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Philip Workman, 46, sits down for an interview, in shackles. On April 6, he will most likely be the second man the state executes in a month's time -- and the second it has executed in 40 years. He could pass for a construction worker with his medium, muscular build and closely trimmed goatee. Wearing what he usually does, a huge pair of reading glasses and a baseball cap he made with gold lettering, WWJD (What Would Jesus Do?), he says he's skipped breakfast this morning. Too many starches.

"I don't get to move around a lot," he says. "It's easy to get fat in here."

During his 17 years on death row, fearing the day he would sit in Ol' Sparky, the nickname given to the state's electric chair, Workman has been classified as a non-hostile inmate. He does not wear shackles when meeting with family, friends or his attorneys. They are only put on when the media visits.

New evidence that might exonerate Workman of the crime has raised hopes of a reprieve. A recently discovered autopsy X-ray shows the officer was killed by a .38 caliber bullet, not a .45, like Workman's gun.

But by putting in a bid for a retrial, the defense took back a clemency hearing request and there is no guarantee that Workman will get another hearing. It doesn't change his execution date of April 6 either. The state is calling for Workman to die, and hope for a reprieve from the governor is nil.

In 1982, Workman was convicted of the murder of a Memphis police officer, Lt. Ronald Oliver, though the bullet that killed Oliver was never found. Workman is aware that he is fuel for the death penalty debate, which has been burning brighter than ever since 13 men on Illinois' death row were freed last year. In January, Illinois Gov. George Ryan announced a moratorium on executions in the state and formed a committee to evaluate capital convictions. "Until I can be sure that everyone sentenced to death in Illinois is guilty," Ryan told the press, "no one will meet that fate." Northwestern University journalism professor Lawrence Marshall, who was part of the campaign to halt executions in Illinois, has joined Workman's defense team.

Capital punishment has also been an issue in light of the presidential election. Texas Gov. George W. Bush's long record of executions, including the February death of Betty Lou Beets, has raised questions about the candidate's "compassionate conservatism." But the presidential race isn't likely to shake up the issue much. Tennessee-based challenger, Vice President Al Gore, is also in favor of the death penalty. Gore has not commented on Workman's case.

In many ways, Workman's story is sadly common, even clichéd: Poor white guy gets bad lawyers and the death penalty for a crime that there's reasonable doubt he committed. He finds Jesus in prison and effectively garners the support and sympathy of Christian death penalty opponents. Ten years after his conviction, two state-employed, post-conviction attorneys in their late 20s, both new to the game, find his file in a pile of other death row throwaways and start digging.

In an unusual twist, Oliver's first wife and daughter want Workman's sentence reduced to life in prison. His daughter, Paula, appears in a video that was made to be aired at the clemency hearing, telling the governor that even if Workman killed her father, she believes it was not intentional. The tape shows television footage, autopsy diagrams and crime-scene stills that attempt to make a case for his innocence. Workman's own daughter, Crystal Michelle, also pleads on the video that her father be shown mercy.

But Oliver's wife, Sandra Oliver Noblin, has said she's looking forward to Workman's execution. She's not alone. The state Attorney General Paul Summers has said that even if Workman is not legally responsible for the lieutenant's death, he is "morally responsible."

These are the facts both the prosecution and defense agree on.

Almost 20 years ago, Workman was a destitute drug addict who inhaled, drank or snorted whatever he could find to get high. He had held odd jobs to support his wife and 8-year-old daughter in Columbus, Ga. On Aug. 5, 1981, he left them and hitchhiked to nowhere in particular, saving just enough money to buy vials of cocaine to shoot twice that night. He ran out of cash near Memphis.

Workman's head was foggy, his stomach empty. Rubbing the .45 he had brought for the trip, he spotted a Wendy's hamburger restaurant in the distance. And after an hour of eating french fries and a burger, he robbed the place.

An employee tripped the silent alarm and Oliver showed up. Mistaking Workman for the night clean-up guy, Oliver did not hand-cuff Workman, who had already stuffed his .45 inside his jacket. When they walked out, they bumped into Memphis police officer Aubrey Stoddard.

Next page | A bullet rips through the officer's chest. But whose bullet?