We honor the victims here. We honor the process of legal execution. I think, as I have said for years, that celebrating a death is the wrong message.  We become no better than the a-holes at PTO. There is a difference in being happy for a victims family receiving justice, and lowering ourselves to the level of the opposition. My 2 cents....

Go Florida!

Damn, I love you guys

I moved from South Florida to Orlando a few weeks ago.  I havent been online.  I am back. Who missed me?

Hey I have been out of work for 2 years.  I eat once a day. I have a hard time worrying about these guys and gals in prison.

Officers said he was, cocky, arrogant and lay back. Wonder if he will have that attitude on the gurney?

Frybread

His attitude will be "mommy save me" bitch

"view of Catholics is related to their belief that all human life is sacred"

That is so rich. The Catholic Church is responsible for more deaths than any other.

This thread is about the killer and his execution.  Not about any religeon.  Please refrain from attacking individuals not directly related to this thread.  I am NOT politically correct, but you may offend members.  just my 2 cents

Too Easy to Kill
 James Alan Fox
 January 1997

I have long been a vocal opponent of capital punishment, publishing academic studies and testifying before legislative bodies on a few occasions. Despite all my reading, research and reflection on the evils of execution, I had never witnessed one firsthand -- that is, not until last month.

I flew from Providence to Potosi, Mo., a small "prison town" two hours south of St. Louis, to serve as a state's witness to the execution of Richard Zeitvogel. A 40-year-old career criminal, Zeitvogel had cold-bloodedly murdered two cellmates while incarcerated for the 1976 rape and robbery of a Pulaski County family. In the crime that earned him the time, Zeitvogel had forced the terrified homeowner to watch as he and his buddies raped the man's wife in a spirit of camaraderie.

Now I would be the one to do the watching, as the State of Missouri would take Zeitvogel's life by means of lethal injection. Of course, I was not forced to witness this act of violence, and my willingness, though conveniently couched in terms of scholarly curiosity, made me feel self-conscious about my somewhat voyeuristic voyage to the "Show Me" state.
 

My qualms were further reinforced by friends and family who urged me to pass on the midnight madness, arguing that it was morally wrong even to participate in the process. Up to the very last minute, my wife appealed to me by telephone to forgo the last leg of my expedition and to stay at the motel for the night. There would be no staying that night, neither for me nor for the execution.

The condemned convict hardly attracted sympathy or support. After all, this was a man whose tattooed chest displayed the inscription, "Beat me, execute me, but warden don't bore me." Protesters outside the prison, if there were any, were hard to find, even in the flood of high-intensity light illuminating the 800-bed institution under a tight execution eve lockdown.

Arriving at the prison before 10:30 for the pre-execution routine, I began to get nervous. I passed some time chatting with the commissioner and her staff about current trends in correctional research. We avoided the subject of the death penalty. They knew of my opposition, and killing was their duty. It was neither the time nor the place for a debate.

Meanwhile, Richard Zeitvogel, the center of attention, was busy with his own preparations. He spent the day meeting with visiting family members. He then enjoyed a final feast consisting of a T-bone steak, a burger, fried shrimp and fried mushrooms, washed down by a cold chocolate shake. For dessert, Zeitvogel received two doses of sedative.

As midnight approached, the other witnesses and I were ushered into a viewing gallery, furnished with two rows of chairs and protected by a partition with ample glass windows into the execution chamber. Venetian blinds were drawn over the windows to protect the anonymity of the executioner as he made final preparations. Still, we could hear him doing the death work.

On command, at the stroke of midnight, the blinds were raised, revealing the simple execution apparatus. Covered to his neck in a white sheet, Zeitvogel was resting on a gurney with an intravenous tube running from his arm and through a small hole in the wall behind his head. Whether it was the sedative or his own disregard for life, Zeitvogel seemed to be the calmest participant in the whole process. He showed no signs of struggle or distress. He just lay quietly looking at his family through the glass as they waved their goodbyes.

The warden yelled out the commands for each stage of the "operation," as it was called. At 12:02 a.m., sodium pentothal was passed through Zietvogel's intravenous, rendering him unconscious. A minute later, the warden gave the order for stage two; pancronium bromide was injected to halt Zeitvogel's breathing, although the change was hardly noticeable. At the next command, potassium chloride was passed through the intravenous, stopping the convict's heart function. At 12:05 a.m., the warden announced, "operation completed," and Richard Zeitvogel was pronounced dead. The entire process had taken just three unspectacular minutes.

The execution itself was far less than I had expected, quite underwhelming. The State of Missouri had completely removed all the horror from the process -- no smoking flesh from Ol' Sparky and no frantic struggle for air in the gas chamber.

Lethal injection is designed to take the barbarism out of the death penalty. In my mind, it had the opposite effect. It was so straightforward and sterile that it was just too easy. It should be agonizing -- not for the condemned, but for the rest of us. In the end, according to a prepared statement from the governor that was read aloud at the postexecution press conference, justice had been served. Zeitvogel had killed two inmates, and the State of Missouri had killed one.

In the final moments of his life, Daryl Keith Holton had little to say about the crimes he committed, which the State of Tennessee executed him for this morning – the murder of his three young sons and a small step-daughter with a high-powered military rifle.
 
His final words could have been interpreted as an echo of the wedding vows he may have taken to begin a family that he would later in life slaughter.
 
“Do you want to make a statement?” Holton was asked by a prison official as he sat strapped into the state’s electric chair in the death chamber of the Riverbend Maximum Security Institute in Nashville.
 
“Um, yeah,” Holton answered in badly slurred speech. “Two words: I do.”
 
Holton, 44, became the first person to be executed by electrocution in Tennessee since 1960 and only the fourth person to be executed in the state since that same year.
 
Holton was put to death for slaying his own children by lining them up two at a time and shooting them with an SKS rifle in the same Bedford County garage where he worked. He killed Stephen Edward Holton, 12, Brent Holton, 10, Eric Holton, 6 and Kayla Marie Holton, 4 on November 30, 1997 after an outing that included a trip to McDonald’s and a stop at an arcade.
 
Holton was involved in a bitter custody dispute with his ex-wife, Crystal Holton, and the Tennessee Department of Human Services. Holton complained he was not allowed to visit his children and that their living conditions with their mother were not adequate.
 
Despite public concerns voiced by the builder of Tennessee’s electric chair, Fred A. Leuchter, Jr. of Boston, that the execution apparatus would not kill Holton quickly or humanely, the device appeared to kill Holton with ruthless efficiency.
 
