Dell’s murder trial lasted two days, shorter than most misdemeanor trials. Throughout much of it, Tip Evans, Dell’s middle-aged public defender, slept. He failed to deliver a closing argument, and during the sentencing phase of the trial, Tip did not present an iota of mitigation evidence. Mitigation evidence is offered in death penalty cases to spare the defendant’s life. Peter’s rape of Dell’s sister, Peter’s constant pestering of Dell for drugs, and the fact that Dell had lost his parents at the age of ten (his mother to heroin, his father to jail), forcing him to drop out of school and raise his sisters, would have served as effective mitigation. So, too, the pages and pages of glowing commentary about Dell’s character by his neighbors, family, and friends. Tip Evans didn’t mention a word of it, effectively leading Dell to the electric chair. It was this inaction that Dell was appealing now. Question presented: Was Dell Nelson deprived of his Sixth Amendment right to counsel when his lawyer, Tip Evans, failed to present mitigating evidence, failed to cross-examine a witness for the prosecution, and waived final argument during sentencing?”

The Pennsylvania Supreme Court affirmed Dell’s conviction and sentence. So did the federal district court, finding that Tip Evans’s actions (or lack thereof) were not egregious enough to be considered ineffective for constitutional purposes.

Dell, now thirty-six years old, appealed to the third circuit, and that’s where I came into the picture. Our panel—Judges Friedman, Adams, and Stevens—had the power to decide that, as a matter of law, Dell Nelson had been denied his constitutional rights. If so decided, he’d be granted a resentencing with his new lawyer. If not, the guy would be dead within a matter of months, maybe a year. The court of appeals was his last real hope, since the Supreme Court rarely heard death penalty cases.

Putting down the state’s brief, I felt dizzy. This was real. A real person’s life hung in the balance. So, too, justice for a dead man. Until now, it’d never occurred to me just how difficult it was to be a judge. On TV, in the movies, and even in law school, with scant appearances of reality, such decisions seemed easy, obvious almost. That was hardly the case here. With newfound respect, I glanced over at Judge Friedman, who was sitting upright, glaring in my direction.

I smiled. Nothing. I waved. Nothing. I couldn’t be bothered; I was actually engrossed in my work. No sooner had I reopened the state’s brief then Judge Friedman appeared in my cubicle, sunglasses gliding down her nose, bags in hand.

“You’re rilly rilly taking a long time on this case, Sheera.” The snickering was a dead giveaway that she wasn’t referring to my thoroughness.

“Um, it’s a death penalty case, Judge Friedman, and there are about a dozen briefs here, so—”