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Chapter Five

Of the Coming of John

“It would have been so much easier if he had been out in the woods hunting by himself when that girl was killed.” Armelia Hand, Walter McMillian’s older sister, paused while the crowd in the small trailer called out in affirmation. I sat on a couch and looked out at the nearly two dozen family members who were staring at me as Armelia spoke.

“At least then we could understand how it might be possible for him to have done this.” She paused and looked down at the floor of the room where we had gathered.

“But because we were standing next to him that whole morning … We know where he was.… We know what he was doing!” People hummed in agreement as her voice grew louder and more distraught. It was the kind of wordless testimony of struggle and anguish I heard all the time growing up in a small rural black church.

“Just about everybody in here was standing next to him, talking to him, laughing with him, eating with him. Then the police come along months later, say he killed somebody miles away at the same time we were standing next to him. Then they take him away when you know it’s a lie.” She was now struggling to speak. Her hands were trembling and the emotion in her voice was making it hard to get her words out.

“We were with him all day! What are we supposed to do, Mr. Stevenson? Tell us, what are we supposed to do with that?”

Her faced twisted in pain. “I feel like I’ve been convicted, too.”

The small crowd responded to each statement with shouts of “Yes!” and “That’s right!”

“I feel like they done put me on death row, too. What do we tell these children about how to stay out of harm’s way when you can be at your own house, minding your own business, surrounded by your entire family, and they still put some murder on you that you ain’t do and send you to death row?” I sat on the crowded sofa in my suit, staring into the face of a lot of pain. I hadn’t expected to have such an intense meeting when I arrived. Folks were desperate for answers and trying to reconcile themselves to a situation that made no sense. I was struggling to think of something appropriate to say when a younger woman spoke up.

“Johnny D could have never done this no kind of way, whether we was with him or not,” she said, using the nickname Walter’s family and friends had given him. “He’s just not like that.” The younger woman was Walter’s niece. She continued with her rebuttal to the very idea that Walter would need an alibi, which seemed to generate support among the crowd.

I was relieved to have the pressure off me for a moment, as Walter’s large family seemed to be moving toward some sort of debate over whether Walter’s character rendered an alibi unnecessary—or even insulting. It had been a long day. I was no longer sure what time it was, but I knew it was very late, and I was wearing down. I’d spent several intense hours on death row earlier in the day with Walter going over his trial transcript. Before my meeting with Walter, I spent time with other new clients on the row. Their cases weren’t active, and there were no deadlines on the horizon, but I hadn’t seen them since the Richardson execution and they had been anxious to talk.

Now that Walter’s case record was complete, appeal pleadings would be due soon, and time was critical. I should have returned to Montgomery directly from the prison, but Walter’s family wanted to meet, and since they were less than an hour from the prison I had promised to come to Monroeville.

Walter’s wife, Minnie Belle McMillian, and his daughter Jackie were waiting patiently when I pulled up to the McMillians’ dilapidated house in Repton, which was off the main road leading into Monroeville. Walter had told me I would know I was close when I passed a cluster of liquor stores on the county line between Conecuh and Monroe counties. Monroe County is a “dry county” where no alcoholic beverages can be sold; for the convenience of its thirsty citizens, several package stores marked the boundary with Conecuh County. Walter’s house was just a few miles from the county line.

I pulled into the driveway and was surprised at the profound disrepair; this was a poor family’s home. The front porch was propped on three cinder blocks piled precariously beneath wood flooring that showed signs of rot. The blue window panes were in desperate need of paint, and a makeshift set of stairs that didn’t connect to the structure was the only access to the home. The yard was littered with abandoned car parts, tires, broken pieces of furniture, and other detritus. Before getting out of my car, I decided to put on my well-worn suit jacket, even though I had noticed earlier that it was missing buttons on both jacket sleeves.

Minnie walked out the front door and apologized for the appearance of the yard as I carefully stepped onto the porch. She kindly invited me inside while a woman in her early twenties lingered behind her.

“Let me fix something for you to eat. You been at the prison all day,” she said. Minnie looked tired but otherwise appeared as I had imagined—patient and strong—based on Walter’s descriptions and my own guesses from our phone conversations. Because the State had made Walter’s affair with Karen Kelly part of its case in court, the trial had been especially difficult for Minnie. But she looked like she was still standing strong.

“Oh, no, thank you. I appreciate it, but it’s fine. Walter and I ate some things on the visitation yard.”

“They don’t have nothing on that prison yard but chips and sodas. Let me cook you something good.”

“That’s very kind, I appreciate it, but I’m really okay. I know you’ve been working all day, too.”

