Death Sentence (53 page)

Velma’s breathing seemed rapid and shallow. Her neck muscles looked tight. She licked her lips, swallowed a couple of times, kept her eyes closed. The witnesses saw the curtain billow as the crash cart was moved into position behind it. And in the staging area, the three executioners were given the go-ahead to take their positions in the chamber.

Velma’s breathing returned to normal as the minutes ticked by and the witnesses became more uncomfortable watching her final moments of consciousness. Suddenly, the door of the witness room opened startlingly and Nathan Rice stepped inside.

“Everything is ready,” he announced briskly. “I will make one call. Then the execution will proceed.”

Rice went quickly to the control room and dialed the number of the secured line to the secretary of the Department of Correction.

“We are ready to proceed with the execution,” he told James Woodard. “Are there any final orders?”

“There are none.”

On the knoll outside, people kept looking at watches. At 1:58, somebody among the vigil keepers started humming. Others joined in. It was almost imperceptible at first, but it spread quickly, growing louder and louder with each new voice, and within a minute the whole crowd was in unison, and there was no mistaking what they were humming: “Amazing Grace.”

As the final seconds until two o’clock ticked down, the death-penalty supporters across Western Boulevard began a countdown, as if it were New Year’s Eve.

“Ten … nine … eight…”

The curtain behind Velma rustled as technicians disconnected the lines from the saline bags and attached them to the lines leading to the three big syringes that lay atop the crash cart, then quickly exited the chamber.

The three executioners stood ready, their thumbs on the plungers. One of the three entwined lines leading from the syringes was a dummy that went to an IV bag hanging beneath the gurney, leaving each executioner the option, if he needed it, of believing that he might not actually be responsible for taking a life.

Hugh Hoyle, Dick Burr and Mary Ann Tally had joined Ronnie, Pam, Kirby and Jennie Lancaster in the office of a deputy warden, where they sat in a small circle. Hoyle read some of Velma’s favorite scriptures, prayed for deliverance for all, gave all a chance to speak what they wanted to say about Velma, and all the time Ronnie had been watching the big round clock on the wall. He looked up in dread and fear just as the clock ticked to two.

“Let’s all join hands and bow our heads in silent prayer,” Hoyle said.

Ronnie already was holding the hand of his sobbing sister, Kirby the other, her head on his shoulder. Ronnie took the hand of Jennie Lancaster beside him and closed his eyes. He was wondering what his mother was feeling, what she was thinking. Surely, she was praying, he thought, but what was her final prayer?

Nathan Rice nodded to the executioners and said, “Velma, please start counting backward from one hundred.”

“One hundred…” Velma said.

“… two … one!” shouted the death-penalty supporters alongside Western Boulevard, and broke into cheers.

“Kill!” somebody yelled.

“Die, bitch! Die!”

Across the road, the vigil keepers began extinguishing their candles one by one, breath by breath, front to back, their hymn dying voice by voice. As the last candle went out, a bell rang full and sonorous, the mournful sound lingering in the damp, chilly air.

In the witness room, everybody saw Velma’s lips moving and several later would say they assumed that she was praying.

“… ninety-six,” she was saying obediently, “ninety-five, ninety…” and her voice drifted away, stilled at last by drugs.

She began snoring loudly, although none of the witnesses could hear her.

The three executioners stepped back. The technicians returned, quickly removing the syringes the executioners had laid on the crash cart and replacing them with others. As the technicians exited the chamber again, the executioners picked up the new syringes and simultaneously pressed the plungers. Afterward, they returned in solemn procession to the staging area. Nathan Rice followed them out of the chamber, but he went to the control room, where Dr. E. Scott Thomas, the prison physician, sat before the heart monitor.

Velma’s breathing had been deep and regular. The witnesses, not knowing when the paralyzing poison had been administered, watched the green sheet rising and falling, rising and falling, looking for a sign of ebbing life. But her breath diminished so minutely each time that it was hard to tell. Her cheeks had been rosy when she had been rolled into the chamber. But now the color faded with each breath, a pallor gradually taking its place, starting at her forehead and moving downward. A fly buzzed by her head, then disappeared from sight.

