The Intercept80%
Richard Glossip on Life After Decades on Death Row 8%
By Liliana Segura0% Jordan Smith0%
5/30/2026, 10:18:00 AM
BS Summary: This article contains 27 faulty reasoning types, including Post Hoc (False Cause), Negativity Bias, and Anecdotal, with Optimism Bias as the most egregious example at 8% saturation with 174 hits. Analysis detected 1,766 faulty-reasoning hits from 2,166 analyzed words, generating a BS Score of 24.6% and a BS Rank of 8% (15,544 of 16,813 articles). This article is better (less manipulative) than 92.50% of the article peer group.
For three decades, Richard Glossip lived on concrete.
First at the Oklahoma County jail, after his arrest for murder in 1997, and then in the underground bunker housing death row inmates at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary.
As with the rest of his surroundings, he eventually got used to the hard, unforgiving floors, although recently he’d developed painful swelling in his legs.
It was only when he stepped onto the carpeted courtroom at the Oklahoma County Courthouse last June that Glossip, now 63, realized how unaccustomed his body had become to anything other than concrete.
He almost fell over — one of his lawyers had to catch him.
“You’re not balanced for that,” Glossip said.
“You’re balanced for walking on very hard floors.
It’s just really weird to, like, walk on carpet and stuff again.”
Now, sitting on a mint green loveseat next to his wife, Lea, Glossip was getting used to softer surfaces, including a new pair of black moccasin-style sherpa-lined slippers.
“My leg hasn’t been swollen since I got out.”
Just five days earlier, Glossip was still locked up at the county jail with no idea when — if ever — he would be released.
Even though the U.S.
Supreme Court vacated his conviction in 2025, he had been held indefinitely as Oklahoma prepared to try him again.
Months earlier, his lawyers had asked Oklahoma County Judge Natalie Mai to grant bond, and Mai had finally said she would issue an order on May 14.
That morning, just after 10 a.m., she handed down her decision: Glossip’s bond was set at $500,000.
After that, everything happened quickly — faster than anyone expected.
Lea, an attorney herself, started making calls to secure the 10 percent in cash needed for his release.
The bail money ultimately came from Kim Kardashian, a longtime supporter and prison reform advocate.
Meanwhile, reporters rushed to set up cameras in front of the jail; within a few hours, local ABC affiliate KOCO had established a live feed of the jail entrance, which, just after 5 p.m., captured the moment Glossip walked out.
“It’s overwhelming but it’s amazing at the same time,” he said before walking to Lea’s SUV.
In a surreal scene, KOCO’s helicopter hovered above the parking lot, with reporters excitedly narrating a play-by-play of the couple’s movements as they drove away.
They eventually made their way to a quiet Italian restaurant in Lea’s central Oklahoma City neighborhood, where they sat outside under a canopy of trees.
Glossip ate spaghetti and meatballs.
Over the years, Lea had talked to Glossip on the phone while eating dinner there alone, which made the place feel oddly familiar.
“It’s kind of weird listening to her describe these restaurants,” he said.
“Now I’m sitting at them.”
The two first began corresponding after Lea watched the 2017 documentary series “Killing Richard Glossip,” and eventually married in March 2022.
Glossip would spend hours on the phone with Lea as she went about her daily routine, keeping her company as she got ready for her law school classes, ran errands, and had dinner.
They’d end the evening watching TV together.
Over time, the daily ritual established a structure that would provide a lifeline to Glossip — and eventually ease his transition to life outside prison walls.
Sitting in the light-filled living room in their studio apartment, Glossip described how those interactions have so far helped him feel less bewildered by a world he hasn’t experienced for nearly 30 years.
Still, since his release, there have been constant, small reminders of his decades of incarceration.
On his first night, he barely slept.
There was the adrenaline, of course, but more than that was the silence — it was way too quiet compared to the constant chaos and noise at the county jail.
And then there was the water: In prison, the sink would only run for seconds at a time and would turn off automatically.
“I keep waiting for the water to go off,” Glossip said.
“I’ve even walked out of that bathroom and the water was still going, and I keep forgetting I have to turn it off.”
“I always think that ‘Nah, none of that stuff’s gonna bother me,’” he continued.
“But when it really actually happens, it does bother you more than you think.
You start remembering things.
Or something will trigger something that will bring you back to when this all happened, when it all began.”
It’s those small things — the carpet, the water, the quiet — that have a way of reminding him how much he survived.
“Once you’re out here and you see all the things that was taken away from you — and all the times they almost took everything away from me, my life and everything — you see all of it now,” he said.
“And it kind of still makes me angry at times because none of this should have ever happened.
And this should have never been taken from me in the first place.”
Glossip was twice convicted and sentenced to death for the murder of his boss, motel owner Barry Van Treese, who was brutally killed at the Best Budget Inn on the outskirts of Oklahoma City in January 1997.
A 19-year-old handyman named Justin Sneed admitted to fatally beating Van Treese with a baseball bat, but insisted that Glossip bullied him into doing it.
Sneed’s account became the basis for the state’s case against Glossip — and for a plea deal that allowed Sneed to avoid the death penalty.
Sneed is serving a life sentence.
Glossip always maintained his innocence, and his conviction was overturned twice.
In 2001, the Oklahoma Court of Criminal Appeals ruled that Glossip’s lawyers had been ineffective for failing to present key evidence that undermined Sneed’s account of the crime.
But in 2004, a second jury convicted Glossip and resentenced him to death.
More than 20 years later, in February 2025, the Supreme Court again vacated Glossip’s conviction, finding that Sneed had lied on the stand during Glossip’s retrial and that prosecutors had failed to correct Sneed’s testimony.
