“You’ll get used to it.” The guard laughed. “Next year or one of these days, somebody’s going to be smelling you just the same. What do you think you gonna smell like to everyone? Not too good.”
The guard laughed again, and I felt my stomach turn over and heave as I ran to the toilet. I was swallowing Wayne Ritter every time I took a breath, and the nightmare that was death row only got worse.
I wanted to ask how long he had been there. Did they kill people every week? Every month? I wanted to know if Ritter knew they were killing him that day, but I still wasn’t talking to anyone. I didn’t know when they would come for me. Could they come kill me even though I was on appeal? If Perhacs failed, would they come take me right away—pull me from my cell in the middle of the night and strap me to a chair and electrocute me until I lost my bowels and my heart stopped and the smell of my burning flesh and fried organs drifted up and down the row to remind men of what was to come? I couldn’t stop my mind from racing and imagining what it would feel like to be sitting in that chair, and the fear, like a ton of bricks, crushed my chest until I thought I would stop breathing. Everything in me was fighting to run, but there was nowhere to go. It was like when you have a dream where you open your mouth to scream but no sound comes out and you stand there, mouth open and helpless, as danger descends. I wondered if I could get a gun from a guard on my way to the shower and then shoot my way out. Would that be a better way to die than in that yellow chair with nothing but my smell to remember me by?
I spent months thinking about Ritter. I wondered if he had cried or pleaded for his life. I wondered if he had been guilty or innocent. I had never thought about the death penalty too much before being on death row. It was never in my world as something to think about. At trial, McGregor had asked me what I thought the appropriate sentence would be for someone who did what I was accused of doing, and I had said the death penalty would be appropriate. But was it? Who was I to say who was worthy of life or death? How could I or anyone know if someone was guilty or innocent? What happened to Ritter seemed like murder to me, and how was it okay to murder someone for murdering someone? I heard some guys say that after an execution, the cause of death listed on the death certificate was homicide. I didn’t know if this was true or not. How could it be true? The thoughts swirled in my head all day and all night—and I waited to see who the guards would come for next.
* * *
They started practicing a couple of months before the next execution. They called themselves the Execution Team, but everyone knew what they really were—the Death Squad. The Death Squad would line up, twelve of them in all, and march solemnly down the row. One guard would pretend to be the inmate, and the other would lead him to the holding cell that you stayed in before being executed. The death chamber was only about thirty feet or so from my cell. I was upstairs or 8U as they called it—which stood for Eight Side Up. There was a guy a little younger than I was in the cell below. I had never talked to him, but I knew his name was Michael Lindsey, and I knew he was the next to be executed.
In the month leading up to his execution, he cried every day. He cried on the yard. I had never heard anyone cry like that before, but I remained silent. He cried as the Death Squad practiced marching in front of his cell, and he cried as they went into the death chamber and turned the generator on to test Yellow Mama. He cried as the lights flickered, and he cried at night when the lights went out. The guards practiced their ritual for killing him, and then they would ask him how he was doing and did he need anything—as if they weren’t rehearsing his murder. It was gruesome to watch, and it only made Michael Lindsey’s terror grow. On the Monday before his execution, you could hear him begging and pleading with a guy named Jesse who had just started something called Project Hope to fight the death penalty from within Holman. Jesse had no power. He was on death row too. But Michael Lindsey begged him to save his life. It was heartbreaking and painful.
In the days leading up to your execution, you were allowed to have visitors all day each day. You were allowed to hug them and hold their hands—things you weren’t allowed to do on regular visits. In nearly eight years on death row, Michael Lindsey never had a visitor. He was twenty-eight years old when the Death Squad came for him in May of 1989. He had been convicted of murdering a woman and stealing her Christmas presents. I thought about him crying and begging someone to save his life in those last days—and what it felt like for him to know there was nobody to save him, and the guards who were suddenly being so nice to him were going to be the same people who strapped him to the electric chair, shaved his head, and put a black bag over his face so nobody who was there to enjoy his execution could actually see the horror in his eyes. He was only five years younger than I was. He was healthy. A jury had recommended life in prison, but his judge had overruled that jury recommendation and sentenced him to death. Judges could do that in Alabama. Lindsey had been on death row for almost eight years. It was hard not to do the math—every inmate did the math when someone was executed—comparing how long the person killed had been there compared to how long you had been there. I learned that they gave you an execution date around a month before you were executed. A month to feel terror. A month to beg and plead for your life. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to spend my last month on this earth crying and begging for my life. I didn’t want to count down to my death. It was hard not to know when the Death Squad would come for you, but I think it was even harder for the guys who knew.
