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We Stay On A Mission

Moms on a Mission from Louisiana

In the heart of Shreveport, Louisiana, a circle of healing is growing — one shaped by love, loss, and a fierce commitment to community. What began as a grassroots response to hunger and grief has blossomed into a full-spectrum support system for mothers, families, youth, and elders impacted by gun violence.

Martha Tyler, founder of Moms on a Mission, first started feeding children in her neighborhood when schools shut down at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. “I started feeding 45 kids every day Monday through Friday during the first six months of COVID,” she recalled. “The money came from my family and the food came out of my refrigerator and out of my cabinets.” 

“I haven’t lost a child to gun violence,” Martha shared, “but I have lost twins — stillbirth. I raised my children alone because I lost their two fathers to gun violence. I watched their mothers live without their sons.”

What began as a homegrown effort expanded through Facebook, as friends and former coworkers started chipping in.

But everything changed after two of the boys Martha had been feeding were shot and killed. “I just made a Facebook post and asked, ‘Is anybody supporting the mothers who lost a child?’” she said. “It just spiraled from there.” 

In June 2022, Martha hosted her first event honoring 25 mothers who lost a child to violence, complete with spa treatments, salon appointments, donated meals, and gifts. “It was decorated like a wedding,” she said. “Anything you could think of that was beautiful and nice, they had it.”

But the work didn’t stop there. That single event turned into ongoing grief support. Moms on a Mission now hosts monthly grief support sessions  — often attended not just by mothers, but by fathers, siblings, and extended family. “They’re always asking, ‘When is the next one?’” Martha said.

In partnership with the Caddo Parish District Attorney’s Office, local therapists, wellness coaches, and organizations like Unique Body Studios, the team has built a holistic model that meets people where they are. “The grief is not going away,” said Saundra Roberson, Vice President, who supports the program’s operations, “but the mothers still have to live after that has happened.”

Circle meetings, now known as Moms Circle of Healing, are intentionally open and non-judgmental. “If you need to curse, you can curse. If you need to cry, you can cry. If you need to shout, you can shout,” Saundra explained. “But the other mothers provide so much — especially those who are further along in the journey.”

She shared the story of one mother who came to her first meeting looking for validation, not help. Her child had been killed just weeks earlier, and she had made up her mind to retaliate. “She came in angry,” Saundra said. “She ran out of the meeting. We hugged her, we kept talking to her.” The following year, that same mother became a featured speaker at the next induction ceremony and started her own foundation in her daughter’s name.

Moms on a Mission doesn’t just support those who’ve lost children. They’ve adopted local schools, hosted community baby showers with postpartum care packages, and brought joy to nursing homes by playing bingo and delivering gifts. 

“Some of them might not have family that comes to visit them,” Martha shared. “So we do that because I had an older mother, and I used to work at a senior complex. The seniors are near and dear to my heart.”

As part of a broader community violence intervention ecosystem, Moms on a Mission plays a role in advancing safety and healing — not only by interrupting cycles of harm but by creating spaces where transformation is possible.

As they continue to grow, their vision remains rooted in shared leadership. “All of the things that we do come from people who saw the vision, embraced the mission, and worked to make the vision a reality,” Saundra said. 

“We’ve seen this circle change lives,” Saundra added. “We’ve seen mothers who once thought about revenge start healing. We’ve seen families come together, including some who’ve never gotten answers about who killed their child — and still, they show up.”

From feeding children to facilitating healing retreats for grieving families, Moms on a Mission continues to do what its name promises. As Martha put it plainly: “We stay on a mission.”

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Changes at EJUSA

What can I say that hasn’t already been said about this unprecedented time? Democracy is unraveling in front of our eyes. People are on the punishing ends of every executive order pouring out of the White House. Just weeks ago, EJUSA felt the devastating effects directly, learning that the Department of Justice had canceled our grants to build public safety with nine growing community organizations.

Anti-Blackness can be found in so many of these decisions. Unfortunately, none of this is a surprise.

In 2020, a police officer murdered George Floyd, on camera. Historic uprisings created an undeniable inflection point in the movement for racial justice. We saw our society and its institutions respond in inspiring ways.

Our longer history shows, however, that every significant achievement and advancement of our rights and dignity is met with a dramatic backlash.

Less than three years later, I wrote about the then-mounting efforts to erase Black history across the nation. That was only the beginning, as we now see every day.

Today, Equal Justice USA has found itself in trying circumstances that stretch beyond the federal funding illegally seized from us.
Funders previously committed to advancing justice and reforming the criminal legal system have scaled back or completely ended their investment. EJUSA — along with our many movement allies — is adjusting to new, challenging realities because of reduced financial support. As a result, we have had to reassess our work and refine our focus.

