by David R. Dow
The Autobiography of an Execution
David R. Dow
Near the beginning of The Autobiography of an Execution, David Dow lays his cards on the table. “People think that because I am against the death penalty and don’t think people should be executed, that I forgive those people for what they did. Well, it isn’t my place to forgive people, and if it were, I probably wouldn’t. I’m a judgmental and not very forgiving guy. Just ask my wife.”
It this spellbinding true crime narrative, Dow takes us inside of prisons, inside the complicated minds of judges, inside execution-administration chambers, into the lives of death row inmates (some shown to be innocent, others not) and even into his own home—where the toll of working on these gnarled and difficult cases is perhaps inevitably paid. He sheds insight onto unexpected phenomena—how even religious lawyer and justices can evince deep rooted support for putting criminals to death—and makes palpable the suspense that clings to every word and action when human lives hang in the balance.
From Publishers Weekly
In an argument against capital punishment, Dow’s capable memoir partially gathers its steam from the emotional toll on all parties involved, especially the overworked legal aid lawyers and their desperate clients. The author, the litigation director of the Texas Defender Service and a professor at the University of Houston Law Center, respects the notion of attorney-client privilege in this handful of real-life legal outcomes, some of them quite tragic, while acknowledging executions are not about the attorneys, but about the victims of murder and sometimes their killers. While trying to maintain a proper balance in his marriage to Katya, a fellow attorney and ballroom dancer, he spells out the maze of legal mumbo-jumbo to get his clients stays or released from confinement in the cases of a hapless Vietnam vet who shot a child, another man who beat his pregnant wife to death and another who killed his wife and children. In the end, Dow’s book is a sobering, gripping and candid look into the death penalty.
Review
“I have read much about capital punishment, but David Dow’s book leaves all else behind.”
Anthony Lewis
“In an argument against capital punishment, Dow’s capable memoir partially gathers its steam from the emotional toll on all parties involved, especially the overworked legal aid lawyers and their desperate clients. The author, the litigation director of the Texas Defender Service and a professor at the University of Houston Law Center, respects the notion of attorney-client privilege in this handful of real-life legal outcomes, some of them quite tragic, while acknowledging executions are ‘not about the attorneys,’ but ‘about the victims of murder and sometimes their killers.’ While trying to maintain a proper balance in his marriage to Katya, a fellow attorney and ballroom dancer, he spells out the maze of legal mumbo-jumbo to get his clients stays or released from confinement in the cases of a hapless Vietnam vet who shot a child, another man who beat his pregnant wife to death and another who killed his wife and children. In the end, Dow’s book is a sobering, gripping and candid look into the death penalty.”
Publishers Weekly
“For a lot of good reasons, and some that are not so good, executions in the U.S. are carried out in private. The voters, the vast majority of whom support executions, are not allowed to see them. The Autobiography of an Execution is a riveting and compelling account of a Texas execution written and narrated by a lawyer in the thick of the last minute chaos. It should be read by all those who support state sponsored killing.”
John Grisham, author of The Innocent Man
“Defending the innocent is easy. David Dow fights for the questionable. He is tormented, but relentless, and takes us inside his struggle with candor and insight, shudders and all.”
Dave Cullen, author of Columbine
“David Dow’s extraordinary memoir lifts the veil on the real world of representing defendants on death row. It will stay with me a long time.”
Jeffrey Toobin, author of The Nine
David R. Dow
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EXECUTION
In Memory of Peter G.
Qué significa persistir en el callejón de la muerte?
PABLO NERUDA, El libro de las preguntas, LXII
He thought that in the history of the world it might even be that there was more punishment than crime but he took small comfort from it.
CORMAC McCARTHY, The Road
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I have been representing death-row inmates, mostly in Texas, since the late 1980s. The stories in this book are true. I was involved in all the cases I have described (although not always as the lead lawyer), and all the factual details are based on my own firsthand knowledge. I have not exaggerated to heighten drama.
In telling these stories, however, I have confronted constraints. A lawyer’s obligation to keep his client’s secrets confidential remains even after the client has died. I have therefore changed many of the names, and I have altered many identifying details.
In addition to using pseudonyms, I have occasionally changed genders, ages, races, locations (including cities), dates, and restaurants. I have not altered the facts of the crimes nor of my relationships with my clients, but I have taken procedural details of some cases and attributed them to other cases. In some cases where there were multiple execution dates, I have told the story as if there was only one. I have transposed the geographical location of certain events (including where certain things took place inside the prison or jail, which county some crimes were committed in, and whether a legal proceeding took place in state or federal court), and I’ve altered the timing of others, though the basic chronology of events is accurate.
I have also probably put some of Katya’s words in my mouth, and vice versa. I recall many of our conversations with near-perfect clarity (although, as she will tell you, I forget many more), but I often recall what was said without remembering which one of us said it.
