Category Archives: Sentenced to Death

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

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I caged a bird once when I was a kid.  I used a small box to build a makeshift trap, equipped with string, a branch, and bread crumbs for bait. Then I crouched down in my shadowy perch and counted off the seconds as I lay in wait, imagining the thrill of victory. Before long a small bird soared into view, landed near the hidden dungeon, and ventured inside. Unable to contain my excitement and anticipation, I yanked the string, and the box slammed shut.

I was so elated to see the trap had actually worked. I sprang towards the prize with little consideration for anything but my own sense of accomplishment. I had outsmarted the opposition and conquered it. I had won.

Initially, the commotion from within the box confirmed the prey was inside, but then everything went silent. I contemplated my next move. Where to keep the bird? What to feed it? It struck me that, more importantly, the bird needed air. So while firmly holding the box with both hands, I lifted it just slightly enough for a crack of sunlight and air to creep through. Nothing happened. I started to doubt if I’d even captured the formidable adversary or if its innate elusiveness had something to do with magic. The curiosity was killing me. I had to know.

I eased the box higher, just enough to peep inside. That’s when the bird saw its chance and made a break for it. It shimmied out the slit, hopped several times, building momentum, then took flight. I stood motionless, disappointed, as I watched my victim escape. I felt duped and deprived, as though the bird was at fault for defying me and not conforming to an outcome I had set. It had stolen the feeling of invincibility from me, and it just didn’t seem fair. I was the greater force at work. My happiness was the only thing relevant.

Today, I was caged by a bird. It sat perched atop the windowsill outside my cell here on death row. At first, I tried paying it no mind, but its looming presence was impossible to ignore. Then I tried shooing it away. Unfazed by my frivolous antics, it refused to budge, instead peering at me here in the box with, seemingly, no consideration or regard for the victim trapped within, its eye stoic, holding no empathy or remorse for the horrible conditions I suffered. I suddenly remembered a time when the roles were reversed.

The day I watched the bird escape and fly away, not once did I consider what an ordeal it must’ve been like for it, how afraid it must’ve been, being swallowed up in the darkness. The loneliness it must’ve felt. Confusion. The hurt and anger of being violated and victimized. And what of the consequences had it never returned to the nest? Would its family miss it? Would there be songs to mourn its absence? Were there young that depended on its safe return for survival?

I have known what it’s like to be the bird outside my window but not the one that I trapped in the box, until now. Today I am that bird, trapped beyond the cruel dark thresholds of North Carolina’s death row. Except here there are no cracks to breath, no slits from which to escape, and the only air to breath holds the aroma of death.

Sometimes I think it’s karma. The encounter with the bird was certainly not the only stain on my moral canvas. I would go on to do many things I regret. Other times I think maybe it was a test. That the bird was sent to metaphorically provide an escape from a gateway of terrible decisions and a path from which there was no return. Maybe the bird was never really trapped at all. Maybe it was me all along. If so, then here I wait – afraid, lonely, and confused, feeling violated and victimized, and desperately hoping for the day when a crack of sunlight will come creeping through.

© Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

NOTE TO READER. Please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson at any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or the two individuals who accused Robinson of murder.   No detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful.
Details of Terry Robinson’s case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/

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Sentenced to Death

Day of Silence

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It is October 18, 2017, and on this day I will not talk.  I cannot talk and have not talked for the entire day.  Silence is my voice, my method of communication.  A way for me to see, know and realize what is going on around me.  It is the day of an execution.

I want to be as one in understanding and knowing today could never be a regular, normal day like tomorrow or the day before this one.  For me, to act in any way like it is, would be insane on my part and ignoring my own situation, that of being confined with a death sentence hanging over my head.  It’s not me today, but the possibility is there that it could be me in the future.  So, it is through the condemned that I see everyone around me living in their cells.

Each day we have a responsibility to realize the reality of our circumstances.  If we come to the point of rationalizing an execution day as normal and just another day, we come into acceptance of this being okay, justifying our own execution or death sentence through embracing an execution day as a day to be normalized.