“Well, yes, I’m on twelve-hour shifts at the plant. Them people don’t want to hear nothing about your business, your sickness, your nerves, your out-of-town guests, and definitely nothing about your family problems.” She didn’t sound angry or bitter, just sad. She walked over to me, gently looped her arm with mine, and slowly led me into the house. We sat down on a sofa in the crowded living room. Chairs that didn’t match were piled with papers and clothes; her grandchildren’s toys were scattered on the floor. Minnie sat close to me, almost leaning on me as she continued speaking softly.

“Work people tell you to be there, and so you got to go. I’m trying to get her through school and it ain’t easy.” She nodded to her daughter, Jackie, who looked back at her mother sympathetically. Jackie walked across the room and sat near us. Walter and Minnie had mentioned their children—Jackie, Johnny, and “Boot”—to me several times. Jackie’s name was always followed by “She’s in college.” I had begun to think of her as Jackie “She’s in College” McMillian. All of the kids were in their twenties but still very close and protective of their mother.

I told them about my visit with Walter. Minnie hadn’t been to the prison in several months and seemed grateful that I had spent some time there. I went over the appeals process with them and talked about the next steps in the case. They confirmed Walter’s alibi and updated me on all the rumors in town currently circulating about the case.

“I believe it was that old man Miles Jackson who done it,” Minnie said emphatically.

“I think it’s the new owner, Rick Blair,” Jackie said. “Everybody knows they found a white man’s skin under that girl’s fingernails where she had fought whoever killed her.” “Well, we’re going to get to the truth,” I said. I tried to sound confident, but given what I’d read in the trial transcript, I thought it very unlikely that the police would turn over their evidence to me or let me see the files and the materials collected from the crime scene. Even in the transcript, the law enforcement officers who had investigated Walter seemed lawless. These police put Walter on death row while he was a pretrial detainee; I feared that they would not scrupulously follow the legal requirement to turn over all exculpatory evidence that could help him prove his innocence.

We talked for well over an hour—or they talked while I listened. You could tell how traumatizing the last eighteen months since Walter’s arrest had been.

“The trial was the worst,” Minnie said. “They just ignored what we told them about Johnny D being home. Nobody has explained to me why they did that. Why did they do that?” She looked at me as if she honestly hoped I could provide an answer.

“This trial was constructed with lies,” I said. I was wary about expressing such strong opinions to Walter’s family because I hadn’t investigated the case enough to be sure there was more evidence to convict Walter. But reading the record of his trial had outraged me, and I felt that anger returning—not just about the injustice done to Walter but also about the way it had burdened the entire community. Everyone in the poor, black community who talked to me about the case had expressed hopelessness. This one massive miscarriage of justice had afflicted the whole community with despair and made it hard for me to be dispassionate.

“One lie after the other,” I continued. “People were fed so many lies that by the time y’all started telling the truth, it was just easier to believe you were the ones who were lying. It frustrates me to even read it in the trial record, so I can only imagine how you all feel.” The phone rang, and Jackie jumped up to answer it. She came back a few minutes later. “Eddie said that people are getting restless. They want to know when he’s going to be there.” Minnie stood up and straightened her dress. “Well, we should probably get going down there. They been waiting most of the day for you.” When I looked confused, Minnie smiled. “Oh, I told the rest of the family we would bring you down there, since it’s so hard to find where they live if you’ve never been there before. His sisters, nephews, nieces, and other folks all want to meet you.” I tried not to show my alarm, but I was getting worried about the time.

We piled into my two-door Corolla, which was stacked with papers, trial transcripts, and court records. “You must spend your money on other things,” Jackie joked as we pulled away.

“Yes, expensive suits are my spending priority these days,” I replied.

“There’s nothing wrong with your suit or your car,” Minnie said protectively.

I followed their directions down a long, winding dirt road full of impossible turns through a heavily wooded area. As darkness fell around us, the road twisted through dense forest for several miles until it came to a short, narrow bridge with room for only one car to pass. It looked shaky and unstable, so I slowed the car to a stop.

“It’s okay. It hasn’t rained that much, and that’s the only time when it’s really a problem,” Minnie said.

“What kind of problem?” I didn’t want to sound scared, but we were in the middle of nowhere and in the pitch-black night I couldn’t tell whether it was a swamp, a creek, or a small river under the bridge.

“It will be all right. People drive through here every day,” Jackie chimed in.

It would have been too embarrassing to turn around, so I drove slowly across the bridge and was relieved when we had made it to the other side. I continued for another mile until the forest began to give way to trailers, a few small homes, and finally, an entire community hidden away in the woods.