Later, none of the witnesses could be exactly certain when the green sheet rose and fell for the last time, for the movement had simply seemed to slip away, imperceptibly.

At 2:10, the line of the heart monitor in the control room went flat. Nobody made any overt movement. Regulations required a five-minute wait before the body was examined.

On the floor below, at precisely 2:10, Hugh Hoyle later would recall, Mary Ann Tally looked up at him and said, “Did you feel the release of spirit that I just felt?”

“I did,” Hoyle said. “Praise the Lord.”

The vigil keepers on the hillside stood in a hush broken only by the soft weeping of a few, a whispered prayer here and there. Even the death-penalty supporters across the road had fallen silent.

Two ministers prayed with the families of Stuart Taylor and John Henry Lee as they awaited the confirmation of Velma’s death.

As Philip Brown, assistant secretary of correction, stepped before the TV cameras in front of the prison to announce that the execution had been carried out, many of the family members broke into tears, hugging one another and grasping hands. Alice Storms, Margie Lee Pittman and Sylvia Andrews sat crying as the media witnesses gave the details of Velma’s death.

A few minutes later, the three women stood before TV cameras themselves to read their final statements.

“Tonight I feel as though a heavy burden has finally been lifted from me—a burden which I have carried for six and a half years,” Alice Storms read, her voice breaking, her eyes puffy and red. “Although it is a part of my life I will never forget, I feel that at long last I can put the pieces of my life back together again. Now I can visit my father’s grave and know that he can finally rest in peace. I feel that justice has been done, and it is a shame that so many people had to be hurt in the process.”

“Tonight is a sad night for many people in our state, including me,” Margie Lee Pittman told the reporters. “The fact that she is someone whom I learned to love and trust before she murdered my father makes it even more difficult for me. It hurts to be deceived. It hurts in the worst way.”

Her sister, Sylvia Andrews, read the final statement.

“It’s been a long and hard six and a half years. Finally, justice has been done, but the pain of how my father died will always be with me … Our prayers are with the family and friends of Velma Barfield. We realize the hurt and loss they are going through.”

While the women were reading their statements, Joe Freeman Britt arrived, looking weary. He had waited at his office through the evening to handle any last-minute legal maneuvers that might arise. He went to a private room with the families. Reporters surrounded him when he emerged, wanting to know what they’d talked about.

“I just told them I realized they were tired, and any fight worth fighting extracted a toll,” he responded.

Had he become emotionally involved in the case, a reporter asked.

“I don’t see how you can prosecute a capital case without becoming emotionally involved,” he said. “You do identify with the victims.”

Like the families of the victims, Velma’s sister Faye had watched most of the evening’s activities on TV. But earlier, as the march from Sacred Heart Cathedral arrived at Central Prison, she made an impulsive decision. She wanted to go there, and Cliff took her. She made her way to the vigil keepers and stood before them to express her gratitude.

“There is no way to say thank you enough,” she said. “If only my sister could be out here and see all of you. I had no plans to come down here but when I saw the group, I felt that I needed to come and talk to y’all in person.”

Afterward she returned to the hotel and the TV, and a cameraman for the documentary crew remained with her. She sat crying in front of the TV as the media witnesses described the execution. Suddenly, she jumped up, fled to the adjoining room and threw herself onto the bed, her body convulsed with sobs. Cliff followed, helpless to console her.

The camera followed, and Cliff, a heavy man with a full beard, turned to it and began to speak, his voice weighted with anger, almost a growl.

“This is the mercy that Jesus Christ speaks about,” he said. “This is the love and the goodness that Christ talks about, what this woman has to go through. I hope and pray to God that you can put that message to people. And if they believe that the death penalty is a beneficial thing, I certainly pray for their judgment day.”

