Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Redemption

As a longtime proponent of capital punishment, I find myself a tad conflicted these days, not that that's a new feeling. The execution of Stanley Williams this week was a grim reminder of that conflict.

If there is a subject about which one is to be conflicted, pro or con, I can think of worse ones than this. And the recent exonerations of death row inmates have certainly mitigated my feelings about the most permanent of sentences, in procedure anyway, if not in principle. Regardless, even when faced with an undeniable monster like, say, John Wayne Gacy, I see no upside to the traditional sanctimonious moralizing, almost gleeful in its eagerness to get on with it. I simply never saw the point in warehousing a piece of shit like John Wayne Gacy. I do not see why taxpayers should subsidize creepy clown paintings and masturbatory correspondence with the legion of ghouls that wrote to him.

But whatever Stanley Williams was, he was not John Wayne Gacy. I do not buy into the boutique Nobel Peace Prize nominations (indeed, I'm sure some yahoo nominates George W. Bush every year, too) for Williams. It's nice that he made the effort to do books and speaking engagements to alert the kids about the dangers of gangs. I submit that people do not join gangs for the fun and excitement of it; I assume that they have merely run out of viable alternatives in a largely indifferent, job-free environment. And Williams did himself no favors by refusing to provide vital inside information in helping law enforcement break the gangs. (Not that it would have done as much good as The Man thinks it would have; the very nature of the organization of these enterprises, as with insurgent/terrorist cells, makes the effect not unlike that of hitting mercury with a hammer.)

People who are honest about their support for the death penalty will readily acknowledge that there is a large component of revenge inherent in the meting of punishment. This is not necessarily such an awful thing, except one gets the feeling that the people who crow the loudest for revenge are the least psychologically equipped to handle it when it's actually carried out. Case in point: the wife of one of Williams' victims had publicly proclaimed her willingness to accept that Williams had made an honest effort to change the course of his life, that while he knew he could not repay the debt he had incurred, he would do the best he could and hope for God's grace when his time came. Fair enough, though I find it passing curious that in the age of letting (no, encouraging) the families of victims natter and rant throughout the penalty phase, that this particular opinion didn't seem to count as much. The stepmother of this same victim, however, took the exact opposite tack, and insisted that only Williams' death could set everything aright.

The key here is that the wife had already made her peace long ago, and whether Williams' sentence had gotten commuted or not, she would have dealt with things. The stepmother, on the other hand, had invested herself quite heavily into the demise of Williams, and thus not only could not be sated any other way, but would be apt to find herself somewhat emotionally bereft once getting what she wished for so fervently.

The thing about being a death penalty proponent is to understand that, whatever its revenge-based motives, it is something that must be undertaken with a bit of sang-froid. Emotional hotheadedness does no one any good; this is an undertaking of serious, solemn gravity. There are human imperfections, and inexplicably some people in law enforcement have proven to be so craven as to either fudge lab results or use high-profile cases as political stepping stones. There should be serious accountability for those things as well.

What the execution of Stanley Williams really has me thinking about, though, is how little we think about what purpose we want our prisons to serve. Especially in California, which has an enormous (and growing) prison system. We have given up on even the pretense of rehabilitation; we have decided that they're all animals and simply must be warehoused. The problem with that is that eventually their time is done and they get unleashed on the public once again, now stupider and meaner (which may describe the public as well, now that I think of it).

Being a godless amoral hedonistic sybarite, I sometimes find myself wondering if Christians believe more in the God of spiteful retribution, or the Jesus who always offered the possibility of redemption and forgiveness. Obviously it varies from person to person, maybe even day to day and situation to situation, but in the aggregate, people seem to be content with the smiting, and then going through the rituals and totems of affirming their godliness to one another, if not themselves.

One perfect case is none other than former Texas governor George W. Bush, who once famously mocked Karla Faye Tucker shortly before her execution, much to the horror of none other than Tucker Carlson, who was probably wearing his bow tie and nothing else when interviewing the brilliant, charismatic governor. Whatever one's sentiments about an eye for an eye or whatnot, that is simply unchristian behavior, pure and simple. It's despicable. But it's a fine glimpse into the mind of an unreconstructed troglodyte.