My silence toward prisoners and guards keeps my mind on the reality that we are all here to be executed.  That should never be forgotten.  Until I’m not in this situation, I can think no other way.

 

Travis Runnels, is a published author, who is currently working on his second novel.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

What Are The Things I See?

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What is the view from inside my cell, what are the things I see?

I see the walls, with their peeling paint and scribbled words left behind by hands that made this cell their home before me.

There are tiny squares that make up the door frame, and I can sometimes try to make out was is happening just beyond my reach.

Standing on top of a stack of books, I can look out the window located just about at the top of the cell. Seeing off into the distance over the razor wire, there are guard towers and buildings inside the prison fencing.

I can look in the stainless steel wall around the sink and toilet combo and see my reflection gaze back at me in its shiny surface.  I look and wonder just how many images and memories are stored in that steel, pictures of faces that have looking into it, staring with their eyes full of different hopes and dreams.

This is my reality, my view of the world as I’ve come to know it over the years, enclosed by four square walls of the dullest white.

 

Travis Runnels, is a published author, who is currently working on his second novel.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Vigil On The Row

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Another domino is falling, to be toppled over by a substance injected into its core, within days to be marked by a grave stone in memory of who it was and what it represented in this lifetime.

For hours it’s a waiting game, defined by the unknown, to live or to die, what will be their fate beyond this day, these minutes, each and every second that passes?

Everyone is holding their breath and wondering with conflicting emotions.  Family members are embracing hope that humanity will come to the forefront, and they will not have to mourn this day.  The victim’s family also wait, but with anticipation and a different kind of hope that is laced with pain, anger and vengeance, wishing for a twisted form of justice that will never bring the closure they seek.

Guards wait with the indifference of those who’ve done this before and, just as factory workers view boxing up goods for shipment, they glance at their watches, waiting for the shift to be over and thinking of going home.  They are blind to the fact that a man’s life will be taken as part of their work shift, it’s become routine.

The clock continues ticking, later and later the day wears on and the sky begins to darken, the stars making an appearance, and the sun finally lays down to rest as darkness descends.  The street lights come on, and still, nothing is decided.  The cruelest part of it all becomes when there starts to form within the heart of the the condemned a false sense of hope that they will survive, they will get a stay of execution.

Even the family begins to hope with the passage of time and no news coming.  For whatever reason could there be such a delay in such a monumental decision?  Everyone gets antsy within their own thoughts that are all based upon what they hope to come out of the situation.

Then the ax drops, all the lights and power of hope are extinguished with the ring of a phone.   The execution is to proceed as planned.  No stay, no last second decision after so many hour of nothingness, and with the finality of a last breath, the leather straps and restraints are buckled and locked on the body of the condemned.

This is the hard core reality of legalized, state sanctioned murder.

 

Travis Runnels, is a published author, who is currently working on his second novel.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

I’m Still Breathing

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You can cast me in the darkest pit
And turn from it while seething.
And erase me from this very world,
But baby, I’m still breathing.
Does it really make me worthless
And deserving of no love?
‘Cause the strength to overcome your madness
Courses through my blood.
Just like town halls and chow calls
Your antics are meant to weaken.
Just like fish under mountains of troubled waters,
Still, I’m breathing.
Did you think that I would take it
Now you want to unleash your wrath,
‘Cause I’m angry, black, and dysfunctional
The product of your bloodbath.
Do you really mean to demean
My legacy to a lie?
‘Cause I take your punches in the gut
While holding my head high.
You can dub me a gangster, thug, or crook
A hoodlum, or a heathen
And strip from me everything I love
But still, like wine, I’m breathing.
Do you really think that I deserved
The lashings on my back.
‘Cause I made it through your troubled storm
With my soul still intact.
Til the ashes of Mother Earth yields up the voices of my people,
I’m breathing.
Til the day when materialism no longer determines my equal,
I’m breathing.
Til chains, chairs, and chambers are no longer justices’ end and my fellow American can call me brother, regardless of my skin,
I’m still breathing.
When my past sins reinvent themselves as my present day regrets,
I’m breathing.
When the weight of the entire world is riding on my chest,
I’m breathing.
When reason enough for the war to be won
Is just knowing that I’m somebody’s son
And I’m breathing,
I’m breathing,
I’m still breathing.

