Why does a woman write to a convicted murderer facing execution? Louise Colvin (pictured), tells how she will be devastated if he dies by lethal injection next Wednesday.Next Wednesday, December 9, 2008, a 26-year-old man is due to be killed by lethal injection.
Devin Banks is the youngest death row prisoner in Riverbend Maximum Security Institution, Nashville, and if the sentence is carried out, will be the youngest person ever to be punished by the death penalty in the state of Tennessee.
I have been exchanging letters with Devin, twice a month for almost a year.
This is a young man profoundly sorry for the crime he committed and who is living in hope that he will be granted a stay of execution and his sentence commuted to life without parole.
Writing to lifers and death row prisoners was never something I intended to do. Often women like me are portrayed as inadequate, sad beings with no life. Or misguided young girls who correspond with dangerous men hoping they can change them. But it certainly isn’t like that for me.
I’m not looking for a romantic relationship. I have a wonderful partner, Clare, who is an absolute rock, and a very rewarding career as a mental health community worker in Belfast.
Over the past 12 years, I’ve corresponded with 15 death row inmates including one female, currently incarcerated in California. I do it to offer emotional support. Most don’t have a family support network — maybe they have never had a family or the family can’t cope with the stigma and withdraw. I also support prisoners who are serving life without parole sentences and their families.
I began after watching a television programme highlighting the case of an elderly death row prisoner in California. I wrote to him because he seemed so lonely and isolated, and his appeal appeared so hopeless and it went from there.
Now, I’m a member of a worldwide support network for inmates and their families called Prison Talk and they asked me to make contact with Devin. A few months ago I was also asked to get in touch with the mother of a boy in his late teens who was due to be sentenced to a maximum security facility. He was so terrified of sexual assault — which is a very real risk — that the night before he was due to surrender himself, he took his own life and I’ve been supporting his mum who is understandably devastated.
None of the prisoners I have written to has ever tried to suggest that they didn’t commit the crime of which they were convicted. And what has struck me about every one of them is their deep sense of remorse and a very strong comprehension of what they’ve done. And how it has affected not them, but the family of the person whose life they took and the legacy that that has left the family with.
Devin has spoken about this in his letters and expressed sincere remorse. He has acknowledged the effect his actions have had on his family and friends. He is also very, very aware of the devastation he has caused to the victims and the victims’ families.
I know that he committed a particularly violent crime. In 2002, at the age of 18, he shot one man dead and attempted to murder another after a dispute over money.
The surviving victim, who was severely disabled, was shot and left for dead in his driveway. It was a horrifying incident that Devin can’t believe he was a part of.
Our relationship is almost like brother and sister.
In my letters, I reinforce the fact that I’m here for him and am committed to being his friend and caring about him no matter what happens.
And if this goes badly, I will be a constant in his life right through to the very end.
I try to help him to find the courage to face whatever happens and also to live with it.
Also, there’s the fear. Obviously, if someone is facing execution, what do they do? How do they close down? How do they say goodbye?
I know it sounds silly but I draw round my hand on a piece of paper so that when he’s feeling very low, he can rest his hand against mine.
I think what he gets out of my letters is comfort without judgment and by sharing who I am — what makes me me, my life experiences, my life lessons, my journey and also his — emotionally he’s now more confident to reach out and to talk to me.
He realises he could be very close to death but will only speak vaguely about it because obviously, the fear factor is very high and I think he still lives in the hope that he can get a stay of execution and have his sentence commuted to life without parole.
Of course, there is a very real chance that the prison governor will not grant the stay and will proceed with the execution. Devin’s solicitor is hopeful — in a nutshell, it’s begging for a life and it does weigh heavily on my mind.
If the stay is not granted, the process of execution will begin and will take three days. Usually the prisoner will have the continued support of their lawyer frantically exhausting all avenues of appeal. On the final day after his last meal, the prison governor will read out the death warrant and then this intelligent, articulate young man, who told me he loves Jesus and country music, will be led into the execution chamber.
He will then be helped up onto a table not dissimilar to that found in an operating theatre, except this one will have arm rests where prison officers will strap him down with his arms wide open so the cocktail of lethal drugs can be administered over a period of approximately 20 minutes.
So far, no-one I have corresponded with has actually been executed and some might say I shouldn’t get so emotionally involved with people who have committed such terrible crimes but I’ve been doing this long enough now to be able to gauge it slowly and I don’t declare personal information until trust has been established and even then it’s specifically related to questions asked.
I have had letters from prisoners in the past which I have returned because they were sexually explicit or just generally rude and I won’t support someone who has been convicted of a crime against a child.
I absolutely understand that people might feel that Devin is only getting what he deserves and I do feel that if a crime has been consciously committed, society must have a debt repaid. I would be in favour of life without parole for such crimes. There’s a common myth that the death penalty provides closure for victims’ families. After 12 years, I can suggest it doesn’t. It isn’t any comfort.
If Devin’s sentence is carried out, I will feel bereavement and a sense of loss. I’ll feel frustration and futility because the death penalty is not a deterrent either.
I really would like to be there with him but I can’t afford the financial cost.
It would be excruciating to watch but my reason for going would be to let him know, ‘I’m here. I came all this way for you. I told you I would stand by you and I’m here now’.
It would be for comfort so that the last face he would see would be someone who cared about him.
Part of me wishes he was a lot physically closer. It’s very painful contemplating that this young man may die and I may never have seen him — we’ll never have met. The reaction from other people to what I do has been very diverse. There were initial concerns from friends and family, but on the whole, it’s been support.
However, the reaction from those that don’t know me is ridicule and an absolute certainty that the reason I do this is because there’s something lacking in my own life, which is not the case.
I expect some might feel I should offer emotional support to help people who are in their opinion, more deserving and not those who have taken another's life but I wouldn’t necessarily say that’s a fair opinion.
This wasn't something I intended to do and not something I intended to dedicate a large part of my life to but it's become just that. And I do tend to find that those who are most vocal about how I spend my time do nothing with theirs to help others.
No-one has an easy life — you play the cards you’re dealt.
One of my close friends suggested it was a calling and I don’t mean it in a pious way. I don’t know why or how I came to be doing this, all I know is I can reach these people. Sometimes it seems like an extension of what I do for a living but without the professional detachment — there is very much an emotional connection with the people I write to.
So if, God forbid, Devin dies on December 9, I’ll be devastated and it will be very difficult because I won’t be able to share the reason for my distress with anyone other than those closest to me.
Friends and family play a huge role for me and luckily, I’ve got a support network in place and my partner is ready for a worse case scenario.
But whatever happens, I’ll keep on supporting prisoners on death row because I feel like I’ve made a commitment now.
I don’t know whether it is a calling or what it is — I just feel that this is what I am supposed to be doing.
Source: Belfast Telegraph, December 2, 2009
