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 needed a lawyer. She sighed with relief when I gave her my card. As we all left the courthouse, we offered each other solemn goodbyes.
“We’ll pray for you,” the aunt said as they departed.
On the way to my car, I considered asking them to say something to the prosecutor and state lawyers about not wanting Mr. Richardson to be executed, although it was clear that the State wasn’t acting on behalf of these victims. The courtroom had been filled with state lawyers and other officials watching the hearing, but they had long since fled the courthouse without so much as a word to any of the battered souls standing in the back of the room. I was haunted by the tragic irony that they felt I was their best hope for help.
The trial judge had denied our request for a stay of