After his statement, Holton was fitted with a leather head piece resembling an old-fashion football helmet and ankle cuffs all loaded with saline soaked natural sea sponges to conduct two 1,750 volt killing bolts of current. Holton at one point appeared to gently admonish prison guards trying to dry him with towels from the saline solution running down his face and soaking his thin, white prison issue T-shirt.
 
“Don’t worry about it,” Holton told members of the execution team drying him. “Ain’t gonna matter anyway.”
 
No warning came as the first current of electricity was administered at 1:16 a.m., lasting for the state mandated 20 seconds.
 
Holton’s body tensed severely and arched from the chair, his pelvis pointing almost skyward, straining against the restraints. Holton’s hands turned pink as he grasped the arms of the chair, made of wood from both Tennessee’s previous electric chair and the state’s original gallows. His face and head were covered according to state execution protocol with a black shroud.
 
Holton made no audible noise during the execution, though witnesses could not determine if a wheezing sound during the initial electric conduction was either Holton being forced to exhale by the current or the whine of the electricity itself.
 
After a pause, the second electric current – this one shorter at 15 seconds - brought a nearly identical physical reaction from Holton. The condemned man did not move or make a sound in between the two killing blows of electricity, the second of which was over by 1:17 a.m.
 
No blood or bodily fluids could be seen leaving Holton’s body, a hallmark of more gruesome electric chair executions performed across the country. No smell from the electrocution process could be discerned in the witness room. Three corrections officials remained in the death chamber with Holton during the execution, and they looked away as the electricity hit his body.
 
“Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes the legal execution of Daryl Holton. Time of death was 1:25 a.m. Please exit,” a prison official told witnesses over a loud speaker. The witnesses – only members of the media, Holton defense attorney David Raybin and a representative of the state Attorney General’s office – were separated from the death chamber by thick glass windows and a steel door. No family members witnessed Holton’s death.
 
As witnesses first saw Holton sitting strapped in the chair, he appeared to breathe heavily several times. Then, Holton’s eyes became lidded, his head lolled forward and his speech was slurred. He also yawned prior to the execution at least twice, appearing almost sleepy. Media witnesses to the execution seemed to agree Holton looked sedated, something not called for in the state’s execution protocol.
 
Tennessee Department of Corrections spokesperson Dorinda Carter said after the execution Holton’s severely subdued state observed by media witnesses was due to hyperventilation after being placed in the electric chair and not medication.
 
“He was not given any medication,” Carter said. “He was hyperventilating once he was placed in the chair. So he was given a few minutes to catch his breath before the blinds came up.”
 
Lisa Helton of the Tennessee Attorney Generals Office read a simple statement from Crystal Holton outside the prison to the state’s media.
 
“Today, all the anger, hatred and along time of nightmares can finally leave me,” Crystal Holton’s statement said.
 
Raybin, who had private meeting with Holton just moments before he was taken to the death chamber, also made a statement about the execution, noting Holton had decided not to pursue further appeals of his sentence.
 
“This morning, Daryl Holton is free from the demons that haunted him," Raybin said. “He chose give up on his appeals, but he did not give up on the legal system.”

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Firing squad: An eyewitness account of Gardner's execution
 Salt Lake Tribune ^ | 6/18/2010 | Nate Carlisle

Posted on Friday, June 18, 2010 11:20:26 AM by markomalley

 Draper » Ronnie Lee Gardner's head, covered by a black hood, remained upright. His body sat straight in the chair to which it was strapped.



As my eyes traveled down Gardner's left arm, past his dark blue jumpsuit, I saw his pale white skin appear below his elbow. Half a faded blue tattoo, some kind of diamond shape, stuck out from the restraint around his wrist.

At the bottom of his restraint, I focused on his fist. Gardner died much the way he lived -- with a clenched fist.

Yes, this was my first time witnessing an execution. I have been amazed at how many people asked me that.

Firing four bullets into a man's chest is, by definition, violent. If it can







Tribune reporter Nate Carlisle, a witness to the firing squad execution of Ronnie Lee Gardner, traced these exit holes made by the four bullets that ended the killer's life early Friday morning. (Nate Carlisle/The Salt Lake Tribune)
 
also be clinical and sterile, then that also happened in this execution.


Eight other journalists and I had our own viewing area with about a 6-foot-wide, bullet-proof window. When the curtain opened, there sat Gardner. We were at about a 45-degree angle to his left.



He looked nothing like the athletic 23 year old with the red hair who murdered Melvyn Otterstrom in a robbery, nor did he flash that grin he had in those infamous photographs of him shackled on the courthouse lawn after killing Michael Burdell and wounding Nick Kirk in 1985.

This time, he looked like Utah's own ghost of Hannibal Lecter. Gardner's skin and his white socks contrasted with the dark blue jump suit he wore and the restraints, chair, wooden backdrop and sandbags, all of which were painted black. Restraints circled his wrists, ankles, shoulders and waist, but the restraint across his forehead best exemplified his confinement to me.

Gardner could not even look around the room and the fluorescent lights in the ceiling tiles illuminated his bald head and pale face.

Over his left breast clung a white square, about 2 inches by 2 inches, with a circle in the middle.

The room had no decor. There was a white tile floor with white cinder block walls. The two slits for the shooters sat opposite Gardner and windows for the observers lined the two perpendicular sides.

Steven Turley, warden at the Draper prison, picked up a microphone and announced Gardner had two minutes to say his final words. When Turley asked Gardner if he had anything to say, Gardner said, "I do not. No." Gardner moved his head ever so slightly trying to shake it. Gardner's final words were to say he had none.

Turley hung up the microphone. Turley reached up and gently pulled a hood over Gardner's head. Turley picked up the microphone, unplugged its cord from a wall jack, wound the cord in his hand and exited the room.

Over the next 30 seconds, my heart raced. I realized the five gunmen would launch their volleys any moment. I placed a Styrofoam plug in my right ear to match the one I had earlier placed in my left. The other reporters and I stood in front of the glass.



I watched Gardner. As the seconds passed, I grew anxious. I pivoted my eyes away from Gardner toward the slits.

In that fraction of a second my eyes were in transit, I heard "boom boom." The sounds were as close together as you could spew them from your mouth.

My eyes darted back to Gardner and to his chest. The target, perfect just a second earlier, had three holes. The largest hole was in the top half of the circle and toward Gardner's left side. It may have been where two bullets entered Gardner.

Below that hole, still inside the circle, was a smaller hole. Outside the circle, in the bottom right of the target, was a third hole. Each hole had a black outline. Utah Department of Corrections Director Tom Patterson would say later the target was fastened to the jump suit by Velcro and that may account for the black outline.

I watched Gardner's torso. The men who shot John Alberty Taylor in a firing squad in 1996 said they saw Taylor's body slump and I assumed Gardner would, too. But I never saw such a movement.