I think Arnold Schwarzenegger missed a real opportunity, by passing up the commutation of Williams' sentence. Politically, it is seen as the astute move to make. But the GOP's fortunes are on the wane, W's dead-cat bounce of last week notwithstanding, and the California GOP is so desperate they're trying to draft Mel Gibson. Arnold could have followed the instincts of his "Austrian brain", shown the ability to be reflective, and given the finger to a party that is looking for a way to kick him to the curb anyway. The problem is that he still he thinks he can be president. He (and the rest of us) would be better off if he just made another crappy movie, this time about him being president.

One thing death penalty opponents bring up as rationale is that it's wrong to allow the state so much power over life and death. I think it is strange to insist on shutting this particular door so long after the horse had fled the barn. The state and federal governments already exert impossible amounts of influence, direct and indirect, on our lives and the quality thereof. Percentage point diddlers make the difference between living in a house and living in a cardboard box for a lot of people, every time they fuck with the interest rates to "fight inflation". Congress fucks the middle class every time it throws another tax cut to a useless, unproductive sack of shit like Paris Hilton. This isn't all that much different, not in terms of the irresponsible exercise of raw power.

Another DP opponent trope I want to hit before closing this out, just as food for thought, is this -- it is often said that a life sentence is just as effective a way to protect the public. Sounds reasonable, except it's not the guarantee they think it is. The very next inmate scheduled to be executed at San Quentin next month, Clarence Ray Allen, debunks exactly that notion.

Allen, who ran a security company in Fresno, was linked by prosecutors to a series of armed robberies in the Central Valley. He was sentenced to life in prison for ordering the murder in 1974 of his son's girlfriend. From behind bars at Folsom Prison, prosecutors said, he masterminded the murders in 1980 of three witnesses from his previous trial and conspired to kill four other witnesses.

A parolee, Billy Ray Hamilton, was convicted and sentenced to death for carrying out the three murders with a sawed-off shotgun.


The tone of the article actually revolves around the fact that Allen is 76 years old, blind, diabetic, and mostly invalid, and near death anyway. I couldn't possibly care less, nor do I care about his attorneys' assertion that Allen had a heart attack because the prison guards refused to give him his medication. I don't get off on it, like some, but I don't fucking care, either. Three more innocent people died after this cocksucker got his life sentence.

I do not have a one-size-fits-all answer here; I merely suggest that it's a more complex subject than either side wishes to acknowledge. For every Stanley Williams that reaches for redemption, there's a Clarence Ray Allen, a Richard Ramirez, a Richard Allen Davis. If you've ever directly known someone who's been viciously and senselessly murdered, you know it's not so cut-and-dried.

2 comments:

  1. Your posts are always worth waiting for. This one reflects my own (ambiguous & conflicted) thinking eloquently and almost exactly.

    Btw, of all the arguments I've heard re the DP, the one that has always struck me most is this simple statement of Electra (from the Sophocles play of the same name):"If a killer merits death/you must die next, to satisfy that justice."

    Sharkbabe

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  2. A macabre flight of fancy…

    On January 2, 2006, condemned inmate Clarence Ray Allen had yet another massive coronary; heroic measures being taken to save his life so he could be justly executed.

    I, Frank Gonzalez, the duly sworn Chief Executioner of San Quentin, sat in the warden’s office that afternoon feeling remorse, realizing that I may not have the opportunity to execute Mr. Allen in the death chamber, using my trusty, sawed-off, Mossberg 935 12 gauge magnum autoloading shotgun. As with Tookie Williams, a review panel appointed by Governor Schwarzenegger had determined that lethal injection was much too merciful for a depraved monster like Clarence Ray Allen, and that the method of execution chosen for him would be lethal shotgunning. I would administer the sentence, using four blasts from the Mossberg, timed one minute apart, in respectful memory of the four victims he ordered murdered.

