His new wife’s family had agreed to spend the last few hours with Herbert before the
execution. The prison allowed family members to stay until about 10 : 00 P.M., when they would
begin to prepare the condemned for execution. I was still in my office waiting to receive word
from the Supreme Court. When the clock passed 5 : 00 P.M. without any news, I allowed myself
to become cautiously hopeful. If the Court wasn’t troubled by anything we’d presented, I
expected an earlier ruling on our motion for a stay. So the later it got, the more encouraged I
became. At 6 : 00 P.M. I was pacing in my small office, nervously running through the
possibilities of what the Court might be debating so close to the execution hour. Eva and our
new investigator, Brenda Lewis, waited with me. Finally, a little before 7 : 00 P.M., the phone
rang. The clerk of the Court was on the line.
“Mr. Stevenson, I’m calling to let you know that the Court has just entered an order in Case
No. 89 - 5395 ; the motion for a stay of execution and petition for writ of certiorari have been
denied. We’ll fax copies of the order to your office shortly.”
And with that, the conversation ended. When I hung up, all I could think was, why would I
need a copy of the order? To whom did the clerk think I would show it? In a matter of hours,
Herbert would be dead. There would be no more appeals, no more records to keep. I’m not
sure why I was struck by these peculiar details. Maybe thinking about the procedural
absurdities of the Court’s order was less overwhelming than thinking about its meaning. I had
promised Herbert I would be with him during the execution, and it took me a few minutes to
realize I needed to move quickly to get to the prison two hours away.
I jumped in my car and raced to Atmore. As I drove down the interstate to reach the prison,
I noticed the long rays of sunlight retreating even as the heat of the Alabama summer
persisted. When I arrived at the prison, it was completely dark. Outside the prison entrance
were dozens of men with guns sitting on the backs of trucks that lined the long road to the
prison parking area. They were state troopers, local police officers, deputy sheriffs, and what
appeared to be part of a National Guard unit. I don’t know why the State felt they needed a
militia to guard the entrance to the prison on the night of an execution. It was surreal to see
all of these armed men gathered near midnight to make sure a life would be taken without
incident. It fascinated me that someone thought there might be some violent, armed
resistance to the scheduled execution of an indigent black man.
I entered the prison and saw an older white woman—the correctional officer who managed
the visitation yard. I had become a regular at death row visiting my new clients at least once
a month, so she saw me frequently but had never been particularly friendly. Tonight she
approached me with unusual warmth and familiarity when I arrived. I thought she was going
to hug me.
Men in suits and ties hovered in the lobby, eyeing me suspiciously as I walked into the
visitation room at a little past nine. The visitation area at Holman is a large circular room
surrounded by glass so that officers can look in from any vantage point. There are a dozen
small tables with chairs inside for visiting family who come on visitation days, typically
scheduled two or three times a month. During the week of a scheduled execution, only the
condemned prisoner facing a scheduled death is permitted to have family visits.
When I got inside the visiting room, the family had less than an hour left with Herbert. He
was calmer than I had ever seen him. He smiled at me when I walked in and gave me a hug.
“Hey y’all, this is my lawyer.”