Instead, a few seconds after the gunshots, I saw Gardner move his left arm. He pushed it forward about 2 inches against the restraints. In that same motion, he closed his hand and made a fist.



Then it happened in reverse. Gardner's hand loosened, his arm bent at the elbow, straightened again and the fist returned. At the time, I interpreted this as Gardner suffering -- clenching his fist in an effort to fight the pain.

As I write this, I don't know whether that's true. It could have just been reflexes or some other process the body begins after a major trauma. Scientists do not know much about what a person shot through the heart feels.

The next movement I saw from Gardner came from beneath his hood. I could see the bottom of his throat and it rippled as though Gardner moved his jaw.

I squinted my eyes, looking for blood. I saw none through the holes in Gardner's chest. None spilled on the floor. The jump suit slightly darkened around his waist and it appeared that's where blood was pooling. But I never saw a drop.



About two minutes passed after the gunshots. It was long enough that I wondered (and some of my colleagues later said they wondered, too) whether Gardner would require a second volley of bullets to die.

Through a side door walked a man in a button-down shirt, slacks and blue plastic gloves. He lifted Gardner's hood only enough to check the pulse on the left side of Gardner's neck. The man appeared to do the same on Gardner's right.

Then the man lifted the hood high enough to shine his small flashlight in Gardner's eyes. When he did this I could see Gardner's face. His mouth was agape. His face was even whiter than it was before the hood covered him.

The man withdrew his flashlight and let the hood fall again. He shut off the flashlight and started to walk out of the room. Gardner was dead.

Turley and Lowell Clark, the director of division institutional operations for the Department of Corrections, entered the chamber. Clark grasped the curtain on my side and Turley the curtain on the opposite wall.

As Clark pulled the curtain along its rod, I pushed my head toward the glass to take one final look at the scene. In the final second, my eyes focused on the straightened left arm, seemingly flexing, and that clenched fist.

'He blinked his eyes rapidly, squeezed them tight and the curtain closed': Eye-witness accounts of Troy Davis's execution - by reporters who watched him die
Rhonda Cook from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, JoAnn Merrigan of WSAV News in Savannah and Greg Bluestein of the Associated Press, who have covered more than 20 executions between them in the past, were three of five reporters allowed to watch the controversial death of Troy Davis at Georgia State Prison last night.


Davis, who murdered an off-duty police officer, was executed by lethal injection after a tense four-hour delay. Here is what the reporters witnessed:


By Rhonda Cook, Greg Bluestein and Joann Merrigan





Rhonda Cook, Atlanta Journal-Constitution:

 
Just after 10:30 Wednesday night two words stopped the conversation among reporters instantly.

'Y’all ready?' a correctional officer asked.

We were moments away from witnessing an execution. Media witnesses are as much a part of the execution process as the officers who escort the inmate to the death chamber or the officers who strap the condemned to a gurney.


 Grim: The execution chamber at Georgia State Prison in Jackson, where Troy Davis was sedated, strapped to a gurney and given a lethal injection
Wednesday, we were there as unbiased witnesses, sitting on the back row. Our seats were behind

 

those there on behalf of the condemned and those who prosecuted or arrested Troy Davis for the 1989 murder of Savannah police officer Mark Allen MacPhail. The dead officer’s son and namesake, Mark MacPhail Jr., and his brother, William MacPhail, were there for the family.

We spoke little from that moment on, the five reporters selected to witness the execution.

As the officer called our names, we lined up and left the room where we had waited for so long, oblivious to the last-ditch effort to spare Davis and the police presence and protests beyond the prison's walls.


 


In the death chamber, we took our seats on the last of three pews.

'As the officer called our names, we lined up and left the room where we had waited for so long, oblivious to the last-ditch effort to spare Davis and the police presence and protests beyond the prison's walls'

Rhonda Cook
Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Warden Carl  Humphrey began the process by reading the execution order signed by Chatham County Judge Penny Haas Freesmann. 'The court having sentenced defendant Troy Anthony Davis on the third day of September, 1991, to be executed….'

Then he asked Davis if he has any final words.

Yes, the condemned man said and he raised his head so he could look at Mark MacPhail Jr., who was an infant when his father was murdered, and William MacPhail, the dead officer’s brother.

'I’m sorry for your loss,' Davis said.

Mark MacPhail, who was leaning forward, and his uncle did not move. They stared at the man who killed their loved one.

 Executed: Troy Davis was put to death in Jackson, Georgia, last night. He proclaimed his innocence to the end
'I did not personally kill your son, father and brother,' Davis said. 'I am innocent.'

He asked his family and friends to continue to search for the truth.

And to the prison officials he said: 'May God have mercy on your souls. May God bless your souls.'

He then lowered his head. He turned down an offer for a prayer.

Within minutes, Troy Anthony Davis slipped out of consciousness and in 14 minutes he was dead.

A three-drug cocktail ended his life. First pentobarbital put Davis in a drug-induced coma. The paralytic pancuronium bromide was second. Potassium chloride stopped Davis’ heart.

'The court ordered execution of Troy Anthony Davis was carried out in accordance with the laws of the state of Georgia,' the warden announced.

Curtains in the death chamber were closed and we were quickly ushered out.

Waiting for us at the media staging area was a line of correctional officers, deputy sheriffs and state troopers blocking protesters from crossing Georgia Highway 36 onto prison property and hordes of local, national and international reporters waiting for the reporters who witnessed the execution to describe what happened.

He went peacefully, one of the reporters said.

From the Atlanta Journal-Constitution

 
Greg Bluestein, Associated Press:

 
It didn't take long to notice Troy Davis' execution was different from the others I've covered. As I drove up to the prison, I could see the crowds of protesters and a group of at least 50 reporters.

I've covered about 10 executions in Georgia. None of them are easy. This was by far the most unusual.

'I've covered about 10 executions in Georgia. None of them are easy. This was by far the most unusual'

Greg Bluestein
Associated Press


There were four reporters besides me there to witness the execution.


We ended up waiting for more than four hours in a sombre prison break room. We made small talk and speculated about whether the U.S. Supreme Court could intervene. At times, it was silent.

Around 10:30 p.m., a guard walked in and said: ‘You ready?’

We were led into a white van and, after passing through several security checkpoints, we were delivered to the squat white building on the edge of the prison that serves as the death chamber. We watched the slain officer's son, Mark MacPhail Jr., enter the building. Behind him, Jason Ewart, the condemned man's attorney, walked in. A county coroner's van rolled up.


By the time we were inside, officials had already strapped Davis to the gurney. There was a glass window with a curtain separating Davis from the witnesses, who sat in three rows of seats. There were about 20 of us.

