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.”
Richard Glossip with his wife, Lea, at a restaurant in Oklahoma City, Okla., on May 18, 2026. Liliana Segura/The Intercept
Glossip was twice convicted and sentenced to death…
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