We pulled up a hill until we reached a trailer that was glowing in the darkness, lit by a fire burning in a barrel out front. Six or seven small children were playing outside; they dashed into the trailer when they saw our car pull up. As we got out of the car, a tall man emerged from the trailer. He walked up to us and hugged Minnie and Jackie before shaking my hand.

“They been waiting for you,” he told me. “I know you probably got a lot of work to do, but we appreciate you coming to meet with us. I’m Giles, Walter’s nephew.” Giles led me to the trailer and opened the door for me to step inside. The small home was packed with more than thirty people, whose chattering fell silent when I walked in. I was startled by the size of the group, which stared at me appraisingly and then, one by one, started to smile at me. Then, to my amazement, the room broke into loud applause. I was stunned by the gesture. No one had ever applauded me just for showing up. There were older women, younger women, men Walter’s age, and several men much older. Their faces were creased with a by-now familiar look of anxiety. When the applause had died down, I began to speak.

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” I started. “I’m so glad to meet you all. Mr. McMillian told me he had a large family, but I didn’t expect so many of you to be here. I saw him today, and he wants me to pass along his thanks and his gratitude to all of you for sticking by him. I hope you know how much your support means. He has to wake up on death row every morning, and that’s not easy. But he knows he’s not alone. He talks about you all the time.” “Sit down, Mr. Stevenson,” someone shouted. I took a seat on an empty couch that seemed to have been reserved for me and Minnie sat down beside me. Everyone else stood, facing me.

“We don’t have any money. We gave it all to the first lawyer,” called out one of the men.

“I understand that, and I won’t take a penny. I work for a nonprofit law office, and we provide legal assistance at no cost to the people we represent,” I replied.

“Well, how do you pay the bills?” asked one young woman. People laughed at the question.

“We get donations from foundations and people who support our work.”

“Well, you get Johnny D home, and I’ll make all kinds of donations,” said another woman slyly. People laughed and I smiled.

An older woman spoke up. It was Armelia Hand. “We don’t have much, Mr. Stevenson, but you have someone we love in your care. Anything we have, you have. These people have broken our hearts,” she said.

I began answering questions and listening to comments and testimonials about Walter, the town, race, the police, the trial, and the way the whole family was now being treated by people in the community. The hours passed, and I knew that I had probably exhausted whatever helpful information could be obtained from Walter’s family, but folks still wanted to talk. There seemed to be therapeutic relief in voicing their concerns to me. Before long I heard some hopefulness in their questions and comments. I explained the appeals process and talked about the kind of issues that were already apparent from the record. I began to feel encouraged that some of the information I provided maybe eased their anxiety. We started to joke some, and before I knew it I felt embraced in a way that energized me.

An older woman had given me a tall glass of sweet iced tea as I sat there listening and responding to questions. I drank the first glass thirstily because I was a little nervous (the tea was very good). The woman watched me drain the glass and smiled at me with a look of great satisfaction. She quickly filled the glass, and no matter how much or how little I drank, she minded my glass religiously the entire evening. After over three hours, Minnie grabbed my hand and announced that they should let me go. It was close to midnight, and it would take me at least two hours to get to Montgomery. I said my farewells and exchanged hugs with practically everyone in the room before stepping out into the dark night.

December is rarely bitter cold in South Alabama during the day, but at night the temperatures can drop, a dramatic reminder that it’s winter, even in the South. Without an overcoat, I cranked up the heat for the long drive home after dropping Minnie and Jackie back at their house. The meeting with the family had been inspiring. There were clearly a lot of people who cared deeply about Walter and consequently cared about what I did and how I could help. But it was also clear that people had been traumatized by what had happened. Several of the people I met weren’t actually related but had been at the fish fry on the day of the crime. They were so deeply disturbed by Walter’s conviction that they, too, had come over when they heard that I was coming. They needed a place to share their hurt and confusion.

In 1903, W.E.B. Du Bois included in his seminal work, The Souls of Black Folk, a brilliant but haunting short story. I thought about “Of the Coming of John” on the drive home. In Du Bois’s story, a young black man in coastal Georgia is sent off hundreds of miles to a school that trains black teachers. The entire black community where he was born had raised the money for his tuition. The community invests in John so that he can one day return and teach African American children who are barred from attending the public school. Casual and fun-loving, John almost flunks out of his new school until he considers the trust he’s been given and the shame he would face if he returned without graduating. Newly focused, sober, and intensely committed to succeed, he graduates with honors and returns to his community intent on changing things.

