“Not many people have seen a real death warrant in person, let alone been issued one with their name on it. I remember the warden instructing security to escort us in restraints from our cells, one at a time, to a small office where we were surrounded by prison officials. The warden read aloud the information off the warrants, which included our names, our crimes, and the jury’s verdict … I was handed the death warrant, a longer-than-usual sheet of paper with the golden seal of the State of Arkansas fixed on it. At the bottom, there was the signature of Gov. Asa Hutchinson.
Death, one step closer. Tick, tick.”
—Kenneth Williams1
Time runs differently in prison. Sometimes it passes as if in slow motion, every hour feeling like three, every day like a month, every month like a year—and every year a decade. In regular population, time is something to count down until a release date, crossing off each day happy to have gotten through it and thankful to be one day closer to leaving—to freedom. On death row, it’s different. The countdown is toward execution, and when an inmate gets that date, time speeds up. It runs as if someone has pressed fast-forward, and every day feels like an hour, every hour feels like a minute, and every minute feels like a second.
In prison, time is a strange and fluid thing, but time on death row is even more warped.
Everyone, including Ray, knew there were only two ways to leave the row—dead on a gurney or set free by the law. He wasn’t ready to leave on a gurney, so he started praying at night for his new attorney and for the truth to finally come out. He didn’t just pray for his release, because that wasn’t enough. Ray wanted the truth to come out. He wanted people to know that he was innocent. He wanted McGregor to apologize. He wanted the jury to know they had gotten it wrong and for other juries to learn from their mistakes. The only way that could happen was if he was found innocent. Ray was also a little suspicious. Growing up, he’d heard too many stories of folks praying for things in a general way and having it turn out badly for them when it seemed like their prayers were answered in a literal way. He knew a guy in the county jail who used to pray every day to get to leave C block. Everybody knew he wasn’t going to leave before his trial, but he said he was praying and he knew God was going to answer his prayers. The next day, he was caught smoking, and when they turned over his cell looking for his stash, the guards found a weapon he had made out of broken plastic from his meal tray. He did leave C block, but only to go into solitary confinement.
So Ray said his prayers carefully. He prayed for Lester and their moms. He prayed for Lester’s new wife, and he prayed for his church family, neighbors, his siblings, and his nieces. He prayed for Sid Smotherman, and for the families of John Davidson and Thomas Vason, the men who had been murdered. But mostly Ray prayed for the truth. Truth was a big, broad word, but he knew there was no gray area and no way to misinterpret his prayer. Ray prayed for God to reveal the truth—and whether that meant they proved him innocent or they caught the guy who really did it or Reggie confessed to lying, didn’t matter. Ray knew that the truth would set him free. He read John 8:32 in his Bible: “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” He also read Mark 11:24. “What things so ever you desire when you pray, believe that you receive them, and you shall have them.” If it was true that God could do everything but fail, then the truth had to be known. The truth had to set him free. If he believed it, it would happen. It had to.
Ray had gotten a few letters from Santha Sonenberg, so he knew she was investigating his case. He spoke to Santha on the phone, and she apologized for not being able to come visit again but told him she was busy preparing his Rule 20 petition, which was a petition for relief from convictions and sentences of death. A petition for relief asks the court to make a new and separate judgment; an appeal is like getting a second opinion, asking for a reconsideration of a judgment. Ray knew he had to pray and believe.
The State of Alabama gave Santha a deadline to file Ray’s petition, and she would be sending Ray a copy when she filed it. Inmates were allowed to go to the law library once a week for an hour, and Ray had refused his time for the past three years, but now he went every week. They weren’t allowed to bring any books back to their cells—all they were allowed were Bibles or other religious books—so for an hour every week, Ray would read about the law in Alabama. He learned what a capital conviction really was, and he read about aggravating and mitigating circumstances. He read about “judicial override”—even if a jury said life in prison, a judge in Alabama could override the jury and still send you to the electric chair. To Ray, it just seemed like another way to put an innocent man to death. He couldn’t understand the point in having a jury if a judge could just go ahead and do whatever he wanted. How was that justice? Why was Alabama so hell-bent on putting people to death one way or another?