Davis searched for Ewart, who nodded slightly when they locked eyes. MacPhail Jr., sitting in the front row, focused on Davis.

When it was time to deliver his last words, Davis' seized the moment, speaking quickly and confidently.

He told the MacPhail family he was not responsible for the death. ‘I am innocent. The incident that happened that night is not my fault,’ he said.

Davis urged his supporters to ‘continue to fight the fight.’ And just before the lethal drugs coursed through his veins, he offered a message to his executioners: ‘God have mercy on your souls.’

Davis blinked his eyes rapidly. He squeezed them tight. The curtain closed.

 


JoAnn Merrigan, WSAV News:

 
Prison officials arrived to take me to the prison at 5:45pm.  I arrived at the State Prison in Jackson, Georgia at 5:50pm.


At 6:02, I was taken into a waiting room where I stayed for around four hours with no knowledge of what was going on.  Every so often, someone would come in and say the execution had been delayed.


Around 9:00pm, I went to the bathroom and heard some people talking.


 Not stopping: Demonstrators protested into the night as the U.S. Supreme Court delayed the execution

Around 10:20pm, an official came and brought me out into a hallway where I was told to stop.  Three men, including the warden, were walking around.  Attorney General Sam Olens was also there.  He walked quickly one way, then the other.  Then the prison official said it was time to go around 10:25pm.


'The five guards began methodically strapping in Davis. They started with each foot first, then each knee, then each arm. A fifth strap was laid across Davis's shoulders. At this point, Davis picked up his head to look around the room'

JoAnn Merrigan
WSAV TV


I got into a car with three attorneys from the Attorney General's office, and rode along with a caravan of cars to a building.  The drive took around two minutes, and we arrived at 10:27pm.


I walked into the room and sat in the front row, about a dozen people were also in the room.  The room had a window showing the execution chamber.


Two men came in, the warden and another man.


Then five guards escorted in Troy Davis and laid him down on the gurney.  He appeared calm at this time.


The five guards began methodically strapping in Davis.  They started with each foot first, then each knee, then each arm.


A fifth strap was laid across Davis's shoulders.


At this point, Davis picked up his head to look around the room.  I was about four to five feet from the window.


Two women then came in with heart monitoring equipment and strapped it to his chest.  No one in the room spoke.


The two women then put a syringe into each arm, the left first then the right.  Long tubes connected the needles through two holes in the cement wall.  I understand that tubes were connected to two intravenous drips containing the chemicals.


 On guard: Georgia State Patrol and other security officers stand in front of the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification prison, where convicted killer Troy Davis was executed by lethal injection
At this point, Davis raised his head for a second time to look at the room beyond the window.
Two guards then placed surgical tape around Davis's fingertips, strapping them to the gurney.
The bed was then raised to an upright angle, facing the crowd.  I could see him clearly, being only four to five feet from the window.


I then moved to the back of the room.  At this point, the family of Officer Mark MacPhail, including Billy MacPhail the brother, and Mark MacPhail Jr, the son, entered the room and sat in the front row. 


There were also other witnesses, totalling eight people, who also sat in the front row.


Defence attorneys Jason Ewart and Thomas Ruffin came in and sat in the second row with others.
At this point, other media witnesses were brought in and they sat in the back row with me.  A total of around 30 people were in the room.


About 15 minutes had passed since I first entered the room.


A microphone was turned on and the warden said, ‘We are here for the execution of Troy Anthony Davis with all witnesses present.’  He also asked that the witnesses remain silent.   He then asked Davis if he had anything he wanted to say.  Davis replied: ‘Yes.’


Davis said: ‘I want to address the members of the MacPhail family.  Despite the situation we are all in, you think I’ve killed your father, your brother, your husband, I’m not the person, I’m innocent, what happened was not my fault, I did not have a gun that night, I did not shoot your family member.  I’m so sorry for your loss, I really am.  I hope you will finally see the truth and others will, too.  To my family and supporters, thank you for your prayers and continue to pray.  For those about to take my life, I forgive you. God bless you all.’


The warden then read the death warrant.  Davis looked out at the crowd, and though he seemed calm, it did appear he was somewhat scared.


The room was very quiet when the injections began.

First, Davis received an injection of pentobarbital, a sedative.  Second, he received an injection of pancuronium bromide, a muscle relaxer.  Lastly, he was injected with potassium chloride to induce cardiac arrest.


After a short amount of time, Davis yawned then closed his eyes.

The room was quiet and all I heard was my pencil moving over paper.


A woman then came in and checked his eyes, then there was a ‘beep.’  Mark MacPhail Jr was leaning towards the window.

'After a short amount of time, Davis yawned then closed his eyes. The room was quiet and all I heard was my pencil moving over paper'

JoAnn Merrigan
WSAV TV

The microphone was turned on again, and two doctors entered the room wearing long white coats. 


One doctor checked his pulse and placed a stethoscope on his chest.  Then the second doctor performed the same procedure.  At the end, the second doctor looked at the first and nodded his head.


The warden then said: ‘At 11:08 September 21st, the court ordered execution of Troy Davis was carried out in accordance with the laws of Georgia.’


I was escorted out of the room and saw a black Butts County coroner’s van outside the building.


About 30 to 35 minutes had passed by the time I entered the room, until the time Davis was pronounced.

The following is an uncorrected transcript of media eyewitness accounts of Timothy McVeigh's execution.
 
BYRON PITTS, CBS NEWS: Good morning. I'm Byron Pitts from CBS News.

Timothy James McVeigh died with his eyes open. When the curtains came back, he made eye contact with his people who came to support him. When the curtain passed the media center, Mr. McVeigh seemed to look up and intentionally make eye contact with each of us. Then when the curtain passed, the room where the victims' relatives were — and survivors — he turned his head to the right and made eye contact with them.
 
He did not speak. But Mr. McVeigh did make a — write out a written statement that the warden passed out to each of us. I'll read it to you now. It reads — and this is written by Timothy McVeigh by hand: "Final written statement of Timothy McVeigh. Out of the night that covers me, Black is the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul."
 
PITTS: "In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance, my head is bloodied but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade and yet the menace of the years finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishment the scroll. I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul." He signs it at the end, June 11, 2001.
 
Thank you.

SHEPARD SMITH, FOX NEWS: I'm Shepard Smith from Fox News Channel. We were taken in as a group.
 
We were standing at a glass window about 18 inches from his feet. He was wearing sneakers, you could see that. There were sheets up to here and folded over. His hands were down. He looked straight at the ceiling. When the curtains opened, to his left were his representatives. He sat up as much as he could in that chair and looked toward his window and nodded his head like that. Then came toward the media window where there were 10 of us, plus five people from the prison, plus two media representatives as well.
 