Scores of lawyers have worked on the cases I describe in the following pages. To avoid burdening the reader with a Shakespearean cast, I refer to only three of them, using pseudonyms, in the text. I list all their actual names in the Acknowledgments.
I have made the changes I did for many reasons: to protect attorney-client privilege, as I said, which survives even after the client dies; to avoid revealing confidential information of present and former clients; to protect the families of both murder victims and the criminals who killed them (even families of murderers are entitled to privacy and respect); to conceal the identities of people who would not want their help to me revealed (including guards, police officers, court personnel, judges, and prosecutors); to protect living clients from retaliation or jealousy; to compress into a two- or three-year period stories that in some cases lasted a decade or longer; and to tell the stories without getting too bogged down in legal and procedural details. I have endeavored to write an honest memoir without revealing confidences, so I have told these stories in a way that is faithful to the truth as well as to the individuals they feature.
BEGIN READING
If you knew at precisely what time on exactly what day you were going to die, and that date arrived, and the hour and minute came and went, and you were not dead, would you be able to enjoy each additional second of your life, or would you be filled with dreadful anticipation that would turn relief into torture? That is the question I asked myself at twenty minutes past eight o’clock on Halloween night. Jeremy Winston was still alive. He was in the holding cell, eight steps away from the execution chamber at the Walls Unit in Huntsville, Texas. He was supposed to have been dead for two hours.
Winston was my client. I was sitting in my office in Houston with three other lawyers, w
aiting for the clerk’s office at the United States Supreme Court to call. The warden at the Walls was holding a judicial order instructing him to execute Winston after 6:00 p.m. He would carry it out unless the Supreme Court intervened. Winston had been pacing for two hours in the tiny holding cell, three steps one way, three steps back. He had requested a cigarette in lieu of a final meal. Prison officials informed him that tobacco products were not permitted on prison grounds. But the three guards who would escort Winston to the gurney gave him a pack of cigarettes and one match. He lit each new cigarette with the dregs of the old one.
Our phone rang. The clerk at the Supreme Court wanted to know what time we would be filing additional papers. I hadn’t planned to file anything else. The four of us working on the case had already written our best argument and sent it to the Court. It had been there since five o’clock. In nearly twenty years of representing death-row inmates, this had never happened to me before. Was the clerk telling us to file something? I told him I’d call right back.
Had a law clerk or even a Supreme Court justice seen some argument that we had missed and decided to hold the case a little bit longer, giving us more time for the lightbulb to click on? That’s what the justices do sometimes, they toy with you. Jerome, Gary, Kassie, and I were sitting in the conference room. We frantically deconstructed and reassembled our arguments, looking for something we might have missed. I was bouncing a Super Ball off the wall, tossing it with my left hand and catching the rebound with my right. Gary was juggling three beanbags. Jerome and Kassie were sitting still, pens in their hands, waiting to write something down, if we could think of something to write. Jeremy Winston was wondering why he was still alive. Suddenly I saw him, peering into the conference room, watching his lawyers juggle and play catch and sit there doing nothing. He shook his head, a gesture just short of disgust, realizing the sand was about to run out.
Maybe, I said, we had called something by the wrong name. You might think that when a life is at stake, formal legal rules would not matter so much, but you would be wrong. People die when their lawyers neglect to dot the i’s or cross the t’s. I decided we would refile what we had already filed, and just call it something different. Because I couldn’t think of any other explanation, I convinced myself the problem was with the title. Necessity’s eldest child is invention; her second-born is rationalization. Gary’s the fastest typist. I asked him to get started working on it.
Two minutes later the phone rang again. Kassie answered. The clerk was calling to tell us never mind, that we had lost. I went into my office, closed the door, and called Winston to let him know. He was declared dead at twenty-seven minutes past nine.
I WALKED IN THE DOOR from the garage at nine fifty-five. I was sucking on a peppermint to hide that I had been smoking. A dried-out roasted chicken was sitting on the counter. A fly was on the drumstick. I shooed it away. An open bottle of red wine was next to the chicken. I called to my wife, Katya. There was no answer. I figured Lincoln had had a nightmare and she was upstairs with him. I started to climb the stairs. Katya called to me from the library. She was sitting on the sofa, her feet on the coffee table, holding a wineglass on her stomach. Her eyes were red. She had been crying.
What’s the matter? I said.
Where were you?
At my office. The Supreme Court didn’t call until after eight. Winston didn’t get executed until after nine. What’s the matter?
You were supposed to take Lincoln to the haunted house. He waited up until nearly eight.
Oh shit. I completely forgot.
Lincoln was six. I had expected to be home by 7:00 at the latest. I told him I would take him to the haunted house after he collected enough candy. He had made me a costume to wear. I said, Why didn’t you call to remind me?
I did call you. I left three messages on your cell phone.
I told her I had left my cell phone in my car. I asked, Why didn’t you call the office?
Because I didn’t think you would still be there. You always call when something happens. The execution was supposed to be at six, right?
