Donald Newson entered the U.S. penitentiary in Terre Haute, Indiana, with a mix of nerves and excitement. He had not seen his father, Nasih Khalil Ra’id, in almost 20 years. Born Odell Corley, Ra’id was sent to federal death row when Newson was just a teenager. Although he insisted he’d been wrongfully convicted, his hope of freedom faded over time, and he fell out of contact with his son. Now 35, Newson wondered if his father would even recognize him. The last time they were together, Newson was just a skinny kid. “I definitely didn’t have a beard.”

Growing up, Newson did not know the details of his father’s case. Ra’id was simply the dad with a playful sense of humor who loved Prince and kung fu movies and teaching his son to weightlift. Although his parents separated when Newson was young, he’d seen Ra’id frequently; the year before his father’s arrest, Newson traveled from his home in Atlanta to spend the summer in Michigan City, Indiana, where Ra’id ran a car wash and spent nights working security at the zoo. “We would look at all the animals and basically get like a backstage pass,” Newson recalled.

In 2002, Ra’id was arrested alongside several other suspects following a botched bank robbery that left two people dead and another paralyzed. His co-defendants pointed to him as the mastermind, which Ra’id adamantly denied. “I did not take part in that atrocity,” he told the court following his trial. “I did not shoot and kill anyone.”

Newson attended his father’s sentencing hearing, along with his mother, Jeannie Gipson-Newson. A death sentence would be “devastating to my child,” she remembered testifying. But it felt futile. The jurors seemed to have made up their minds. In 2004, Ra’id was sentenced to die.

Like many parents, Ra’id didn’t show his children he was struggling. “He never really liked to be a burden to anyone,” Newson recalled. After his first several years on death row, Ra’id stopped reaching out to Newson. When he later learned about his grandchildren, he was reluctant to form a relationship with them. “Even if they meet me, it will be behind glass,” Newson remembered him saying. “I couldn’t touch them. I couldn’t hug them.”

In the spring of 2020, however, the Federal Bureau of Prisons began allotting hundreds of free phone minutes to people in federal custody under the Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security Act. Ra’id began calling his son. Soon, they were talking multiple times a week. Ra’id’s grandchildren eventually “won him over,” Newson said. Before long, Ra’id was sending portraits of the kids drawn in his death row cell.

Later that year, the Trump administration began carrying out the first federal executions in 17 years. One by one, Ra’id saw longtime neighbors taken to die. “It definitely was nerve-wracking for him,” Newson said. “He’s like, ‘People that I’ve been in here with for the last 10, 15 years … you see them get called and never come back.’” Like all his neighbors, Ra’id feared getting an execution date himself. In the end, he survived.

In 2022, Ra’id’s legal team told Newson about a new program to help families visit loved ones on federal death row. The initiative was started by anti-death penalty activists who raised money to provide financial support for travel, lodging, and meals. Ra’id, who had always been firm that Newson should not spend money on him that could be spent on his kids, seemed enthusiastic. A self-described procrastinator, Newson did not fill out the paperwork right away. But last May, he flew from Atlanta to Indianapolis, where he was picked up by volunteers, then driven straight to the penitentiary.

Things did not go according to plan. At security, Newson was told he was in violation of the dress code and would not be allowed inside. He called his ride and went to a nearby Walmart. By the time he returned in new clothes, there was only an hour left of visitation.

Newson’s agitation dissipated when he spotted his dad. “It was a flood of emotions coming over me,” he said. The last time they’d seen one another, Ra’id was in the best shape of his life. Now Newson stared at his gray beard, overwhelmed by the years they had lost. He wanted badly to reach out but was stopped by the thick plexiglass. He struggled to understand the rationale. “I’m his son. What is he going to do to me?”

The hour went quickly. By the end of Newson’s second visit that weekend, they had talked about virtually everything. Ra’id was eager to share what he was reading; he had recently finished “King Leopold’s Ghost,” about Belgium’s violent exploitation of Congo. He urged his son to pay attention to the state of politics in the U.S. “There are some things out there that should terrify you,” he said. “And you just gotta be ready for whatever’s coming.”

Saying goodbye was “gut-wrenching,” Newson said. He resolved to apply for another visit, this time with his wife and kids.

On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Ra’id turned 59 years old. When Newson wished him a happy birthday, he replied, “Ain’t nothing happy about this,” then changed the subject to his grandson, who was about to turn 10. He kept his son company on the phone the next day as Newson rushed to get his kids ready for school.

On Thursday, Ra’id called early in the morning. Newson was in the middle of a serious conversation with his wife, so Ra’id said he would call back. He never did. The next day, during a break at work, Newson retrieved his cellphone from his locker and saw a flurry of messages from family members. Ra’id had been found unresponsive at the prison that morning. He was declared dead shortly afterward. The cause, Newson later learned, was suicide.

“We Have to Do Something”

The Death Row Visitation Project was an attempt to make something good out of something horrific.

Even for veteran abolitionists, the execution spree that began in Terre Haute in 2020 was an unprecedented nightmare: twelve men and one woman killed in the federal death chamber over the course of six months. The killings were carried out amid a deadly pandemic, and the virus spread among those who traveled to Terre Haute. By the last executions in January 2021, prison staff, death penalty lawyers, reporters, and the condemned men themselves had gotten sick with Covid-19, while the Supreme Court did nothing to intervene.

Among those scarred by the executions was Bill Breeden, a longtime pacifist and Universalist minister who served as spiritual adviser to Corey Johnson, the 12th person put to death. Inside the execution chamber, officials refused to let Breeden deliver the statement he’d written with Johnson, words filled with love for Johnson’s family and remorse for his crimes. Breeden was especially haunted by the fact that Johnson had spent 29 years in solitary confinement without a visit from relatives. In the run-up to the execution, Breeden raised money from his congregation to bring Johnson’s family to Terre Haute. But Johnson’s legal team offered to cover the costs, leaving Breeden with unexpected funds.

It’s not unusual for people on death row to become estranged from their families. The stigma of a death sentence compounds the practical challenges of........

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