“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
Ray’s mom wanted to cook for Bryan Stevenson. It was the way she showed love, and after Ray told her about him, all she wanted to do was show her love.
“He’s going to be coming to talk to you,” Ray 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.”
He always caught his breath when she said that. It was too hard for her to visit, the drive was too rough, so she hadn’t seen Ray in a long time. And he knew she was sick, in the way you know things about the people you love, but no one had said it out loud. He knew they didn’t want him to worry, and so Ray just went along with it and pretended things were okay. It seemed easier that way; he couldn’t be home to take care of her, and the pain of that fact was too much to face. He 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. Ray hadn’t given up the idea of walking out of prison, but he couldn’t fight it every single day and survive. He had to make a home of Holman to survive. He had to block out his 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 Ray, in his home on the row, 10:00 a.m. was lunchtime. He had to accept that. He had to face the fact that in his home, men cried and screamed and moaned every day, all day. In his home, the rats and the roaches were free to come and go as they pleased, while Ray was not. In his home, people could come in at any time and turn his home upside down, and he had to take it. He had to say, “Yes, sir,” and “Thank you, sir,” in order to live. In his home, death was always at his door. It circled his house, watching and waiting and always present. Ray survived in his home mostly week to week—between visits with Lester, but sometimes it was minute to minute and hour to hour. In his home, he always knew when his family would die. In the real world, Ray didn’t know that death stalked the ones he loved as well. Ray couldn’t face that reality. He couldn’t live in the real world—only in the world of his imagination and the world that existed in his cell.
“It’s going to take some time, Mama,” he said. “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 for Ray to hear how confused she got at times. Lester told Ray she was fine, just got tired easily and it pained her to sit in a car for seven hours in one day, which Ray understood. His mom still came to visit, but only every few months or so. They were getting older. They were all getting older.
After Bryan had come to visit, Ray 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 visit Ray a few weeks later, and a few weeks after that, and on a regular basis. They got to know each other, and for parts of the visit Bryan was his attorney, and for other parts he was Ray’s friend. Sometimes they would go an hour or more not talking about his case. Instead, they would talk about the weather in Alabama, the college football season, food they liked and food they hated.
Some days, Ray could see Bryan was tired, and he wondered about the wear on a person when so many lives depend on what you do each day. Bryan carried a big burden, and it wasn’t just Ray’s. 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. Ray learned Bryan had a team of young lawyers working for him and volunteering to fight the good fight, and joked that those not at the top of the class might help.
“You might want to bring in some of those C students,” Ray said. “Those middle-of-the-class students sometimes know how to work the system. They have some hustle to them.”
Ray liked making him laugh. Bryan wore his work and his passion for his work on his face, but sometimes Ray could see it fall away and they were just two guys talking about regular stuff, like football and politics and good barbecue and guys they knew who could act the fool. In those moments, Ray wasn’t condemned, and Bryan wasn’t a lawyer. They were just Ray and Bryan, more alike than different. They both knew Ray’s life was in Bryan’s hands—but that was a burden they had to set aside now and then. It was a relief to know Bryan truly believed in Ray’s innocence. There was no talk of life without parole. Ray was innocent, and Bryan was going to yell and argue and fight until the State agreed to acknowledge it had made a mistake.
Ray hoped it would be soon. He 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. Ray had hope. He had lots of hope. But his life was passing him by quickly, and every year, he grieved for the year he’d lost. Ray was grateful to not be executed, but it was like existing in limbo—floating somewhere between life and death and never knowing where he was going to land.
The original case summary Bryan prepared was almost two hundred pages long. Ray liked that Bryan wanted him to review it. He liked that Bryan asked his opinion. He liked finally feeling that he had a voice in his own defense.
When Bryan wrote, he always told Ray to “hang in there,” and from Bryan, those words weren’t throwaway words. They weren’t just a way to end a letter or a phone call. They both knew a lot of guys on the row—eleven, to be exact, since Ray was there—who’d chosen not to hang in there. Giving up was always a temptation. Sometimes, taking his own life almost seemed like a better choice than letting the State take it from him. Ray was not going to take his own life, but he always appreciated Bryan’s telling him to hang in there. It got Ray through another day. Another long night. Ray took comfort in Bryan’s letters and visits. Bryan was truly working for him, and Ray prayed for him each and every night.
Bryan 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 had gotten word from the guard that Bryan wanted to talk to him and he should call him right away. Bryan had an understanding with the guards that he could call them and they would give Ray a message to call him collect. Sometimes it seemed like the guards wanted to see Ray leave death row just as much as he did.
