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“Have you read the book? It’s a wonderful story. This is a famous place. They made the old
courthouse a museum, and when they made the movie Gregory Peck came here. You should
go over there and stand where Mr. Peck stood—I mean, where Atticus Finch stood.”
She giggled with excitement, although I imagine she said the same thing to every out-of-
town attorney who wandered in. She continued talking enthusiastically about the story until I
promised to visit the museum as soon as I could. I refrained from explaining that I was too
busy working on the case of an innocent black man the community was trying to execute
after a racially biased prosecution.
During this trip I was in a different frame of mind. The last thing I was interested in was a
fictional story about justice. I walked through the courthouse until I found the district
attorney’s office. I announced myself to the secretary, who eyed me suspiciously before
directing me into Chapman’s office. He walked over to shake my hand.
Chapman started off by saying, “Mr. Stevenson, lots of people want to meet you. I told
them you were coming down but decided that just you and I should talk.” It didn’t surprise
me that word had gotten around and that people were talking about Walter’s new attorney. I
had talked to enough people in the community to know that people would be discussing my
efforts on Walter’s behalf. My guess is that Judge Key had already characterized me as
misguided and uncooperative simply because I didn’t get off the case, as he had directed.
Chapman had a medium build, curly hair, and glasses that suggested he didn’t mind
looking like someone who spent time reading and studying. I’d met prosecutors who dressed
and presented like they would rather be out hunting ducks than running a law office, but
Chapman was professional and courteous and approached me with a pleasant demeanor. I
was intrigued that he would immediately give voice to the concerns of other people in law
enforcement and was initially encouraged that he meant for us to have a candid conversation
free of distractions and posturing.
“Well, I appreciate that,” I said. “I’m very concerned about this McMillian case. I’ve read
the record, and to be honest I have serious doubts about his guilt and the reliability of this
conviction.”
“Well, this was a big case, there’s no doubt about that. You do understand that I didn’t
have anything to do with the prosecution, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“This was one of the most outrageous crimes in Monroe County history, and your client
made a lot of people here extremely angry. People are still angry, Mr. Stevenson. There’s not
enough bad that can happen to Walter McMillian for some of them.”
This was a disappointing beginning—he seemed completely convinced of Walter’s guilt. But
I pressed on.
“Well, it was an outrageous, tragic crime, so anger is understandable,” I replied. “But it
doesn’t accomplish anything to convict the wrong person. Whether Mr. McMillian has done
anything wrong is what the trial should resolve. If the trial is unfair, or if witnesses have
given false testimony, then we can’t really know whether he’s guilty or not.”
“Well, you may be the only person right now who thinks the trial was unfair. Like I said, I
wasn’t involved in the prosecution.”
I was becoming frustrated, and Chapman probably saw me shift in my seat. I thought about
the dozens of black people I’d met who had complained bitterly about Walter’s prosecution,