He seemed almost to be trying to take charge of the room and understand his circumstances, nodding at each one of us individually, then sort of cursory glance toward the government section. He lay there very still. He never said a word. His lips were very tight. He nodded his head a few times. He blinked a few times.
 
Then when we were told that the first drug was administered, his very tight lips and his very wide eyes changed considerably; his lips relaxed, his eyes relaxed, he looked toward the ceiling where there happened to be a camera staring right at Oklahoma City. And at that point his eyes seem to roll back only slightly, his body seemed to relax, his feet shifted just a bit. There was the administration of one drug and then another, and after the last drug, there was a very slight movement here.
 
It was like standing on the other side of a glass wall and looking directly at a hospital bed. Tim McVeigh right at us, his hair very short, almost yellow.
 
SMITH: The only change between the prison jumpsuit shot that we all knew so well and today's Tim was he seems to have aged a little bit, and he chose to say nothing.
 
LINDA CAVANAUGH, KFOR-TV REPORTER: My name Linda Cavanaugh. I'm with KFOR-TV in Oklahoma City. The last time I saw Tim McVeigh was in the courtroom in Denver. He had changed markedly. He was paler, he was thinner, and he did not have the same look of arrogance that he had in the courtroom in Denver.
 
Today, when we came in, his head was almost shaven, as they have described. He was laying flat, but as the windows, as though you were in a bed and you were trying to see what was over the edge of it, he strained his neck to look at us. His lips were partly open, his eyes were open and when they started administering the drugs, he began staring at the ceiling.
 
After the first drug was administered, his lips began turning a little bit paler, his skin became pale. After they administered the next drug, it appeared that he was breathing through his mouth for the first time, as though he was trying to control his breathing. He took two or three breaths like that and then from that point on for the next several minutes, when the final drug administered until he was pronounced dead, there was no additional movement from Timothy McVeigh.
 
It was very orchestrated, clinical procedure.

CAVANAUGH: I think it went fairly much as they had planned it. The marshal who was in the room and the warden who were in the room stood with their arms crossed in front of them, seldom looking at Timothy McVeigh. And the atmosphere in the press room was one of almost wonderment at what was transpiring in front of you: watching a man die.
 
The procedure began when they said, "We are ready. You may proceed." At that point, they began the execution process. It culminated when the warden pronounced him dead at 7:14.
 
SUSAN CARLSON, WLS RADIO, CHICAGO: My name is Susan Carlson. I'm a reporter with WLS Radio in Chicago.
 
When we walked in the room, we saw him just a few feet in front of us, and he was wrapped tightly in a white sheet. And he almost looked like a mummy. And he deliberately lifted up his head and looked at one of us each by each. He took the time to make eye contact with each of us. And he was slowly nodding as he was looking at each of us across the room, the media witnesses, and the relative and the victim witnesses who were in a room adjacent to us.
 
After he looked at everybody, he put his head back down and he stared straight up at the ceiling. And his eyes did not move from that position for the rest of the procedure. In fact, I didn't even see him blink once after they started administering the drugs. And he died with his eyes open. As he laid back in position and they started administering all the drugs, his breathing became a little more shallow.
 
At one point, he filled up his cheeks with air and then just kind of let it go. But I don't believe that was his last breath. There was still some shallow breathing that followed. His skin began to turn a very strange shade of yellow towards the end. And he remained extremely rigid.
 
CARLSON: I think as a reporter, you cover a lot of things and we've seen dead bodies, but the most chilling part of this was the fact — for me at least — that he took the time to look up and look at each of us in the eye and there was almost a sense of pride as he nodded his head, laid back down, and seemed very resigned to his fate.
 
He didn't have anything to say, but his poem — the written statement that he handed to — that he handed out before — that he wrote before he passed on indicated that same sense of pride, that this was what had to be done, what he did and what happened to him today was all part of his plan, and he seemed very content and very resigned to the fact that he was going to die and he did not fight it and he almost looked proud of what had happened.
 
At this point, we're going to open it up for questions.

QUESTION: Did the execution start at exactly 7:00?

QUESTION: Aren't we going to do the rest of the people?

CARLSON: Originally, it said we were going to do four people and then questions.
 
QUESTION: Well, I think we should do everybody.

CARLSON: Absolutely.

REX HUPPKE, ASSOCIATED PRESS: My name is Rex Huppke. I'm with the Associated Press. Let me give you a better idea of sort of the time line of how things unfolded. The first thing that we heard in the room, through the speakers, which were in the ceiling, was the warden's voice, saying "Testing one, two, three." He was checking the feed to Oklahoma City. That happened at about 7:02.
 
We heard his voice come back on about a minute later, saying, "Having little trouble with the video, just like I said, OK?" Now, the curtains were still drawn, so I can't say for sure if he was speaking to McVeigh or not, but it sounded like it. The testing went on, then his voice came on again at about 7:05. Again, he said the same thing, "Testing one, two, three." And then we heard him say, at 7:06, "We're ready."
 
Then the curtains were pulled. As they've described, McVeigh looked — he looked first towards his lawyers — or towards his witnesses which included his lawyers, and he kind of shook his head towards them.
 
HUPPKE: Then, he looked at the media and kind of bounced his head towards each one of us. And then he looked over to his right towards the victim witness room, which was a tinted glass pane so he couldn't see into it, but he looked over and he sort of — not real dramatic, but he sort of squinted a little bit, like he was trying to see through the tinted glass to see if he could see anything.
 
At 7:10, they announced that the first drug had been administered. At that point, he was still conscious, it seemed. His eyes were open and blinking a little bit. Very slowly, his eyes stopped moving. And his head was really perfectly lined up; he wasn't to one side or the other, he was very rigid and straight up and down; and the eyes just sort of started to slowly move back just a little bit.
 
The second drug was administered at 7:11. Then, at that point was where we saw some of the — not really spasms, exactly, but you saw a couple of heavy breaths and then that was, by and large, it. There was a little stomach movement. And at 7:15 they announced that the final drug had been administered — I'm sorry, at 7:13.
 
Then at 7:14, the warden came on through the speaker again and announced that he had died.
 
NOLAN CLAY, "THE DAILY OKLAHOMAN": I'm Nolan Clay. I'm with The Daily Oklahoman, Oklahoma City. I just have a few more details. The poem was the "Invictus" poem, that British poem that was written in the 1800s. We all had a copy of it off the Internet. I compared it to the written statement that was given to us. I'll see if we can get copies to the people. Can you make copies of this (inaudible)
 
OK. At the top, it says final written statement of Timothy McVeigh. His signature is this scribbled thing that sometimes Mr. McVeigh would write, and it has June 11, 2001. We compared it to the poem. It seems to be word-for-word, punctuation and all that.
 