Michael Lindsey had no last words. On Thursday night when they took him to the death chamber, I could hear him crying. We all could. He had no visitors in the days and hours before his death. He was completely alone. Shortly before midnight, when we knew he was being strapped into that chair, we began to make some noise. Up and down the row, men began banging on the bars and doors of their cells. I heard some men yell, “Murderers!” to the guards. We made a noise like I had never heard before. Some men screamed. Others called out Michael’s name. Others just roared and growled like feral animals. I made a fist, and I slammed it against the door of my cell as loud and as long as I could—until my hand was red and raw. The noise was intense, and you could hear guys yelling from general population as well. I didn’t know Michael Lindsey, but I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. I wanted him to know that I saw him and knew him and his life meant something and so did his death. We yelled until the lights stopped flickering and the generator that powered the electric chair turned off. I banged on the bars until the smell of Michael Lindsey’s death reached me, and then I got in my bunk and I pulled the blanket over my head and I wept. I cried for a man who had to die alone, and I cried for whoever was next to die. I didn’t want to see any more deaths. I didn’t want to look at the guards tomorrow and wonder which one of them had done what to Michael as they brought me my food. I didn’t want to live next to the death chamber, but there was nowhere to go. I would stay silent until I was set free. I started to think about what must have driven Lindsey to steal Christmas presents, and I thought about my own family. We didn’t have many Christmas presents, but I never felt like I was missing anything. Christmas had always been about love and celebrating the birth of Christ and family and good food and laughter. As crowded as our home was, it was fun and freedom, and I wanted nothing more than to be a kid again living in Praco and playing ball and roaming the hills and woods with Lester. I wanted open space. I wanted the smell of fresh-cut grass. I wanted to know that somewhere, somehow, there was a place where the sun shined and death didn’t come for you at midnight and put a bag over your head.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but all I heard was Michael Lindsey begging somebody, anybody, to save him.
* * *
A few weeks after Lindsey was killed, another inmate, Dunkins, was given an execution date. I listened to the talk on the row. Dunkins was also twenty-eight. Everyone knew he was a bit “slow,” and nobody thought he should be put to death. Alabama was making up for lost time, because another
guy also got an execution date. Dunkins was going to be in July of ’89, and Richardson in August. It seemed like they were planning on executing one man per month now, and the row was tense and quiet. Right after Lindsey was killed, the heat had started up, and it seemed to get worse every day. No air circulated on the row, so it felt like sitting in a sauna all day and all night. My fingers were wet and puckered like when you sit in water too long; that’s how humid it was. I wanted to swim in cool water, and I was just imagining sitting in a cool stream when a guard came to my cell and opened the door.
“468!”
I just looked at him.
“468 … You got mail.”
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t a number, and I wasn’t going to speak to him.
“Still not speaking? You not dumb. I saw you last visit, talking and carrying on with your people.”
I just looked down.
“You want this mail? It’s a legal letter,” he said. “You want it, you’d better say so.”
I looked at the envelope in his hand. I could see Law Offices of Sheldon Perhacs stamped on it. This could be the answer I had been waiting on from the Alabama Supreme Court. My freedom! I could feel the hope rise up in me. Maybe they had caught the guy who did it, or maybe they were going to give me a new trial and a better expert, or maybe they had found out that I couldn’t have been in two places at once, or maybe Reggie admitted to lying. I could feel the hope well up in me so big it surprised me. I smiled at the guard. I didn’t mean to, but it just happened.
“Well, that’s something, then. At least you’re not just scowling at the ground. You got to learn to cooperate around here, and things will get easier,” he said. “You’d best be getting a better attitude if you want more privileges.”
I didn’t want more privileges. I wanted out. I wanted to get away from people who fed you one day and killed you the next. I had to get away from the smell of death and the heat of being in a small box twenty-three hours a day. I was going to go crazy if I didn’t get out of here.
I took a deep breath and held out my hand. He and I both knew he had to give me legal mail, and he wasn’t allowed to read it first, either.
“Here you go.” He handed me the letter. “And take a shower tonight. You stink.”
I kept my head down until he went back out and closed my door. He could have just slipped the mail through the slot, but he wanted to mess with me. I sat down on the edge of the bed and held the letter up in front of my face. My hands were shaking.
June 19, 1989
Mr. Anthony Ray Hinton, #Z468
Holman Unit #37
Atmore, Alabama 36506
RE: Your appeal to the Alabama Supreme Court
Dear Anthony:
Although I have not received the opinion as of yet, my office received a phone call from the clerk of the Supreme Court on Friday afternoon. The clerk reported to our office that our appeal to obtain new trials was denied. Because the entire Supreme Court heard the appeal argument, we must now make a decision to act and to act quickly. I still believe in this appeal, and I think that the trials that you obtained were not fair. There remains another appeal that you can take. We can petition to the U.S. Supreme Court for a review. Rule 20 of the Supreme Court rules requires that a Petition for Writ of Certiorari to review the judgment of the Alabama Supreme Court be filed within 60 days after the entry of judgment. I may be able to obtain an extension for an additional 30 days for good cause. This means that an immediate decision must be made and immediate action needs to be taken.
