Oct. 13 PENNSYLVANIA: Death appeal delayed 9 years in court----Michael Bardo was sentenced to die in 1994, but his appeal lingers due to 'miscommunication.' An oversight within the Luzerne County judicial system has resulted in a nearly 9-year delay in resolving the appeals of a city man who was sentenced to death in 1994 for murdering his young niece. All court review of the case of Michael Bardo ceased in 1998, when the state Supreme Court directed Luzerne County Judge Patrick Toole to reconsider his denial of a request to have new attorneys appointed to represent Bardo. The problem is that Toole never ruled on that matter, and no one involved in the case ever raised the issue again. That resulted in the case coming to a standstill until this week, when a Times Leader reporter who was investigating the delay brought the issue to Tooles attention. In an interview Friday, Toole, who presided over Bardo's trial, said he had no idea the case was awaiting a decision from him until the newspaper's inquiry prompted him to review the Bardo file. Toole, now a senior judge, said he is trying to schedule a meeting with the district attorney's office and public defenders office to determine how to reactivate the case. "Right now the problem for me is how do I get it back on track?" Toole said. "That's what I hope to discuss with counsel. The next issue is, how did it happen and how do we see that it doesnt happen again?" Unusual set of circumstances Exactly what did happen is unclear, but Toole said it appears there was a miscommunication with the Supreme Court. The delay in the case does not alter Bardo's legal status regarding the death sentence. He remains on death row at the State Correctional Institution at Greene. It's possible the delay could have legal consequences for any further appeals he would file, however. Assistant District Attorney Scott Gartley, who handles death penalty appeals for the office, said he is reviewing whether the delay means Bardo has waived his right to raise certain issues. Bardo was sentenced to death for killing his 3-year-old niece, Joelle Donovan, in 1992 and dumping her body into Solomon Creek in South Wilkes-Barre. Bardo exhausted his 1st round of appeals in November 1998, leading then Gov. Tom Ridge to issue a warrant for Bardo's execution. The warrant was stayed on Dec. 23, 1998, based on an appeal filed by Bardo's appellate attorneys, Al Flora Jr. and William Ruzzo. That appeal challenged Toole's refusal to appoint new attorneys to represent Bardo in his second round of appeals. The Supreme Court never ruled on that issue, however. The same day the court stayed his execution, it remanded the case back to Toole, directing him to reconsider his denial of the request for new counsel. The district attorney's office got the notice of the remand. But Toole said Friday he never got the order. "If I had received it I should have done it, period. But I don't have any record it was received," Toole said. The appeal was filed when Peter Paul Olszewski Jr., now a county judge, served as district attorney. On Friday, Olszewski said that as far as he knew, Toole was still reviewing the matter when Olszewski left office at the end of 1999. "If the Supreme Court remanded a matter to the trial judge, I have to assume they sent it to him. It would never occur to me he didn't get it," Olszewski said. The matter was further complicated by a notice the Supreme Court issued on June 22, 1999, advising Toole and the district attorney that the appeal regarding the appointment of new counsel had been withdrawn by the defense. What Toole didn't know was that withdrawal was based on the court's Dec. 23, 1998, ruling that remanded the case to Toole. The notice did not state the reason, he said. "I thought the appeal was withdrawn. I never heard from anybody," he said. "That's why I closed the file and shipped it out." Process has started In the ensuing years Toole said it never dawned on him that there was a problem because its not uncommon for death penalty appeals to take years to resolve. "When a death warrant is issued a bevy of appeals come. I just assumed one of these days we'd see a death warrant again," he said. He said he does not fault prosecutors or defense attorneys for the delay. "They get a notice telling them to wait for the judge. If the judge does not get that notice, they could wait forever," Toole said. Flora and Ruzzo were preparing for another homicide trial on Friday and could not be reached for comment. Gov. Ed Rendell, who signs all death warrants, was also unaware that Bardo's case was in limbo, said Chuck Ardo, spokesman for the governor. Ardo said Rendell acts on cases after his office is notified by the court system that a defendant has exhausted all appeals. "We were aware the case was at some point in the appeals and then we never heard anything beyond that," Ardo said. "We depend on the notification process to keep us informed. Somewhere along the way there was a failure in that process." Ardo said attorneys in the office are now reviewing the case and plan to speak with the district attorney's office regarding