“Ray, I have good news.” Bryan’s voice sounded excited.
“What’s that?”
“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 follow 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.”
Ray took a deep breath. Finally! “So what do we do now?” he asked. “When can I get out of here?” He 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,” Ray said. “Bryan, I can’t tell you enough how grateful I am to you.” He started to choke up.
“We’re not home yet, Ray, but we’re on our way.”
“I’ll be here,” Ray said. “You just let me know when it’s time to go home.”
“I’ll get you home, Ray. I promise you.”
Bryan’s next letter explained that he was working on getting Ray’s conviction and sentence vacated, which meant they would be declared legally void and be overturned. He added
If Jefferson County concedes that mistaken ballistics evidence means that you are innocent, we would probably then agree to have the weapon tested by some government agency, perhaps the ATF or the FBI. Assuming those test results come back the right way, we would then ask for a declaration of innocence.
Bryan was also working on getting more media coverage of Ray’s case, preparing to take their story of injustice to 60 Minutes, the award-winning, internationally known news program. He ended his letter, as he always did, with encouragement.
Anyway, things are going well for the case. Keep your head up, something may be soon to break. I’m enclosing some money to help you out. Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll see you soon, my friend.
Sincerely,
Bryan Stevenson
Ray read the letter and the attached memo that Bryan sent with it. The memo began in bold type:
THE ANTHONY RAY HINTON CASE
Anthony Ray Hinton has been on Alabama’s death row for sixteen years for crimes he did not commit.
It went on to detail the newly discovered ballistics findings and his confirmed alibi of being at work at Bruno’s; it listed the mistaken previous ballistics evidence; and it recounted how the police had pressured other employees at Food World to say they saw Ray there that night, and how they had refused and said they didn’t see him there. Only Clark Hayes, the grocery clerk, said he saw Ray there, and he was pressured just like the others. It also brought up Ray’s polygraph. The polygraph nobody wanted to look at.
Ray held up the money order Bryan had sent with his letter. He was still amazed at how selfless Bryan was. Not only didn’t he shake Ray down, he sent cards and money for Ray’s commissary purchases. The hearing was scheduled for March, and Ray went to bed thinking about that hearing. They will have to let me go, then. I am innocent. The FBI expert had even said so.
The more Bryan uncovered, though, the more it seemed like this wasn’t just an innocent mistake. To let Ray go, Alabama was going to have to admit they purposely sent him to death row. The police had coerced witnesses into saying he was at Food World. The detectives had given Ray’s name to Smotherman before he’d identified him from a photo that had his initials on it. Ray could feel the rage building again—the white-hot hate of anger at how much they had stolen of his life. Sixteen years. How much more could a man take? How did Reggie sleep at night, knowing he had sent me to my death? Every day, he had to keep reminding himself that he still mattered. Alabama had made a mistake.
Ray was innocent. And finally he could prove it.
Ray read Bryan’s letter and the memo over and over again, and that night, he prayed harder than he had ever prayed before. The truth was shining a light so big that they couldn’t ignore it. Ray prayed for Judge Garrett and for McGregor and for Higgins and Yates. He prayed for Perhacs. Bryan had told Ray that Perhacs and McGregor were friends. He also told Ray that Bob McGregor had a history of racial bias and was twice found guilty of illegally discriminating against African Americans in jury selections, once in Mobile and another time in Jefferson County.
Ray hadn’t known any of this, but still, he forgave Perhacs for not telling him he was friends with McGregor. Ray also blamed himself in some ways; he thought he’d been young and stupid and so trusting of a system that was rigged against him from the start. Ray prayed he could forgive himself as well.
He prayed for Bryan’s voice to be the voice of reason, and for fairness and justice. But Ray never forgot that Bryan was a Black man too, just like Ray. And he was up against the same ignorance Ray was up against. He was smarter than them all, though. And God was on his side.
That much he knew.
His mama had taught him well.
God had a plan, and God was always on the side of justice. God could do everything but fail. Ray had to believe. Sixteen long years. He was ready for God’s justice and mercy. His freedom was so close he could taste it and feel it, and sometimes at night, he would be back in his mama’s yard on a hot day in July, cutting the grass and thinking about going to church. He would wake up and realize this had all been a bad dream. All a dream. He had not spent sixteen years of his life on death row. In his dream, he’d walk into the kitchen and lay his head on his mama’s shoulder, and she would pat his back like she always did when he had a bad dream.
This nightmare wasn’t real. He had his whole life in front of him, and his mama was there telling him everything was going to be okay.
It was only a nightmare. It wasn’t real.
How could any of it have been real?