In Memory of Darryl Hunt

I am saddened to learn of the death of Darryl Hunt.  On Sunday, he was found dead, slumped over in his car in a shopping center parking lot in Winston-Salem, NC.  The immediate cause of his death has not yet been released, but who can doubt what lies at the root of the cause — state-induced trauma.

In 1984, Darryl was accused and convicted of a murder and rape that he did not commit.  Despite the lack of any credible evidence, Darryl spent almost 20 years in prison for these crimes.  The State of North Carolina sought a death sentence but fell short of its goal; a good thing since Darryl would likely have been executed by the time DNA and a subsequent confession by the killer proved, to even the most ardent doubters, that Darryl was indeed actually innocent.  His journey of injustice is captured in the documentary The Trials of Darryl Hunt.

As a young lawyer, I observed Darryl’s numerous loses in court from a distance.  I knew his appellate attorneys and saw them build a stronger and stronger legal case showing that an innocent man had been wrongfully convicted.  I felt their — and my — hopes for justice rise at each stage of review, only to have judge after judge deny relief.   A DNA test exonerated Darryl of the rape in 1994, yet his request for a new trial was denied.  It would be another 10 years, when the actual killer was identified, before a judge would order a new trial and, ultimately, release.

I was fortunate to cross paths with Darryl a few times after his release.  He was always humble, polite and giving.  When I invited him to speak to my small Access to Justice class at Charlotte School of Law, he was glad to do so, despite requiring a long drive at night.   As he had done for so many others, he showed my students and me amazing grace in the face of extraordinary loss.  His peaceful presence and advocacy for others after prison stands as a testament to how forgiveness is a much more desirable path than anger and resentment.

Nonetheless, no man can be carefree after losing 20 years of freedom because of racial bias and institutional arrogance, waiting day after day for those in power to hear his pleas of innocence.  The stress Darryl suffered in prison, and then the stress suffered adjusting to the “real” world, must have taken an extreme toll on his body and mind.  I am not surprised to learn that he suffered from both cancer and depression.   Perhaps he was living under a death sentence after all.

 

 

 

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Dean Smith and the Death Penalty

In his death, Dean Smith is being honored for being a great basketball coach and, more impressively, for being a great human being. Smith led by example and not just on the easy lessons of being a good sportsman and a good student. Smith also led by taking unpopular stances and actions on behalf of those most hated by many who surrounded him – blacks, gays and even murderers. Smith sat at a segregated lunch counter with a black student, recruited the first black player for UNC, held basketball practices in prisons, and stood before the Governor of North Carolina to request mercy for a man scheduled for execution.

Smith met John Noland years before Noland faced execution in November 1998.   Smith visited him in prison, after hearing Noland was a fan of his. They became pen pals and friends. Smith made a persuasive case to Governor Jim Hunt for sparing the man’s life, despite his horrible deeds. He famously asserted, “You’re a murderer. And I’m a murderer. The death penalty makes us all murderers.”

Smith courageously spoke truth to power on the social issues of his day because he believed it was the right thing to do, and UNC fans loved him regardless of whether they agreed with him.   Today, public university professors and administrators in North Carolina are discouraged and even punished for taking unpopular positions on social issues. Perhaps, we would best honor Dean Smith by giving educators the space to be prophetic leaders and by reflecting individually on whether we will be on the same side of history as Dean Smith, the right side.

Beaverdam Loop Road

The most stressful part of investigating a death penalty case for a defense attorney is talking with the family members of the murder victim.  Needless to say, many survivors of murder are not expecting to be contacted by the killer’s attorney – especially years after the trial — and many are not happy when they are contacted.   But when the family members of the victim are also the family members of your client, you have no choice.  If you want to be a diligent and effective advocate, you have to reach out to your client’s family.