John convinces the white judge who controls the town to allow him to open a school for black children. His education has empowered him, and he has strong opinions about racial freedom and equality that land him and the black community in trouble. The judge shuts down the school when he hears what John’s been teaching. John walks home after the school’s closing frustrated and distraught. On the trip home he sees his sister being groped by the judge’s adult son and he reacts violently, striking the man in the head with a piece of wood. John continues home to say goodbye to his mother. Du Bois ends the tragic story when the furious judge catches up to John with the lynch mob he has assembled.

I read the story several times in college because I identified with John as the hope of an entire community. None of my aunts or uncles had graduated from college; many hadn’t graduated from high school. The people in my church always encouraged me and never asked me for anything back, but I felt a debt accumulating. Du Bois understood this dynamic deeply and brought it to life in a way that absolutely fascinated me. (I just hoped that my parallel with John wouldn’t extend to the getting lynched part.) Driving home that night from meeting Walter’s family, I thought of the story in a whole new way. I had never before considered how devastated John’s community must have felt after his lynching. Things would become so much harder for the people who had given everything to help make John a teacher. For the surviving black community, there would be more obstacles to opportunity and progress and much heartache. John’s education had led not to liberation and progress but to violence and tragedy. There would be more distrust, more animosity, and more injustice.

Walter’s family and most poor black people in his community were similarly burdened by Walter’s conviction. Even if they hadn’t been at his house the day of the crime, most black people in Monroeville knew someone who had been with Walter that day. The pain in that trailer was tangible—I could feel it. The community seemed desperate for some hope of justice. The realization left me anxious but determined.

I’d gotten used to taking calls from lots of people concerning Walter’s case. Most were poor and black, and they offered encouragement and support, and my visit with the family generated even more of those calls. And occasionally, a white person for whom Walter had worked would call to offer support, like Sam Crook. When Sam called, he insisted that I come and see him the next time I was back in town.

“I’m a rebel,” he said toward the end of our call. “Part of the 117th division of the Confederate Army.”

“Sir?”

“My people were heroes of the Confederacy. I’ve inherited their land, their title, and their pride. I love this county, but I know what happened to Walter McMillian ain’t right.” “Well, I appreciate your call.”

“You’re going to need some backup, someone who knows some of these people you’re going against, and I’m going to help you.”

“I’d be very grateful for your help.”

“I’ll tell you something else.” He lowered his voice. “Do you think your phone is being tapped?”

“No, sir, I think my phone is clear.”

Sam’s voice rose in volume again.

“Well, I’ve decided I ain’t going to let them string him up. I’ll get some boys, and we’ll go cut him down before we let them take him. I’m just not going to stand for them putting a good man down for something I know he didn’t do.” Sam Crook spoke in grand proclamations. I hesitated over how to respond.

“Well … thank you,” was all I could manage.

When I later asked Walter about Sam Crook, he just smiled. “I’ve done a lot of work for him. He’s been good to me. He’s a very interesting guy.” I saw Walter just about every other week for those first few months, and I learned some of his habits. “Interesting” was Walter’s euphemism for odd people, and having worked for hundreds of people throughout the county over the years, he’d encountered no shortage of “interesting” people. The more unusual or bizarre the person was, the more “interesting” they would become in Walter’s parlance. “Very interesting” and “real interesting” and finally “Now, he’s reeeeaaaalll interesting” were the markers for strange and stranger characters. Walter seemed reluctant to say anything bad about anyone. He’d just chuckle if he thought someone was odd.

Walter grew much more relaxed during our visits. As we became more comfortable with each other, he would sometimes veer into topics that had nothing to do with the case. We talked about the guards at the prison and his experiences dealing with other prisoners. He talked about people back home he thought would visit but hadn’t. In these conversations, Walter showed remarkable empathy. He spent a lot of time imagining what other people were thinking and feeling that might mitigate their behavior. He guessed what frustrations guards must be experiencing to excuse the rude things they said to him. He gave voice to how hard it must be to visit someone on death row.

We talked about food he liked, jobs he’d worked when he was younger. We talked about race and power, the things we saw that were funny, and the things we saw that were sad. It made him feel better to have a normal conversation with someone who wasn’t on the row or a guard, and I always spent extra time with him to talk about things unrelated to the case. Not just for him but for myself as well.

I was trying so hard to get the project off the ground that my work had quickly become my life. I found something refreshing in the moments I spent with clients when we didn’t relate to one another as attorney and client but as friends. Walter’s case was becoming the most complicated and time-consuming I’d ever worked on, and spending time with him was comforting even though it made me feel the pressure of his mistreatment in ways that became increasingly personal.