how to proceed. Whatever happens, it likely will be years before Bardos case is resolved. Even if he loses at the county court level he has a host of other appeals available to him through state and federal courts. (source: Wilkes-Barre Times-Leader) VIRGINIA: Va. execution in '06 bungled, attorneys say----Lawyers for next inmate to die make claim in his appeal Virginia bungled a lethal injection last year, leading to a prolonged execution, lawyers for condemned killer Christopher Scott Emmett contend in an appeal to the 4th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals. Emmett is facing execution Wednesday night for the April 2001 slaying of John F. Langley, 43, of Roanoke Rapids, N.C., a co-worker he beat to death with a brass lamp for drug money. Among other things, Emmett's lawyers say the executioners of John Yancey Schmitt on Nov. 9 administered the lethal combination of drugs twice. It took 13 minutes for him to die, longer than the other 70 lethal injections performed in Virginia. The attending physician testified that he did not know why the second set of chemicals was administered to Schmitt, but that "it could have been error." The state attorney general's office, in a response to the appeal filed yesterday, said the execution was not bungled but acknowledged the chemicals were administered twice. Chemicals have been administered twice in 10 of Virginia's 70 lethal injections since 1995. In nine of those 10 cases, the Virginia Department of Corrections did not follow its own procedures when administering the 2nd set, Emmett's lawyers contend. A federal judge in Richmond heard the same evidence last month when he upheld the constitutionality of the way the state conducts lethal injections. He also ruled there was no evidence improper conduct during an execution in Virginia resulted in a painful death. But in his opinion, District Judge Henry E. Hudson said he had "some concern with aspects of Virginia's execution procedures . . . the inconsistencies demonstrated by the evidence are disturbing and may warrant administrative review." Matthew Engle, one of Emmett's lawyers, said that because the inmates die and because of the masking effect of one of the drugs, inmates can appear calm and serene even if they are suffering. "It's impossible to prove" under the circumstances, he said. In addition, post-mortem testing of executed inmates in Virginia does not appear to be adequate to determine if proper levels of drugs were used, said Jennifer Givens, another Emmett lawyer. The court papers state that Emmett's "characterization of that [Schmitt] execution as something that 'went wrong' is insupportable." Among other things, the state argues: "Schmitt's executioner administered a 2nd set of chemicals into the original IV line when he had not 'flat-lined' within three minutes, even though the [execution] protocol allowed the executioner to wait up to 10 minutes." Schmitt was to have been executed in June, but Gov. Timothy M. Kaine delayed it until Wednesday so the Supreme Court could consider whether to hear his appeal. The justices declined to do so this month. However, on Sept. 25, the high court agreed to hear a Kentucky case challenging the constitutionality of lethal injection. Richard Dieter, of the Death Penalty Information Center, said that no execution has been conducted in the U.S. since Sept. 25. Aside from the courts, Kaine has been asked to grant Emmett a reprieve until the U.S. Supreme Court rules in the Kentucky case. (source: Richmond Times-Dispatch) FLORIDA: Florida High Court: Why rush execution?----Justices want decisions made in logical order Florida Supreme Court justices Thursday asked why there's a rush to execute Mark Schwab on Nov. 15. Though Schwab has been on death row more than 15 years, a separate state case and a federal review are pending that could affect his execution. Schwab kidnapped, raped, tortured and murdered 11-year-old Junny Rios-Martinez of Cocoa on April 18, 1991. He was convicted and sentenced to death on July 1, 1992. His is the 1st death warrant signed by Gov. Charlie Crist and the first in the state since a moratorium on executions was lifted following an inquiry into the botched December 2006 lethal injection of Angel Diaz. The state's highest court last year chose the appeal of Ian Deco Lightbourne to consider the constitutionality of Florida's revised lethal injection methods in the wake of Diaz's execution. Lightbourne's case has produced a record of more than 7,000 pages as a circuit court held hearings on the legality of Florida's 3-drug mix and changes made by the Department of Corrections since Diaz. The trial judge concluded the new procedures are constitutional. On Thursday, the Supreme Court heard oral arguments in the Lightbourne case immediately before it heard Schwab's appeals. "Lightbourne has to be decided first, wouldn't you agree with that?" asked Justice Barbara Pariente. "It would look pretty bad for the administration of justice in this state if Schwab is executed and 2 weeks later we decide lethal injection as administered in Florida is cruel and unusual." Lightbourne is