Dead Man Walking

- Hi, Sister.

- Hi, Billie Jean. How you doing?

It's the late Sister Helen.

I've got a note from my mama, ldella.

Do you need a new notebook?

- Thanks.

- How about you, Melvin?

The resident council wants us

at their meeting tomorrow.

- Can you be there at 7:00?

- Yes.

- New poetry books.

- Your poem got all smudged.

Smudged?

Sister Helen, I got

another letter from that guy.

- Which guy is that, Luis?

- Angola inmate, death row.

- Oh, yeah.

- Could you write to him?

Sounds like he could use

some friendly words.

- I'll come up after the class.

- Okay.

- It got smudged.

- You can still read it.

"There's a woman standing there

in the dark.

And she's got big arms to hold you.

But you won't feel

those arms that hug...

... till you can see her face.

So you stand there waiting for

the light at the end of the road. "

Idella, that is so fine.

Thank you.

"My lawyer seems to have disappeared,

so I need help on the legal end.

But if you can't do that,

I'd take a kind word or a visit.

Gets real quiet here sometimes. "

None of these guys on the row

can afford an attorney for appeals.

You can imagine the calls

we get from death row inmates...

- ...begging us to find attorneys.

- Who'll work for free.

Right. These petitions

take hours to prepare.

Attorneys aren't exactly

lining up for the job.

"Dear Sister Helen,

thank you for writing to me.

I'm writing from my home.:

my 6- by-8-foot cell.

I'm in here 23 hours a day.

We don't work on death row.

We're special here. They keep us

away from the general population.

We're the elite because we gonna fry.

It's hard not to get soft here.

I press my footlocker, lift it,

to try to get my muscles in shape.

It's hard not to get fat.

Rice, potatoes, pancakes, beans.

Sometimes I feel like

a sow on a farm...

... that's being fattened up

for a Christmas slaughter.

I dreamt once that I was

about to be fried in the chair...

...and then God come into my cell

with a chef's hat on.

He rolled me around in bread crumbs,

licking His chops and all.

Maybe I'm a weirdo

to have dreams like that...

...but your mind does funny things

when you're surrounded...

...by people that want to kill you.

Anyway, thanks for writing.

I don't get many letters

or visitors either.

No one in my family seems able to make

the trip out here. I understand.

It's a long drive from Slidell. "

- Good morning.

- Good morning, Father.

- Sister...

- Helen Prejean. Nice to meet you.

- Have a seat.

- Thank you.

- Have you been in a prison before?

- No, Father.

Sister Clement and I sang at the

New Orleans Juvenile Detention Center.

We sang "Kumbaya,"

and the boys really liked it.

They made up

their own verses, singing:

Someone's escaping, my Lord

The guards made us sing

a different song.

Where is your habit?

Our Sisters haven't worn

the habit for 20 years.

You are aware of the papal request

regarding nuns' garments, aren't you?

I believe the pope said

"distinctive clothing," not habits.

Well, I'm sure you'll interpret it in

your own way. Whatever's convenient.

Matthew Poncelet.

I remember him from the news.

Him and another fella...

...shot two children in the back

of the head on Lover's Lane.

Raped the girl.

Stabbed her several times.

Do you know what you're getting into?

So, what is it, Sister?

Morbid fascination?

Bleeding-heart sympathy?

He wrote me and asked me to come.

There is no romance here, Sister.

No Jimmy Cagney

"I've been wrongly accused.

If I only had someone

who believed in me" nonsense.

They are all con men.

And they will take advantage

of you every way they can.

You must be very, very careful.

Do you understand?

Yes, Father.

These men don't see many females.

For you to wear the habit

might help instill respect.

For you to flout authority will only

encourage them to do the same.

Woman on the tier!

You can wait there.

We'll bring your man out for you.

Well, Matthew, I made it.

Thanks for coming, ma'am.

Never thought I'd be visiting

with no nun.

So you're a nun.

Yep.

I'm here to listen. Whatever you

want to talk about is fine.

You're very sincere.

What do you mean?

You never done this before.

- Never been this close to a murderer?

- Not that I know of.

Lots of n*ggers down where you live.

They knock each other off

like beer cans off a fence.

When I got your letter,

I seen Helen on it.

I thought it was my ex-old lady.

Almost ripped it up.

She turned me in.

She called the cops.

- Orphaned our kid, the stupid b*tch.

- You've got a kid?

- Yeah, a con with a kid.

- Girl or boy?

- Girl.

- What's her name?

- You ask a lot of questions.

- I don't know you.

Yeah, well, never mind.

Your letter said

you work with the poor.

Your daddy was a lawyer?

You come from money, don't you?

Some.

And you live in St. Thomas Projects?

I don't know who's crazier, you or me.

- I live where I work.

- Yeah, in the slum.

What about you?

I live here.

You were brought up poor?

Ain't nobody with money on death row.

You and I have something in common.

- What's that?

- We both live with the poor.

Ain't you gonna ask me what I done?

- The chaplain filled me in.

- Oh, Farley?

Yeah, well, he's a very religious man.

I didn't kill nobody.

- Carl went crazy on me.

- Carl?

Vitello. He ought to be sitting here.

He went nuts on me.

I was scared. Did what he said,

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