When he went back to his cell, Ray had questions. “Y’all heard of this judicial override business?” he yelled. He pointed out that it made no sense, and was automatically unfair. It still felt strange to be speaking, like being the new kid at school.
Several other voices yelled out in encouragement.
“It seems like it defeats the purpose of a jury if a judge can just do what he wants,” he went on. “As if the cards aren’t stacked against you enough already.”
“Preach it, brother!” another voice yelled out. There was some laughter.
“I’m going to read up on it some more next week,” Ray said. “Some of you should do the same.”
A voice he hadn’t heard earlier yelled out, “I’m here because of that judge overriding the jury. The jury said life.”
“Me too,” yelled another voice. “It’s ’cause them judges got to get elected. That’s all. They get more votes the more men they send to the death chair.”
Ray stood at the front of his cell. It was weird to have a discussion when he couldn’t see anybody and couldn’t always tell who was talking. He was beginning to distinguish guys from their voices. Their accents.
“The police lied and said I took a dollar from the guy.” It was the first voice again. “That’s how I even got a capital case. I’m not saying what I did, or even if I did anything, but I’m just saying they lied and said I took one dollar. One dollar. That made it a capital case. And then when the jury said, ‘Life,’ the judge said, ‘Nope … it’s gonna be death.’”
The guy sounded choked up. “What’s your name, man?” Ray yelled.
The man didn’t answer for a few minutes, and the row got strangely quiet. Even though there were guys around him who had to know his name, it was his to tell or not to tell. You didn’t speak for anyone on the row, and you didn’t name names ever.
“My name’s Ray,” Ray said. “Anthony Ray Hinton, but folks call me Ray.” There was silence. He rested his left cheek up against the mesh wire of his door. He could wait. They had nothing to do but wait. There was something in this guy’s voice. He sounded alone. “I’m from Praco,” Ray kept talking. “And proud to be the son of Buhlar Hinton, the best mother God ever sent down to this earth, who can make a pie like an angel and swat you like the devil if you try to eat it before she says so.”
He heard a few guys laugh, but he didn’t know if the guy whose name he was waiting on was one of them.
“My mom makes a pretty good pie herself,” the man finally said. “My name is Henry.” Henry didn’t say his last name, and Ray didn’t care to ask him. The guards called them by number or last name, rarely by first name. Ray would no sooner ask for a last name than he would ask him what someone was in for. Some things you never asked. If someone wanted to talk about it, that was one thing. But you never asked. And really, what did it matter? They were all protecting themselves and reaching out at the same time. What else could they do?
“Nice to meet you, Henry. And I hope someday we can sit together in the shade on a beautiful Fourth of July, drinking sweet tea while our mothers compete to see who can make us the best pie. I don’t know about your mom, but mine loves a good competition.”
Henry laughed. “Well, that would be something to see, Ray. You have no idea. That would really be something.”
“I’m sorry about your case, Henry,” Ray said. “That doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound right at all. I’m going to do some more research next week on this judge override. You should do the same.”
He didn’t say anything back, so Ray dropped it.
“You know they don’t like it when we educate ourselves,” he yelled out. “The South still isn’t happy we ever learned to read.”
“Preach it, brother!”
“Is that you, Jesse?” Ray hollered back.
“Last time I checked, it was. I’m still here. You still here, Wallace?”
“I’m still here!”
And up and down the row it went, guys calling out to each other cell by cell. Sometimes they asked by name; other times they just asked in general. “You still here?” And a different voice would yell back, “I’m still here!”
And with each voice, it got funnier and funnier. Ray started laughing. Each man who yelled that he was still here made him laugh harder. There they were in their cages. It shouldn’t have been funny, but it was.
“We are all still here!” Ray yelled out one last time, and then he lay back on his bed. It was a good day when he could find a little bit of light.
Ray didn’t hear from Henry again that day, but there was no need to push it. Maybe they’d become friends, maybe not.
