“As there is no issue here worthy of certiorari, this court should deny review in this matter.”
—Luther Strange, Alabama attorney general, to the Supreme Court of the United States, November 2013
There are certain moments that stay with you. For a lot of people, it’s when they get married or give birth to their first child. For others, it’s when they get their first job, or meet the woman or man of their dreams, or maybe it’s something as simple as being acknowledged by someone or finally getting the nerve to do something they’ve always been afraid of. Ray spent the six months it took for Bryan to file his petition with the U.S. Supreme Court reflecting on his moments—but only the good ones. He didn’t want to review the bad moments. His mother’s death. The arrest and conviction. The fifty-four human beings he had watched walk to their own executions. Ray knew all their names, and in July, the night before Andrew Lackey, a white man who had only been on the row for about five years, was taken to the death chamber, Ray said the names of fifty-three of them in his head. Some people count sheep. Ray counted the dead.
Wayne. Michael. Horace. Herbert. Arthur. Wallace. Larry. Neal. Willie. Varnall. Edward. Billy. Walter. Henry. Steven. Brian. Victor. David. Freddie. Robert. Pernell. Lynda. Anthony. Michael. Gary. Tommy. JB. David. Mario. Jerry. George. John. Larry. Aaron. Darrell. Luther. James. Danny. Jimmy. Willie. Jack. Max. Thomas. John. Michael. Holly. Philip. Leroy. William. Jason. Eddie. Derrick. Christopher.
He didn’t want to add Andrew’s name to the list. Not yet. Not when there was still hope. The man before Andrew had only been there four years. Like Andrew, Christopher didn’t want to appeal. They were young guys, but both seemed like they didn’t know what was happening to them. Ray wasn’t sure they really understood where they were or that they were choosing not to appeal their convictions. It was sad, and Ray felt older than his fifty-seven years. He banged on the bars for Christopher and for Andrew, just so they would know they weren’t alone.
Ray had made noise for a lot of men as they faced their own deaths.
He tried to keep his mind focused on the good moments. The moments before his arrest were warm summer nights playing baseball with Lester and the other kids in Praco. They were so blissfully unaware of how dangerous the world was. Even the bombings and protests in Birmingham had seemed far away from their sanctuary in Praco. Ray wished they had never left there. What if we had stayed in Praco and I had stayed in the mines? How would my life have turned out? What would have been my important moments? What if he had married his Sylvia when he had the chance? I would be a father, maybe even a grandfather by now. How many baseball games had I missed? How many walks in the woods? How many sunrises and sunsets could one man miss in his life and still have a life? Ray had lived in darkness for so long, he almost couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a free man under a shining sun. He thought about what it felt like to make a woman laugh. Would he ever kiss a woman again? Even if he got out, who would want to kiss the man from death row? Ray tried to remember the moments he spent fishing with his mama or sitting next to her in church and praying. He remembered the food she used to make and the love that he could taste in every bite.
The good moments after coming to death row were harder. Doubled up laughing with Lester and Sylvia at visits. Telling them stories that kept them grinning and helped them to believe that life on death row wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Sitting with Bryan talking about his case and also talking about football. Making him laugh. Seeing the strain leave his eyes for a half hour. Helping another man get through a long, dark night on the row. Just voices in the darkness calling out to each other. They all did their time differently. Ray traveled in his mind. Some guys never spoke. Some guys never stopped being angry. Some guys prayed to God, and some nurtured a darkness that Ray believed no man should ever carry. He tried to remember the moments on the row that would make his mama proud. He tried to focus on the moments that held light and laughter. It helped him get through. His case was winding down—he knew that. There was a clock counting down to the day he ran out of time—the day when he would get his execution date and would have to learn how to live with knowing the date and time of his death. Ray didn’t want to know. He would rather it be a surprise than have to live out thirty or sixty days seeing the faces of the men practicing for his death.
It was hard not to spend time wishing for a different life, but Ray tried not to dwell on all the what-ifs. What if I had never driven off in that car? What if I had taken a job somewhere besides Bruno’s?
What if I hadn’t been born poor?
What if he’d had Bryan as his lawyer from the start? Ray was still fighting for his freedom, but it was with a quiet acceptance of what seemed inevitable. They were never going to admit they had put the wrong man on death row. Anthony Ray Hinton was never going to walk out of prison.
Bryan filed the petition for a writ of certiorari in the U.S. Supreme Court in October 2013, and the State filed their response in November. Bryan filed a response to their response a week after. There was no New Year’s celebration on death row, and 2014 came in like a quiet thief in the night.
What could they celebrate, really—another year of being alive or another year of being closer to death?
How did free men celebrate a new year? Ray didn’t know, and he couldn’t remember.
It was near the end of February when Ray got word to call Bryan. Again. How many of those phone calls had he made over the last fifteen years? And how many had ever been good news?
Bryan seemed breathless when he got on the line. And excited. Ray tried not to get his hopes up, but he felt his heart start to beat faster.
“Ray, I only have a few moments, but I need to tell you—”
“What is it, Bryan? Did Kim Kardashian call looking for me?”