We had one reason for hope of victim family cooperation in Zane’s case:  he and his wife Frannie had reconciled.   After an initial period of shock and anger, and after Zane had been tried and sentenced to death, Frannie began making the four hour trek once a month to Central Prison to visit the man who had killed her son.  According to Zane, she had forgiven him and she would help us.  See post at https://cadcocknc.wordpress.com/2012/10/12/meeting-my-first-death-row-client/

This news was good, but it wasn’t news I could count on.  Frannie still lived in the same small house in which Zane had shot and killed her son — on Beaverdam Loop Road, set far back in a holler.    Zane had given me a long list of his friends to contact, many of whom lived on Beaverdam Loop Road.   There was only one way in and out of the holler and that was by Beaverdam Road, a long winding country road through beautiful farmland.   We had to take all precautions to protect our investigation, in case Frannie would not speak with us or, worse, tell others not to speak with us.  Thus, my plan was to talk to as many friends that we could, and before any of the Hills found out we were in the holler.

Zane had given me many addresses of his family and friends, which was helpful.  In the early 1990s, there was no internet you could use to find people.  Without an address, the resources were the phonebook and good old fashion gumshoeing. If you couldn’t get an address, you could often find someone who could tell you how to find person you sought.  Directions given often were descriptive in nature: “Go over two hills, turn right at the tree with a big split in it, then go past the red barn and just past the pasture with the big black cow, you will see the trailer on the left.”

I wasn’t sure what to expect from Zane’s neighbors.  These people may have once been Zane’s friends but would they still think of him that way?   Or would they want to have nothing to do with their friend-turned-murderer?  After all, Frannie still lived among them.  Would they be willing to help Zane without her okay?   So, our first trip into the holler was not preceded by any phone calls.  We just showed up, hoping people were home.

Stealing my nerves, my investigator and I began knocking on doors.  To my great relief, Zane’s friends — young and old, male and female alike — were welcoming and eager to help.   They accepted that Zane had shot his son, Randy, a man they all liked.  He was the “good” son, the one that caused no trouble.   But, person after person believed that Zane would not have shot Randy if he had been in his right mind. Yes, they knew about the reported history of domestic violence but most minimized it.   More than one neighbor explained, “Frannie could give it as good as she got it.”

The Ripples of Trauma from Sandy Hook

Hearing the news about the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre last Friday triggered deep emotional pain across America and the world, even though few of us knew anyone close to those murdered.   Parents with young children held them tighter.  Children said prayers for the children lost.  In a darker place, many who have experienced loss through gun violence began to re-live their own trauma.

The ripple effects of senseless violence are long and deep.  Psychological trauma hits the hardest those caught in the immediate splash – the witnesses, the survivors (those closest to the event and the victim), and the perpetrator (assuming he or she lives).  The trauma spreads to friends of the survivors and of the perpetrator and to those who hear details about the killing.   It also spreads over time to those who later get to know the survivors and the perpetrator.

I have never had a loved one lost to gun violence or even murder, though my husband’s sister was murdered long before I knew him.  But as a lawyer, I have represented and have grown close to clients who have killed and then been killed by state execution.   I have heard things no one should hear and have seen things that no one should see.   The psychological trauma has taken its toll.

One of the consequences of psychological trauma is that its dysfunctions can re-emerge at any time, overwhelming your mental functioning.  You never know when the symptoms will be triggered.

I was running errands on Friday, when I first heard about a shooting at an elementary school.  Instinctively I knew it best to wait until I got home to learn more.  When I did, an overwhelming sadness enveloped me, and it has not lifted.  Thoughts of one of my executed clients, Steve McHone, and his family suddenly crowded my mind.  I write in hopes of stopping the flood.

Steve’s story is similar to Adam Lanza’s story though certainly different in magnitude.   Steve was the same age of Adam when he committed his crimes; he had just turned 20.  In the middle of the night in the idyllic town of Mount Airy, NC, Steve shot and killed his mother in their backyard and his step-father in the kitchen, before he was stopped by his half-brother.

Steve suffered from mental illnesses, which he had self-medicated with alcohol and drugs since the age of 12.  Steve had violent outbursts, once chasing his mother, Mildred, around the kitchen with a knife.  Mildred tried several times to get him psychological help, but the actual treatment he received was minimal.