not under a death warrant and justices asked why they shouldn't stay Schwab's execution while they decide that case. Crist, a former attorney general, was asked Thursday if he would consider a moratorium on executions while the courts deliberate cases on the constitutionality of lethal injection. "There are a lot of people waiting for justice to done," Crist said. "They have suffered the loss of a loved one. My heart bleeds for them." There is also a pending U.S. Supreme Court review of a Kentucky case that seeks to set the standard of constitutionality for lethal injections. "Why in the world would we move forward to approve an execution when there is some possibility that the U.S. Supreme Court will give specific guidance on this very issue in terms of lethal injection?" asked Justice Harry Lee Anstead. "What is the emergency of having an execution put forward while we're waiting for what will be the absolutely controlling law in this area?" Earlier, assistant attorney general Kenneth Nunnelley said the state's methods would stand up to whatever the U.S. Supreme Court decides in the Kentucky case. "Florida's procedures will meet any standard they may possibly choose to apply," Nunnelley said. (source: News-Press) ********************** WOMEN IN PRISON----Women inmates tell stories through art----An arts program is helping inmates share the harsh realities of prison in the hope of helping at-risk girls avoid the same fate. On a miserable gray day near the edge of the Everglades, past thickets of razor wire, doors guarded 24/7, past the sounds of a woman screaming at the voices in her head, a dozen women sit in a circle in a place they call Wellness. In this bright room with its under-the-sea mural, these women with terrible stories to tell and hard experiences to share become writers, dancers, performers, poets, artists, singers, playwrights. Outside of this circle, this oasis that gets created for two hours each Saturday, 11 of the women are inmates at the Broward Correctional Institution in Pembroke Pines. Eight are serving life sentences for murder. And in the years before their crimes, many of these perpetrators were also the victims of violence and abuse.M In the past 13 years, dozens of female inmates have shared their stories with Leslie Neal, an associate professor of dance at Florida International University and founder of ArtSpring, a nonprofit organization that brings an arts program called Inside Out to women in prison. On Thursday, some of that painful, creative work goes public at Any One of Us: Words from Prison. A benefit featuring Vagina Monologues creator Eve Ensler and singer-songwriter Amy Carol Webb, the event -- staged by Neal, with original music by Webb, dance pieces, video of prisoners talking about their lives and readings by a cast that includes community leaders and former inmates -- is set for 8 p.m. at Miami's Gusman Center for the Performing Arts. For Neal, Ensler and the many volunteers who bring writing workshops and the cathartic power of the arts into prisons, passion for the work is based on 2 ideas: that artistic expression really can be a tool for healing and change, and that women who have been locked away from the world are still human beings with value. ''There's this terrible thing that women do called their crime. Then there's the rest of them, which is full and extensive and powerful and important,'' Ensler says. "Isn't there something about people transforming themselves and becoming new kinds of people that can benefit society? Wouldn't that be honoring the people that they hurt, rather than just punishing and just holding people forever?'' For Neal, who has made the 100-mile roundtrip from her home in south Miami-Dade County to BCI nearly every Saturday since 1994, sitting with the women in that circle is a deeply rewarding calling -- though it's one that comes with a price. ''I've got a history of abuse, and a dysfunctional childhood. It's a fine line that separates me from them. That's what motivates me most. There, but for the grace of God, go I,'' Neal says. "Sometimes I go home and cry. I sob at 1 a.m. on my deck in the moonlight. I sob when my husband is asleep. It's not for everyone. It's very hard work.'' Beginning in February 2006, ArtSpring partnered with the Miami-based Girls Advocacy Project to conduct four-month writing workshops called Bridging the Gap -- GAP for short -- at both BCI and the Homestead Correctional Institution. Many of the pieces in the Any One of Us program were written during those workshops, prompted by questions for the inmates from young girls in detention facilities -- girls already struggling to overcome abusive relationships, family problems, early motherhood, addiction and more. RECURRING PROBLEMS The stories of women doing hard time in prison and girls in detention are hauntingly similar. GAP founder Cindy Lederman, administrative judge of the Miami-Dade Circuit Court's juvenile division, says, "What we've learned is that whether they're girls or women, they have the same stories, the same trauma.'' The hope is that the inmates' cautionary tales and frank talk