CLAY: Let me give you a few more details. The warden at one point said, "Marshal, we are ready. May we proceed?" And then the marshal picked up a red phone and said, "This is the U.S. marshal to the Department of Justice Command Center. May we proceed?" Something was said back to him. And then the marshal, who was Frank Anderson, said, "We may proceed with the execution."
 
McVeigh was wearing a white T-shirt. The sheet came up to right about here. You could see the shoulders. The I.V. tubes looked to be yellow and gray. They came from a slot in the wall behind us. He did look to be hooked up to an EKG machine. There was a black line. And he did stare straight up, his eyes — dying with his eyes open is correct.
 
His eyes did roll back slightly. I also saw the gulping breath, where his cheeks bubbled up. And I saw that twice.
 
And I'll be glad to answer any questions after everybody is done. And anybody who wants to see me, I'll go through more detail.
 
KARIN GRUNDEN, TERRE HAUTE TRIBUNE-STAR: I'm Karin Grunden from the Terre Haute Tribune- Star. And I'll provide you a few additional details as well.
 
When we walked into the room, the curtain was closed. It was a bluish-green curtain. And a metal railing that came out from the wall kept us back from the window about 18 inches. There was a little bit of whispering among the guards right before this happened, some whispering in the room.
 
GRUNDEN: As the time got closer, again, we had the "testing, one, two, three" from the warden. And a correctional officer explained to us that they were checking the feed from Oklahoma City. And they also mentioned that, "We will be testing again," is what the correctional officer told us, "They're having some problems in Oklahoma City with the video feed."
 
When they got that straightened out, the warden again said, "Testing, one, two, three. We're ready." And you could hear the sound of the curtain opening at that point. The white sheet was up to his chest and he was also laying on a white sheet. There was a white sheet draped on the gurney.
 
The warden and U.S. Marshal Frank Anderson both had earpieces in. They were standing next to each other. The warden did say, "Inmate McVeigh, you may make your last statement." At that point, there was silence. At that point, the warden read the sentencing information. And then the red phone was picked up after the warden said, "Marshal, we are ready. May we proceed?"
 
The marshal responded, "Warden, you may proceed with the execution."

And, as others described, he looked around. He did swallow and puff some air and you could see his chest moving up and down. The warden did look at Timothy McVeigh. His eyes blinked a few times, and then they remained open.
 
And I'll let someone else go ahead.

KEVIN JOHNSON, USA TODAY: My name is Kevin Johnson with USA Today, I'll take you outside the execution chamber a little bit. We were dropped off on, I guess, the main entrance. We walked up a path to a 13-foot-high chainlink fence topped by razor wire with a couple of heavily-armed guards out front. And then we were ushered in.
 
I thought perhaps the most remarkable part of it was, as other people have suggested here or have said here, reported here, that his eyes, his line of sight followed the roll of the curtain from right to left, passing first the attorney's window — or his witnesses' window, then ours, past the government witnesses, and then past the victim witnesses from Oklahoma City.
 
JOHNSON: As others have stated, he did strain himself from the gurney to look at each window. And as others have reported here, he did make eye contact with each of us, or at least tried to do that.
 
Once that happened, though, it was relatively unremarkable in the sense that he — of his expression. He moved his head back and never moved it from that position, staring straight at the ceiling. His eyes became increasingly glassy, almost watery as the process went on. However, before the first drug was administered, I think we all saw these couple of deep breaths, quick swallows, and then a fluttered breath from his lips. And then not much movement after that, perhaps a slight chest movement, as others have reported here before.
 
Toward the end of the process, sometime before the warden pronounced time of death, it wasn't clear — or at least any signs of breathing were not visible to us. And he appeared, again, as others have reported, to — his eyes were completely glassy at that point. And his skin color turned from almost a very, very pale when we first saw him to a light, light yellow. His lips also turned that color as well.

Donald Beardslee's execution at San Quentin Prison Wednesday morning was a struggle for dignity.
 
The five guards who labored 16 minutes to insert the lethal injection needles into his arms struggled for composure, their lips tightening as they undoubtedly realized this was taking twice as long as usual.
 
The 30 witnesses gathered in the observation room to watch through the thick glass of the apple-green death chamber struggled to keep their cool as the minutes dragged on, shifting uncomfortably on their feet, crossing and uncrossing their arms. Nervous coughs were the only sounds breaking the tension.
 
And there, being put to death before all of us, the 61-year-old Beardslee seemed to struggle -- ever so slightly.
 
Once, as the triple-murderer was being led into the death chamber at 11:58 p.m. Tuesday by five prison guards, a look of concern or possibly worry flickered across his face. It was quickly replaced by a flatness of expression -- and when he was strapped by his ankles, chest and arms to the hospital-style gurney, he closed his eyes and lay so still he seemed asleep.
 
He never moved while the prison guards hunted for the right openings in his flesh from midnight to 12:16 a.m. Wednesday. But after the intravenous lines were finally taped to each arm and he was left alone to await the poisons that would end his life, he let his emotions leak one more time.
 
Beardslee's chest heaved two quick sighs at 12:18 a.m. -- the same minute unseen hands from behind the death chamber walls began to send chemicals through the plastic tubes toward his body -- as if to say, "OK, let's get on with it."
 
Beardslee's eyelids then fluttered open a brief moment, and two minutes later he yawned and smacked his lips twice. But from then on, the execution went just as it has for the previous nine lethal injections since 1996: His face turned from red to a deep, grayish blue, the breathing gradually stopped, and he didn't seem to twitch a muscle.
 
At 12:29 it was over. That was one minute shorter than it took in 2002 for the last man put to death at San Quentin by lethal injection, Stephen Wayne Anderson -- but about double the execution time for most of the others.
 
For those of us who watched, meanwhile, the minutes crawled by with no way to tell when they would end.
 
There were 17 other witnesses -- in addition to the 13 of us from the press -- in the stuffy, sterile-smelling observation room Wednesday, and from one end of the room to the other the tension seemed to build like a dark cloud. Nobody said a word; they werenâ't allowed to. But their actions betrayed them.
 
Along the far wall from us, a woman in a red coat kept her arms folded tightly to her chest, uncrossing them just once when she clasped her hands before her face, as if in prayer. Next to her, a woman in frizzy black hair bit her lip, folded her arms too, and then unfolded them to clench her hands tightly at her waist. Halfway through the execution she fiercely pressed a knuckle into her mouth.
 