On June 2nd, 1990, the perfect storm came together – alcohol, severe depression, conflict and guns.  Steve went to a party, got drunk, and got a gun from his family camper.  He fought with friends at the party but nothing came of it.   By the time he got home after midnight, Steve was distraught, threatening suicide.  He fought with his parents and was sent to his room to sleep it off.

In his basement room, Steve drank more and called his AA sponsor for help.  The sponsor did not come.  Steve went into the backyard with his pistol, most likely with the intent to kill himself.  Mildred was concerned about her son and made her way to the backyard too, with thoughts of removing the gun from the family camper, unaware of the fact that Steve already had it in his grips.

No one knows the details of the interaction of mother and son that night, but it ended with Steve shooting his mother.  Steve’s step-father, Wesley, ran to the scene, disarmed Steve and dragged him into the kitchen.  Wesley left Steve alone long enough for Steve to run to the bedroom and get a shotgun kept in the corner.

By this time Steve’s half-brother, Junior, was present.   Steve shot at Junior, but Wesley intervened and was shot dead.  Steve was subdued by Junior, who Steve begged to kill him.   Impressively, Junior, with both his parents dead, did not oblige.

The State was less restrained.  Steve was executed by the State of North Carolina on November 11, 2005, at the age of 35, fifteen years after his crimes.   I witnessed his pre-meditated killing.   I also witnessed the trauma suffered by three of his four siblings who had forgiven Steve and who had begged the Governor in vain to stop the execution.  So, goes the circle of violence and the traumatization.

I bristle when I hear people suggest that more guns in the home and in the schools are the answer to our country’s problem of violence.   I also bristle when I hear people suggest that we must arm ourselves to protect us from criminals.   I have met these criminals and they are us.  They are our brothers, our husbands, and our sons.   They are also our friends and our neighbors.

It is easy to be overwhelmed by the pain and grief caused by Adam Lanza, but we must not become paralyzed.  We all have much work to do in our own backyards:  to become more knowledgeable and understanding about mental illness, to become more perceptive of those in psychological distress, and for all our sakes, to remove guns from easy reach of those in distress.

The Crime

Ernest Basden was convicted of shooting and killing an insurance salesman, Billy White, in rural Eastern North Carolina in 1993.  The plot of the story is like a poor man’s soap opera.  Billy’s wife, Sylvia, wanted her husband dead.  After failing to accomplish this goal herself using poisoned berries, Sylvia talked Lynwood Taylor into killing her husband.

Lynwood knew how the system worked; a small-town drug dealer himself, he was an active police informant.  He knew better than to do the deed himself.  After
asking around town for a partner in crime, he turned to his nephew, Ernest, who was renting a room from Lynwood’s mother, Ernest’s aunt.  Ernest was down on his luck, chronically depressed and apt to self-medicate with alcohol and drugs.  Lynwood provided Ernest with the needed drugs and alcohol, and after initially resisting, Ernest was convinced to help kill Billy.

Lynwood and Sylvia devised a plot.  Under false pretenses, Lynwood arranged for Billy to meet him at a deserted plot of land late at night.  Lynwood plied Ernest with alcohol and drove him to the designated spot, where they waited in the dark.  When Billy arrived, Lynwood introduced himself and then excused himself.  Ernest got out of the car, picked up a shotgun, and shot Billy twice.

It did not take long for this tale to come to light.  Lynwood and Sylvia were arrested. Ernest turned himself in.

Of the three, Ernest was tried first.  He was sentenced to death on Good Friday, April 9, 1993. Sylvia and Lynwood Taylor both avoided death sentences.  The U.S. Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals was troubled that Ernest, “an intoxicated, manipulated rube,” was the only one to get a death sentence:

Moreover, notwithstanding (or indeed perhaps because of) the greater cunning of Taylor and Sylvia White, they have been treated much more leniently than Basden.  The State did not bring Taylor to trial until four years after Billy White’s murder, and then permitted Taylor to plead guilty to first-degree murder; he received a sentence of life imprisonment.  Similarly, the State did not seek to try Sylvia White for almost four years after the murder of her husband and then allowed her to plead guilty to conspiracy to commit murder and second-degree murder; she too received a sentence of life imprisonment.  Prior to that conviction, the State tried and convicted Sylvia White for the 1973 unrelated murder of her stepson (Billy White’s son and namesake) whom she suffocated with a plastic bag when he was four years old; the State did not seek the death penalty for that murder and White received a life sentence for that crime too.  [See Basden v. Lee, 290 F.3d 602 (4th Cir. 2002).]

