with the attorney general or whatever official had final decision-making authority, and he
said that he would see what he could do. Within a few days the State submitted a peculiar
pleading to the Court of Criminal Appeals. The attorney general’s motion asked the court to
stay the litigation and not issue a ruling because they “may have uncovered exculpatory
evidence favorable to Mr. McMillian that could entitle him to a new trial,” but they needed
more time to complete their investigation.
I was furious that the State would try to prolong any order granting relief to Walter. It was
consistent with everything that had happened over the last six years, but it was still
maddening. We quickly filed a response opposing the State’s motion. We told the court that
there was overwhelming evidence that Mr. McMillian’s rights had been violated, and that he
was entitled to immediate relief. Delaying relief would add further injury to a man who had
been wrongfully convicted and condemned to death row for a crime he did not commit. We
urged the court to deny the State’s request and rule quickly.
I was talking to Minnie and the family every week now, keeping everyone updated about
the new state investigation.
“I feel like something good is about to happen, Bryan,” Minnie said to me. “They’ve kept
him for years. Now it’s time they let him go. They have to let him go.”
I appreciated her optimism, but I worried, too. We’d been disappointed so often before.
“We have to remain hopeful, Minnie.”
“I’ve always told people ‘no lie can live forever,’ and this has always been one big lie.”
I wasn’t exactly sure how to manage the family’s expectations. I felt I was supposed to be
the cautionary voice that prepared family members for the worst even while I urged them to
hope for the best. It was a task that was growing in complexity as I handled more cases and
saw the myriad ways that things could go wrong. But I was developing a maturing
recognition of the importance of hopefulness in creating justice.
I’d started addressing the subject of hopefulness in talks to small groups. I’d grown fond of
quoting Václav Havel, the great Czech leader who had said that “hope” was the one thing
that people struggling in Eastern Europe needed during the era of Soviet domination.
Havel had said that people struggling for independence wanted money and recognition
from other countries; they wanted more criticism of the Soviet empire from the West and
more diplomatic pressure. But Havel had said that these were things they wanted; the only
thing they needed was hope. Not that pie in the sky stuff, not a preference for optimism over
pessimism, but rather “an orientation of the spirit.” The kind of hope that creates a
willingness to position oneself in a hopeless place and be a witness, that allows one to believe
in a better future, even in the face of abusive power. That kind of hope makes one strong.
Havel prescribed exactly what our work seemed to require. Walter’s case had needed it
more than most. So I didn’t discourage Minnie. Together, we hoped.
On February 23 , nearly six weeks after getting the ABI’s report, I received a call from the
clerk of the court informing us that the Court of Criminal Appeals had ruled in the McMillian
case and that we could pick up the opinion.
“You’re going to like this,” she said cryptically.
I ran over to the courthouse and was out of breath by the time I sat down to read the
thirty-five-page ruling. The clerk was right. The ruling invalidated Walter’s conviction and