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before the hearing. The five-hour trip through the nighttime roads of southern Alabama had
clearly unnerved Ralph. We met with him in his holding cell; he was palpably anxious.
Worse, he was quiet and reserved, which was even more unusual. After we finished that
unsettling meeting, I went to see Walter, who was also at the courthouse in one of the
holding cells. Being back at the courthouse where his fate had seemingly been sealed four
years earlier had shaken him as well, but he forced himself to smile when I walked in.
“Was the trip okay?” I asked.
“Everything is good. Just hoping for something better than the last time I was here.”
I nodded sympathetically and reviewed with him what I thought would unfold over the
next few days.
The holding cells for prisoners were in the basement of the courthouse, and after meeting
with Walter, I made my way upstairs to get ready for court to begin. When I walked into the
courtroom, I was shocked by what I saw. Dozens of people from the community—mostly
black and poor—had packed the viewing area. On both sides of the hearing room, people
from Walter’s family, people who had attended the fish fry on the day of the crime, people
we’d interviewed over the past several months, people who knew Walter from working with
him, even Sam Crook and his posse, were crammed into the courtroom. Minnie and Armelia
smiled as I walked into court.
Tom Chapman then walked in with Don Valeska, and they both scanned the room. I could
tell from the looks on their faces that they were unhappy about the crowd. Tate, Larry Ikner,
and Benson—the law enforcement team primarily responsible for Walter’s prosecution—piled
in behind the prosecutors and sat down in the courtroom as well. A deputy sheriff escorted
the parents of Ronda Morrison to the front of the court just before the hearing began. When
the judge took the bench, the crowd of black faces noisily rose as one and sat back down.
Many of the black community members looked dressed for church. The men were in suits,
and some of the women wore hats. It took them a few seconds to settle into silence, which
seemed to annoy Judge Norton. But I was energized by their presence and happy for Walter
that so many people had come out to support him.
Judge Norton was a balding white man in his fifties. He wasn’t a tall man, but the elevated
bench made him as imposing as any judge. He had managed some of our earlier preliminary
hearings in a suit, but today he was in his robe, gavel firmly in hand.
“Gentlemen, are we ready to proceed?” Judge Norton asked.
“We are, Your Honor,” I replied. “But we intend to call several of the law enforcement
officers present in the courtroom, and I would like to invoke the rule of sequestration.” In
criminal cases, witnesses who will be testifying are required to sit outside the courtroom so
they can’t alter their testimony based on what other witnesses say.
Valeska was on his feet immediately. “No, Judge. That’s not going to happen. These are the
investigators who figured out this heinous crime, and we need them in court to present our
case.”
I stayed on my feet. “The State doesn’t bear the burden of presenting a case in these
proceedings, Your Honor; we do. This isn’t a criminal trial but a postconviction evidentiary
hearing.”
“Judge, they’re the ones that are trying to retry this case and we need our people inside,”
Valeska countered.