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In the summer of 2022, the late great Roberta Penn introduced me to Ronald Canty, or “Mr. C” as she called him. Roberta, a pugnacious but big-hearted advocate, had been following a criminal case involving Canty’s son.
Canty, who went by “Gator” with his friends, was the father of Dyrell Green, one of three men charged in the TRU Colors double homicide case.
Over the years, we met many times. The first time we talked — it was “Mr. Canty, sir,” at that point — he was very upfront about his own criminal history, including some serious charges from the late 1970s. But he had kept his nose clean for decades since then, focusing on his family and friends, and more than anything else, his son’s legal case.
Over several meetings, we discussed Green’s case, including some pretty shocking allegations that a detective had misled (Canty would say “lied to”) the grand jury while securing an indictment. That led to a long-form piece we co-published with The Assembly and an edition of The Newsroom in summer 2023.
Roberta was deeply unhappy with the reporting, which used Green’s case as a lens to look at broader issues in the criminal justice system. She would have preferred a more direct assault on then-District Attorney Ben David and a more full-throated editorial call for his case to be dropped. At that point, Green had been in detention for two years on charges that Roberta felt were fraudulent. To her, Green was a passionate artist, a poet, and a father — not the subject of detached, academic kind of journalism. It was not our only disagreement about where the boundaries between advocacy and journalism were, but our working relationship ultimately survived.
Canty — who I’m pretty sure I was calling “Gator” at the point — was more equanimous. There were lots of things he probably wished I would print, but he understood that the rumors he was hearing in the street couldn’t be cut and pasted onto the front page, so to speak. One stumbling block was my desire to interview his son, which his attorneys strongly opposed. Much of what Canty told me about Green was probably true, but I was getting it second-hand, which wasn’t quite enough in many cases.
Another year went by, and Roberta passed away shortly before Thanksgiving 2024. It was a blow to a lot of people, including me, but especially Canty. Supporting his son, and grandkid, as things dragged on, took a serious toll. Perceived inconsistencies in the case needled him daily, and sometimes he would call me just to vent. And sometimes the whole weight of it — his son, sitting in jail, year after year, often in solitary confinement, without a day in court — would just drop on him. Those were the times when Roberta had been a rock.
“You see how they’re doing us?” he would ask.
We continued to follow the case through another series of delays. Canty felt like the prosecution was trying to wait out his son, though Green refused to take a plea deal or testify against his co-defendants. Last May, one of those men — Raquel Adams — was convicted. Canty told me his son wasn’t worried. Green’s attorney, a capital defender brought in to replace the original public defender, had put in writing in several motions that he felt the case against Green was very weak. But, according to Canty, the waiting was weighing on everyone, especially his son. When we met last August, Canty’s son had been in jail for four years. He was ready to go to trial, Canty said.
Last winter, towards the end of the year, Canty and I met up again. He was dealing with some medical issues, and he looked like he’d lost a lot of weight. I felt bad that he’d come downtown to our office, but he brushed me off. The health problems, serious as they were, hadn’t killed him, he told me. Advocating for his son was the reason he was still here.
We’d been talking about another potential article, this one about the delays in the case. I reached out to all the previous defense attorneys, but no one would talk. Canty also seemed to be considering getting me into the detention center to talk directly to Green. I couldn’t reprint some of the potentially libelous rumors Canty had heard, but I could at least talk to Green about his experiences over the past four-plus years.
The last time I spoke to Canty — “Gator,” that time, for sure — was two days before Christmas. I was up in New Jersey visiting my family, but also struggling with a bad case of bronchitis. We had a bad phone connection and didn’t talk long. I figured I’d see him when I got back to Wilmington. I ended up staying pretty sick through New Year’s, but in January, I reached out again and didn’t hear back. Canty did occasionally go radio silent, and more than once lost my number or changed his and had to drop by the office to get back in touch. This time, though, I suspected it was something else.
As I’ve since learned from court records, but late January or early February, Canty was in the hospital, terminally ill. Green’s attorney filed a motion in which Green threw himself on the mercy of the court. Technically, the motion was a temporary bond modification due to an emergency, but it was basically a plea for Green to go see his dying father, for at least two hours, even if he had to be in handcuffs and leg shackles.
The court rejected the motion, with Superior Court Judge G. Frank Jones citing safety concerns both for Green and the community, including law enforcement. The District Attorney's office, which opposed Green's request, declined a request for comment on the issue.
Two weeks later, on February 28, Canty passed away.
Sitting at my desk today, my eyes are drawn to a stack of handwritten notes that Canty gave me back in the summer of 2022. Everything he thought about the case, all the reasons he thought his son should go free, reasons he thought his son never should have been arrested in the first place. From the first time we spoke, he was passionate and confident about his son’s innocence. For almost five years, he never wavered, until ultimately his body gave out.
In May, Green is scheduled to go to trial. I can’t tell you what will or should happen, but it seems cosmically unfair that Canty won’t be there to see it. I hope, at least, that he is at peace now. RIP, Gator.
