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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