killer. It was all too much work to investigate the real killer, so Ray could just hear McGregor: Let’s just make it so this guy did it, and we can say good night to these cases and the victims’ families will feel better. Who was that guy who called in? Was he really the killer or just some weirdo who wanted to get into the action on a trial that was in all the papers? The guy had called Ray’s mom also, and Perhacs’s home and office. It seemed like a lot of effort for a guy who wasn’t serious. Ray figured he was surprised when no one seemed to care that they had the wrong guy. Maybe he even felt bad for Ray. Ray imagined this guy coming to the prison or going to the media—to confess and take his place on death row, to save his soul. Ray played out the whole scenario in his head—the guy finding God and needing to confess and repent—maybe he would call McGregor next time or the judge … Suddenly, he heard a voice.
“Oh my God … please help me. I can’t take it. I just can’t take it anymore.”
Ray snapped out of his imaginings and listened to the man crying. The sobbing got deeper. Heavier. Did he really believe God was going to help him? There was no God in this place. There was no choice but to take it until you couldn’t take it anymore or they killed you. God may sit high, but he wasn’t looking low. He didn’t see them there, in hell. There was no light in this dark place, so there was no God and no help and no hope.
Ray said all this in his head, but he couldn’t drown out the sound of his neighbor’s crying. The man’s crying was so low and deep it seemed to pound inside his chest like when someone has the bass turned way up on their stereo. Ray tried harder to block it out. It wasn’t his problem. It was every man for himself on the row, and Ray didn’t trust anyone. He would never trust anyone again. People lied. People sold you for money. People didn’t care about the truth, so he didn’t care about people. The only people for Ray were the ones who showed up every week to visit. Lester and the moms.
Ray sat up out of bed and began pacing the few feet he had room to walk around in in his cage. It was steps from his toilet to his cell door.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He counted them out in his head and then turned around and counted them again as he walked to the back of his cell. Back and forth. He couldn’t lie there while the man sobbed like an animal who had his foot caught in a trap.
“God help me. Oh God. I can’t take it. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” The man was crying and moaning, and Ray could do nothing but count and walk and turn and count and walk and turn. Over and over again.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Ray thought about his mom. He had called her earlier that day, and they had gotten to talk for a few minutes. She was cooking up a big dinner for Lester when Ray called. They were having a celebration dinner.
“What are you celebrating?” Ray had asked.
“Lester’s getting married.”
“Mama, you’re crazy.” Ray had laughed at her. If Lester was getting married, he would have told Ray himself. Unless he’d just met the girl since last week when he was there for a visit. Nobody had said anything.
“It’s true,” she’d said. “He’s getting married to Sylvia—you know, that good girl from church whose husband died in a fire.” It hadn’t surprised Ray that his best friend had found a girlfriend who happened to have the same name as the woman Ray had been seeing. But marriage?
“Mama, you got to stop gossiping. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’d laughed. Lester would have told him.
But she’d insisted, so Ray had changed the subject to their next visit.
“Now, you try to sneak me some pie up in here. Bring some extra for the guards. Try to bribe them with some peach pie.” She just laughed every time he’d said that. His mom would no sooner break the law than she would grow two heads. “Now, I’m going to hang up because these collect calls are expensive. I’ll see you Friday. I love you.”
“I love you too, baby.”
Ray had hung up the phone and put Lester getting married out of his mind. But now, with nothing to do but pace and listen to the sorrow of another man, he had to admit it hurt. It hurt that Lester hadn’t told him himself, but Ray understood why he wouldn’t want to talk to Ray about dating and falling in love and getting married while Ray was stuck on death row. What really hurt was the stabbing sensation Ray felt at the idea that he might die before he got the chance to date again, or fall in love, or get married. Ray thought about his Sylvia, who he’d had to leave behind. And now Lester had a Sylvia. Lester’s life was moving forward, like a life was meant to do. Things were supposed to change. Life was not supposed to be exactly the same every day. No human was supposed to spend every single day in a small box doing exactly the same thing as they did the day before and that they would do tomorrow. Ray knew why Lester didn’t tell him he was getting married—he didn’t want Ray to think about what he was missing. He didn’t want Ray to hurt any more than he was already hurting.
No one can understand what freedom means until they don’t have it. Ray would give anything right then to have a choice to make—any choice. I think I’ll go for a walk rather than go to bed right now. I think I’ll have chicken for dinner. I think I’d like to take a drive and just see where I end up. Ray was happy for Lester. Ray wanted nothing more than for Lester to be happy. He would be sorry to miss the wedding and sad not to be able to stand next to his best friend and be his best man. He had to get out of this place. He thought about the children he would never have if he didn’t get off death row. He wanted a son to play baseball with someday. And basketball. He wanted to take him to Auburn games so he knew there was only one team in Alabama that mattered. Ray wanted to show him the woods, and the river, and the quiet beauty of a night spent in the country. He wanted to show him how to fish and teach him how to drive. He wanted to show him that anything was possible in this world if you only had faith.
He stopped pacing.
Faith. How could he teach anyone about faith when he didn’t have it?