The appointment of me as your attorney of record does not continue from this point forward. In order for you to petition the U.S. Supreme Court for a review, you will have to hire an attorney. There is no requirement that you hire me, and there is no requirement that the federal government appoint an attorney to represent you. I will be more than happy to handle the appeal of your case from this point to the U.S. Supreme Court, but my fee to do that would be $15,000.00. The conditions for the payment of the fee are difficult; it would be my requirement that the entire fee be paid immediately in order for me to begin the appellate process. Please contact your family instantly and contact me immediately with your decision about what it is you would like to do.
Sincerely,
Sheldon Perhacs
I don’t think I moved for the next twenty-four hours. They came for me to take a shower, but I wouldn’t respond or get up off the bed, and eventually, they gave up and moved on to the next guy. Once again, it came down to money. Was Perhacs shaking me down? Shaking down my family? Hell, I was on death row for supposedly killing people so I could steal some money—where did he think I had $15,000 hiding? I called his office and spoke to his secretary. “Can’t your mom mortgage her house?” she asked. “That’s what he’s thinking will have to happen.”
“Tell him thanks for everything,” I said.
“That’s it, then?” she asked.
“That’s it. If he won’t go on without money, then we’re done. I don’t have money. My family don’t have money. I’m not going to let my mom mortgage her house.”
I heard her sigh and say she would give Perhacs the message, and he’d get a message to the prison or come to see me to talk about it.
I knew I wouldn’t see him again.
When my mom and Lester came at the end of that week to visit, I pulled Lester aside so we could talk for a minute away from our moms.
“Listen,” I said. “Listen quick. Perhacs is done. My appeal is done. No matter what Perhacs says if he calls you, don’t let him get to my mother. He wants her to mortgage her house, and that’s just him still trying to shake us down for money. It’s over.”
Lester shook his head. “It can’t be over. There’s got to be something—”
“Listen,” I interrupted him. “When they give me a date, that’s it. I don’t want you watching or anyone watching me die. You bring them for a visit, and then you take them to a hotel nearby to spend the night.”
I could see Lester shaking his head, but there wasn’t much time to talk privately, and he needed to hear this.
“When I’m gone—it will be a little after midnight, but don’t wake her up; wait until morning—then you tell her, ‘He’s gone and he said he loves you.’”
Lester put his hands up over his face. “I can’t tell her that you’re gone. I can’t.”
“You’re going to have to, and I’m sorry about that. I am.” I took a deep breath. “You remind her of what she’s always said: ‘There’s a time to live and a time to die.’ You remind her. You keep saying it to her. You tell her that I love her, and that I wasn’t scared, and that all of us is going to have to leave this world at some point and it was just my time. You tell her that when her time comes, I’m going to have some of her favorite food waiting, and I’ll have a nice place for her to stay, and I’ll be waiting.”
Lester was crying and wiping at his eyes.
“You going to have to bring her own words back on her, over and over again. That’s the only thing that will help her. Do you understand? You tell her what she’s always said. You tell her God makes no mistakes. Everything happens for a reason. And you play that back to her over and over no matter how she be crying and carrying on. Tell her, God come got what was his, and there’s a time to live and a time to die. That’s what she taught me. That’s what she’s got to remember.”
“Why do I have to do it? Can’t your sisters or one of your brothers?” Lester’s face had a pain in it I had never seen before, and my heart broke that I was the cause.
“You’re my brother, Lester. You’re the best, closest family I have. Do you see anyone else here on visiting day? Do you see a line of my sisters and brothers waiting to see me? You’re the only one to do this for me, and she’ll listen to you. She’ll need you more than ever. Promise me you’ll look after her. Promise me you’ll comfort her. It’s going to break her heart, but you tell her God needed me and brought me home. Tell her that we all have a season for living
and a season for dying. Tell her that. Tell her it was just my time and you tell her I died with joy in my heart and I wasn’t afraid, and I had God by my side.”
I grabbed Lester’s arm. “You lie to her, Lester. You lie to her until she’s at peace, you understand?”
“I’m not going to let them kill you.”
“Just promise me.”
“We’re going to find a way to get you out of here. I’m going to find someone else to help you. Someone besides Perhacs.”
“You just keep him from Mama’s house, you understand?”
Lester nodded, but he had a stubborn look about him that I recognized from when we were kids.
“There’s a time for living and a time for dying,” I said. “It’s true.”
“It ain’t true today.”
“It’s true today, Lester. It’s always true in this place.”
* * *
They killed Horace Dunkins on July 14. I banged against the bars and the lights flickered and then we stopped. And then ten minutes later, the generator went back on and the lights flickered again. Human error, they called it. He had to be electrocuted twice over nineteen minutes because the guards hooked up the cables wrong. Herbert Richardson was executed a month later. He was a Vietnam veteran, a man who had served our country, and now our country saw fit to end his life. He asked to be blindfolded before he was brought in so he couldn’t see the death chamber, or the people watching him, or anything. We banged on the bars for Dunkins and for Richardson, just so they both knew they weren’t alone.
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