“Man, all these guys talk about how you’re working on their case. You must not ever get any peace,” he told me once.

“Well, everybody needs help, so we’re trying.”

He gave me an odd look that I hadn’t seen before. I think he wasn’t sure whether he could give me advice—he hadn’t done that yet. Finally, he seemed to say what he was thinking.

“Well, you know you can’t help everybody,” he looked at me earnestly. “You’ll kill yourself if you try to do that.” He continued looking at me with concern.

I smiled. “I know.”

“I mean, you gotta help me. You shouldn’t hold nothing back on my case,” he said with a smile. “I expect you to fight all comers to get me out of here. Take ‘em all down, if necessary.” “Stand up to giants, slay wild beasts, wrestle alligators …,” I joked.

“Yeah, and get somebody ready to take over the battle in case they chop your head off, ‘cause I’m still going to need help if they take you out.” The more time I spent with Walter, the more I was persuaded that he was a kind, decent man with a generous nature. He freely acknowledged that he’d made poor decisions, particularly where women were concerned. By all accounts—from friends, family, and associates like Sam Crook—Walter generally tried to do the right thing. I never regarded our time together as wasted or unproductive.

In all death penalty cases, spending time with clients is important. Developing the trust of clients is not only necessary to manage the complexities of the litigation and deal with the stress of a potential execution; it’s also key to effective advocacy. A client’s life often depends on his lawyer’s ability to create a mitigation narrative that contextualizes his poor decisions or violent behavior. Uncovering things about someone’s background that no one has previously discovered—things that might be hard to discuss but are critically important—requires trust. Getting someone to acknowledge he has been the victim of child sexual abuse, neglect, or abandonment won’t happen without the kind of comfort that takes hours and multiple visits to develop. Talking about sports, TV, popular culture, or anything else the client wants to discuss is absolutely appropriate to building a relationship that makes effective work possible. But it also creates genuine connections with clients. And that’s certainly what happened with Walter.

Shortly after my first trip to see Walter’s family, I received a call from a young man named Darnell Houston who told me that he could prove that Walter was innocent. His voice shook with nerves but he was determined to speak to me. He didn’t want to talk on the phone, so I drove down to meet with him one afternoon. He lived in a rural part of Monroe County on farmland that his family had worked since the time of slavery. Darnell was a sincere young man, and I could tell he’d been debating for a while whether to contact me.

When I arrived at his home, he walked out to greet me. He was a young black man in his twenties who had joined the “Jheri curl” craze. I had already noticed that the popular process of chemically treating black hair to make it looser and easier to style had come to Monroeville; I’d seen several black men, young and old, sporting the look with pride. The cheerful bounce of Darnell’s hair contrasted with his worried demeanor. As soon as we sat down, he got right to business.

“Mr. Stevenson,” he began. “I can prove that Walter McMillian is innocent.”

“Really?”

“Bill Hooks is lying. I didn’t know he was even involved in that case until they told me he was part of how they put Walter McMillian on death row. First, I didn’t believe Bill could have been part of this, but then I found out that he testified that he drove by that cleaners on the day that girl was killed, and that’s a lie.” “How do you know?”

“We were working together all that day. We both worked at the NAPA auto parts store last November. I remember that Saturday when that girl was killed because ambulances and police started racing up the street. It went on for like thirty minutes. I’d been working in town for a couple of years and had never seen anything like it.” “You were working on the Saturday morning that Ronda Morrison was killed?”

“Yes, sir, with Bill Hooks from about eight in the morning till we closed after lunch, after all them ambulances went by our shop. It was probably close to eleven when the sirens started. Bill was working on a car in the shop with me. There ain’t but one way out the store; he never left the entire morning. If he said he drove by the cleaners when that girl was killed, he’s lying.” One of the most frustrating things about reading Walter’s trial record had been that the State’s witnesses—Ralph Myers, Bill Hooks, and Joe Hightower—were so obviously not believable. Their testimony was laughably inconsistent and completely lacking in credibility. Myers’s account of his role in the crime—Walter kidnapping him to drive him to the crime scene and then dropping him off afterward—never made any sense. Hooks, a critical witness against McMillian, wasn’t persuasive or reliable in the transcript—he just repeated the same story he’d given the police about driving by the cleaners at the time of the crime. His response to every line of questioning was to repeat over and over again that he saw Walter McMillian walk out of the store with a bag, get into his “low-rider” truck, and get driven away by a white man. He could not answer any of Chestnut’s questions about what else he saw that day or what he was doing in the area. He just kept repeating that he saw McMillian at the cleaners. But the state needed Hooks’s testimony.