“Oh God. Help me, God…” The crying was intermittent now, and Ray realized he was holding his breath when it stopped and waiting for it to start again. He didn’t know which was worse—the crying or the silence. Men killed themselves all the time in this prison.
He went back to pacing. This wasn’t any of his business.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He would wait for Lester to tell him about getting married. Ray didn’t want to make him feel bad for finding love and happiness. That’s what real friendship was all about. Or any relationship, for that matter. You wanted the other person’s happiness as much as, or more than, your own. Lester deserved love. Hell, everyone deserved love.
The man started crying again, and Ray realized that he was crying too. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and wept silently for a man he didn’t even know, who was most likely a killer, but who also wept in the dark, all alone, in a cage, in Atmore, Alabama. You didn’t have to be on death row to feel all alone, and Ray knew there were people all over the world, at this exact moment, sitting on the edge of their beds and crying. Most days it seemed like there was more sadness than sense in the world. He sat there for a few more minutes, listening to the other man crying.
Lester had choices, and Ray was glad he was making them. He thought again about all the choices he didn’t have and about freedom, and then the man stopped crying and there was a silence that was louder than any noise Ray had ever heard. What if this man killed himself that night and Ray did nothing? Wouldn’t that be a choice?
Ray still had choices, and that knowledge rocked him. He still had some choices. He could choose to give up or to hang on. Hope was a choice. Faith was a choice. And more than anything else, love was a choice. Compassion was a choice.
“Hey!” He walked up to his cell door and yelled toward the crying man. “Are you all right over there?”
There was nothing but silence. Maybe he was too late. “Hey, you okay?” Ray asked again.
“No,” he finally answered.
“Is something wrong? Do you need me to call for an officer or something?”
“No, he just left.”
“Okay, then.”
Ray stood at the bars. He didn’t know what to say or what to do. It was weird to hear his own voice on the row. He only spoke during visits. The man didn’t say anything else. Ray started to walk back to his bed, but then he thought about what his neighbor had been saying when he was sobbing. Please help me. I can’t take it anymore.
He walked back up to the door. “Hey, man. Whatever it is, it’s going to be all right. It’s going to be okay.”
It had to be another five minutes before the man spoke. “I just … I just got word … that my mom died.”
Ray could hear him trying to hold back the tears as he talked. In that moment, his heart broke wide open and he wasn’t a convicted killer on death row; he was Anthony Ray Hinton from Praco. People called him Ray. His mama called him Ray. He was his mama’s son. “I’m sorry, man. I really am.”
His neighbor didn’t say anything back, and then Ray heard a guy yell from down below, “Sorry for your loss.” And then another from the left yelled, “Sorry, man. Rest in peace.” Nobody else was talking before that, but they had been listening too. They’d heard him crying. Ray didn’t have to think about people all around the world sitting on the edge of their beds and crying when there were almost two hundred men all around him who didn’t sleep, just like him. Who were in fear just like him. Who wept just like anyone. Who felt alone and afraid and without hope.
He had a choice to reach out to these men or to stay in the dark alone. Ray walked over to his bed and got on his hands and knees. He reached his arm under the bed and felt around through the dust and dirt until the tips of his fingers brushed against his Bible. It had been under there for too long. This man had lost his mom, but Ray still had his, and she wouldn’t care for his Bible to be collecting filth. Even on death row, he could still be himself.
“Listen!” he yelled. “God may sit high, but he looks low. He’s looking down here in the pit. He’s sitting high, but he’s looking low. You’ve got to believe it.” Ray had to believe it too.
He heard an “Amen!” from somewhere on the row.
“It’s a hard loss to bear. But your mom’s looking down on you too.”
“I know. Thanks.”
Then Ray asked the man to tell him about his mom and he listened for the next two hours as his neighbor told story after story. His mom seemed a lot like Ray’s mom. Tough, but full of love.
The man started crying again, but softer than he had at the beginning of the night.
Ray wondered why it was that the cries of another human being can touch in unexpected ways. Ray wasn’t expecting to have his heart break that night. He wasn’t expecting to end three years of silence. Ray believed he was born with the same gift from God that all are born with—the impulse to reach out and lessen the suffering of another human being. Each person had a choice whether to use this gift or not.
Ray didn’t know his neighbor’s story or what he had done or anything about him that made him different from Ray—he didn’t even know if the guy was Black or white. But on the row, Ray realized, it didn’t matter.
What Ray knew was that this man loved his mother just like Ray loved his mother. He could understand that pain.
“I’m sorry you lost your mom, but man, you got to look at this a different way. Now you have someone in heaven who’s going to argue your case before God.”
It was silent for a few moments, and then the most amazing thing happened. On a dark night, in what must surely be the most desolate and dehumanizing place on earth, a man laughed.
A real laugh.
And with that laughter, Ray realized that the State of Alabama could steal his future and his freedom, but they couldn’t steal his soul or his humanity. And they most certainly couldn’t steal his sense of humor. He missed his family. He missed Lester. But he knew that sometimes you have to make family where you find family, or you die in isolation. Ray wasn’t ready to die. He wasn’t going to make it that easy on them. He was going to find another way to do his time. Whatever time he had left.
He had a choice.
And it hit him: Spending your days waiting to die is no way to live.