*This poem was written as an homage to Maya Angelou’s – “Still I Rise”

Chanton ©

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

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Harsh Sentences, Juvenile Justice, Sentenced to Death

Did Texas Just Execute An Innocent Man?

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This week while I was driving my kids home from swim practice, a man lost his fight to live.  He didn’t struggle during his execution, but he chanted, trying to make his voice heard and be a part of this place till his last breath.

Most of us are wired to try to save lives, I hope.   Preserve it.  People get paid to keep us safe, heal our bodies and minds, improve the length and quality of our lives.  That makes it hard for me to come to terms with a state strapping a person down and employing people to take their life – while they are immobile – while invited guests watch.  Some people call that justice – I call it barbaric.  I call it the ultimate irony.  I call it a lot of things, but justice isn’t one of them.

Some firmly believe Robert Pruett was innocent of the crime he was put to death for.  They were fighting and calling and praying until the end.  Texas can’t argue some of the reasons they believe that.

Robert grew up knowing what struggle was.  His dad wasn’t always around and was incarcerated for some of his childhood, while his mother tried to numb herself with drugs and moved from trailer park to trailer park.  There weren’t family meals shared around a dinner table, hugs when you needed them, and displays of unconditional love.  He never knew that life.

Stock Photo

When his father wasn’t in jail, the man was running from trouble with his family in tow.  He also taught his little boy how to get high when he was seven years old.  Robert was raised rough, and it was all he knew.  And when he was fifteen years old, he got into a fight with Raymond Yarbrough, a 29-year old man who lived in the same trailer park.  Things got out of hand when Robert’s father and brother got involved.  According to the prosecution and the state and everyone – Robert’s father stabbed Yarbrough to death, while Robert held the man down.  That has never been in question.

At sixteen years of age, Robert Pruett was essentially sentenced to life in prison, receiving 99 years for his participation in Yarbrough’s death.   A boy, who never received any guidance in his life and only knew abuse of all kinds, held down his neighbor while the authority figure in his life, his father, his role model, his guardian, violently killed the man.  Robert wasn’t wired to do anything less.  He needed intervention way before that day, he needed an advocate, a hero, somebody to rescue him – but he never got that.  Instead, Texas felt justice would be served by putting him in prison until he died of old age.

So the sentence began.  The story didn’t end there though.  When Pruett was twenty he was accused of killing a corrections officer.  Daniel Nagle was found stabbed, and the cause of his death was actually reported to be a heart attack.  Two years later, a jury found Robert Pruett guilty of murder, and he was sentenced to death.

It’s not that cut and dry.  Texas doesn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Robert Pruett killed that officer.  Even if the cause of his death was bleeding from the stab wounds, which it wasn’t, there is doubt that the man Texas put to death this week even committed the stabbing.

Eighteen years after the officer’s death, Robert Pruett maintained his innocence.  What’s more, some of the inmates whose testimony was used to convict Robert received rewards for the cooperation.  Often times, in the world of prison, inmates testimony is excluded as ‘untrustworthy’ if it doesn’t benefit the institution, but if it can further their cause – an inmate’s testimony can send someone to the death chamber.   The jury didn’t know that the witnesses benefited from their testimony.

Outside of the inmates, there was no physical or DNA evidence to put Robert Pruitt at the scene of the crime.  In a crime that takes place in such close quarters, it seems logical to think Robert’s DNA would be found on something – the weapon, the torn up disciplinary paper next to the body, the body itself.  There was none.  There was nothing found on Robert’s body either.  Nothing.

I wasn’t on the jury.  I don’t know what they were thinking, but I’ve seen aggressive lawyers paint pictures.  The truth gets blurry – it can actually sometimes get obscured from view.  In a world of smoke and mirrors, should there be a death sentence?  Should death be decided based on ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’?

Corruption takes place in prisons all the time. There is story after story of officers going rogue.  They lose perspective.  According to one report, the officer that was killed had some enemies at the prison because he was trying to shed light on some corruption at the facility.