Ronnie could not wait to get away from the prison, and as he and Pam were leaving, Jimmie Little asked him to come by his room later. When Ronnie arrived, Little handed him a card sealed in an envelope with his name on the outside.

“She left this for you,” Little said. “I’ve already given Pam hers.”

Ronnie tore open the envelope and sat down. Tears welled as he read.

10-31-84

Dearest Ronnie,

As I said to Pam in her card, I’m finding it difficult to put into words what my heart is feeling right now.

It’s the eve. before my scheduled execution and I’m alone thinking of the two best kids in the whole wide world. That’s you and Pam. I love you and thank you from the depths of my heart for how you have stood with me through all these painful years.

You are special kids and my heart is so very full of gratitude for what you’ve been to me. Not all mothers have kids like you. I feel so fortunate to claim you as my very own.

On the envelope I put Joanna’s name because she too has been a part of the family and is Michael’s mother. I would never hurt that kid by not mentioning her. Please tell her I love her and want the best for her whatever the best is.

Ronnie, God has blessed us with such special times and to me this is priceless. I feel we have been so chosen by Him to set aside the kind of time He has given to us. He’s such a good God—always looking out for his children.

My last request to you, Joanna and Michael is to prepare those hearts to meet me in Heaven. Please make a total commitment to our Lord and let Him direct your life and you will experience the joy of your salvation. Remember, I’ve told you God will be faithful to do His part. We must do ours. I love you so deeply and want you to have the peace only our Lord gives. Also my last request is for you to lay a firm foundation for Michael—teach him the truth that only God’s word brings. Most kids will listen to what their parents teach them. They will pattern their lives after their parents. Give Michael the best—a true Christian upbringing. The things of the world crumble and fall—God’s word stands forever.

Jimmie will take care of some things for you. Please stay in touch with him. I feel he’s going to need you.

Again, I love you and will be waiting for you in Heaven. When you feel sad think of me being there face to face with Jesus—the One who died for our sins. May God bless you real good. I love you.

Momie

27

Ronnie did not sleep after returning to the hotel, and as dawn broke on another gray day, he was hit with a sudden urge to escape, to get away from this place that had brought him such misery, as if by fleeing he could break free of the pain that was consuming him.

He got together the few things he had brought with him, left word for Pam and Kirby that he would meet them at their apartment later and checked out. As he drove eastward, he thought that he was leaving Raleigh forever. This was one city, he was certain, that he never wanted to see again.

Ronnie didn’t really know what he intended to do—he only wanted to get away from the place where his mother had been killed—but he soon found himself in Fayetteville, and he drove by Jernigan-Warren Funeral Home, where in just a few hours his mother was to be lying in state, and where on Saturday afternoon, little more than a day away, her funeral was to be held.

He stopped to make certain that everything was in order. The funeral had been planned according to his mother’s wishes. He and Pam had gone with Jimmie Little weeks earlier to pick out the coffin. Now the people at the funeral home seemed surprised to see him, but they offered condolences and assured him that everything would be ready, although nobody there had any idea when the body might arrive, or in what condition it might be. They had no idea even where it was.

Velma had wanted to donate her organs, the first condemned prisoner to attempt to do so, and it had been cause for great turmoil and uncertainty in her final days—and much frantic activity immediately following her execution. The state had been opposed for legal reasons and would not allow the prison medical facilities to be used. Medical people had been uncertain about the effects of the poison on her organs, and several area hospitals had declined to participate. Those problems had consumed most of Jimmie Little’s time in the previous two days. But five minutes after Velma had been declared dead, her body had been turned over to a team of doctors from Bowman Gray School of Medicine, and as a rescue vehicle rushed toward Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem, more than a hundred miles away, the team had been frantically working to restart her heart to keep blood flowing so the organs would be usable. Unknown to Ronnie, his mother’s final attempt to do good for others had largely failed. Only her corneas, some bones and skin had been salvaged. And it would not be until afternoon that her largely intact body arrived in Fayetteville.