My plan had been to immediately appeal Walter’s conviction to the Alabama Court of Criminal Appeals. The State had done so little to prove Walter’s guilt that there weren’t a lot of legal issues to appeal, but the evidence against him was so unpersuasive that I was hopeful the court might overturn the conviction simply because it was so unreliable. Once the case was on direct appeal, no new evidence would be considered. The time for filing a motion for a new trial in the trial court—the last chance to introduce new facts before an appeal begins—had already expired. Chestnut and Boynton, Walter’s lawyers for the initial trial, had filed a motion before withdrawing, and Judge Key had quickly denied it. Darnell said he told Walter’s former lawyers what he told me and they had raised it in the motion for a new trial, but no one took it seriously.

In capital cases, a motion for a new trial is routinely filed but rarely granted. But if the defendant alleges new evidence that could lead to a different outcome in the case—or that undermines the reliability of the trial—there is typically a hearing. After speaking with Darnell, I thought about refiling his assertions before the case went up on appeal and maybe, just maybe, we could persuade local officials to retreat from the case against Walter. I made a motion to reconsider the denial of a new trial for Mr. McMillian. I immediately got an affidavit from Darnell stating that Hooks’s testimony was a lie. I took the risk of talking to a few local lawyers about whether the new prosecutor might acknowledge that the conviction was unreliable and support a new trial if there was compelling new evidence.

Several people had suggested that Tom Chapman, the new Monroe County district attorney and a former criminal defense attorney, would be fairer and more sympathetic to someone wrongly convicted than lifelong prosecutor Ted Pearson. After Pearson’s long tenure as D.A., Chapman’s election represented something of a new era. He was in his forties and had talked about modernizing law enforcement in the region. Some said that he was ambitious and might want to run for statewide office someday. I also discovered that he had represented Karen Kelly in a prior proceeding, which told me that he was already familiar with the case. I was hopeful.

I was still sorting out how to proceed when Darnell called me at my office.

“Mr. Stevenson, you have to help. They arrested me this morning and took me to the jail. I just got out on bond.”

“What?”

“I asked them what I had done. They told me I was being charged with perjury.” He sounded terrified.

“Perjury? Based on what you told Mr. McMillian’s lawyers a year ago? Have they come to interview you or talk to you since we got your statement? You were supposed to let me know if you heard from them.” “No, sir. I haven’t heard from any of them. They just came and arrested me and told me I had been indicted for perjury.”

I hung up with Darnell, shocked and furious. It was unheard of to indict someone for perjury without any investigation or compelling evidence to establish that a false statement had been made. Police and prosecuters had found out that Darnell was talking to us and they decided to punish him for it.

A few days later, I called the new D.A. to set up a meeting.

On my way to his office, I decided to give him a chance to explain what was going on, instead of angrily complaining about the insanity of indicting someone for perjury because he had contradicted a State’s witness. I decided to wait until after my meeting before filing my stack of motions. This was my first meeting with anyone associated with Walter’s prosecution, and I didn’t want to begin with an angry accusation. I had allowed myself to believe that the people who had prosecuted Walter were just misguided, possibly incompetent. I knew some of them were bigoted and abusive, but I guess I held out the hope that they could be reoriented. Indicting Darnell was a worrisome signal that they were willing to threaten and intimidate people.

The Monroe County courthouse is situated in the heart of downtown Monroeville. I drove into town, parked, and entered the courthouse looking for the district attorney’s office. On my only other trip to the courthouse a month earlier, I had gone to the clerk’s office to pick up files and the staff had asked me where I was from. When I said Montgomery, they launched into a lecture about Monroeville’s prominence as a result of Harper Lee and her famous novel. I remember how the clerk had chatted me up.

“Have you read the book? It’s a wonderful story. This is a famous place. They made the old courthouse a museum, and when they made the movie Gregory Peck came here. You should go over there and stand where Mr. Peck stood—I mean, where Atticus Finch stood.” She giggled with excitement, although I imagine she said the same thing to every out-of-town attorney who wandered in. She continued talking enthusiastically about the story until I promised to visit the museum as soon as I could. I refrained from explaining that I was too busy working on the case of an innocent black man the community was trying to execute after a racially biased prosecution.

During this trip I was in a different frame of mind. The last thing I was interested in was a fictional story about justice. I walked through the courthouse until I found the district attorney’s office. I announced myself to the secretary, who eyed me suspiciously before directing me into Chapman’s office. He walked over to shake my hand.

