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but this will help us on appeal. I know this is frustrating for you.” He looked at me worriedly
before sighing in resignation. He sat glumly through the rest of the hearing, holding his head,
which I found even more disheartening than when he was argumentative and distraught.
Because I hadn’t hired any lawyers yet, I didn’t have co-counsel to sit with me and help
manage documents or help with the defendant during the hearing. At the end of the
proceeding, Herbert was shackled and sent back to death row, vexed, disappointed, and
unhappy. I wasn’t feeling much better as I packed up my things and headed out of the
courtroom. It would have been nice to debrief with someone, to evaluate whether what was
presented might provide a basis for a stay. I had no expectation that the local judge would
grant a stay, but I was hopeful that maybe a reviewing court would recognize that this wasn’t
an intentional killing and that a stay should be granted. So much was going on that I couldn’t
objectively evaluate if we had presented enough evidence to change the picture of the case. I
mostly felt bad that I’d left Herbert in such a distraught state.
On my way out, I saw a group of black women and children huddled together in the back
of the courtroom. Seven or eight of them were watching me intensely. The hearing had been
set in the late afternoon when there were no other proceedings scheduled. I was curious
about who these people might be, but honestly, I was too tired to really care. I smiled and
nodded a weary greeting to the three women who seemed most focused on me, which they
took as a cue to approach me as I was about to walk out the door.
The woman who spoke seemed nervous and somewhat fearful. She spoke hesitantly: “I’m
Rena Mae’s mother—the victim’s mother. They said they would help us, but they never did.
MaryLynn can’t hear right, her hearing ain’t never been right since that bomb, and her sister
has nerve problems. I got ’em, too. We were hoping you would help us.”
The stunned look on my face prompted her to say more. “I know you’re busy. It’s just that
we could use the help.” I realized that she’d cautiously offered her hand to me as she spoke,
and I held it in mine.
“I’m so very sorry you haven’t received the help you’ve been promised. But I actually
represent Herbert Richardson in this case,” I said as gently as I could.
“We know that. I know you might not be able to do anything right now, but when this is
over, can you help us? They said we’d get some money for medical help and help for my
daughter’s hearing.”
A young woman had quietly approached the woman as she spoke to me and embraced her.
While she was probably in her early twenties, she acted in every other respect like a very
small child. She leaned her head into her mother’s side like a much younger child would and
looked at me sadly. Another woman approached and spoke somewhat defiantly. “I’m her
auntie,” she said. “We don’t believe in killin’ people.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what she was trying to say, but I looked at her and replied, “Yes, I
don’t believe in killing people, either.”
The aunt seemed to relax a little. “All this grievin’ is hard. We can’t cheer for that man you
trying to help but don’t want to have to grieve for him, too. There shouldn’t be no more
killing behind this.”
“I don’t know what I can do to help you all but I do want to help. Please contact me after
August 18 , and I’ll see what I can find out.”
The aunt then asked me if she could have her son write to me because he was in prison and