(Ray’s imagination had brought him to a divorce from Sandra Bullock for Kim. It was all very dramatic—in his head.)
Bryan laughed. “No, Ray. The U.S. Supreme Court ruled.”
Ray took in a breath. He hoped they were going to allow oral arguments. He knew Bryan could work his magic if he got in front of them. It was rare, Ray knew, but he had imagined it in his mind. Bryan pleading his innocence in front of the justices of the Supreme Court. Maybe even Obama. He could imagine the impossible. The country had a Black president, and nobody ever thought that would happen.
“Ray, it was a unanimous decision. They ruled on your case. They didn’t say they would review; they reviewed and ruled. Here, let me read something to you.”
“What do you mean, Bryan?” Ray asked. He couldn’t understand what Bryan was saying.
“Listen to this: Anthony Ray Hinton, an inmate on Alabama’s death row, asks us to decide whether the Alabama courts correctly applied Strickland to his case. We conclude that they did not and hold that Hinton’s trial attorney rendered constitutionally deficient performance. We vacate the lower court’s judgment and remand the case for reconsideration of whether the attorney’s deficient performance was prejudicial.”
Ray didn’t say a word. Did he really understand what Bryan was saying?
Bryan went on, “The petition for certiorari and Hinton’s motion for leave to proceed in forma pauperis are granted, the judgment of the Court of Criminal Appeals of Alabama is vacated, and the case is remanded for further proceedings not inconsistent with this opinion. It is so ordered.”
“It is so ordered?”
“Ray, it is so ordered. By the United States Supreme Court. They didn’t grant review; they ruled outright. In your favor. They overruled the appeals court. Ray, it was a unanimous decision.”
Ray dropped the phone and sat down on the floor and wept like a baby. Nine Supreme Court justices. Even the staunchly conservative Scalia, who believed that the death penalty was constitutional but affirmative action wasn’t. They all believed him. Who was going to argue with them? Could Alabama?
It was a few moments before Ray picked up the phone and put it back to his ear. He didn’t know if Bryan was still there.
“Bryan?”
“I’m here, Ray.”
“Will you call Lester for me?”
“I will. Ray, we still have work ahead of us, and we have to go back through the state courts, but this is a win, Ray. A big win. They’re going to have to issue you a new trial.”
“When should I start packing?”
“Not yet, but hopefully soon. It’s still going to take some time, and you still need to hang in there, but hopefully soon, my friend. Hopefully soon.”
Ray went back to his cell, but he didn’t tell anyone the news. He still had a ways to go, but for the first time in twenty-nine years, there was a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel. He didn’t know how the appeals court was going to act now that the U.S. Supreme Court told them they had made an error. Because Perhacs hadn’t asked for more money to hire a better expert, Ray’s case had been devastated. Payne had been a horrible expert. Perhacs hadn’t tried. The United States Supreme Court was on his side.
Ray couldn’t believe it. All nine justices. Even Scalia.
The Court of Criminal Appeals sent Ray back down to circuit court—back to Judge Petro—so that court could determine whether Perhacs would have hired a better expert if he had known there was money to do so, and whether that expert would have led to reasonable doubt about his guilt. The answer was yes. On September 24, 2014, the circuit court found that Ray’s trial was prejudiced—Perhacs’s incompetence had done severe damage to his case. Perhacs was ineffective, and Ray’s Rule 32 petition was granted. In December, Ray’s case was going back to where it all started, in Jefferson County. Ray stayed awake in his cell and rang in the new year alone but with joy—2015. It was his only New Year’s celebration in thirty years on death row. He wasn’t free yet, but he was going to have a new trial, with Bryan Stevenson as his attorney and three of the best ballistics experts in the country testifying on his behalf. In January, the judge ordered Holman to have him back in Jefferson County for a February 18 hearing at 9:00 a.m.
Anthony Ray Hinton was finally leaving death row.
Not on a gurney. Not in a body bag.
Ray gave away his television and his tennis shoes. He passed out his commissary food and his books and his extra clothes. It was a joyful time on his block of the row. When the guard came to walk him out, he yelled out to the twenty-eight guys on his tier.
“Can I have your attention for a minute?” There were some hoots and hollers.
“I want you to know that I’m fixing to go. I’m leaving here. It took me thirty years to get to this moment. It may take thirty-one years for you. It may take thirty-two or thirty-three or thirty-five years, but you need to hold on. You need to hold on to your hope. If you have hope, you have everything.”
The guys began to make a noise. They didn’t bang on the bars like they usually did for executions; it was a joyful noise. It was a mixture of applause and laughter and chanting. “Hin-ton! Hin-ton! Hin-ton!” Ray was taken back to high school and the basketball court and the time when he thought the crowd was chanting his name but they weren’t. This time, they were and it was a strange mix of tragedy and sorrow and triumph and joy.
Ray walked off the row with his head held high and his birth certificate in his hand.
Free at last. Free at last.
Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.
When he climbed into the van, he could see the cages he had walked in almost thirty years earlier. he could see the razor-wire fences and the dry, dusty yard. He never wanted to see this place again. He wasn’t home yet, but he was one step closer.