Everything I read about Robert Pruett leads me to believe he was a smart man.  In addition to the many questions raised in his case, I find myself questioning a man murdering someone who wrote him up and then tossing the torn up report next to the dead body.  It defies logic to try and stay so tidy that you don’t leave any DNA behind, but you leave a torn up note with your name on it.  Again – Robert’s DNA was not found on the note or the weapon.  And the victim’s blood was not found on Robert.

It’s pointless now to argue whether Robert Pruett murdered anyone.  People will continue to question it without me.  But, there is one thing there is no question about.  The state of Texas buckled Robert Pruett down and calmly injected enough poison into his system to end his life, with witnesses watching every moment of the process.  That we know.  We also know that Texas will continue to do that as long as the laws allow.

REFERENCES

Baptiste, Nathalie. “Junk Science? Unreliable Witnesses? No Matter, Texas Plans to Execute Robert Pruett Anyway Mother Jones – 2017-10-10T10:00:11.000Z.” Junk Science? Unreliable Witnesses? No Matter, Texas Plans to Execute Robert Pruett Anyway, Mother Jones, 10 Oct. 2017, dailyreadlist.com/article/junk-science-unreliable-witnesses-no-matter-tex-71.

Randall, Kate. “Robert Pruett, First Imprisoned at Age 16, Executed in Texas despite Questions about Evidence.” Dolphnsix Intelligent News Agency, www.dolphnsix.com/news/5430477/robert-pruett-first-imprisoned-executed-texas.

Robinson, Nathan J. “Texas Should Not Execute Robert Pruett Tonight.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 12 Oct. 2017, www.nytimes.com/2017/10/12/opinion/texas-robert-pruett-execution.html.

“Texas Inmate Executed for Prison Guard’s Death.” Fox News, FOX News Network, www.foxnews.com/us/2017/10/12/texas-inmate-executed-for-prison-guards-death.html.

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Visiting Room

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If I could touch your hand
I would caress your soul.

The glass between us
Like a gap in time
Longing for what I see.

A strong desire for contact
Petal soft feel of skin
That is your touch.

Through the glass I gaze
The beat of my heart reverberating
Letting you feel the tremble of my want.

My hands are not tied
Locked away into an existence of loneliness
Devoid of the physical realm of life.

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Harsh Sentences, Sentenced to Death

Molding A Case To Fit A Death Sentence

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It happens. All lawyers aren’t motivated by what the public likes to believe they are – justice. There are a good number who are motivated by money. For others, their motivation may be career advancement. Some are motivated by fear of losing their position.

There are all sorts of reasons why some lawyers have no interest in revealing the truth so justice can be served. Unfortunately, in the world of our justice system, things are rarely what they seem, and if an advantage can be gained by twisting the truth, or making it up altogether – truth be damned. If truth isn’t a factor, lots of things can be done to make the pieces fit.

For someone facing the death penalty – this flaw in our system takes on an entirely new meaning. It becomes ‘life or death’ if a defendant is appointed an attorney without the proper experience or determination required for their case. Combine that with being prosecuted by someone who is not motivated by seeking the truth, but rather by winning a conviction. It’s the perfect recipe for a case to be molded to fit the desired outcome.

Did that happen in the case of Ralph Trent Stokes? And, if it did, isn’t his story the only story we need to abolish the death penalty? If there are questions or doubts, to any degree, in any single case of a person sentenced to death – isn’t that enough argument to not reserve death as a means of punishment?

In July of 1983 Ralph Trent Stokes was sentenced to death for the murders of Mary Louise Figueroa, Eugene Jefferson, and Peter Santangelo, a crime that took place in Smokin’ Joe’s Corner in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Roger King was the prosecutor. He had a reputation, experience, and actually held the record for most death sentences achieved in the state of Pennsylvania when he retired. I suppose we’ll never know Mr. King’s motivation, but his results speak for themselves. He wasn’t just known for death penalty sentences, he also had charges of misconduct against him in death penalty cases. One would hope that when sentences involve death, a prosecutor would pursue that course going by the book. One would hope that death penalty cases wouldn’t be thought of as notches in one’s belt. One would hope. That’s simply not always the case. A law degree is not a badge of honor. A law degree does not guarantee the one who earned it has any interest in justice.