about the realities of months, years or a lifetime in prison might help at-risk girls avoid the same fate. Deidre Hunt, a former death row inmate serving a life sentence for murder, reflects on the way many women wind up in prison, and what never getting out really means. ''I know a lot of these girls are here because of men. Because of boys. Their association with them. Because of love. Because you want somebody to love you so much that you're gonna cling to the first person you feel like loves you . . . And beating, and being abused, is not love,'' says Hunt, 38. "If you end up in prison, when your grandmother goes to the hospital, you ain't gonna be able to go see her. Or if your mom dies, you can't go to the funeral. Every single person that gets sick, or has a baby, or gets married, you won't be able to hug 'em. You won't be able to be there. And you won't be part of anything. The world is going to go on without you.'' CHALLENGING INMATES Maggie Carr, a BCI inmate serving a life sentence, has gone from laughing about ''all this fruity stuff'' that the ArtSpring volunteers have the inmates do to becoming a believer in the healing power of the arts. 'I used to say, 'How can the arts be rehabilitative? How can the arts soothe you?' '' says Carr, whose 20-year-old son Lezley was only 6 when she went to prison. "It's hope. It's manifested hope in every essence you can think of: in the writing, the dancing and laughing, and even in our idiosyncrasies and personality defects and loving each other and hating each other. It's the only thing in the Department of Corrections that offers you normalcy and hope.'' Those things can be in short supply for a young woman serving a long sentence. Valencia Byrd, still as slender as the teenager she was when she entered prison, is one of them. ''[When] I came to prison, I was 17 years old, with a six-month-old baby and a 40-year sentence. And I wish that everything that was [said] in the Bridging the Gap group, and by people like Leslie and the volunteers that come in, I wish somebody would have said that to me. 'Cause that was me at 17,'' says Byrd, now 31. "My son is 14, and I've been here since 1994 -- 13 years. I never even gave him a birthday party.'' Ensler, a star activist whose V-Day organization is dedicated to ending violence against women and girls, has morphed from performer-playwright to crusader-fundraiser. She began coaching inmate writers in 1998 at New York's Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. The women's writing was featured in the 2003 PBS documentary What I Want My Words To Do to You and in the first Any One of Us: Words from Prison fundraiser in New York last year. But since a change in the prison's administration, Ensler says, she hasn't been able to go back into Bedford Hills. She remains a committed advocate for programs like hers, ArtSpring's Inside Out and Bridging the Gap -- and for their expansion. ''It's insane that we can't do writing groups and let women process their feelings and come to terms with their crimes. That we let them just sit there and essentially rot, because there are no programs,'' Ensler says. "Then we recycle people: We recycle pain, and we recycle violence, because there's no transformation.'' WHAT ABOUT VICTIMS? Yet victims' advocates ask: What's wrong with letting someone convicted of murder rot? That tension between punishment and rehabilitation in a prison system is constant and, like so much of life, political. ''I certainly empathize with victims. They are really important, and it's important we pay attention to their feelings,'' says Laura Bedard, deputy secretary of the Florida Department of Corrections and a reader at the Any One of Us event. Bedard, who taught criminology courses at Florida State University and served as warden at Lowell Correctional Institution, is now working to expand arts programs in Florida's prisons. ''Inmates need to understand the impact of their crimes on victims and to look at the tremendous consequences. Arts in corrections is not about having fun; it's a process, so inmates will be better equipped to deal with life. Our job is to hold inmates accountable and to provide opportunities for change,'' she says. Webb, who has written 2 new songs (If Only I Could See the Ocean and Any One of Us) for the Gusman event, has performed inside prisons many times, and the just-punish-them attitude ticks her off. ''Being in prison is getting stripped of your selfhood,'' Webb says. 