A couple of decades ago, before he had made waves by bringing the Equal Justice Initiative to prominence, before he had written transformative books, and before he launched me on my path to public service, Alabama-based attorney Bryan Stevenson represented a man named Walter McMillan. McMillan had been condemned to death under questionable circumstances in an Alabama court. His case had almost everything that you might look for when chronicling Southern-fried injustice - a black defendant, a young white victim, an all-white jury, and a prosecutor unwilling to turn over potentially exculpating evidence to the defense. It also had an unqualified defense attorney at trial, and quite amazingly, a judge named Robert E. Lee Key, Jr.
That judge acted in accordance with his name, overriding a jury that had actually decided to give McMillan a life sentence after finding him guilty of murder. Alabama, of course, is one of a small number of states that gives judges the power to overrule juries on the question of life versus death. Citing the viciousness of the crime, Robert E. Lee Key, Jr. decided to "enhance" the sentence, sending McMillan to the electric chair.
McMillan was a respected member of his community. He had no criminal record, and dozens of witnesses confirmed that during the time the crime was committed, he was at a church function. Stevenson took his case, and after a significant amount of investigation and some of the best lawyering east of the Mississippi, earned McMillan's freedom.
A black man stood trial in Alabama in front of a white jury and a judge named Robert E. Lee Key, Jr. Let that sink in for a moment. Imagine a world where Jewish men and women stood trial in German courts lorded over by men named Hitler or Goebbels. That would shock the conscience. Yet in modern America, these situations happen with alarming frequency. A system that prides itself on the appearances of fairness abandon even the show when institutional racism runs so rampant.
Decades later, Bryan Stevenson is still at it. This week, he'll release his book, a sure-to-be classic entitled Just Mercy. A couple of years ago, in a well-traveled TED talk, Stevenson reflected on his life as a lawyer, and his central thesis encouraged listeners to "hold on." There's power in identity, he wrote, and despite all that he had seen, Stevenson held firm to the belief that the next century might be better than the last.
How do we have hope in a world where black men face white judges named Robert E. Lee? What can we cling to when young black men are more than 20 times more likely to be killed by police than young white men? When the average black family understands that a routine trip to the store might end in an illegal search of their car, and when young black men are shot like dogs for the crime of reaching for their wallet, how can we be hopeful?
It's a question I often confront when writing about race, injustice, and poverty. There's something downright depressing about having to fire up the computer in the wake of another slaying of a young black man, seemingly having to pound out 5,000 words in defense of that young man's very right to live. That seems to be a common refrain among those who write about these topics - we're angry not only that another something has happened, but also that our points even have to be written. Pointing out that Michael Brown did not deserve to die at the hands of police should be like writing that the sun is hot, the moon is far away, and that skiing in Colorado is better than challenging the icy slopes of West Virginia. These things should be met with cries of, "Yeah, duh." But they're not, and writers much more talented than myself have spent hours explaining to white America why young black men are even deserving of the most precious right - that right to life.
At times, I find my own tone retreating to a dark place. I balk at the teachers who failed to inform me that Christopher Columbus, whilst sailing the ocean blue, also slaughtered most of Haiti. I rebuke those who argue that disabled folks on welfare should just "get a job." I chastise those who view high incarceration rates among young black men and draw the conclusion that "those people" are predisposed to crime, rather than recognizing that the root of crime lies in decades of intentional policing and the economic disparities whose roots can be traced as far back as slavery.
While I'm crushed with indelible sadness at the lives lost, and at the conversations that black parents have to have with their young children in light of the seeming open season on young black men, I'm heartened by those, like Stevenson, who have dedicated their lives to the struggle. I'm heartened by the thousands of public defenders around the country - in places like Phoenix, Houston, Kentucky, and everywhere in-between - that sacrifice their financial futures for the good of their clients.
More than that, technology is making it so that good people have more options than ever for correcting some of the injustice that continues to plague communities across the country. When a white lawyer used her privilege in Washington, D.C. to ensure that a disabled black man was not hassled further by police, we restored a small amount of humanity. When she filmed the encounter, we moved forward a little more.
I'm often asked, after I publish a particularly depressing piece on racial injustice - "WHAT CAN I DO TO HELP?" For the longest time, my response has been, "Pray. And vote." Perhaps it's simpler than that. Perhaps the answer lies in making use of the technology that almost all of us have in our hands.
Two weeks ago, I captured almost an hour of footage of a small town police officer - in Darlington, South Carolina - stopping a black family. I was on my way to a movie with my parents when an officer flew by me with blue lights flashing. Seeing that the family had been stopped, I got out and began filming. What unfolded was not extraordinary. It was remarkable precisely because it's become so routine. I filmed as two officers removed the entire family from their vehicle. Two of the members of the family were handcuffed, including what appeared to be a woman at least 50 years old. A second cop riffled through the car for an extended period of time. He searched every compartment and the trunk. Eventually, finding nothing, he uncuffed the two family members, letting them get back into their vehicle.
They waited 15 more minutes until the officer finally handed them a traffic ticket and sent them on their way. This is what the average traffic stop looks like for black people in America. I don't know why the officer stopped them. I don't know what probable cause he had to search the vehicle, if he had any at all. I do know that he found nothing, and the fact that there was no arrest suggests that perhaps the probable cause wasn't so probable after all. This family had been subjected to an hour of hell, having their possessions taken out of the vehicle on the town's busiest street. They were forced to wait around in handcuffs while hundreds of cars passed. An average traffic stop turned into humiliation, all because black people are inherently suspicious in places like Darlington, South Carolina.
I filmed that encounter because I hoped my presence would prevent police violence. I also filmed it because I wanted one more data point on what the black experience is like in America. I'm now more hopeful because this is something that we can all do. We can all take the time to get out of our cars, use our privilege in constructive ways, and install police accountability even where none has existed previously.
#FilmYourTruth, even if your hands shake.
Bryan Stevenson is a black man in America who has seen some of the worst that the country has to offer. He's seen juveniles sentenced as adults, and he's seen men sent to the electric chair. He's sat with Rosa Parks to discuss what might be done to improve the world. And through all of that, he remains hopeful. If he can retain hope, then so can you and I.
And with technology, we can all be a part of the solution.