This misconduct, combined with “additional conduct by the prosecutor further undermines confidence in the verdict,” the justices wrote.
Glossip came close to execution numerous times, as Oklahoma authorities aggressively defended their conviction despite mounting evidence pointing to his innocence.
Oklahoma Attorney General Gentner Drummond, who came into office in 2023, broke with his predecessors, taking unprecedented steps to block Glossip’s execution and to appeal his conviction to the Supreme Court.
After Glossip’s high court victory, many expected Drummond to quickly resolve the case and free Glossip; Lea even bought Glossip new clothes in anticipation of his release.
Instead, Drummond, who by then was running for governor, announced that he would retry Glossip for first-degree murder.
Drummond’s office insisted Glossip should remain in jail — while simultaneously confirming that the state had no new evidence to support his guilt.
In July 2025, a judge denied defense lawyers’ request to have Glossip released on bond, only to recuse herself from the case after she was revealed to have close ties to the same district attorney’s office that originally sent Glossip to death row.
Mai, a civil judge, was ultimately appointed to the case after a string of judges stepped down for the same reason.
With Mai set to preside over Glossip’s retrial, his legal team again asked for his release on bond.
On May 14, she agreed.
In her order, Mai quoted a letter Drummond wrote to the parole board in 2023, expressing his view that the record didn’t support a first-degree murder conviction.
“The Court fully expects that the State will rigorously prosecute its case going forward and the defense will provide robust and effective presentation for Glossip,” Mai wrote.
“The Court hopes that a new trial, free of error, will provide all interested parties, and the citizens of Oklahoma, the closure they deserve.”
Drummond did not release a statement regarding Glossip’s release.
Instead, he posted a video to Facebook from the White House where he spent the day with FBI Director Kash Patel and Acting Attorney General Todd Blanche.
On his first night home, Glossip decided he wanted to see a store.
He hadn’t used a real razor in years, and he wanted some ice cream.
The couple ended up at Target, which he found peaceful, especially the music.
“It was like elevator music,” Lea said laughing.
The following days were a whirlwind of errands: a haircut, a grocery store, and the DMV.
Did anybody recognize him, we asked.
Yes, they said.
Everybody, everywhere seemed to know who he was.
At the barbershop, the man who cut Glossip’s hair refused to accept any payment.
“He said, ‘No, it’s an honor,’” Lea recalled.
“He was really happy to be the one to do that.”
At Whole Foods, people glanced at them with knowing smiles, while others took surreptitious photos as Glossip marveled over purple potatoes and dragonfruit — two foods he’d never seen before.
At the DMV, when a woman called out the name “Richard,” Glossip and another man stood up at the same time.
“Glossip?”
he asked.
Yes, the woman replied.
“You’re Richard Glossip?!”
the other Richard replied — and asked for a photo, which they took outside by the man’s purple car.
At Walmart, a lady simply beamed at them and said, “Welcome.”
“It kind of threw him,” Lea said.
But the attention had been overwhelmingly supportive.
“I think it’s nice for Rich to receive that after everything, to walk back into the world after everything he survived, and have people greet him positively.”
On Monday morning, Lea had to go back to work.
Before heading out, she left Glossip keys and some cash.
“Has money always been this size?”
he asked.
Yes, she told him.
He hadn’t used cash in decades and recalled the bills being smaller.
That day he didn’t venture out.
Instead, he stayed at home and did chores.
But the next day, he went out on his own for the first time, walking to a corner store for a Coke.
“It’s you!”
the clerk said.
Glossip is looking forward to exploring more on his own — he wants to walk barefoot in summer grass, stargaze, and go fishing — all provided he is home by his court-ordered curfew of 10 p.m.
And he wants to renew his vows with Lea, in a ceremony outside prison walls.
“I tried never to let myself become institutionalized,” he said.
“But I mean it’s hard.
You go through all these horrible things and all these different dates … and last meals and everything.
And then it doesn’t look like this day will ever get here.
But you always hope that it will.”
Back in 2014, when he was facing his first execution date, Glossip reached out to famed anti-death penalty nun Sister Helen Prejean, asking if she could help him.
Prejean reached out to attorney Don Knight, who had significant experience representing people facing the death penalty, asking if he could take on Glossip’s case; he agreed.
In the decade that followed, Knight would find new witnesses and expose hidden evidence that undercut the state’s case against Glossip — and led to the Supreme Court’s decision.
Knight’s zealous advocacy is responsible for saving Glossip’s life.
Discussing this, Glossip returned to some of the darkest and most traumatic moments of his incarceration — including the time he came closest to execution in 2015.
Officials halted the lethal injection at the last second after realizing that they were about to use the wrong drug to kill him.
That was more than 10 years ago.
He would face execution again and again: a total of nine times.
“They used to call me the cat man on death row,” he said.
The weekend after Glossip was released, he met up with Knight in a local park.
The two sat in the sun and talked.
“It was nice just to sit in that park and watch people go by,” Glossip said.
“Him and I just having a conversation with each other.”
He remembered what he told Knight when they first met.
“‘I just want people to know the truth,’” Glossip said.
“And he’s been able to do that.
And that’s been pretty amazing for me because that’s what I wanted more than anything.”
A week after his release, Glossip sent Knight an update: He’d been to the park, an art fair, and brunch with two of Lea’s co-workers.
It was the best week of his life, he said.
“I’ve lived this case for so long,” he told us.
“I don’t want to live it anymore.”
He knows the case isn’t over, but he trusts Knight and his legal team to handle what comes next.
“They’ll make the right decisions.
I know they will.
I wouldn’t be out here today if they wasn’t,” he said.
“So I’m just going to let them handle it.
… I’m just gonna enjoy life.”
Analysis
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