SISTERHOOD

A remarkable alliance between an order of Catholic nuns and the women on Texas's death row.

- LAWRENCE WRIGHT

Gatesville, Texas, a prison town a hundred miles north of Austin, has six correctional facilities, five of them housing female inmates. On the widely spaced campuses, each surrounded by towering chain-link fences topped with razor wire, women in white uniforms can be seen mowing grass. In the spring, nearby pastures fill with wildflowers unseen by the inmates. On a nice day, you might hear the guards taking target practice.

The Patrick L. O'Daniel Unit is a single-story red brick complex set on a hundred acres. It used to be called Mountain View, for the modest hills on the horizon. In the fall of 2014, Ronnie Lastovica, a Catholic deacon, assisted in a Mass for the prison's general population. Afterward, an officer told him, "There's an offender on death row who would like to take Communion." The officer led Ronnie to a building that contains an area where suicidal or mentally ill inmates are kept under observation. There are also two wings housing all the condemned women of Texas.

A prisoner named Linda Carty, wearing a white tunic and baggy trousers, was brought into a bleak white common room with four round tables and chairs, all bolted to the floor. Her gray-streaked black hair was pulled back. It was like being in a black-and-white movie. She was fifty-six and had been on the row for twelve years.

Linda, who was convicted of stealing a baby and murdering the mother in the process, maintains her innocence. Like most people condemned in Texas, Linda is Black and poor. Born in the West Indies, Linda is a British national entitled to support from the British consulate; no attorney ever told her this, though. After her conviction, the British government, which opposes capital punishment, asked a Houston firm to pursue appeals. All failed.