At the end, after a prison guard announced that Beardslee had died and we from the media were being led out, the woman in frizzy black hair suddenly doubled over, fists at her mouth, gasping.
 
It was all done in near-utter silence, broken only occasionally by a nervous cough -- and one strange anomaly, one minute before Beardslee was pronounced dead. That's when Daily Journal reporter Michelle Durand fainted a little to my right from a combination of the stuffy heat and hunger. "That's the last time I forget to eat again after breakfast," she said sheepishly outside after she'd recovered and was gamely heading off to file her story.
 
The whole affair, Durand's fainting notwhithstanding, was typical for the five San Quentin executions I have now witnessed -- the only exceptions being the gassing of David Mason in 1993, when reporters were allowed to call out what they saw as he convulsed in the chair, and the prison's first lethal injection in 1996. During that execution, the mothers of some of the 14 boys "Freeway Killer" William Bonin had raped and murdered sighed heavily, chests heaving, as they watched their sons' killer die.
 
This time, the death toll of the murderer before us was far smaller than Bonin's. But that, of course, did not mean the pain was any less for those touched by his evil.
 
Beardslee throttled and slashed 19-year Stacey Benjamin and shotgunned her friend, 23-year-old Patty Geddling, in 1981 after they were lured to his Redwood City apartment in a beef over a drug debt. Twenty-four years later, the anger was stronger than ever for Benjamin's brother, T.Tom Amundsen -- and the rage radiated as he sat at the railing of the death chamber Wednesday.
 
Amundsen, a Marine gunnery sergeant who tells of killing enemy soldiers in the Vietnam War, was stiff as a board while he watched his sister's killer breathe his last. He kept his eyes focused, laserlike, on the dying man -- and only once did he turn his head, for a quick nod to the media witnesses as they walked out the door.
 
"I saw what I wanted to see. I'm glad," he told me shortly after the execution. "He was awful. He deserved to die."
 
Lying there on the gurney in his short-sleeved blue shirt and blue cotton pants, Beardslee didn't look like a killer. But then, they never do. Decades of near-solitary confinement in prison softens men like Beardslee, turning their complexions pasty from too much time inside and giving them a decorum they lacked when they went behind bars.
 
Back when Beardslee was caught by police, he had a wild lion's mane of black hair, a thick beard, and eyes that stared into the camera for his jail mugshot with scary rage. The man I saw Wednesday had neatly cropped black hair, slicked back and turning gray at the temples, and a groomed gray mustache. Under his silver, wire-framed glasses, he looked more like a schoolteacher than a monster who killed two women, plus another woman before them, in Missouri.
 
Maybe that is reading too much into a cosmetic appearance. But the final moments of a man's life are telling, no matter how or where they come. And in a San Quentin lethal injection, there isn't much to go on -- just those few moments of watching guards struggle to insert needles, victim's survivors struggle to keep their emotions from erupting, and the killer himself try to stay composed as he dies in a very public way.
 
By that measure, regardless of whether they approved or disapproved of the death penalty, Donald Beardslee and the people who came to view his final moments Wednesday managed to pull off their grim little event in the best way they could hope for: With dignity.

I have never personally witness an execution.  I am not sure if we have ever had a thread like this, but I always find it interesting the personal accounts of the actual process.  I own a book called "Death works"  the author, and Anti professor , writes an account of death by electrocution.  it is taken from a few he witnessed and it is a compilation of the processes he witnessed rolled into one. His last name is Johnson, I dont remember his full name.  I thought it may be of interest to post first hand accounts of witness'. The first one I found I have never seen before, which gave me the Idea.  If any admins dont think this appropriate, or we have done this already, send me a message and I will delete the thread.

In Virginia's death chamber, a rare death by electrocution
Larry "Bill" Elliott, 60, was executed in Virginia on Tuesday night for the murders of a young Woodbridge couple in January 2001.

Elliott, who had become obsessed with an adult escort he met on the Internet, was convicted of killing the escort's ex-boyfriend, Robert Finch, 30, as part of an effort to help the woman solve a messy custody battle over their two children.

Elliott also was convicted of killing Dana Thrall, 25, who was living with Finch and stumbled upon the scene after hearing the first shots ring out in the early morning darkness.

Elliott maintained his innocence throughout two capital murder trials -- the first conviction was thrown out due to juror misconduct -- but was convicted and sentenced to death by a second jury in 2003. He did not testify at either trial.


Larry "Bill" Elliott. (Va. Dept. of Corrections.) Elliott did speak to Washington Post reporter Josh White in a lengthy jailhouse interview in 2003, a wide ranging on-the-record conversation that explored his relationship with escort Rebecca Gragg, his claims of innocence, and his admission that he was surveilling Finch the night of the murders in an attempt to gain evidence of his inability to take care of his children.

Six years after that interview, White witnessed Elliott’s execution in Virginia’s 101-year-old electric chair. Here is his account.

Let me say upfront that I do not have strong views on the death penalty in general, and nothing about the stories I have written or this blog entry should be read as either supporting or opposing the death penalty. I have covered four Virginia capital murder cases from the crime scenes through the trials, including the cases of sniper John Allen Muhammad and Larry Bill Elliott, both of whom were executed in the past 10 days.
Elliott’s execution was the first I have witnessed.
We were instructed to arrive at the Greensville Correctional Center in Jarratt, Va., at 7 p.m., two hours before the execution was scheduled. The prison, located at the end of a desolate rural road south of Richmond, houses Virginia’s death house, in its “L Unit” deep inside a sprawling compound.
Though the state’s death row is not at Greensville – it is at Sussex I prison in Waverly – condemned inmates are moved to Jarratt at least four days prior to their execution date. They stay in a series of cells that immediately adjoin the death chamber, though they do not see the actual chamber until a few minutes before their death.
The four media witnesses and six official citizen witnesses chosen for the execution hopped in white vans and moved inside to a briefing room, where David Bass, the eastern regional manager for the Department of Corrections, gave a detailed explanation of what we were going to see. Bass, who has been with the department since the 1960s, patiently took questions and was able to answer most of them from memory.
Bass, it turns out, has witnessed 90 of the past 93 executions in Virginia. He knew that number off the top of his head because he missed two due to shoulder surgeries and another due to a hurricane evacuation.
Because this was to be an electrocution -- a choice Elliott made, and a rarity since the introduction of lethal injection in Virginia in 1995 -- Bass explained the possible physical ramifications of having 1800 volts at 7.5 amps flow through the human body for 30 seconds followed by 60 seconds of 240 volts at 1.5 amps. That cycle is repeated once.