'The world at large doesn't see the series of events and circumstances that led to these consequences. People think, 'Well, if they were convicted, they must have deserved it.' It's a fact that a lot of us got a second chance, got an education. We have no right to be righteous about who we are and why we aren't on the other side of that cage.'' AN INSIDER'S VIEW Someone who has been on both sides of the bars, Vicki Lopez Lukis, is a performer in Any One of Us. She is a former Lee County commissioner who served 15 months in federal prison on a mail fraud conviction before President Bill Clinton commuted her sentence. She is statewide expansion director for GAP and was chairman of the Florida's Ex-Offender Task Force under former Gov. Jeb Bush. ''Nobody in this work says these are poor, innocent women. But they are paying with their lives. They are human. I can't dismiss them and say they have no more value,'' she says, adding that the arts give women who ''may never see the outside again'' a way to cope with that reality. "The Department of Corrections has been much more punitive than rehabilitative over the past 30 years. But [most] of us come home, and when you release inmates, you should help them have the tools to be better people. This is not about being soft on crime. It's about being smart on crime.'' A WAY TO GIVE BACK For the inmate writers who have taken a life, writing something that could serve as a reminder and help change someone's future is a way to give back, the discovery of a purpose. Says Valerie Rhodes, serving a life sentence at BCI: "I wanted to be somebody else's lifeline. And if I could give them 1 or 2 words or a poem, or something that would help them to pull through whatever they're going through, then my life isn't wasted. I am very proud of that.'' (source: Miami Herald) MISSOURI: Executions set to resume in Missouri Green rolling hills, charming small towns and winding roads: a pastoral setting that belies the presence of an ominous compound surrounded by coils of electrified wire known as Potosi Correctional Center. A facility of the Missouri Department of Corrections, Potosi is a maximum security prison, built in 1989 and housing about 800 offenders. In the early 1990s, the prison fazed out its death row wing, and mainstreamed its capital punishment inmates into the general population. There are currently 45 capital punishment inmates at Potosi. Driving from Kansas City to Potosi, about 60 miles from St. Louis, took five and a half hours. Hours to imagine scenes from "The Green Mile," "Silence of the Lambs" and other frightening prison films. Hours in which stomachs fluttered and climbed into the throat, especially in the last mile. Aside from the coils of wire glinting in the sunshine, the building didn't appear scary. Visitors mounted a flight of stairs to the visitor's entrance, and the first of three checkpoints between the outside and the visitor's room. Signing in, showing identification, shedding jewelry and other metal or sharp objects, and submitting to the guard's metal detecting wand. On to the next checkpoint where a second guard entered names into a computer, identification and keys were put in a clear plastic bag, left hands were stamped with ultraviolet ink, and more forms signed. A 3rd guard waited down the hall. Hands were held under a black light so the ultraviolet message appeared. Then the electric door slammed shut. It is an unforgettable sound, with an echo of finality. Into the visitor's room to await the three capital punishment inmates who had agreed to talk. What will they be like? Charles Manson? Ted Bundy? A buzzing sound announced their arrival. 3 men in mid-life, looking - except for their institutional white shirts and grey trousers - like 3 men anywhere. Richard Clay, Dennis Skillicorn and Jeffrey Ferguson were all found guilty of first degree murder and sentenced to die by lethal injection. Like most capital punishment inmates, their sentences were handed down more than 10 years ago. At first, the conversation skirted the crimes and the punishment. Skillicorn: "Here at Potosi we've been integrated into the general population. That gives us an opportunity to participate in general population activities, like work. Most of us have jobs." Since 1996, he has worked in Set Free Ministries, a prison ministry run by the prisoners. "We cater to the spiritual needs of about 2,000 college students in Missouri and Illinois," he said. "It's a mission, work that gives me a real sense of purpose." Ferguson, 52, agreed. "Working, doing something positive, rubs off on the other guys." He works in the prison hospice program, caring for terminally ill prisoners, and for Set Free Ministries. "In hospice, we sit with the dying," he said, "write letters for them, hold the phone to their ears and mouths so they can talk to family and friends, help keep them as comfortable as we can. The main thing is we work to make sure nobody in prison dies alone. What's worse than dying alone in prison?" Skillicorn, 47, who also works in the hospice program, said that hospice dispels the stereotypes of death row inmates - its OK for men to care for other men. Hospice care givers learn about palliative care and helping maintain the dignity of life until the end, he said. "We learn to get our priorities straight," Skillicorn said. Suddenly, the interview changed. Clay, 42, appeared morose at first, staring at the table. "I want to say that I've always maintained my innocence," he said without raising his head. "I was with the wrong people at the wrong time." He looked up. "But having said that, I'm at peace with it. I've been 13 years on death row. The victims' families want somebody to pay for the crime. It's pure emotion. They want to be satisfied and I can