This Man's Alcoholic Lawyer Botched His Case. Georgia Executed Him Anyway.
What does it take for a condemned person to win a resentencing?
Update (12/10/2014): Holsey was executed last night at 10:51 p.m.
Update (11/20/2014): Georgia has set a December 9 execution date for Robert Wayne Holsey; a clemency hearing is scheduled for the morning of December 8.
When people recount their alcohol consumption after a night on the town, or even a serious bender, they usually think about it in terms of drinks. Very rarely do they calibrate their intake in quarts. So most of us don't have a good sense of just how much a quart of vodka is—a bit more than 21 shots, as it turns out. That's the amount of alcohol lawyer Andy Prince consumed every night during the death penalty trial of his client, Robert Wayne Holsey, a low-functioning man with a tortured past who now stands on the brink of execution in Georgia.
When a person drinks that heavily, there's bound to be collateral damage—and for Prince and his clients the damage was profound. Once a skilled lawyer, Prince already had dug himself a very deep hole by the time Holsey went to trial in February 1997. But the signs of his downward spiral were clear 14 months earlier, back in December 1995, when a Baldwin County judge first assigned him the case. Prince had recently defaulted on a $20,000 promissory note, and Bell South and Vanguard Financial had won separate judgments against him totaling an additional $25,000. And then there was the probate fiasco: In June 1994, a client named Margaret Collins had hired Prince to handle the estate of her deceased common-law husband, which was valued at $116,000. Within a year there was almost nothing left—Prince had spent it all. He never really considered it stealing, he later insisted. He'd always intended to pay the money back when that one big civil case came along.
His deterioration emerged in other troubling ways. In June 1996, after six months as Holsey's lawyer, Prince got into an argument with neighbors at his apartment complex, cursing at them—"Nigger, get the fuck out of my yard or I'll shoot your black ass"—and threatening them with a gun. He was a white lawyer defending a black man in the high-profile murder of a white police officer, but nowhere in the Holsey case record was there ever a suggestion that he might be unfit to handle the case. He was simply charged with two counts of pointing a pistol at another, two counts of simple assault, two counts of disorderly conduct, and, of course, public drunkenness.
For Prince, it all came back to alcohol. Three months before he wrote the first of many checks against the estate, conduct that eventually put him in prison, he was hit with a complaint from the Athens Regional Medical Center for his failure to pay more than $10,000 for an inpatient substance abuse program he'd attended in 1993. But the drinking began long before that. By 14 he already had a problem with it, and by his late 30s, he'd lost his battle with alcoholism countless times.
On one occasion, in 1988, Prince staggered into the Athens emergency room with a blood alcohol level almost four times the driving limit, declared that he'd been drunk two months running, and asked to be detoxified. He'd come in before, and, as was his pattern, he signed himself out against the advice of the attending doctors. In May 1993, he upped the ante, arriving at the ER with a near-death .346 blood alcohol level. As Thomas Butcher, a doctor at the facility, noted in his psychological evaluation:
When a very intelligent man whose professional life is spent out maneuvering and out smarting other people repetitively makes a serious judgment error based on a belief that has been repeatedly shown to be wrong, he needs to consider that it may be time for him to do some serious revision of his thinking, that is, if he wants to continue to live.
Butcher added that if Prince "made the kind of mistakes in the courtroom that he makes with his drinking he wouldn't have a professional career to worry about."
Three days after the evaluation, Prince checked out of the hospital against doctors' orders, only to return a week later for three weeks of rehab. The treatment didn't take. After two months, he was back again (acute intoxication). But Prince was nothing if not resilient. When a physician brought up his struggles—family problems, his disastrous finances, his heavy work responsibilities—Prince insisted he had them "under control." Events would soon prove otherwise.
Prince was by no means the first drunk to handle a death penalty trial. There are plenty of well-documented examples. Also of drug-addicted lawyers, lawyers who refer to their clients by racial slurs in front of the jury, lawyers who nap through testimony, and lawyers who don't bother to be in court while a crucial witness is testifying. There are lawyers who have never read their state's death penalty statute, lawyers who file one client's brief in another client's death penalty appeal without changing the names, lawyers who miss life-or-death deadlines, and lawyers who don't even know that capital cases have separate determinations of guilt and punishment. (See "10 Ways to Blow a Death Penalty Case.")
There are enough of these cases on record that most people in the legal profession no longer find them particularly shocking. What is more shocking, though, is how commonly courts and prosecutors are willing to overlook these situations as they occur, and how doggedly they try to defend the death sentences that result. Trial judges, of course, are often the ones who appointed the lawyers in question. And prosecutors have little motivation to demand that their courtroom adversaries be qualified and effective. It's a flawed system that often results in flawed verdicts. For a clear window into it, we need look no further than the Holsey case.