Malcolm H. Waldron, Ralph Stokes’s defense attorney, came late to the case, after Ralph’s first lawyer was permitted to withdraw. Waldron was appointed on April 19, only three months before the conviction. He had three months to prepare for a trial involving murder and the death penalty. From Ralph Stokes’ account, his attorney lacked the experience and the conviction needed to make the case evenly heard. That’s just the way our system works. It simply isn’t a reality that the guilty get convicted and the innocent walk. It has a lot more to do with how determined, or not determined, your lawyer is. That is reality. Ralph’s defense attorney did not even use an investigator in his effort to put together a legal defense.

In a petition filed by Ralph Stokes it says that during the trial the prosecutor made a lot out of sneaker prints left in barbecue sauce at the scene of the murders that night. There were items taken as evidence from Ralph’s home, including a pair of sneakers. It was argued and implied in court that there were stains on the items that were a combination of blood and barbecue sauce. In reality, and left out of the trial, was the fact that the prosecutor was in possession of lab reports that revealed no blood or barbecue sauce was found on the sneakers or any of the items. So, the prosecutor not only linked Ralph to the scene through those sneakers, but he was also aware while he was doing it that there was no scientific link between Ralph’s sneakers and the crime scene.

So, the jury was led to believe there was physical evidence placing Ralph at the location of the crime – that didn’t exist.
Apparently, in 2004, when attorneys for Ralph were trying to locate the homicide file from the police department, it was ‘missing’. I am unaware if it has ever been found, but, again, this is an issue that involves taking the life of Ralph Trent Stokes as a form of punishment, so I would think every stone should be turned, every bit of information at hand. This isn’t a tea party. There shouldn’t be time limits on new evidence, nor should there be missing evidence. The prosecutor, King, was also linked to other cases where homicide files went ‘missing’.   Isn’t that, in itself, a red flag?

Donald Jackson, one of the witnesses against Ralph, was supposed to have been his partner in the crime. Let’s face it – it was in Donald’s best interests to say whatever he had to say to save his own neck. It has already been determined that the prosecutor wasn’t as interested in the truth as he was a conviction, and Donald had previous crimes he had to deal with.  Donald Jackson was a witness that was motivated by self preservation.

Another witness against Ralph, Eric Burley, was a friend of Donald Jackson’s. He also had charges against him in unrelated crimes at the time of his testimony. For him, he was facing an attempted murder charge in a case where he shot a man. Oddly enough his charges were downgraded to aggravated assault at the same time he was being interviewed by police in Ralph’s charges. Some would argue that a man who can point a gun and shoot someone, isn’t someone who would be adverse to saying whatever he needed to say in order to make his own day in court a little more comfortable.

Leonard Wells, Eric Burley’s brother, was yet another witness. It was in everyone’s best interest to point fingers at Ralph.

Even Renard Mills had a reason to point his finger at Ralph. He was an employee at the restaurant that knew Ralph and testified that he recognized Ralph’s eyes through the ski mask. He was the only eyewitness and his testimony was crucial. But – the prosecutor withheld the fact that Renard was actually being investigated for the crime and was a person of interest. Again, another witness whose best interests were served by Ralph being found guilty.

Ralph has proclaimed his innocence from day one and has never wavered. He is a man sentenced to lose his life for three murders.
He was prosecuted by a man who valued the number of death penalty convictions he could accumulate, a man who has been accused of misconduct in other cases, and a man who was willing to not share some of the truth that he knew at Ralph’s trial in order to better his odds.

Several witnesses who were key components of the case had criminal backgrounds and something to personally gain by pointing to Ralph as the murderer.

The only eyewitness, who claimed to recognize Ralph from the holes in a ski mask, was also under suspicion for the same murders.

In 1983 Ralph Trent Stokes was nineteen years old. He has been in prison for thirty-four years. He has been facing the death penalty for over three decades.  Was the case against Ralph molded to fit the crime, truth be damned?