Chapman started off by saying, “Mr. Stevenson, lots of people want to meet you. I told them you were coming down but decided that just you and I should talk.” It didn’t surprise me that word had gotten around and that people were talking about Walter’s new attorney. I had talked to enough people in the community to know that people would be discussing my efforts on Walter’s behalf. My guess is that Judge Key had already characterized me as misguided and uncooperative simply because I didn’t get off the case, as he had directed.

Chapman had a medium build, curly hair, and glasses that suggested he didn’t mind looking like someone who spent time reading and studying. I’d met prosecutors who dressed and presented like they would rather be out hunting ducks than running a law office, but Chapman was professional and courteous and approached me with a pleasant demeanor. I was intrigued that he would immediately give voice to the concerns of other people in law enforcement and was initially encouraged that he meant for us to have a candid conversation free of distractions and posturing.

“Well, I appreciate that,” I said. “I’m very concerned about this McMillian case. I’ve read the record, and to be honest I have serious doubts about his guilt and the reliability of this conviction.” “Well, this was a big case, there’s no doubt about that. You do understand that I didn’t have anything to do with the prosecution, don’t you?” “Yes, I do.”

“This was one of the most outrageous crimes in Monroe County history, and your client made a lot of people here extremely angry. People are still angry, Mr. Stevenson. There’s not enough bad that can happen to Walter McMillian for some of them.” This was a disappointing beginning—he seemed completely convinced of Walter’s guilt. But I pressed on.

“Well, it was an outrageous, tragic crime, so anger is understandable,” I replied. “But it doesn’t accomplish anything to convict the wrong person. Whether Mr. McMillian has done anything wrong is what the trial should resolve. If the trial is unfair, or if witnesses have given false testimony, then we can’t really know whether he’s guilty or not.” “Well, you may be the only person right now who thinks the trial was unfair. Like I said, I wasn’t involved in the prosecution.” I was becoming frustrated, and Chapman probably saw me shift in my seat. I thought about the dozens of black people I’d met who had complained bitterly about Walter’s prosecution, and I was starting to see Chapman as either naive or willfully indifferent—or worse. I tried unsuccessfully not to let my disappointment show.

“I’m not the only person with questions about this case, Mr. Chapman. There’s a whole community of people, some of whom claim to have been with Walter McMillian miles away when the crime was committed, who believe in his innocence. There are people for whom he’s worked who are absolutely convinced that he did not commit this crime.” “I’ve talked to some of those people,” Chapman responded, “and they can only have uninformed opinions. They don’t have facts. Look, I can tell you right now that nobody cares who slept with Karen Kelly. There is evidence that implicates Walter McMillian for this murder, and my job is to defend this conviction.” He was becoming more argumentative, and his voice was rising. The calm and curious look he had initially given me was shifting into anger and disgust.

“Well, you’ve indicted someone for perjury for contradicting the state’s case. Do you intend to prosecute everyone who challenges the evidence in this case?” My voice was now rising in exactly the way I wanted to avoid, but I was provoked by his attitude. “Alabama case law is clear that a perjury charge can’t be filed in the absence of clear and convincing evidence that a false statement has been made,” I went on. “A perjury indictment seems like a tactic designed to intimidate and discourage people from coming forward with evidence that contradicts the State’s case. The charge against Mr. Houston seems really inappropriate, Mr. Chapman, and legally indefensible.” I knew I was lecturing him and knew he didn’t like it, but I wanted him to know that we were going to defend Walter in a serious way.

“Are you representing Darnell Houston now, too?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, I’m not sure you can do that, Mr. Stevenson. I think you might have a conflict there,” he said, and then his voice shifted from argumentative to blandly matter-of-fact. “But don’t worry, I may drop the perjury charges against Houston. Now that the judge has denied your motion to reopen the case, I don’t have any interest in pursuing charges against Darnell Houston. But I do want people to know that if they make false statements concerning this case, they are going to be held accountable.” I was confused and a little stunned.

“What are you talking about? The motion to reconsider has been denied?”

“Yes, the judge has already denied your motion. You must not have gotten your copy of his order. He’s down in Mobile now, so sometimes there are mail issues.” I tried to conceal my surprise about the court’s ruling on the motion without even permitting a hearing. I asked, “So you have no interest in investigating what Darnell Houston is saying about the possibility that the State’s main witness may be lying?” “Ralph Myers is the State’s main witness.”

It was clear that Chapman had looked more deeply into the case than he had initially claimed.

