An inmate on death row killed my mother. I don’t want him to die
In the summer of 1987, I recall giving a persuasive speech in the public speaking class I was taking at LSU-Shreveport. It was on why we should abolish the death penalty. At that time, this was an abstract argument to me. I never expected that I would ever be confronted with the realities of the death penalty. That was something, I thought, that only happened to others.
Then, in December of 2000, that reality paid me and my family a visit.My mother, Mary Ann Shaver Malone, was abducted from her home in Plain Dealing, Louisiana, a week before Christmas by the young man who had done her yardwork for years – purportedly to get money for gambling debts and a ride to a nearby town. She subsequently died as a result of the events of that evening. My family’s loss and grief were unfathomable. After our initial shock and horror subsided, our emotions ranged from anger to rage to despair and profound sadness.
When the sheriff ’s deputies met with me to let me know they’d found my mother’s body and had the suspect in custody, one of the deputies (whom I did not know – and still don’t know) leaned in close to my ear and said, “Just say the word and he’ll never make it to trial.” I reflexively said, “No! No more violence!”, followed by my stomach emptying its contents in the front yard.For full disclosure: I later – during a particularly dark period – briefly fantasized about torturing the young man who had done this to my mother. I pictured him tied up as I carved his flesh with surgical tools – to make him hurt as much as I now hurt. I wanted to hear and see his pain. I wanted him to pay for what he had done to my mother, to me, to our family, to our community. Fortunately, emotions are temporary. Mercy and grace are eternal. Over the years since then, I’ve learned that what I felt at that time is normal, albeit disturbing. When it came time to meet with the sheriff and prosecutor, we were all still very numb, in shock and very somber. When the prosecutor said, “Due to the heinous nature of this crime, we’re gonna go for the death penalty on this one. Y’all got any problem with that?” we were all silent. Deadly silent.
That moment is perhaps the one that I have struggled with the most over the past two decades. Where was my voice? Why did I stay quiet? What happened to the basic Christian values that my own parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles and faith community had instilled in me? (I now know that these are questions that a good therapist or counselor can help us to process and understand. When traumatized by grief
– and in shock – our words get stuck and often remain unspoken.)
The 19-year-old who was convicted of my mother’s murder was sentenced to death in the spring of 2002. He has now been on death row at Angola state penitentiary for more than half his life. He also has a name: Jeremiah.
Part of my own personal healing, emotional and spiritual, began when I decided to find out more about who Jeremiah was, and is. I have gotten a lot of indirect information about Jeremiah – but have yet to be allowed to meet with him.
That’s unfortunate, because a huge part of healing from trauma and loss is being able to face the person who harmed you – to be able to ask the questions that were left unanswered in the trial or in the boxes of transcripts and evidence stored at the courthouse.
To satisfy the desire to connect with the other person as a human being, rather than as the “monster,” as all murderers are usually described. Most importantly, to have that conversation with Jeremiah on the matter of “forgiveness.”Mercy and forgiveness are core tenets of all religious faiths. When we forgive, we release desires to harm the other person; we realize that we all share in our human failings; we liberate ourselves from the emotional and spiritual hell we were trapped in by our pain, anger and rage. Without forgiveness, we die spiritually.In the last six years, I’ve attempted to make direct contact with Jeremiah. I tried to write a letter to him, but the letter never made it (according to prison regulations). I then enrolled in the Victim-Offender Dialogue program (VOD) with the department of public safety and corrections. I had great facilitators who helped me think through what I wanted to accomplish through a meeting with Jeremiah. I was told that this was the first time anyone in our state had tried to engage someone on death row through the VOD program.
Unfortunately, because he is on death row, that option became a nonoption. The process of appeals can last decades; while under legal counsel, during those decades of appeals, it would be unwise for any offender to meet with a victim’s family member to have an open and direct dialogue. With the ever-looming threat of being killed by the state, candid conversations are impossible. Contrary to what many victims are told, killing the offender does not bring us “closure” or any form of healing. Instead, it adds to the suffering and grief of many whose lives are inextricably linked.Our death penalty “system” is set up to keep people apart. It is set up to prevent connection – to prevent dialogue – and to prevent healing. In recent years, I’ve provided testimony to state legislative committees considering a ban on the death penalty in Louisiana. I am very much in support of those efforts. Some politicians, however, are not. They have yet to extend their “pro-life” values to people on death row.Earlier this summer, the possibility of clemency became a reality when the governor John Bel Edwards empowered the Board of Pardons to open hearings for people on death row. This gives me hope. In recent weeks, however, the attorney general of Louisiana (who is running to be our next governor) has been trying to block those hearings – to score political points, essentially. I fear that Jeremiah and the 56 others on death row here will be executed without any chances for clemency. I do not want the state to kill Jeremiah in my name or my mother’s.Something we rarely hear about in our judicial system is “mercy”. Mercy is knowing that we have the legal right and ability to punish offenders but choosing not to do so. Mercy is letting go of the desire to inflict pain upon another and choosing a different pathway that leads to healing. Mercy allows opportunities for redemption. Mercy is as liberating for victims as it is for offenders.
As someone who has felt the fires of hell in the form of rage and a desire to exact revenge, I implore our state to resist the urge to kill and to instead choose a more merciful and reparative path. Killing Jeremiah will most assuredly harm me and my family; Jeremiah’s mother, family and friends; and our society as a whole. Restorative justice is possible.
What’s wrong with letting him live? Brett Malone is a death penalty abolitionist and advocate for reparative justice