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Sentenced to Death

Wounded

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The author, Rev. Cari Rush Willis, ministers to men on Death Row in Virginia and North Carolina.

Isaiah 53:5: “He was wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities.” (NIV)

Over the last six months or so, I have become friends with a Franciscan friar, Fr. Steve Patti, O.F.M., who also visits with people on death row. I read an op-ed essay that he had written, and I noticed that he used a lot of the same terminology that I use when I talk about my visits with my friends on the row.  Right away, I wanted to get to know him.  Over these months, he has become a confidant like no other person because he has been there – he gets it – he understands what I have seen, heard, and felt.

During our last visit, I shared the horrific details, insane nuances, and bits of grace when walking with my beloved friend before, during, and after his execution.  I gave him dribs and drabs, not being able to connect any of the dots as I usually do. This time it was a dot here – a dot there – a dot way out yonder.  At the end of it all he said, “It sounds like everyone involved in the execution was wounded.”  I have to say that one of my favorite things about hanging out with him is his uncanny ability to name things.  He identifies things so succinctly, but also profoundly deep, that it lingers on my lips and in my heart.  “Wow. Wounded.  Yes.  I will have to think about that.  I think there is something there.  Wow. Wounded.”

The Scripture that kept coming back to me again and again was the text in Isaiah that foretells of the Messiah: “He was wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities.”  I had to look up the Hebrew to see what the term “wounded” meant.  I found out that it means “pierced or bore through” as well as “to profane oneself, defile oneself, and pollute oneself.”  What struck me the most about those definitions is that woundedness includes profaning, defiling, and polluting oneself.  I had never heard, and actually never expected, those definitions.

As the state officials and correctional officers were each taking part in my beloved friend’s execution, they were indeed profaning, defiling, and polluting themselves as they slyly looked on at all that was happening. No one was staring at the proceedings. Every one of them was looking down, looking away, and then peeking over to see what was going on with my beloved friend.

Those of us who were watching from the observation room were indeed profaning, defiling, and polluting ourselves. A sign over the two large windows in front of us said “Stay Seated. Stay Silent.”  We were to show no emotion, and we were to sit in our seat and act as well behaved participants in a sweltering room in order to watch this dreadful drama unfold before us.

Even those who were standing outside the prison, whether they were standing in support of the death penalty or were standing against the death penalty, were being profaned, defiled, and polluted. They could not escape the horror of the evening as they waited and waited and waited for some word from anyone as to what was happening inside the prison. Some of them stood in a circle praying for a Holy God to be ever present to everyone who was being caught up in this appalling evening. Some just stood by themselves and stared at the prison in the distance.

And finally, my friend certainly was being defiled and polluted as he was pumped full of drugs that were never meant to kill someone. He was wounded in the worst possible way. As a society, we want to forget how Jesus totally reframed an “eye for an eye” when he said, “Here’s another old saying that deserves a second look: ‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.’ Is that going to get us anywhere? No more tit-for-tat stuff.” (Matthew 5:38, 42, The Message Bible)

No one cared to get to know the man that they were killing in this macabre process.  The judges and governor had made up their mind on who he was based upon the media headlines.  No one saw any need to sit with the man that was on that execution table to find out if his life had changed and whether or not he was having a positive influence on those around him.  They defined him by his crime that he committed years ago.  And yet, my beloved friend was not his crime. None of us are defined by our worst acts. My friend was one of the most loving people I had ever met.  He was also my theological partner who opened my eyes to see God’s irrational and unbounded love and mercy towards us all.  He showed me facets of God that I would have never seen without his unique set of eyes.  He loved me with a big love – a really Big Love! He lived his life based upon Jesus’ words to love God and to love one’s enemy as well (Matthew 5:44). It was love that he spoke of at the very end of his life – grateful for the overwhelming love that he had received and telling all of us who were around him that he loved us with an enormous love.