In the early hours of December 17, 1995, Robert Wayne Holsey was arrested and charged for the murder of Baldwin County Deputy Sheriff Will Robinson, who pulled over Holsey's car following the armed robbery of a Jet Food Store in the county seat of Milledgeville. As with any killing of a police officer, it was a high-profile affair. Most of the county's judges attended Robinson's funeral, and many sent flowers. To ensure an impartial hearing, the trial had to be moved two counties away.
Like the great majority of people arrested for serious crimes, Holsey could not afford a lawyer; he had to depend on the court to appoint one for him. But it is reasonable to wonder why any court would have chosen Andy Prince for the job. Beyond his chronic alcohol problem and the financial judgments piling up against him, Prince did not generally handle cases in the Milledgeville area.
As it turns out, little thought was given to his suitability. The selection process in the Holsey case conjures up the old military trope about volunteering by means of everyone else taking a step backward. "Because of who the victim was, nobody within the circuit wanted to be appointed to this case," Prince later testified. "And I told [the judge], sure, I'd take it."
On one condition: He insisted on picking his co-counsel. Prince had handled capital cases before, and with some success, but he'd only worked on the more traditional guilt/innocence part of the representation—never the crucial sentencing phase. He contacted Rob Westin, the lawyer he'd collaborated with previously. Westin said he'd do it, but then reversed himself in short order. Westin "had gone to the solicitor's office in Baldwin County," Prince later explained, "and had been told that they couldn't believe that he was representing Mr. Holsey and that if he continued to represent him he would never get another deal worked out with that office."
His next attempt to secure co-counsel failed as well; the lawyer quit after a few months on the case and took a job with the state attorney general's office. Seven months before the trial date, Prince finally found his "second chair" in Brenda Trammell, a lawyer who practiced in Morgan County, where the case was to be tried: "She was about the only one that would take it."
As for Trammell, she assumed she was selected "based on proximity," as she later testified. "I had not tried to trial a death penalty case and I waited for him to tell me what to do, and there really was not a lot of direction in that way."
There was still one thing missing. What distinguishes capital murder trials from noncapital ones is the penalty phase, wherein the jury hears additional evidence and determines the appropriate punishment—usually choosing between death and life without parole. During this phase, a "mitigation specialist," whom the American Bar Association (ABA) describes as "an indispensable member of the defense team throughout all capital proceedings," gathers information that might convince jurors to spare the defendant's life. Indeed, the court provided Holsey's defense team with sufficient funds to hire a mitigation specialist, but no one was ever able to account for the money. Prince later said that he didn't remember what happened to it, only that he was certain no mitigation specialist was ever hired. Which may explain Trammell's response to this question from Holsey's appeals lawyer.
Q: When you got into the case, was there any theory with respect to mitigation in the event that he was convicted?
A: No, sir.
Mitigation theory or not, Holsey went on trial for his life in February 1997.
There is a mantra among competent capital defense lawyers: "Death is different." By this they mean that defending against the state-sanctioned execution of a human being requires extraordinary measures, and that a capital case must be handled with even greater care than a "regular" murder trial. "It is universally accepted," the ABA states, "that the responsibilities of defense counsel in a death penalty case are uniquely demanding."
This is not a new concept. More than 80 years ago, in an infamous capital rape case against nine black teenagers dubbed the Scottsboro Boys, a trial judge appointed the entire Scottsboro, Alabama, bar to represent the defendants—a showing of false magnanimity that the Supreme Court ultimately rejected, noting that it fell far short of the constitutional requirement for the appointment of counsel. An accused person "requires the guiding hand of counsel at every step in the proceedings," the opinion concluded.
But Holsey's lawyers did not provide that guiding hand. They were an odd couple with an awkward rapport. While Prince was a drunk, Trammell was a part-time minister who eschewed alcohol. She recalled stopping by her colleague's hotel room once during the trial to find him drinking, and never stopped by again. When he called her at home one night during the proceedings, slurring his words, she told him not to call her there anymore.
Their inability to communicate had a predictably devastating effect. In this exchange, Trammell is responding to questions from an appeals lawyer about her cross-examination of the state's DNA expert, who had testified that the victim's blood was found on Holsey's shoes:
Q: When were you told that you would cross-examine Michele?
A: Before lunch.
Q: When did she testify?
A: She was testifying. We took a break for us to do the cross, for lunch, and during lunch I had to learn about DNA.
Q: Did you know, had you had any training about DNA before that?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you know anything at all about the DNA process?
A: No, sir…I was calling during lunch the capital defense people, to ask them what am I supposed to ask about DNA?
Q: And did you learn…being thrown into that, that questioning concerning DNA is an extremely technical and complicated area?
On February 11, 1997, both sides made their closing arguments and the judge gave final instructions to the jury. Six hours later, the jurors found Holsey guilty of armed robbery and of the deputy's murder. That was the night Prince called Trammell. Drunk. The only time he ever called her at home. He was concerned, she testified, that the sentencing "was not going to be good."