WITNESS TO MY BROTHER’S EXECUTION: Face to Face with Destiny

By Gina Farthing

Published: April 16, 2005

We couldn’t be late for my brother’s execution.

We drove through a sea of blue uniforms, radios, guns and cameras, and then parked.

A group of administrators whisked us inside. All eight of us were allowed into a conference room with a huge wooden table.

In addition to me were my father, 71; my mother, 67; two younger brothers, 39 and 27; my younger sister, 37, and her husband, 40; and my 17-year-old daughter, Lindsay.

Only two of us would be allowed to witness the execution: My mother and I already had volunteered.

Even before the judge rendered his decision two years earlier, I knew I would be one of the two family witnesses to see my brother executed.

The question was who would be the other.

Our father had been a Navy man and knew the meaning of duty, but he seemed to age overnight and weakened with each passing month during the two years between the sentencing and the execution. The family asked my mother to talk him out of witnessing Michael’s death.

My parents were prepared to visit their son in prison for the rest of their lives, but Michael wanted out.

In spring 2002, the South Carolina Supreme Court granted his request to waive his automatic appeal despite protestations from his court-appointed appeals lawyer, Joe Savitz. It was the first time in South Carolina history that a capital case was not reviewed by a judge.

I was happy for Michael’s bittersweet victory.

As a former corrections officer and a death penalty supporter, I knew what prison would hold for my brother.

His execution would be his reprieve.

In prison, there is a hierarchy. Inmates who commit crimes against children are the most hated, and prison retribution is swift, unlike the state’s.

I could not fight the bullies in prison for him, but I could give him tips on staying safer. I knew then that I had taken the job as a corrections officer for a reason - to help my brother later.

Luckily, death row inmates rarely have contact with other cons. Even so, Michael had been attacked a couple of times.

Our mother decided to be the second witness at Michael’s execution. “I was there when he came into this world; I’ll be there when he leaves,” she said.

Countdown to destiny

On execution day, at around 4 in the afternoon, the eight of us were searched with a metal detector and told to make ourselves comfortable. We tried.

We were angry, anxious, confused and just plain scared.

Prison staffers tried to soothe us. They had soft voices and answered our questions. They brought us magazines to keep our minds occupied, but the only magazines they had were about corrections.

Through the windows we could see several death-penalty protesters. Standing apart from the throng was a single protester, an older woman. Her sign stated, “Remember the baby.”

Time dragged. The thick silence in the room was interrupted by the dull murmur of voices or the occasional eruption of emotion. My youngest brother, Chuck, and my sister and her husband cried.

My daughter, Lindsay, asked if I was OK. “I am,” I said, adding, “Are you?” She nodded, “Uh-huh,” although it was not convincing.

Then the clock reached 5:40 p.m. - time to go.

In 20 minutes, Michael - who skipped his last meal - would die. Two of us stepped forward to bear the unknown burdens for the rest of the family.

Seeing my brother die

Mom and I were escorted to a waiting prison car with tinted windows.

“Stand over here, I’ll block you so the cameras can’t see you,” a guard told us.

I wanted to hug him for being so considerate.

The car chauffeured us 1½ miles deep within the prison grounds. We were the first to arrive at the death house.

Once inside, only two more doors were between us and Destiny.

The witness room was much smaller than I imagined. We were guided to two front-row seats against the far wall, in front of a huge window. On our side of the window was plain glass. On the other, huge shutters covered the upper part of the window above our heads. A heavy curtain material, impossible to see through, covered the rest of the window.

Slowly, other witnesses began to arrive, whisked in as we had been. Silently. Slowly. The room filled.

To our left sat Maggie’s other family - Karen’s father and Karen’s two older daughters, but not Karen. One row behind us, to our left, were the media - without cameras, holding writing tablets. To our rear, three rows behind us, were the men who represented the system - prosecutors and the appeals lawyer, Savitz. Human shields of blue uniforms kept the groups from mingling.