I have thought often of Mary under the cross. I simply cannot understand the weight of her grief. Part of her soul must have died as she watched her beloved son being killed by those bent on hate screaming, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” In seminary, we were taught to “listen” to Scripture both for what is written there, but also what isn’t written. In other words, we were taught to listen to the muteness – the silence – of the text. We never hear a single word from Mary or any of the women who were under the cross with her. There is a voicelessness – a muteness – to grief. How do you put the enormity of that kind of grief, pain, and trauma into words?

And Jesus was mostly silent while he hung from the cross that held him. One of the few words that he spoke was a question that he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Why!?!?!”  The scream happened as the darkness descended on the land.  And yet, when Jesus bellowed out, “Why?!?!” from the cross, he surely looked down and saw Mary, John, and the other women. Their presence reminded him that God had not left him, God was with him.

As I sat there looking on to see a man I greatly loved being killed by the state, I was not only told to be silent by the same system that was killing him, but I also lost any voice because there simply are no words for such a barbaric act.  As I exited the prison and made my way to my clergy friends, family members, and others, all I had were hugs and tears.  All I could do was speak of our beloved friend’s overwhelming love for each of us.  But even those words were quick statements, “He loved you so… he loved you so!”  I didn’t have any great words of comfort.  I just had my presence.

As my beloved friend was brought into the execution chamber, he strained to see those of us who were there to just pour out all of our love on him.  By our presence, he knew that God had not abandoned him during this most difficult hour of his life.  God’s love was present because we were present.  I even took my shoes off because, even if I was the only person who knew it, I knew that I was walking on holy ground even if the state was using the space for evil intent.  Those of us who loved our friend were willing to be wounded by the prison system in order to “be Christ” in the midst of the horrific and the profane.

On the day that I first met my beloved friend almost two years ago, I wrote in my journal the following: “I still don’t understand why people don’t get that we become people who kill when we say the death penalty is okay.  We are all murderers.  We all should get life behind bars.”  Each of us took part in a premeditated murder.  None of us are exempt.  All of us are profaned, defiled, and polluted because we executed another human being.

And just like Christ, I will forever be known by the wounds I carry in my heart.

May God’s mercy be poured out on us all.

 

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Sentenced to Death

The “Row”

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Not so long ago, I posted an article written by a Rev. Cari Willis, detailing the day she had to say goodbye to her friend on death row.  Her words changed me.

I didn’t want to think about ‘Death Row’ before that post.  It was distant and removed from my reality, the least of my worries – until she described what it was like for her to accompany her friend on the day of his death and being separated by glass as she watched him lose his life surrounded by men doing their job – killing him.  She made it real.

So – I contacted someone on death row.  One handwritten letter later, I knew I would keep moving forward with my penpal.  And – I’m scared, honestly.  I’m scared, because after one letter I felt his humanity, let him into my heart, and now consider him a friend.  A friend I will have to say goodbye to when his day comes to be surrounded by men whose job it is to take his life.

I didn’t have a solid plan when I wrote that first letter.  I wanted to, in some way, try and share death row through my blog.   I wanted to possibly get to know someone on the ‘row’, as he calls it, sharing that experience – so people would no longer feel that it was far removed from their lives. I wanted to impress on people the gravity of this country’s practice of taking life as a form of punishment.   I didn’t necessarily want to ever talk about the law, or crime, or even a name.  I had no plan.  Still don’t.

What I know for certain is – after holding one handwritten letter in my hands – I will never turn back.  I heard someone say this week, “When you see injustice, you can’t turn away,” and I can’t.

It turns out my new friend isn’t very keen on the idea of me getting to know him in a public forum.   And, I won’t share his thoughts or feelings or details of our friendship without his permission, so you may not hear much more about him, or you may hear a lot.  We’ll see.

What I do want to share about him is this.  In spite of the actions that got him where he is, he has a heart that beats.  He has a mind that remembers a life he will never be a part of again.  He is as human and flawed and vulnerable as I am.   He doesn’t like to call it ‘death’ row, because he doesn’t like to keep saying the word death.  It is the ‘row’.  And I also know my heart hurts for him, knowing he wakes up every day to the knowledge he will one day be executed.   Some people would call that justice, to try and justify it for the pain he caused others.  That is excusing the horrible act of murder.  There is no excuse for murder.

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