understand that. I plan to say to them, 'I hope my death gives you peace.'" Ferguson said he and other capital punishment inmates pray for their victims, "those we hurt and their families. If the death penalty was done away with, and we got life without parole, those families wouldn't have to go through it all over again." Clay: "Death row is terminal, like cancer. So I asked myself, 'Do I let it eat me up like cancer or do I let it make me a better person?' I chose to become a better person, grounded in my faith." Drugs and alcohol had played major roles in the murders the three men were convicted of. "Usually the guy on death row that you talk to is not the guy who committed the crime that brought him here," Skillicorn said. "The guy we used to be was high on dope, or drunk, or caught up in something emotional that made him snap. People can and do change." The men under sentence of death at Potosi have known each other for years; they have formed close bonds with each other. "I know if Jeff's or Rick's mom is sick," Skillicorn said, "and they know if my wife or stepson isn't feeling well." "We send each other birthday and Christmas cards," Ferguson said. "And when one of us is taken for execution, well ... ," his voice trailed off. Skillicorn picked up the thread of Ferguson's thought. "We don't have an opportunity to grieve like other people because we live with it every day. When the clock strikes midnight on an execution day, each of us thinks about it." He smiled ruefully. "The day before an execution we share a lot of fond memories and hey, remember when ole Whatshisname did such and such? and we smile. The next day nobody wants to talk about it because it's a reminder of what we all face." There have been no executions in Missouri since October 2005. The U.S. Court of Appeals stayed the scheduled execution of Michael Taylor - sentenced to die for the murder of a 15-year-old girl - who had challenged the lethal injection procedure, saying it was cruel and unusual, and violated the Eighth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution. The court then granted another 60 days for further investigation. In June 2006 the Court of the Western District of Missouri ordered that all executions in the state be put on hold until the Department of Corrections adjusted the execution procedures to make them conform to Eighth Amendment standards. The state was given 40 days to submit new protocols. The District Court denied the state's request for reconsideration and continued to affirm that the state's execution protocols were insufficient, thus clearing the way for the state to appeal to the 8th Circuit Court. In June 2007, the 8th Circuit Court overruled the District Court's decision, ruling that the state's execution process is constitutional. The court held that a doctor is not necessary to monitor executions because of the high level of anesthetics given to the inmate. Executions remained on hold while the ruling was appealed. In August the federal court refused to continue the moratorium on executions even though challenges continued. The state may now set execution dates. According to Brian Hauswirth, public information officer for the Missouri Department of Corrections, execution dates have been set for 10 capital punishment inmates. Ferguson: "We made the original allegations that the lethal injections were cruel and unusual because we were trying to save our lives. But it's true. It's gonna hurt ... Hey, the guy who invented the process didn't do any clinical trials to make sure it was OK. Of course, how could he?" Ferguson smiled at the irony. Clay doesn't like to think too much about the future. So he fills his days with work and activities. "I get up for count and then go have breakfast in the cafeteria," Clay said. "I work in the chair frame factory from 7 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., then shower and change and go to chow. Some nights I volunteer with Set Free Ministries, or go to church. Then I watch a little TV, write letters and go to bed. Next day I do it all over again. On Fridays I see case workers, family or friends who visit, go to the store and have some recreation time." When he allows himself time to think about it he wonders about the process. "Is it going to hurt? I'm not afraid to die, everybody dies. It's the process that scares me." Ferguson on the other hand, said he was simply going through the motions of living. "I spend hours trying to get to sleep at night just thinking about my life and death. What do I want for my last meal, what will my last words be, what do I want my legacy to my daughters and grandchildren to be?" Skillicorn said the main problem with being on death row is that you can't make any long-term plans. Whatever the outcome of his sentence at Potosi, he said, "I'll continue to do the work God gave me to do. I just may have to change offices." Skillicorn is also the editor of a quarterly newsletter called Compassion, for which death row inmates in prisons all over the country can submit art, poetry or essays on life and faith, or other topics. Proceeds from subscriptions