“I create an alibi for every single day of my life. I live in fear this could happen to me again.”
—Anthony Ray Hinton
The night that a manager at a Quincy’s restaurant had been abducted, robbed, and shot, Ray had been quietly working the night shift in a locked warehouse fifteen miles away from the scene of the crime.
Ray didn’t know where he was that night in February 1985 when John Davidson was murdered. Had he been fast asleep? Sitting at the kitchen table having a meal with his mom? Joking around with Lester? He didn’t know—Ray didn’t spend his days developing alibis. He had never even eaten at Mrs. Winner’s Chicken & Biscuits in Southside. Since he’d paid his price for the car, he’d kept his promise to stay out of trouble. He worked six days a week, assembling and delivering beds. He didn’t do anything too spectacular or exciting, just lived an ordinary life. He couldn’t say where he was or what he was doing on that particular night, but he knew for sure he was not out beating and robbing and murdering.
John Davidson’s killer had walked away with $2,200. What was the price of a life? Ray wondered just what it was that led the shooter to such a desperate act. Every desperate act has its price. Ray didn’t know then that the person who would pay the price was him.
BIRMINGHAM, AUGUST 1985
Newspaper articles detailed the story of Ray’s arrest as the “Holdup Suspect Charged with Slayings” of John Davidson and Thomas Wayne Vason. The third man, Sid Smotherman, had been wounded, and said that Ray was the culprit. Ray, who had never even been in a fight, was now “identified” as a cold-blooded killer.
Ray didn’t know who called the press or what they had been told, but he had watched enough television to know this was a perp walk and he was the perp. The bright lights, the noise, and the shouting were disorienting and confusing. He was somewhere between annoyed and angry. How embarrassing, he thought. For himself and for the police when they had to tell the press they made a mistake.
Inside a room in the police station, they put a blank piece of paper in front of Ray and asked him to sign it.
“Just sign it, and we are going to type up your Miranda rights on it so everyone knows we read you your rights.”
Ray knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, but he wasn’t a fool. There was no way he was going to sign a blank piece of paper. “You know what? I’m an honest person, so if anyone asks me—whether it’s a judge or another police officer or anyone—I will tell them that you read me my rights,” he said.
The detective put the pen on top of the paper. “We’re going to take the cuffs of you, and then you can sign the paper and have a drink, and we’ll get this all sorted out right quick.”
Ray looked up at the men around him. They looked happy, excited, and like they had a big secret they were just dying to tell. Ray felt the first real twinge of fear. Why did they want him to sign a blank piece of paper?
That wasn’t right. None of this was right.
“I’m not going to sign that paper.”
Ray said it firmly, and the detectives looked at each other. One of the other detectives picked up the paper. They started firing questions at him.
“Where were you on the night of February 23?”
Ray didn’t know.
“What about the night of July 2? Where were you on the night of July 2?”
“I was probably home on the second. I don’t remember doing anything else. I was probably home in February too. I don’t go out much,” he said. “I would have been home with my mom those nights.”
“Can you prove it?” the detective said quietly, and Ray felt a shiver go up his spine.
“I can’t prove it. Man, could you tell me where you were on some random day in February? Seriously.”
“I’m not the one under arrest here.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be under arrest either. I haven’t done nothing wrong. Whatever this is, you guys got the wrong guy.” Ray was trying to look cool and calm, but he could feel his heart pounding.
“Where were you on the night of July 25?”
July 25 was just a week earlier. Ray absolutely knew where he was on the twenty-fifth!
“I was at a friend’s house a couple of miles from my place. This was on Thursday, right?”
One of the detectives wrote something down in a notebook. “What’s the name of your friend?”
Ray gave them her name.
“What time were you at her house?”
“I got there about 8:00 p.m. or so, and I left at 11:15.”
“And where were you after 11:15?”
“I drove to my job out in Ensley, and I was at work all night. I worked the night shift. Midnight to 8:00 a.m. Bruno’s Warehouse. Although sometimes we got off earlier if we finished the work. I think I got off around 6:00 a.m. that day. That would be the twenty-sixth.”
There was nothing but silence after that.
They put Ray behind bars, and that’s when he realized he was going to be staying the night. He spent a sleepless night in a cell, then they transported him to the county jail in Birmingham. A Lieutenant Acker rode with him.
