A DISGUSTING CHAIN OF EVENTS

Really, I had forgotten about Karla Faye Tucker and her upcoming execution then, suddenly, she and her story were everywhere. And I watched and watched and watched.

I was fascinated as she told about her fallen life, her religious conversion and how she was a changed woman. I was impressed by her sincerity when she admitted her part in a uniquely heinous double murder. I believed her when she said she was sorry for what she had done and no longer had the capacity to repeat such an evil deed. I agreed with her when she said she deserved commutation of her death sentence to life in prison. I noticed she was a pretty woman who had an extraordinarily charming personality but I was sure, in my heart of hearts, that such fleeting attributes like beauty and demeanor had no influence on my decision making processes. I was coming from a higher plane. I hated the death penalty because it was state sanctioned murder.

And Karla Faye's end crept closer.

I had misgivings about the motivation of right-wing preacher Jerry Falwell's surprising opposition to Karla faye's execution, particularly given his previously unyielding support for the death penalty for everything from petty theft to treason. I silently agreed with jokes about how fundamentalist Christian women wear too much makeup, cotton candy hair and cheap looking clothing because their husbands always wanted converted prostitutes for wives. It made good sense that bad-girl-turned-good Karla Faye was the donut every fundamentalist preacher in America wanted to dunk in his tea.

And Karla Faye's end crept even closer and as it did her prospects grew substantially smaller.

The head of the Texas Parole Board ruled he was glad Karla Faye had found Christianity but made it absolutely clear that her newly found faith was something between her and her God. Her apparent conversion carried no weight with the group he chaired, he acknowledged self-righteously. All the Board had considered, he was, was what Karla Faye had done fifteen years earlier. With amazing indifference and no remorse, he passed the clemency hot potato on to the Texas governor with a big "denied" stamp on its wrinkled skin.

No one seemed to notice the oxymoron that the frosty chairman of the parole board was a Hispanic, a minority over-represented on the Texas penal system's death row. The words Uncle Tomas echoed more than once in the ensuing conversations.

Then Texas Governor George Bush came on national television, said he was elected to uphold the law, tried to pass the poison pill to the United States Supreme Court, and declared that Karla Faye was going to die as ordered. His face looked like he sure hoped nobody in Texas would hold this decision against him next election day.

And Karla Faye died as planned.

Her passing was announced by a Texas Corrections public information officer who was so plain and so nasal that any dreams he might have had for a career in television were wasted. With all the emotions of an undertaker, he recounted the last few minutes of Karla Faye's short life and recited her final words like he was reading a grocery list. When he reported Karla Faye was now meeting her Maker, the crowd cheered.

The biker boyfriend of one of Karla Faye's victims grabbed the microphone and shouted, "She's comin' to ya', baby doll. Give her hell." The crowd loved it and roared its approval a second time.

And that night I went to church. I felt the need for some spiritual catharsis and when it came my turn to read from the scriptures, I used the moment to talk to my fellows about the disgust I felt at hearing a crowd cheer at the death of a Christian woman. I ended my speech with the impassioned words, "Karla Faye, I sing to your salvation." I felt a lot better and went home knowing I had done my bit to undermine state supported murder.

The next day, the fervor of the moment had subsided and I remembered another woman who had been put to death somewhere in the mid-west a month or two earlier. I remembered I hadn't taken much interest in her plight because, now I thought about it, she wasn't all that pretty and when I heard her talk she seemed kind of mean-spirited.

Then I remembered the crowd at Ted Bundy's execution had cheered too. But that was different. I didn't like him, I didn't like his crimes and I couldn't remember feeling anything about his death, one way or the other.

And the big neon sign shouting "hypocrit" flashed on in the back of my mind. I didn't like that either and I tried to extinguish it. But I couldn't.

Reilly Johnson is a 57 year old man serving a life sentence for first degree murder. In May, 1998, he began his sixteenth year in prison for a crime he claims he didn't commit. He receives correspondence at Post Office Drawer 250, Grants, New Mexico 87020-0250.

Reilly Johnson will be a regular contributor to the Crime & Punishment Forum, which features essays by individuals involved in the criminal justice system.