    “Don’t worry, he should recover from his unfortunate heart attack, the physician in charge performed a quadruple bypass,” said the warden.

    “Yes warden, but after that Tookie Williams affair a month ago – ”

    “How many times do I have to say this Frank – you executed Stanley Tookie Williams on orders of the state of California and Governor Schwarzenegger. Just because you spoke to him before you blew his head off is no reason to castigate yourself.”

    “Before that incident, I never violated prison procedure once in my thirty five years of employment at San Quentin, my record was perfect.”

    “And it still is, no one, not even Governor Schwarzenegger, held against you what you said to Tookie, in righteous anger I might add, before you blew his head off.”

    “But – ”

    “No buts,” said the warden, “To the matter at hand, if condemned inmate Allen survives, will you, following the directives of the review panel, slaughter him mercilessly with a sawed-off shotgun?”

    “Yes sir, you only have to show me the death warrant; I am the Chief Executioner of San Quentin,” I answered with firm resolve.

    “Very good,” said the warden.

    Condemned inmate Allen recovered, due to the devoted care of San Quentin physicians. As his health improved over the following week, I was pleased to learn that I would indeed have the opportunity to execute him by shotgunning on January 17, 2006.

    The welcome day arrived, and Clarence Ray Allen was prepared for his well-deserved execution. Half-blind, nearly deaf but not one bit remorseful, the condemned prisoner was ushered into the hall via his wheelchair.

    “Do you think that bloodthirsty old geek can walk to the green room in the shape he’s in?” I asked.

    “Sure, he’s virtually knocking on Hell’s door,” said the warden with a smile, “The doc says his heart’s like a hammer now, with no need to worry about the stress of his execution inducing another heart attack beforehand. His physician also his him on anticoagulants, so there’s no chance of a stroke disrupting the execution either.”

    “Excellent,” I replied. He handed me hearing protection earmuffs and the shotgun, again loaded with four hotloaded, brass cased 00 buckshot shells, one for each of his victims. Walking into the green room, I took my seat and placed the sawed-off Mossberg in my lap.

    Yelling at the top of his lungs into Allen’s nearly deaf right ear, the warden pronounced the death sentence to him in the hall. The condemned was ordered to rise from his wheelchair for the final walk to the death chamber and his self-inflicted rendezvous with destiny.

    Guards lined the path; a half-blind Allen stumbling down the hall, followed by the warden. One smirking guard put a leg out, tripping Clarence, who landed on the floor with a thud.

    “That’s enough of that Lieutenant Jones,” said the chuckling warden, looking to the officer.

    “Sorry warden, my foot slipped.”

    “Yeah, I’m sure it did.”

    I observed the condemned rise to his knees and say to Jones in a slurred voice, “I forgive you for tripping me.”

    “Who does he think he is, Jesus or something?” asked the coroner while other guards broke into laughter, a smile crossing my face.

    “Get up you murderous old half-breed injun and die like a man!” the warden yelled as Allen struggled to his feet.

    Allen steadied himself and stumbled into the deathhouse, taking a seat within. He stared at me, angry, with sullen, beady eyes.

    Guards strapped him down tightly, the officers walking from the death chamber when their chore was completed. Allen looked to the warden and asked in a slur, “Any word from the governor on my appeal?”

    “What appeal might that be?” the warden yelled into his ear. Laughing, he turned and left the deathhouse while the condemned man stared at him in astonishment. The disgusted warden had tossed Allen’s latest appeal in the trash that afternoon, and, out of sheer spite, had faxed Governor Schwarzenegger a blank sheet of paper instead.

    “Close the door to the green room so we can kill this evil old bastard,” said the assistant warden, leaving the condemned and I in the death chamber.

    Rising from my chair, I put on my shooting glasses and hearing protection muffs, released the safety, and cocked the shotgun.

    “You may proceed, executioner,” said the warden over the intercom, giving me a thumbs-up.

    “Yes sir,” I replied with a smile.