“What am I under arrest for, exactly?” Ray asked.
“You want to know why you’re under arrest?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re under arrest for first-degree kidnapping, first-degree robbery, first-degree attempted murder.”
“Man, you got the wrong person.” The man in the headlines, the one the police were talking about, that wasn’t him. He was Anthony Ray Hinton. People called him Ray.
“Man, we’re not even done with you yet. There’s going to be more charges.” Acker turned around and looked Ray in the eye. “You know, I don’t care whether you did or didn’t do it. In fact, I believe you didn’t do it. But it doesn’t matter. If you didn’t do it, one of your brothers did. And you’re going to take the rap. You want to know why?”
Ray shook his head.
“I can give you five reasons why they are going to convict you. Do you want to know what they are?”
Ray shook his head again, no, but the lieutenant continued.
“Number one, you’re Black. Number two, a white man gonna say you shot him. Number three, you’re gonna have a white district attorney. Number four, you’re gonna have a white judge. And number five, you’re gonna have an all-white jury.”
He paused and smiled at Ray. “You know what that spell?”
Ray shook his head, but he’d been raised in the South, he knew. His whole body went numb, like he was under an ice-cold shower in the middle of winter.
“Conviction. Conviction. Conviction. Conviction. Conviction.”
Ray closed his eyes.
Ray’s mom had taught all of her kids to respect authority. “Tell the truth,” she always said, “and you’ve got nothing to fear.” When Ray had gotten in trouble, she said, “Even if it hurts you, you tell the truth. What’s done in the dark will always come to light.” In his mom’s world, the police were who you ran to when you were in trouble—you never ran from them. They were always there to help. That was why Ray had let them search his car and his room. That’s why he had told them his mom had a gun when they’d asked. You told the truth. The police were there to help. There was nothing to be afraid of.
Ray thought of her at home alone and scared. He hadn’t been offered a phone call. He hoped the neighbors were with her. Ray knew Phoebe, Lester’s mom, would be at his mom’s side. He wondered if Lester had heard. The only thought that brought Ray some comfort was knowing that Lester would look out for his mom, just like Ray would have done for Lester’s mom.
This would get cleared up. First-degree robbery and attempted murder and kidnapping? Ray felt like he’d been kidnapped. But it would all get cleared up. They would see he’d been at work. They’d talk to his friend. He couldn’t remember the other nights, but he hadn’t done anything wrong, so the more he cooperated and helped them investigate whatever this was, the sooner he would go home. He had to believe that. He didn’t care what Acker said. No one was going to convict Anthony Ray Hinton of something he didn’t do. He was innocent, and it would get sorted out in the morning.
When they got to Birmingham, the press was in front of the Birmingham jail—more lights and flashes as the police paraded Ray around. He was read his rights again and processed into the jail with fingerprints and mug shots and was told they were also charging him with murder. Two murders. They had evidence, they said. The gun at Ray’s house matched the bullets. They’d found the murder weapon. It was over. He should confess. None of it made sense. Ray refused to speak. He just wanted a moment to clear his head and sort everything out.
He needed to talk to his mom.
Ray was given green-and-white-striped scrubs to change into, and they took him up to the seventh floor—C block. He was given a one-inch-thick mattress, a plastic razor, a plastic mug, a toothbrush, and his very own roll of toilet paper.
Ray set his stuff down on his bunk. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a week.
That wasn’t going to happen.
“Stand outside your cell with your back against the wall.”
He lined up with everyone else and watched as the guards did roll call. Ray looked around. There were twenty-three other men there with him. Most were Black; some were white.
When roll call was over, Ray turned to go back into his cell.
“Hinton! You can’t go back in your cell until the day’s over. Everyone has to be in the common area.”
The common area had metal seats and tables bolted to the floor, and all of them were arranged so that they faced a small television mounted to the wall. All Ray wanted to do was call his mom and Lester and see if they could straighten out this mess somehow. And then he wanted to close his eyes and sleep and wake up from this nightmare at home, in his own bed.
Ray sat down on one of the cold, rounded seats and nodded at the white guy who sat down across from him. He had bright red hair, and a big smile that looked half friendly and half serial killer–clown.
“Welcome to C block,” he said. “It’s where all the capital murder kids come to play.”