He thought about Wallace. He had been yelling and laughing, and everyone knew he had an execution date in less than two weeks. It made Ray’s stomach turn over a bit. Wallace and Jesse had started Project Hope, the inmate advocacy group to fight the death penalty. Ray didn’t see how it was really going to change anything, but he knew it helped to feel like you were doing something. He knew they had gotten permission to meet up as a small group, and he was sure some guys just went to have another opportunity to get out of their cells. They were still only allowed less than an hour out of their cells every day. That and visiting day and law library was it. The warden only let a small group meet for Project Hope, and Ray hoped they didn’t cause any trouble. If someone on the row caused trouble, it made a problem for everyone. The warden had no issue with locking them down all day or taking away their visits if anyone did anything. Ray was a nice guy to everyone, but he definitely wasn’t going to let some fool stop his visits. Lester came every week, no matter what, and apart from those six hours with him and their moms, Ray had very few ways to keep himself occupied. He was reading his Bible again, but a man can’t read only the Bible. It’s like only having steak for dinner. You might love steak, but if you have it every day of the week, eventually you’re going to get sick of it.
Ray read his Bible before Wallace was executed on July 13, 1990.
Wallace wore a purple ribbon and a sign that said EXECUTE JUSTICE, NOT PEOPLE.
They banged on the bars for Wallace Norrell Thomas. Some banged on the bars to protest the death penalty. Others banged on the bars just to have something to do or as a way to let off steam. Ray banged on the bars so Wallace would know that he mattered. That he was not alone. Ray figured everyone wanted to know they mattered to someone, anyone. He knew he mattered to his mom and Lester and Phoebe, and that was more than a lot of these guys had. A lot of guys came here and died here without ever getting a visit. A lot of them never had a parent who loved them.
A few weeks after Wallace was killed, Ray got a letter from Santha, a handwritten note, which was unusual.
Mon 8/6/90
Mr. Hinton–
Apologies for the delay in getting this to you & for such an informal note. As I mentioned, I’m ½-way to finishing the Rule 20 petition. I met with Bryan Stevenson this morning and we have many ideas for your case.
I’m sorry not to have been able to visit you today. Please know that it’s only because I want to do the best job I can on writing your petition.
Stay strong & stay in touch! I’ll be sending you a copy of the petition next week.
Best Wishes,
Santha
Ray read the letter over and over again. She had written her home number in the bottom-right corner of the letter in red ink. He appreciated that, and he looked forward to getting the petition, not only so he knew his appeal was moving forward but also so he could have something else to read. Anything to occupy his mind.
He couldn’t understand why they weren’t allowed to have books. He thought about Wallace and his group. What if he started a group? What could his group be about? What would help the guys not feel so alone? What could help them all escape this place for a bit?
Ray thought back to being in the coal mines. He never would have imagined it, but now he would give anything to be working there again. He had hated it at the time, but he remembered how he had escaped the misery of it. He had traveled in his mind. He closed his eyes and thought about where he would go if he were off death row.
He was walking out the front door of the prison. There was a plane waiting; it was parked right in the parking lot between the two fences. A private jet. It was white, and inside, it had soft leather seats the color of butter. Ray sat down, and immediately, a beautiful flight attendant appeared. She had dark skin and red lips and a smile so big he thought he would die right then and there.
“Mr. Hinton, can I get you something to drink? Champagne, perhaps?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Please fasten your seat belts. We’ll be taking off shortly. Flying time is approximately eight hours. Mr. Hinton, there is a bed in the back of the plane for you to sleep on during the flight.”
Ray looked at the flight attendant. “Where are we going?”
“We are flying to London. The Queen of England is waiting to meet you.”
“Of course. Thank you.” He waited until they were in the air, and then he walked to the back of the plane. There was a beautiful king-size bed with a velvet comforter and the blanket his mom had made him when he was a baby. There were dozens of soft pillows all over the bed, and when he climbed into the sheets, they smelled like freshly mowed lawns and magnolia blossoms.
The plane landed, and Ray stepped off to a waiting limousine. Buckingham Palace guards stood beside the car, and one saluted him and held open the door as he climbed in. Ray’s suit was cream colored, and his tie a deep royal blue. When his car arrived at the palace, a whole regiment of guards—complete with the tall, furry black hats—stood at attention. Ray was brought through a large hallway, and two servants stood outside a grand ballroom. They bowed to Ray and opened up the double doors. He walked inside, and there she was. The Queen of England. She was wearing a blue dress that perfectly matched his tie, and a crown made of gold and rubies.
“Mr. Hinton.” The Queen held out her hand, and Ray bowed deeply and kissed the back of it.