    Turning to Clarence Ray Allen, without hesitation I aimed at his legs and pulled the trigger, the blast of buckshot shredding his prison uniform and blowing off chunks of flesh from both legs. As a brass shell casing bounced off a wall, smoke filled the death chamber, an overhead exhaust fan automatically coming on.

    “Hold for one minute,” said the warden.

    I nodded; noting with dissatisfaction that Clarence Ray Allen hadn’t flinched, neither had the expression on his face changed. He looked at me with a cold stare as blood poured in torrents from his leg wounds. Turning to the warden, I put my hands up, not knowing what to say regarding Allen’s apparent insensitivity to pain.

    “What’s wrong with that senile asshole – why isn’t he crying out?” asked Jones.

    “Who knows, maybe the strokes killed off his nerves,” answered the uncaring warden, looking to his watch. “One minute has passed, proceed with the second shot, executioner.”

    “Yes sir.” Taking a gut shot, I pulled the trigger, blasting open Allen’s abdomen, chunks of bowels and bile, laced with feces, splattering on my clothing, a shell casing flying past my head and clattering to the floor of the death chamber.

    “Goddamnit!” I exclaimed in disgust, pulling off my shooting glasses and wiping away the foul debris.

    Condemned inmate Allen continued to stare at me with his evil, beady eyes, not moving or speaking.

    “Hold for one minute.”

    I looked to the warden and nodded, replacing my shooting glasses.

    “I’ll say one thing, Allen’s one tough son of a bitch,” said the assistant warden.

    “That, or he’s dead from the ass both ways,” said a smirking Jones.

    “Shoot away Gonzalez, blow off one of his arms like you did with Tookie,” said the warden, his voice coming over the intercom.

    “Yes sir,” I answered, placing the muzzle near Allen’s left forearm. Looking the condemned in the eyes, I pulled the trigger. Another deafening blast came from the sawed-off Mossberg, the buckshot severing the arm, another casing bouncing off a thick glass window.

    Allen sat there; apparently oblivious to the pain as more smoke filled the death chamber.

    “Christ, that injun must be dead!” the warden exclaimed.

    “No sir, he’s still breathing, this old bastard’s as tough as nails,” I answered, “Should I just blow his head off and be done with it?”

    “No, hold for one minute, per the orders of the review board and Governor Schwarzenegger.”

    “Yes sir,” I answered with a nod.

    Allen continued to glare at me, not showing the slightest sign of pain or fear. The piercing stare of his beady eyes unnerved me; that of an evil monster who couldn’t care less what was happening to him.

    “Time’s up Frank, blow that bastard’s head off his shoulders!” the warden yelled over the intercom.

    Nodding, I moved the muzzle to Allen’s neck and pulled the trigger, the final spent shell ejecting from the Mossberg. The blast severed his skull at the base, the beady eyes finally showing a response to the assault, becoming glazed over after his head bounced off the floor of the death chamber. Blood squirted like a fountain from the headless body, covering my right arm in gore.

    “Son of a bitch, he didn’t even care,” I said to myself, looking to the blood still flowing from the torn arteries.

    The door to the death chamber opened, the warden and coroner stepping in.

    “Good job Gonzalez, you executed Allen in the fashion he deserved,” said the warden, taking my blood-covered hand in his. Turning to the coroner, he asked, “He’s dead, right?”

    “Terminated,” answered the coroner.

    “You’d better get cleaned up; Christ, you look worse than when you slaughtered Tookie,” said the warden.

    “Yeah,” I replied, “I’ll tell you one thing, Allen was so damn mean, I’ll bet we could’ve poured molten lead down his throat and he would’ve smiled at us, and shit buckshot.”

    “I don’t doubt it,” said the warden, looking to justly executed corpse of Clarence Ray Allen. “You two, get that hunk of shit out of here and clean out the deathhouse,” he added, looking to a pair of trustees.

    “Yes warden,” they answered, charged with returning the green room to its usual immaculate appearance.

    Later, the remains of Clarence Ray Allen were dumped outside the prison walls, his blood covered, mangled carcass feeding stray dogs, ravens, and condors, with ants later nourishing themselves with the tasty marrow of his bleached bones.

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