“Without Hooks’s testimony, the conviction wouldn’t be valid,” I said, leveling my voice. “Under the State’s theory, Myers is an accomplice, and state law requires confirmation of accomplice testimony, which can only come from Hooks. Mr. Houston says that Hooks is lying, which makes his testimony a critical issue that should be heard in court.” I knew I was right. The law was as clear as it possibly could be on this question. But I also knew that I was talking to someone who didn’t care what the law said. I knew that what I was saying wouldn’t persuade Chapman, but I felt the need to say it anyway.

Chapman stood up. I could tell he was annoyed by my lecturing and legal arguments, and I was pretty sure he thought I was being pushy. “That sounds like an issue you’ll need to raise on appeal, Mr. Stevenson. You can tell Mr. Houston that the charges against him are being dropped. I can do that for y’all, but that’s about it.” His tone was dismissive, and when he turned his back to me I knew he’d ended the meeting and was now eager to get me out of his office.

I left his office extremely frustrated. Chapman had not been unfriendly or hostile. Yet his indifference to McMillian’s innocence claim was hard for me to accept. Reading the record had shown me that there were people who were willing to ignore evidence, logic, and common sense to convict someone and reassure the community that the crime had been solved and the murderer punished. But talking face-to-face with someone about the case made the irrational thinking swirling around Walter’s conviction much, much harder to accept.

Chapman hadn’t prosecuted the case, and I had hoped that he might not want to defend something so unreliable, but it was clear that he was locked into this narrative just like everyone else who had been involved. I’d seen the abuse of power in many cases before, but there was something especially upsetting about it here, where not only a single defendant was being victimized but an entire community as well. I filed my stack of motions just to make sure that if they didn’t dismiss the charges they knew we would fight them. Walking down the hallway to my car I saw yet another flyer about the next production of To Kill a Mockingbird, which just added to my outrage.

Darnell had remained home after he posted bond. I stopped by his house to discuss my meeting with the D.A. He was thrilled to hear that the charges against him would be dropped, but he was still shaken by the whole experience. I explained that what the State had done to him was illegal and that we could pursue a civil action against them, but he had no interest in that. I didn’t actually think a civil suit was a good idea since it would just leave him vulnerable to more harassment, but I didn’t want him to think I was unwilling to fight on his behalf.

“Mr. Stevenson, all I wanted to do is tell the truth. I can’t go to jail, and I’ll be honest—these folks have scared me.”

“I understand,” I said, “but what they did is illegal and I want you to know you have done nothing wrong. They’re the ones who have acted very, very inappropriately. They’re trying to intimidate you.” “Well, it’s working. What I told you is true, and I stand by it. But I can’t have these folks coming after me.”

“Well, the judge has denied our motion, so you don’t have to testify or come to court at this point. Let me know if you have any more problems with them or if they come to speak with you about this. You can tell people that I’m your lawyer and refer them to me, okay?” “Yes, okay. But does that mean you are my lawyer?”

“Yes, I’ll represent you if anyone creates any issues behind what you’ve disclosed.” He looked a little relieved but was still pretty rattled when I left.

I got in my car with the sinking realization that if everyone who tried to help us on this case was going to be threatened, it would be very difficult to prove Walter’s innocence. If his case wasn’t overturned on direct appeal, we’d have a chance to file a postconviction petition later, and we would need new evidence, new witnesses, and new facts to prove Walter’s innocence. Based on the experience with Darnell, this would be extremely challenging. I decided not to worry about it now and turned my attention to the appeal. With the reconsideration denied, the appeal brief was due in twenty-eight days. I wasn’t even sure how much time had elapsed since the judge’s ruling, as I had never received the order.

I left for home frustrated and worried. On my drives between Monroeville and Montgomery, I had gotten used to looking at the rural farmland, the cotton fields, and the hilly countryside; I would think about what life here must have been like decades ago. This time I didn’t have to imagine it. Darnell’s despair, his sadness in recognizing that they could do whatever they wanted to him with impunity, was utterly disheartening. From what I could see, there simply was no commitment to the rule of law, no accountability, and little shame. Arresting someone for coming forward with credible evidence that challenged the reliability of a capital murder conviction? The more I thought about it, the more disoriented and provoked I became. It was also sobering. If they arrested people who said things that were inconvenient, how would they react if I challenged them even harder?

As I left town, I watched the sun set and darkness descend across the county landscape as it had for centuries. People would be heading home now, some to very comfortable houses where they could relax easily, secure and proud of their community. Others, people like Darnell and Walter’s family, would be returning to less comfortable homes. They would not rest as easily, nor would there be much thought of community pride. For them the darkness brought a familiar unease, an uncertainty weighted with a wary, lingering fear as old as the settlement of the county itself; discomfort too longstanding and constant to merit discussion but too burdensome to ever forget. I drove away as quickly as I could.