Death Row Families

[thinkinkmesa]

Another older article that I hope will inspire others.
www.indyweek.com/gyrobase/Content?oid=oid%3A24765
House helps death row families
A couple moved to Raleigh to set up a Catholic Worker House where the families of death row inmates can stay and find support.
20 JUL 2005 • by Patrick O'Neill

When her youngest son, Elmer Ray McNeill Jr., was sentenced to death on April 9, 1996, in a Wake County courtroom, Roberta McNeill yelled to him as sheriff's deputies led her son away: "Hey! I love you! I'll always love you!" Since that day, McNeill has endured a gut-wrenching wait, not knowing if her son will live or die. What has been especially difficult has been the loneliness McNeill, 65, and her husband, Ray McNeill, 70, have felt at having a child condemned to die.
"You can't talk to anyone about it; they have closed minds," McNeill says. "If he was convicted, he was guilty. They don't want to hear about it...

"They don't even think about the fact that they have a family. It's just someone who's going to be executed. They don't think he's got a mother or a father, possibly a wife and children, sisters, brothers. They don't think that they're destroying another family."

Since her son was sentenced to death for the Sept. 19, 1993, murders of John Ray and Mike Truelove, the McNeills have made the approximately five-hour drive from their Summerville, S.C., home to Raleigh's Central Prison once or twice a month to visit their son, who is now 35.

The McNeills had some of their emotional burden lifted recently when they met Sheila Stumph and Scott Langley, a young couple who last September rented a house on Dorothea Drive a few blocks from Central Prison and opened the Raleigh Catholic Worker Hospitality House.

The couple offer support, meals and a place to stay for families visiting loved ones on death row. There is no charge to stay at the worker house. Langley estimates that about 15 to 20 family members of death row inmates have come by to spend the night, visit or to have a meal since the house opened.

When Langley and Stumph went to Washington, D.C., recently to participate in a fast and vigil to abolish the death penalty at the U.S. Supreme Court, the McNeills decided to join them. Roberta McNeill said the four-day event, called Starvin' for Justice 2005, was the first time she realized that there were people in the world who understood her plight.

"It was a great experience," says McNeill, who had never participated in a public event against the death penalty. "I wasn't by myself in the world. I found out there were a lot of people besides myself who were against the death penalty. Before I got involved I just didn't realize there was anybody who you could talk to."

Both Roberta McNeill and Peggy Kandies, the mother of N.C. death row inmate Jeff Kandies, spoke during teach-in sessions on the sidewalk in front of the Supreme Court. The fast began June 29, the date in 1972 when the U.S. Supreme Court halted all executions. The Supreme Court allowed executions to resume on July 2, 1976.

Stumph said having the three parents of death row inmates at the fast showed another side to the capital punishment issue.

"Just their physical presence there I think was so important because they're the faces that we don't see," says Stumph, 28. "People think of these 'monsters on death row,' but they don't think about these inmates having parents, that they have children, that they have wives, they have husbands and things like that, and I know for me, their presence makes visual how the cycle of violence continues; the death penalty creates one more victim."

Roberta McNeill said that during her son's trial her husband noticed a vein in her neck was pulsating. After the trial ended, McNeill saw a doctor, who said her blood pressure was "extremely high." A heart checkup showed McNeill had an enlarged heart and two leaking valves. Although she had no previous history of high blood pressure, McNeill has also had two strokes.

"It's just the stress. The stress will kill you," she says. "It's like having your child kidnapped and his life threatened and there's not anything you can do about it, because nobody's going to help you. I hear about mothers dying while their sons are in jail."

In the 10 years the son she calls Ray has been on death row, Roberta McNeill has never been permitted to touch him.

"It makes you feel helpless, because there's nothing you can do to help him except talk to the lawyer," she says. "It's terrible. You know he's hurting, and you can't put your arm around him. It's like ignoring a child when he's hurt."

Stumph and Langley moved to Raleigh from Haley House, another Catholic Worker community in Boston. Langley said their idea was to combine the Catholic Worker tradition of hospitality and political activism with resistance to the death penalty.

"We felt called to work against the death penalty on a deeper level," he says.

Both Roberta McNeill and Langley support the effort to pass a moratorium on executions in North Carolina. Langley is not pleased that the General Assembly did not pass a full moratorium. (A compromise measure was slated for consideration as this issue went to press.)

"We're put in a situation where we're saying, 'OK, we can save some of them, hopefully, but we're not going to be able to save everybody.' And it's kind of like picking and choosing and playing this role of who's going to live and die," Langley says. "It's just hard to settle for less, because the loss of one life is one too many.

"I guess we have to be optimistic that this is a step in the right direction. It's out of our hands. It's the politicians that are making the call. What can we do? It's hard."

Says Roberta: "I'm hoping for more than , but that's a good start."

The Raleigh Catholic Worker holds a weekly vigil against the death penalty on Mondays from 5 to 6 p.m. in front of Central Prison. For more information, call 833-4129.

[thinkinkmesa]

Another article in the same vien...
www.usatoday.com/news/nation/2006-12-23-families-deathrow_x.htm

By Kristen Gelineau, Associated Press
RICHMOND, Va. — The phone call Ida Reid had been fearing finally arrived on the evening of Sept. 9, 2004.
"They're gonna do it," her brother said.

Her stomach churned. Her body shook.

In a few hours, her brother would be dead.

