Martina Correia. (AP Photo/Paul Abell)
When Martina Correia was first diagnosed with breast cancer, her son, DeJaun, was 6 years old. The doctors gave her only six months to live. But more than ten years later, she was still alive. Death was not an option for her. She was on a mission, not just to raise her son but to save her brother’s life, even as her own life hung in the balance.
It was not just the shocking facts of Troy Davis’s case—the total lack of physical evidence, the recanted witness statements—but his sister’s strength and story that inspired a global movement against the death penalty. People all over the world cried out against the execution of Troy Davis. Not once, not twice, not three times. But four times.
“De’Jaun remembers the first execution date vividly,” Martina said earlier this year, as the state of Georgia again readied itself to kill her brother. “It was July 17, 2007. He was 13 years old. We went to go see Troy, and Troy wasn’t really worrying about himself. He was mostly worried about his family—about us. I was looking at my mother. She was praying, praying, praying.”
Troy gave DeJaun parting advice. “Just do good in school, do what’s right, pick the right friends, watch over the family, and just respect the family. Respect your mom, your grandmother, and your aunties. Do what you love and have a good profession.”
Miraculously, Troy would live to see another day. And his sister would be by his side every time they tried to kill him again. In a letter to the Campaign to End the Death Penalty in 2009, Troy wrote: “As I look at my sister Martina, I am marveled by the love she has for me—and of course, I worry about her and her health. But as she tells me, she is the eldest, and she will not back down from this fight to save my life and prove to the world that I am innocent of this terrible crime.”
Martina never paused, never put herself first. It was always about the fight. When I wrote to a dozen activists, lawyers and former prisoners this past February asking for a short contribution to an anti-death penalty article for The Nation, she was the first to respond, even though she had been very sick. “I am not yet 70% of myself,” she wrote, as explicit an acknowledgment of her health struggles as she would generally allow. Yet she urged me to call her cell rather than e-mail in the future; it was a better way to reach her.
As a board member of the CEDP, Martina would join our lengthy Sunday night conference calls—no matter where she was or what was going on. She spoke to us from the car, on her way back from the hospital—she was always there. So it was easy to convince ourselves she always would be.