“Your Majesty.”
“Please join me for tea, Mr. Hinton. It is an honor to meet you.”
“The honor is all mine, and please, call me Ray.”
The Queen laughed, and more servants came in with tiny sandwiches and cakes and tarts, and they served tea that smelled like milk and honey and home.
“What can I do to help you, Mr. Hinton … Ray?” the Queen asked. “You don’t deserve to be on death row. You must let me help you.”
“Being here with you is help enough,” Ray answered.
“Well, you must come see me anytime you can. We must put our heads together and find a way to get you home. Everyone needs to go home.”
“We’ll find a way,” he said. “I know I will get back home. I know it. I am praying and I am believing, and it has to happen.”
“Of course you will,” she said. “Now, let me show you the castle, and the gardens, and all the secret rooms we have in the palace.”
Ray followed the Queen of England around for hours and hours. They played croquet and had more tea.
It felt great to be treated with respect. To be called Mr. Hinton instead of just Hinton.
“Hinton. Hinton!”
The voice came out of nowhere, and Ray could tell it startled the Queen as much as it did him. He tried to ignore it, but it only got louder, and he could see the palace guards rush in and surround the Queen as if she were under attack.
“I have to go, Your Majesty, but I will come back,” he said.
“Hinton, look alive! Hinton, look alive!”
Ray blinked until his eyes seemed to focus, and then he saw the guard yelling at him. He sat up in his bed.
“You going to take your visit or what?”
He was confused. Visiting day wasn’t until Friday, and it was only Wednesday.
“What are you talking about? Is my lawyer here?”
“No, you have a regular family visit. You want it or not? You’ve been acting strange for days.”
“Of course I want it. Give me a minute to get dressed, please.”
“You got exactly one minute.”
Ray pulled out his dress whites. He kept one of his two sets of prison clothes just for visits, and between visits, he kept them folded and under his mattress so the creases in the pant legs would set in real sharp. He felt disoriented. If the guards wanted to give him an extra visit in the week, he wasn’t going to complain.
He walked onto the visiting yard and smiled when he saw Lester, both of their moms, and Sylvia, Lester’s new wife.
“How did you get an extra visit?” he asked. He was happy to see them but still confused.
“What are you going on about?” Lester laughed.
“This is our regular visit, baby. What’s wrong with you?” His mom looked him up and down and furrowed her brows.
He sat down and looked at the four of them. “What day is it?” he asked.
“It’s Friday. Are you sick?”
Ray looked around. The other inmates were coming out for visits too. It was morning. It was Friday. It had just been Wednesday, and now it was Friday. He had completely skipped over Thursday.
“I’m starving. Did you guys bring in some money for the vending machines?”
Lester looked at him and then stood up. He started to walk over to the vending machines but stopped a few feet away and turned back toward Ray. “Where you been, man?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Ray said. Lester shrugged and smiled at him.
Ray wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. There were only two ways to leave death row. But he had just found another way. A third way. He felt better than he had in years. He jumped up to hug his mom, and even though the guards yelled at him to sit down, he held on to her. And then he started to laugh.
Time was a funny and strange and fluid thing, and now Ray knew he was going to bend it and shape it so that it wasn’t his enemy. Someday he was going to walk out of there, but until then, he was going to use his mind to travel the world. He had so many places to go, and people to see, and things to learn.
“You sure you’re okay?” His mom still looked worried.
“I’m sure,” Ray said.
“Well, when are you coming home, baby? When are they going to let you out of here?” She always asked this question, and usually it made him sad, but not today.
“Soon, Mama,” he said. “I’m going to be coming home real soon.”
After his visit, the guard walked him back to his cell. Ray changed back into his regular whites and carefully folded his dress whites and put them under the mattress.
And then he sat on the edge of his bed and closed his eyes.
His mom had planted some new flowers in front of her house. They were purple and white and pink, and he ran his fingers across them gently. He walked around the side of the house. The lawn needed cutting. He opened the door of the shed and pulled the mower out. He would take care of this for her and then go inside and have some tea and let her gossip about all the goings-on at church and around town.
“Is that you, baby?” She poked her head out the screen door.
“It’s me, Mama. It’s me.” She smiled and clapped her hands together. “I told you I would be home soon. I told you.”