The clock in the kitchen of her Charlottesville home ticked down the final minutes. Just after 9 p.m., she clutched her mother and began to cry.

In Virginia's death chamber, James Reid was receiving a lethal injection, his punishment for murdering an elderly woman.

In her kitchen, a pain Ida could not explain had taken over, and it felt like a punishment, too — but one she would have to endure forever, even as her brother's came to an end.

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In the contentious death penalty debate, they are a group that usually goes overlooked.

Family members of the condemned haven't committed the crimes that landed their loved ones on death row. But they often feel punished anyway, by a society that sometimes shuns and vilifies them, by a grief that few understand.

Their unique experiences are detailed in the report "Creating More Victims: How Executions Hurt the Families Left Behind," by Murder Victims' Families for Human Rights. The anti-death penalty organization in Cambridge, Mass., is made up of families of murder victims and families of the executed.

"These are victims, too," said Susannah Sheffer, co-author of the report, which is based on interviews with 36 relatives of executed inmates across the nation. "These people exist, they are harmed and we need to address that harm."

Since the Supreme Court reinstated capital punishment in 1976, more than 1,000 people have been executed in the United States.

"You think about the family of the person the crime was committed against, but I don't think a lot of people think about the family of the person who was executed — who are also innocent victims," said Melanie Hebert, whose uncle, Spencer Goodman, was executed in Texas in 2000 for the abduction and fatal beating of a Houston woman. "People think of us as kind of throwaway people."

There has been little research conducted on the effects executions have on families of the condemned. But a few who have studied the issue agree that such families face distinct challenges. Some attempt suicide. Others lose their jobs. Most feel isolated by their grief.

"When somebody says, 'How did your husband die?' and you say, 'Oh, he was executed by the state of Texas,' their hand leaves you and they walk away as if you are contagious with this death penalty disease," said Christina Lawson, whose husband, David Martinez, was executed last year for the rape and murder of Kiersa Paul, a 24-year-old University of Minnesota student.

Michael Paranzino, president of the pro-death penalty victims' rights organization Throw Away the Key, acknowledged that families of the condemned suffer. But, he added, criminals who end up in prison hurt their families, too.

And killers cause distress to the families of their victims, Paranzino added. Families deserve to see their loved ones' killers brought to justice, he said.

The report isn't meant to minimize the pain that victims' family members feel, Sheffer said. During a gathering in Texas last year organized by her group, family members of the condemned placed two roses in a vase: one in memory of their relative — and one in memory of the victim.

"We're a victims group," Sheffer said. "The last thing we would do in a million years is downplay that original harm."

Lawson understands the devastation felt on both sides. She was 27 when her husband was executed. She was 9 when her father was murdered. Dealing with her husband's death has been far more difficult, she said.

"We could never justify why we were sad," said Lawson, 28, of New Braunfels, Texas. "How dare we feel bad for the loss of our loved one because of something he had done?"

The social stigmas that family members of the condemned face can be severe, said sociologist Susan Sharp, author of Hidden Victims, a book that examines the impact of capital punishment on families of those facing execution. She found family members who had been threatened, lost jobs, had their tires slashed — one woman even told Sharp her pets were killed by others who blamed her for her relative's crime.

"They're seen as somehow or another collaterally guilty with people who committed the crime," Sharp said.

Hebert was taunted relentlessly by fellow classmates during her uncle's trial. Lawson had garbage thrown at her and heard someone scream, "You are gonna burn in hell!" as she walked toward the Texas death house. One North Carolina woman interviewed for Sheffer's report said upon returning to her job after her brother's execution, she discovered a note reading, "You're a murderer."

Reid, whose brother was executed in Virginia, said she actually received support from the community, but still felt isolated because no one knew how to talk to her.

"Sometimes, it's not like they're ostracizing you, it's just that they don't know what to say," said Reid, 55. "A lot of them just can't handle it."

Robert Meeropol was 6 years old when his parents, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, were executed in 1953 after being convicted of conspiring to commit espionage for the Soviet Union. He has dealt with his grief by becoming an activist and serving as a voice for children of the condemned.

"This had a profound effect on my life," said Meeropol, 59, of Easthampton, Mass. "It left me with a kind of suppressed rage and anger about what happened that didn't really have an outlet."

Young people who lose a parent to execution have the additional challenge of trying to comprehend what has happened, Meeropol said.

"I knew something terribly wrong was happening, and I knew that somehow it involved my parents, and I knew that it could get worse — and I didn't really understand what it was," he said.

Post-traumatic stress disorder can also affect family members who witness their loved ones' executions.

Lawson has struggled with PTSD since her husband's execution. The sight of handprints on windows makes her vomit, reminding her of the death chamber's print-smudged viewing window. She fainted during a trip to her children's school to drop off their lunch money; the green paint on the cafeteria walls reminded her of the walls inside the death house. She still feels the salty grit of dried tears on the death chamber's window, still hears her husband's last breath.

Counselors have been unable to help her, she said. Sleep remains elusive.

"I will never, ever forget the way it felt," she said.

Sheffer hopes the report will get people thinking about these families. At the very least, she said, they should be offered assistance to help them deal with their grief.

For Reid, that grief remains intense. Talking about her brother's final hours still brings her to tears.

"Jimmy's death is still so raw, it's still very, very raw," she says softly. "I don't know when it will pass. Or if it ever will."

Copyright 2006 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Posted 12/23/2006 5:59 AM ET