Yes, it was supposed to be, I said. Did you go without me?
No. He said he wanted to wait for you. I told him I didn’t know when you were going to be home. He said that he would just wait. He kept his Thomas the Tank Engine outfit on and sat on the stairs. At seven thirty I told him the haunted house was going to close in a few minutes, but he said he’d keep waiting. He came and sat outside with Winona and me to hand out candy to the trick-or-treaters. At eight I told him it was time to go to bed. On the way upstairs he said that he was feeling a little sad. I told him that it was okay to be sad. I said that you had probably gotten busy at work. He said, I know, but I’m still disappointed.
I said, Crap. I can’t believe I forgot this. I’m going upstairs to check on him. I’ll be right down.
I peeked in his room. Winona, our seventy-five-pound red Doberman, was lying on the bed, her head resting on Lincoln’s ankles. He said, Hi, Dada. You missed the haunted house.
I said, I know I did, amigo. I’m really sorry. I forgot all about it. Can you forgive me?
He said, Yes. Why are you home so late anyway?
I had a lot of work to do.
He said, Did you help the person you were trying to help?
I’m afraid not, amigo. I tried, though.
He said, Dada, I’m a little sad.
Me too, amigo.
Will you sleep with me for five minutes?
Sure I will. Scoot over.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER I walked downstairs. Katya said, I’m sorry about Winston.
Thank you.
I sat down next to her on the sofa. The TV was muted. She said, Your clients are not the only people who need you.
I said, I know.
LIFE IS EASIER with pillars. Mine are my family. One wife, one son, one dog. When I tell Katya that, she can’t decide whether to believe me. Belief is a decision, I say; it doesn’t just happen. Believe what I am telling you.
Before I met her, I planned to live out in the country. Get forty acres, run some cows, sit on the deck with the dog, watch the sun set and then come up, drive to my office at the university twice a week, come home, take a walk down to the creek. Read a lot of books, stick my head in a hole and say screw you to the world, have a conference call every morning with the lawyers I work with, file my appeals from a laptop eighty miles from death row.
To get to the piece of property I almost bought, you’d head west from Houston on I-10 toward San Antonio and get off the interstate at the small town of Sealy. Eric Dickerson went to Sealy High School. He’s a Hall of Fame running back. There’s a billboard at the exit reminding you of that. Dickerson played for the Los Angeles Rams in the 1980s. One day in practice the head coach, John Robinson, criticized Dickerson for not working hard. Dickerson said he was working hard. Robinson told him that if he was really working, he’d be sprinting on the running plays instead of just jogging. Dickerson said, I am running, Coach. Robinson went out onto the field and ran next to him. Well, he tried to.
From a distance, ease can easily be mistaken for indifference.
STORIES OF EXECUTIONS are not about the attorneys. They’re about the victims of murder, and sometimes their killers. I know death-penalty lawyers who are at the movies when their clients get executed. I know one who found out on Thursday that his client had been executed on Monday. He’d been scuba diving in Aruba. I understand that. It’s possible to care without seeming to. It’s also possible to care too much. You can think of yourself as the last person between your client and the lethal injection, or you can see your client as the person who put himself on the rail to that inevitability. One is healthier than the other.
My first client was executed in 1989. Derrick Raymond was an average bad guy who did one very bad thing. He dropped out of high school in tenth grade. Two years later he enlisted in the army to learn a skill. He wound up in Vietnam. He did not talk much to me about the war. I learned ab
out his service record ten years after he was executed, when one of his army buddies tried to track him down but got in touch with me instead. Derrick returned to Houston with a purple heart and a heroin habit that cost him five hundred dollars a week, but still without any job skills. He pumped gas until he got fired for missing too many days. Drug addiction has many consequences. He started robbing convenience stores and fast-food restaurants. After one stickup, which netted him $73 and change, he was running down the street when the security guard gave chase, shooting. One shot hit Derrick in the leg. He fell to the pavement, turned around, and fired five shots at the security guard. The guard took cover, but one shot hit a seven-year-old boy who had just finished having lunch with his mother. There might be nothing sadder than dead children. On top of that, Derrick was black and the boy was white. That’s a bad combination. The jury took less than two hours to sentence him to death.
Derrick’s lawyer fell asleep during the trial—not just once, but repeatedly. The prosecutor was appalled, but the trial judge just sat there. When a new lawyer requested a new trial, the court of appeals said no, because the judges believed Derrick would have been convicted even if his lawyer had been awake. Another court-appointed lawyer represented him for his habeas corpus appeals in state court. That lawyer missed the filing deadline. If you miss a deadline, the court will not consider your arguments. That’s when I got appointed to represent Derrick in federal court. But the federal courts have a rule: They refuse to consider any issues that the state courts have not addressed first. The state court had said that Derrick’s lawyer was too late and had therefore dismissed his arguments. So the federal court would not hear our appeal either.