and donations are given in the form of college scholarships to families of murder victims. So far, scholarships totaling more than $30,000 have been awarded. Hauswirth said the death penalty protocols in use in the State of Missouri were signed into law in 1977 by then-governor Joe Teasdale. At the time Missouri executed prisoners with lethal gas. In 1988 the state began using the combination of sodium pentathol, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride in lethal injection, a cocktail formulated by an Oklahoma anesthesiologist. Hauswirth said the Department of Corrections has no control over sentences. Convicted offenders are sentenced by a jury of their peers, not by a judge. The Department of Corrections simply follows the court orders. A death sentence provides for an automatic appeal to the Missouri Supreme Court, and for appeals to lesser courts. Appeals may be based on claims of innocence, the constitutionality of the legal process, allegations of age or race discrimination, or other reasons. Ultimately the appeals may even go to the U.S. Supreme Court. Appeals may take years, Hauswirth said. "We try to be fair, firm and consistent in our treatment of offenders," he said. "But we are following court orders. We have to believe that the protocol the department follows is humane, constitutional and quick." Hauswirth said that the department of spiritual and religious programing is a very vital part of prison life. All of the correctional facilities in the state have an all-faiths chaplain on staff, and ministers of specific traditions can be cleared to visit and hold services or classes. According to Kathleen Reagan, an attorney writing for Commonweal magazine, the Federal Bureau of Prisons, which manages 100 institutions nationwide, employs only 60 full-time chaplains. Forty two contractor priests serve the remaining facilities. State prisons are similarly affected by a lack of chaplains, she wrote. In the spring of 2001, Tom Cummins, a member of Mary Queen of Peace Parish in Webster Groves, answered the call to minister to men in administrative segregation at Potosi Correctional Center. Today he drives 90 minutes each way to visit offenders three times a month and holds a monthly Communion service and faith class. On alternate Fridays, Father George Galovich, pastor of St. James Church in Potosi, celebrates Mass at the prison, attended by 20 to 25 offenders. Father Ted Pieper, pastor of St. Joachim Parish in Old Mines, also celebrates Mass at Potosi monthly. "At the time, there was no lay Catholic chaplain at Potosi," Cummins said in a telephone interview. "I began visiting men who were in isolation because of bad behavior. These were men who had everything taken away from them, privileges, basic human companionship, for a period of months, sometimes years. "I also visit men who have been read the warrant of death," he said, "before they are removed to the Eastern Correctional Center at Bonne Terre, where executions are carried out. With those men, there is a risk of spiritual desolation, and praying with them and talking to them can help. I have witnessed one execution. "I try to see every man at Potosi as a child of God. It has really changed my outlook. Underneath the banter, the bravado, there is a real sadness. It's unarticulated, but it gets under the skin." Cummins said he had been very moved watching capitol punishment inmates working in hospice. "Here was this big death row inmate comforting a fellow prisoner who was dying of cancer," he said. "It was a powerful sight." By and large, capital punishment inmates accept their sentences, Cummins said. "It's the law of the state so they feel that they deserve it for the crime they committed." On Palm Sunday 2006, Missouri's Catholic bishops issued a statement on the death penalty. They said that Catholic teaching begins with the recognition that the dignity of the human person applies to both victims and offenders. "It affirms our commitment to comfort and support victims and their families while acknowledging the God-given dignity of every human life, even of those who do great harm." While renewing their call to put an end to the death penalty, the bishops said the church has acknowledged the right of the state to use the death penalty in order to protect society. However, the church insists that the state should forego the exercise of this right if other non-lethal options are available to protect society, such as life without possibility of parole. "They may feel they deserve the death sentence. However, it's not a resignation or a giving up," Cummins said. "The men want to make the rest of their lives rewarding, and they do that by embracing a faith. All that's left to them is themselves and God. "We are called to minister to those who are abandoned, forgotten or despised," he said. "When you're on the fringes of society like men and women in prison are, you begin to understand that's where the Lord hung out." (source: The Catholic Key)
[Deathpenalty] death penalty news----PENN., VA., FLA., MO.
Rick Halperin Sat, 13 Oct 2007 16:23:08 -0500 (Central Daylight Time)
