before realizing that the electrodes had not been connected properly. They made alterations
and electrocuted Mr. Dunkins again, and this time it worked. They killed him. Following this
cruelly mishandled execution, the state performed an autopsy—against the family’s repeated
requests.
I received a call from Mr. Dunkins’s distraught father after the execution. He said, “They
could take his life, even though he didn’t get a fair trial and he didn’t deserve that, but they
had no right to mess with his body and soul, too. We want to sue them.” We provided some
aid to the volunteer lawyer on the case and a suit was filed, although there wasn’t much
hope. There were a few depositions but no judgment of relief. The civil suit failed to slow
down the State of Alabama, which moved ahead aggressively with more execution dates.
We relocated to our new office in Montgomery in the shadow of these two executions. The
men on death row were more agitated and unnerved than ever. When Herbert Richardson
received word in July that his execution was scheduled for August 18 , he called me collect
from death row: “Mr. Stevenson, this is Herbert Richardson, and I’ve just received notice that
the state plans to execute me on August 18. I need your help. You can’t say no. I know you’re
helping some of the guys and y’all are opening an office, so please help me.”
I replied, “I’m really sorry to hear about your execution date. It’s been a very tough
summer. What does your volunteer lawyer say?” I was still working on the best way to talk to
condemned people about how to respond to news of an execution date. I wanted to say
something reassuring like, “Don’t worry,” but of course that would be a remarkable request to
make of anyone—news of a scheduled execution was nothing if not unimaginably worrisome.
“Sorry” didn’t seem quite right either, but it tended to be the best I could think of.
“I don’t have a volunteer lawyer, Mr. Stevenson. I don’t have anyone. My volunteer lawyer
said he couldn’t do any more to help me over a year ago. I need your help.”
We still didn’t have computers or law books, and I didn’t have other lawyers on staff. I had
hired a classmate of mine from Harvard Law School who agreed to join our staff and moved
to Alabama from his home in Boston. I was thrilled to finally have some help. He had been in
Montgomery for a few days when I had to leave town for a fund-raising trip. When I returned,
he was gone. He left a note explaining that he didn’t realize how challenging it would be for
him to live in Alabama. He hadn’t been there a week.
Trying to stop an execution would mean nonstop work eighteen hours a day for a month,
desperately trying to get a stay order from a court. Only an all-out effort would get it done,
and it was still wildly improbable that we’d succeed in blocking the execution. When I could
think of nothing to fill the silence, Richardson continued: “Mr. Stevenson, I have thirty days.
Please say you’ll help me.”
I didn’t know what else to do but be truthful. “Mr. Richardson, I’m so sorry, but I don’t
have books, staff, computers, or anything we need to take on new cases yet. I haven’t even
hired lawyers. I’m trying to get things set up—”
“But I have an execution date. You have to represent me. What’s the point of all that other
stuff if you’re not going to help people like me?” I could hear his breath growing ragged.
“They’re going to kill me,” he said.
“I know what you’re saying, and I’m trying to figure out how to help. We’re just so
overextended—” I didn’t know what to say, and a long silence fell between us. I could hear