The silence was eerie, but it screamed in my ears. Finally, as it whirled all about me, screeching like a banshee, a sound broke through the silence from behind the curtain - muffled voices.

I held my mother’s hand as Michael’s passing was imminent, still cloaked behind the curtain. It was last call to avoid the terrible meeting.

Neither of us flinched. We knew this was what Michael wanted. He told us so. We were there to support him in his decision. I was never worried for his soul, because for him, hell had been his life.

We were ready. I lowered my head and closed my eyes.

At 6 p.m. sharp, the curtain parted.

“Should I look?” I wondered. “What will I see? Could I look? Would I be scarred the rest of my life? Will I be able to go on after this?”

My heart seemed to pound right out of my chest. My breathing was fast and shallow, as if I had just run a race. My ears were getting warmer. My blouse clung to my back as sweat trickled down.

“No!” I told myself. “Never let ’em see you sweat.”

I tried to relax by slowing and deepening my breaths. A wave of “everything will be all right” swept over me. I said silent prayers to dead relatives and a friend, asking them to be there for Michael when he arrived in the afterlife.

Before me, on the other side of the window, three corrections officials stood to the left side of another little room - a room much smaller than ours. Three official-looking men in suits stood in the back of the room, one of them clutching a white phone to his ear.

On the right side of the room was a brick wall with a door. Clear tubing protruded from little square holes in the wall. I visually followed the tubing to a heavy metal table - very medical looking.

My brother was lying on the table waiting to see us. He wore the green jumpsuit we had grown accustomed to seeing.

He was covered with a sheet from the waist down and his arms were outstretched as if on a cross.

His left hand was covered in surgical tape and was stretched out to Mom and me. If not for the glass, we could have touched him.

His eyes met ours. We were glad to see him again - one last time - and he us. Everyone else in the room faded from our consciousness.

We mouthed our silent goodbyes to each other, the three of us. Michael mouthed the words “It’s over.”

The three of us mouthed an entire conversation together. Michael again expressed his remorse for hurting us. He never thought that what he did would make our family victims as well - twice over. (My parents never shared with him how they had been shunned in their community.)

As Michael was about to die, we read his lips. News reports from media witnesses stated that Michael laughed during his execution. It gave the wrong impression.

Michael told Mom and me a dumb joke that made us smile. That caused him to chuckle.

Michael could have stopped the execution at the last second, but we knew he wouldn’t. And I wasn’t worried about his soul because I believed in a loving God and Father - and eventually, so did Michael. I shared my faith with him. It was this faith, I believe, that gave Michael the strength to face the consequences of his actions, with hope, a lighter heart and belief in a greater plan.

It also was my faith that made me envious of Michael, for he would be done with pettiness, wars, hate, violence, bullies, hidden agendas, bigotry - things that make life hell. In the presence of his loving Father, he would know unconditional love - not the kind we experience here. Michael would be reunited with the One who had created him. God made Michael as he was, in His image, knowing what Michael’s future would bring. “God don’t make no junk,” the saying goes; my faith in a greater plan tells me it is so. Thank God, I don’t believe He’s a sadist.

When it came time for the condemned’s final words, he had none. He saved whatever he had to say for us only.

Slowly sleep inched through Michael’s veins.

His eyelids shut halfway and then his eyes glazed over. In only a few seconds, they were closed. Moments later, a slight smile crept to his lips.

Mom and I stayed as close to the window as we could.

Then these words popped into my head. “Are you sure you want this picture in your head for the rest of your life?”

I silently answered yes. Yes, I wanted to remember Destiny’s peaceful sleep made apparent by that little smile.

Finally, a fourth suited man appeared. With stethoscope in hand, he checked for Michael’s heartbeat. He looked at Michael’s eyes. He nodded to the other three suited men. The phone was returned to its receiver.

It was done.

Michael finally could be at peace.