For over a decade, I’ve been involved in frontline work against the death penalty. In recent years, I’ve stood in execution chambers and held the hands of eight different men while the state murders them. In each of those circumstances, I have vehemently opposed the execution. So much so, I’ve often blamed myself for not being able to stop it. After the tragedy, I’d get home and stay awake at night wondering what more I could’ve done. With every execution, the nights only grow longer. Torture is an understatement. Grief is too simplistic. I guess excruciating pain might be close. The horror of it all is based on a deeply held belief that life is worth saving at all costs. But what about when it’s not?
It seems that my work grows wilder with every execution. There are few lengths I will not go to support the guys that I work with. I guess that’s why Derrick Dearman called me in the first place. The line opened with, “This is a call from, ‘Hey, It’s me Derrick!’” It sounded goofy the first time. It still sounds goofy. In a variety of ways, Derrick is a goofy guy. That’s probably neither here nor there now. Derrick did what most guys do when we talk for the first time, he tried to tell me about his case. I responded the way that I always do when guys initially try to tell me about their case, I told him that I wanted to know about him first. Our society seems determined to take away the personhood and agency of those we imprison. So, I always try to recapture a little bit of the person before we proceed. We talked multiple times before Derrick told me why he wanted to talk, he was interested in dropping his appeals, proceeding with his execution and he wanted me to accompany him through the process. I told him, “I don’t believe in the death penalty.” Derrick didn’t flinch, “Well I do.”
People seem to think that there’s no ambiguous areas left when talking about the death penalty. One is either for life or for death, right? I used to think like that. Now, I know better.
Eventually, Derrick walked me through his crime. He is a literal axe-murderer. He created a house of horror that included him chopping and shooting his way to the deaths of five different people (including a woman who was pregnant). It’s the sort of stuff that sends chills down the spine. When Derrick told me that he was deeply remorseful about what he’d done, I believed him. Then, he explained to me that his remorse was terminal. Meaning, it was too much pain to have to continue living through. He lived in a hell of his own creation. He couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t sleep. He was addicted to substances to numb his pain. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the bloodied bodies that he’d left behind. Perhaps, the most painful thing that he described was his feeling that his body was the only thing that he had to give to show the families of the victims that he was remorseful for what he’d done. Even then, he still questioned whether anyone would believe him. But he wanted to give what he could give to try to make things right or perhaps just a little less wrong. This was the first time I’d considered the idea of terminal remorse.
When I talked about the endless beauty of grace, mercy and forgiveness, Derrick was enraptured. So much so, he told me that he couldn’t wait to get to heaven to tell his victims how sorry he was and experience everlasting love with them. Derrick was not short on faith that God (and the victims for that matter) loved him and had already forgiven him for what he’d done. Who was I to challenge such things? Derrick was speaking my language. Love.
I thought about the various times I’d witnessed people I love suffer through unbearable pain. For a short time, I’d worked at a hospice house and watched people scream in pain for the final months of their lives. I’d long felt that the most loving thing that one could do was to let them make the choice to die. What is the purpose in prolonging pain when everlasting love awaits? I’ve long believed that we cling to life so hard sometimes that we miss life in the process. Love is worth living for. Love is worth dying for.
Explaining to Derrick that this was way outside of my comfort zone, I asked for a few weeks to consider what he was asking me to do. There was a great deal of agony involved. I searched. I prayed. I read. I sought out counsel. Late one night or early one morning, I was unable to sleep. I crawled out of my bed and made it to my knees. There in the darkness, I asked God to please give me some clarity. Then I clearly heard a voice that I knew, “Who else is going to stand beside him?” I realized that this was not a situation to figure out. This was something to do. This was someone to love. This was something to be. Love calls us to give our lives for those who need them. When I told Derrick that I’d be with him until the end and advocate for his agency, he was surprised. I was too.
Derrick Dearman hasn’t changed my firm stance against the death penalty, but he has changed me. On October 17, I will stand beside him as he takes his last breaths…a death he has chosen to embrace. I will do so not because I think the state has a right to kill him. I will do so because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. Derrick asked for my presence…and love has required it.