According to one prosecutor, Taylor was given leniency in his sentence for Billy White’s murder because he helped the state win a conviction against Sylvia in the stepson’s case. The problem with this excuse is that Ernest’s testimony against Sylvia was equally if not more critical to the conviction.  In any case, Ernest’s attorney sought no favorable treatment, and Ernest received none.

There were other serious flaws with Ernest’s death sentence. Ernest’s trial attorney had to withdraw from the case when he was stricken with cancer; the new lawyer was given only six weeks to prepare for trial.  The trial was a disaster, most notably when the lawyers put Ernest on the stand, to no good end.

When the post-conviction team contacted the jurors, all but one stated that he (or she) never intended that Ernest be executed.  That one juror, then deceased, had told his fellow jurors that he “knew” first-hand that death sentences were overturned on appeal and that Ernest would get another trial and never be executed.  The jurors were sufficiently convinced and gambled with a death sentence.  They — and Ernest — lost.

Mass Killing

The horror was spread all over local and national T.V., radio and newspapers.  Friday night shooting spree by Fort Bragg soldier in Fayetteville restaurant kills four and injures many more!   The more I heard, the worse my heart broke.  I had a deep sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.   By Sunday, a surprising amount of details were known about the victims, the gunman, and the killing spree.   “A Night of Terror, Heroes” screamed the banner headline of the Fayetteville Observer-Times.

On Friday, August 7, 1993, around 10 p.m., Sergeant Kenneth Junior French, 22, drove to a popular, locally owned restaurant, Luigi’s in his black pick-up truck.   He parked in front of the restaurant, got out with two 12-guage shotguns and a .22-caliber rifle.  He was wearing a hunting vest filled with ammunition.  French walked around the outside of the restaurant, which was full of customers, and shot out each of the four windows on the side.  He then returned to his truck and left one shotgun and the rifle.

French walked to the back of the restaurant and entered the back door with his remaining shotgun.  He shot a cook (who survived) and entered the dining room shooting.  The owners of the restaurant, Pete and Ethel Parrous, had been sitting at a booth with their daughter, Connie, and her husband, Tony.  They all were now hiding under the table.   But, as the local newspaper put it, “Mr. Parrous couldn’t just hide under the table.”  Here is Connie’s account of the events as told the day after the tragedy to the Fayetteville Observer-Times:

“Then my dad stood up and said, ‘Oh please don’t hurt us.’  Before you knew it, he’d blown his face away.  My mother freaked out and got up and tried to get him.  They were very close.  She went to him, and that’s when the creep got her, too.

“We were trying to get him (dad), to see if we could help him, but he was already gone,” she said.  “We were all just sitting in a pool of blood.”

French fired at Connie and Tony under the table, hitting Connie in the thigh.

For some 20 minutes, French wandered around the restaurant taking aim at customers.  At times, he ranted about gays in the military.  Witnesses reported him yelling “I’ll show you about gays in the military” and “I’ll show you, Clinton.”   French shot and killed Wes Cover, a former soldier, who dove to shield his pregnant fiancée, and James Kidd, who did the same to shield his son, a soldier.  French periodically stopped to reload his pump shotgun.  He fired about 20 shots.  French’s rampage ended when he was shot by a police officer.  French survived.

It was clear from the news accounts that the Parrouses were beloved by all and well known in the community, particularly the Greek community.  Their senseless deaths would no doubt cause widespread trauma and outrage.  There was also no doubt that Mr. French would be facing the death penalty.