Ray walks through the side door a little before ten. As soon as Green sees him, he stops what he’s doing and orders Ray to the front of the courtroom.
“You’re in contempt of court, Mr. Miller,” the judge says triumphantly. “I called your case at nine o’clock. You weren’t here, and you hadn’t notified the clerk’s office of your absence as required under the local rules. Bailiff, take Mr. Miller into custody. His bond is set at five thousand dollars.”
Ray is wearing a brown suit. His hair is pulled back tightly into his signature ponytail. He looks up at the judge with hatred and defiance in his eyes. I can see the muscles in his jaw twitching, and his complexion is darkening noticeably. I immediately begin to hope he has enough sense to keep his mouth shut. He’s helpless right now. There’s nothing he can do. But if he stays calm and doesn’t do or say anything stupid, he can take up this fight later. If he does it right, he’ll be exonerated and the judge will be the one who has to answer for his actions. But if he says something he shouldn’t…
At that moment, Ray speaks. “I’ve been right about you all along, you gutless piece of shit. I hope you enjoy this, because from this day forward, I’m going to take a special interest in you. You’d better grow eyes in the back of your head.”
“Cuff him!” Green yells at one of the bailiffs, who has sheepishly walked up behind Ray and is reaching for his arm.
“Keep your fucking hands off me,” Ray growls, and the bailiff takes a step back.
I stand and walk to my friend. I take him gently by the arm and begin to steer him toward the hallway that leads to the holding cells. “C’mon, Ray,” I say calmly. “This only gets worse if you stay.” He comes out of his rage, and his eyes settle on mine. The rage has been replaced by desperation and confusion.
“I’m going to jail?” he asks in a tone that is almost dreamy.
“I’ll go to the clerk’s office and post your bond as soon as I can break away from the courtroom,” I say. “You’ll be out in an hour.”
“I’m signing an order suspending you based on your threat, Mr. Miller,” Judge Green says as we walk out the door. “And I’m reporting you to the Board of Professional Responsibility. You’ll be lucky if you ever practice law again.”
3
Six months later, I’m sitting on a metal stool in the death row visitor’s section of Riverbend Correctional Facility in Nashville. Riverbend is what they call a state-of-the-art facility. It’s sprawling and modern, but my experience tells me the place is misnamed. Men who spend time in a maximum security prison do not come out “corrected.” They come out more cunning.
On the other side of a thick pane of Plexiglas is thirty-eight-year-old Brian Thomas Gant. I was appointed to represent Gant nearly fifteen years ago. He was my first death penalty client, accused of murdering his mother- in- law and raping his five-year-old niece. There was no forensic evidence against him-DNA testing hadn’t yet become the gold standard-and seemingly no motive for the crime. But the niece, a youngster named Natalie Booze, told the police that the man who raped her “looked like Uncle Brian.” The police immediately focused their investigation on Gant, and the girl’s story quickly changed from “looked like Uncle Brian” to “ was Uncle Brian.” He was arrested a week after the crime was committed. I did the best I could at trial, but I couldn’t overcome the young girl’s testimony. He was convicted of first-degree murder and two counts of aggravated rape a year after his arrest. He’s been on death row ever since.
After her uncle was shipped off to the penitentiary, Natalie Booze had a change of heart. She told Gant’s wife that she wasn’t sure it was Uncle Brian. It happened so fast. She was asleep when the rapist came into her room. It was dark. The account was completely different than what she’d testified to at trial. It didn’t matter, though. Gant’s appellate attorneys asked Natalie to sign an affidavit swearing that she now believed she’d been mistaken when she identified Brian Gant at trial. She signed the affidavit and the attorneys filed it. Both the prosecution and the appellate courts ignored it.
Several years after Gant was convicted, after DNA testing had been developed, his wife paid a private laboratory nearly forty thousand dollars to test three pieces of evidence from the crime scene: a pair of panties his niece was wearing, a nylon stocking his mother-in-law was wearing, and a pubic hair found on the niece’s sheet. The lab was able to extract DNA samples from all three pieces of evidence, and none of them matched Gant. Armed with this new evidence, his appellate attorneys were able to get a hearing in front of a judge, who summarily denied their request for a new trial. The Tennessee Court of Appeals upheld the judge’s ruling, and Gant remains here in this terrible place. I’m convinced he’s innocent, but once a jury finds a man guilty in a death penalty case, the odds against overturning the verdict are overwhelming.
“What are you doing down here?” Gant asks pleasantly. He’s put on some weight since I last saw him, and the hair at his temples has turned gray, but he seems in good spirits.
“I’m here to witness an execution, believe it or not.”
“Johnson?”
“Right. The murder he was convicted of happened in our district. My boss dumped this on me at the last minute. How’s your appeal going?”
“It isn’t. Unless Donna can somehow hand them the guy who did it on a silver platter, I’m the next one on the gurney.”
Donna is Gant’s wife. I see her at the grocery store once or twice a month, but I avoid talking to her whenever possible. Despite the fact that her mother was murdered, Donna has steadfastly maintained her husband’s innocence and has become obsessed with getting him exonerated. Back when I was representing Brian, she swore to me that Brian was at home in bed with her the night the crime took place, and she testified to that at trial, but the prosecutor successfully argued to the jury that she was just protecting her husband.
“When are you scheduled?” I ask.
“Three weeks from today.”
“Jesus, Brian, I had no idea. Have you run the DNA profile Donna got from the lab through the Department of Correction database? They might get a hit.”
“We’ve tried, but they refuse to do it.”
“Your lawyers can’t force them?”
“How could they force them?”
“Get an order from a judge.”
“What judge? Every judge I’ve run across has upheld my conviction. I’m just a convict now. I’m on death row. No one is interested in helping.”
“Anything I can do?”
“I appreciate the offer.”
“I’m sorry about everything, Brian. I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job.”
His eyes soften and he smiles, and I immediately feel even more guilt.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, my friend,” he says. “Don’t blame yourself. You did what you could, and I have no hard feelings toward you. The Lord will take care of this, and if He sees fit not to, then I won’t question His judgment. If He calls me to heaven, then He must have a purpose for me there. I’m at peace.”
“You have to keep fighting.”
“Like I said, I’m at peace. I’ve placed myself in God’s hands and washed myself in the blood of the Lamb. I’ll accept my fate with a song on my lips and love in my heart.”
We sit there for a few minutes in awkward silence. I can’t think of anything else to say. Finally, Brian stands up.
“I think I’ll head on back to my cell now, Mr. Dillard, but I appreciate your coming. I really do. It makes me feel good to know you care. God bless.”
Eight hours later, just before midnight, I’m back at the prison, only now I’m sitting on a folding chair on a polished concrete floor just outside the execution chamber. Dull gray paint covers the concrete block walls, and pale light emanates from fluorescent bulbs hidden behind sheets of opaque plastic in the drop ceiling. The room is colorless, the air so still it’s stifling. I’m feeling queasy and claustrophobic, and I want nothing more than to get the