Virginia's electric chair. (Va. Dept. of Corrections.) Mike Sarahan, of Richmond, a citizen witness who asked numerous questions about the procedure and seemed alarmed by much of it, opted out of witnessing the execution at the last moment.
“It seems grotesque and barbaric,” Sarahan said, visibly shaken. He was dropped off at an administrative building on our way over to the death chamber. Department of Corrections officials said it was extremely rare for someone to opt out at that point.
We arrived at the L Unit building shortly after 8:30, and after a search with a metal detector and a walk down a short hallway, we were in the death chamber. The viewing room, where we sat, was a room within a room, a small cinderblock square surrounded with reinforced two-way glass with four rows of sturdy plastic chairs in slightly tiered levels.
From my seat in the second row, the electric chair was directly infront of me, about 20 feet away in the larger death chamber, which was brightly lit and contained more than half a dozen Department of Corrections and Attorney General’s office officials wearing dark suits.
At 8:41 p.m., officials tested the chair by placing a large resistor across the arms and hooking it to the two wires that would eventually be connected to Elliott. When the system was turned on, a light atop the resistor emitted a bright glow, then a duller glow, confirming that the system was active and working.
Elliott was escorted into the room at 8:55 p.m., through a white door on the right side marked with a small "5" above it. According to Bass, this would be the first time Elliott had seen the chamber. He was wearing a light blue denim top and dark blue denim pants with the right pants leg cut off just above the knee. His leg was shaved, as was his head. Handcuffed, he shuffled across the room and was seated in the chair.
Though I will never know for sure, it felt like we locked eyes for more than a fleeting moment. Elliott looked older than I remembered him, and he had a resigned look in his eyes. Perhaps most striking about it was that I clearly remembered our interview, speaking with him, hearing him out and seeing him in court during two trials. There was nothing abstract about what was happening or what was about to happen.
Six correctional officers, all volunteers, secured Elliott in the chair with large, dark leather straps. An electrical contact, a metal brace lined with sea sponge that had been soaked in brine, was attached to his right leg. A metal skull cap, also lined with sea sponge, was affixed to Elliott’s head.
The warden asked Elliott if he had any final words, and Elliott blurted out quickly that he wasn’t sure how much time he’d be allowed so he had prepared a statement that he had given to his attorneys, who in turn would read it later.
A correctional officer placed a leather mask across Elliott’s face, covering everything from just above his chin to above his eyebrows, a triangular opening in the mask revealing only his nose. The officer then wiped Elliott’s brow with a white towel.
The warden, standing toward the back of the room to Elliott’s left side, then asked a corrections official: “Shall we proceed?” The official, on a telephone with an open line to the governor’s office, nodded. The warden turned to another correctional officer who turned a key in the wall, activating the electrical system for use. A digital wall clock read 8:59 p.m.
Another officer, concealed in a room adjacent to the death chamber, hit a button marked “execute” on a machine that was described as being about the size of a domestic clothes dryer.
It was clear when the electricity hit Elliott, as his body jerked bolt upright in the chair and his hands appeared to tightly grip the oak arms. A large blister formed on the inside of his right knee, just above the electrical contact. Smoke rose from both his leg and his head. Spit bubbles formed below the left side of his face mask, near where the corner of his mouth would have been.
At 9:03 p.m., it was over. A correctional officer turned the key in the wall to deactivate the system. Then all there was to do was wait. Five minutes that seemed like far longer passed, Elliott’s body sitting unmoving in the chair as officials looked on. At 9:08 p.m., an officer pulled open the top of Elliott’s shirt and a doctor entered from the left of the room. He placed a stethoscope over Elliott’s heart, tried another location, then pulled the stethoscope off.
“9:08,” he said, and walked out. A blue vinyl curtain was pulled. Elliott was dead.
Commonwealth’s Attorney Paul B. Ebert, who prosecuted Elliott in Prince William County and has sent 14 people to Virginia’s death row, for the first time witnessed an execution last week, when John Allen Muhammad received a lethal injection. He did not attend Elliott’s execution, but said he believes Muhammad's lethal injection was “anticlimatic.”
“Muhammad peacefully went to sleep,” Ebert said. “It was much more humane than he treated any of his victims. … It was pretty much like putting an animal to sleep. Had he chosen the electric chair, I think it would have given them more solace and more closure.”
Rick Conway, who prosecuted Muhammad, felt similarly. Conway, who also has witnessed an electrocution, said the lethal injection lacks the finality that the chair provides, because it’s clear from watching an electrocution that the person has died. Part of the lethal injection procedure includes shielding witnesses with the blue curtain while they actually inject the intravenous lines.
It is unclear why Elliott chose electrocution, as only four other condemned Virginia inmates have done since lethal injection was introduced in 1995. Virginia defaults to lethal injection if the inmate does not choose, so it must be an affirmative decision. His defense attorneys declined to answer questions after his death.
In a lengthy written statement, Elliott railed against prosecutors and the U.S. justice system, alleging that “abuses” and a “massive amount of false information” led to his conviction and sentence. He called his death a “state-sponsored killing” and said he did not understand “why I must die for crimes I was not involved in,” adding that he believes it must be part of God’s plan for him and that he hopes people will use his case to examine the use of the death penalty.
My colleague Maria Glod spoke with Jay Connell, a Fairfax county attorney who has represented several men on death row and who was in Virginia's death chamber in February when his client, Edward Bell, was executed by injection. A jury sentenced Bell to death for fatally shooting Winchester police Sgt. Ricky L. Timbrook in 1999.
Connell, who had become close with Bell during years of conversations about everything from his criminal case to cricket, said he was struck by how sterile and quiet Bell's death by lethal injection was.
"There's no drama to it," Connell said. "People think an execution should be like a hanging where someone drops. Other than that the state had just killed someone, nothing dramatic happened."
Clayton Finch, the father of victim Robert Finch, had petitioned Gov. Timothy Kaine to spare Elliott’s life because he believes Elliott did not deserve to die for his crimes. Finch and his wife were the only family witnesses to see Elliott die from a secure family viewing room, Finch said. Elliott had met with his immediate family members earlier in the day.
“It wasn’t as bad as I had thought it might be,” Finch said. “But it’s just a sad thing. It’s a sad, sad tale.”
In more than 11 years at the Post, I have covered murders, drug rings, natural disasters, terrorism, detainee abuse, and war. I twice embedded with U.S. troops fighting in Iraq as a military correspondent. For me, Elliott's execution was among the most intense scenes I have experienced as a reporter and something I will never forget.

Valle, 61, who killed a Coral Gables police officer in 1978, was served fried chicken breast, white rice, Coca-Cola and peach cobbler.


Whats the old commercial say? "have a coke and a smile" ??