This is not the first time we’ve shifted our mission. More than a decade ago, we developed new strategies in response to our growing understanding of the role trauma plays in perpetuating harm. The enduring nature of that traumatic harm is central to the racist punishment framework that our society uses to respond to violence.

In that case, though, we expanded our mission. This time is, unfortunately, different.

We are doubling down on the work of building a new justice system, one that prioritizes healing for people, rather than punishment. The healing is what will deliver true safety, especially in Black communities. Punishment will never do that.

To make this work lasting and to position the organization to thrive when our vision is needed now more than ever, we had to make some painful decisions about our programs these past weeks.

None was more painful than ending our Death Penalty Program, which has played a part in every successful state repeal over the past two decades. We’re committed to seeing this work find the right home and will let you know where that is as soon as possible.

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One Block at a Time

community event, heal the block with resources

This spring in April, Central City came alive with music, dancing, giveaways, and something even more powerful: community care. The Heal the Block initiative returned to New Orleans, transforming one of the city’s under-resourced neighborhoods into a hub for healing, hope, and connection.

Originating in Newark, NJ, Heal the Block was designed as a collaboration between public safety and community organizations to address the root causes of violence and fill critical gaps in services. “Even though resources may exist,” explained EJUSA Senior Louisiana Strategist Josie Alexander, “the community can’t always obtain them for various reasons—like red tape, transportation, or financial barriers.”

What began as a community-driven effort in Newark soon took root in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where Josie helped facilitate a version of Heal the Block that inspired a citywide violence prevention campaign. That momentum now continues in New Orleans.

Partnering with local organizations and trusted leaders, the New Orleans edition of Heal the Block took shape through deep coordination and neighborhood credibility. “It was a huge part of their relationships that brought these partners together,” Josie said. “We supported logistics and planning, but the trust from folks like Danny Allen and Ernest Johnson from Ubuntu Village NOLA  made the event possible.”

The day was designed to meet tangible needs while creating space for joy and relationship-building. Attendees received essentials like hygiene kits—filled with toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, and more—alongside fun prizes. A group of college students, led by Cayla Lumar, EJUSA’s capacity building fellow and founder of the Social Justice Coalition at Xavier University, played a key role in organizing these giveaways.

There were also resource tables from victim services, health organizations, and mentoring groups, connecting attendees with services and support in real time.

But it wasn’t only about the services. “We wanted this to be an opportunity not just to get resources, but to bring the community together in joy,” said Taryn Young, EJUSA’s capacity building fellow. “There were about 100 raffles—school supplies, headphones, and speakers. Kids could spin the wheel, join dance contests, and even jump in the bouncy house. “We even had a gaming van!”

That spirit of joy and generosity was shared by the volunteers, too. “Everyone kind of just showed up to do whatever was needed,” Taryn said. “People were smiling, excited to be in the community, and even the organizations were networking among themselves.”

An intentional aspect of Heal the Block is its mobility. Each event takes place in a different neighborhood, reducing barriers to access. “The first time it was out in the East. This time it was Central City,” Taryn shared. “The goal is to go directly to the areas that need it the most.”

As the initiative grows, it continues to serve as a model for what’s possible when care, trust, and collaboration come together. “It was just amazing to see how this one event could offer so much—from joy to vital services—right in the heart of the community,” Josie reflected.

Plans are already in the works for future Heal the Block events, with hopes to launch again in June or September. Whenever and wherever it lands next, one thing is clear: the heart of this movement is healing, one block at a time.

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They Don’t Care About Safety

EJUSA Justice Icon

Two nights ago, the Department of Justice sent us a devastating letter: 

“This award is being terminated because … [the] Department has changed its priorities with respect to discretionary grant funding…” 

The award was $2.9 million. Our priorities for that money were to invest it in community-based public safety strategies–specifically, five innovative organizations throughout Louisiana that are building safety for their neighbors. 

Instantly, this funding, plus a separate grant supporting our restorative justice work, disappeared. The federal government funds based on reimbursement , so we’re owed hundreds of thousands of dollars for work we’ve already done. But we can’t even log into the system anymore. 

More than half of the money in our grant went to other organizations. Still, the rest came to EJUSA and made possible the work we do best: helping emerging leaders and organizations realize their fullest life-saving potential by supporting their growth, guiding their key strategies, and ensuring that they will be sustainable for their communities. 

We refuse to back down. That means, most importantly, that we keep helping these Louisiana organizations even if we have no more funds to pass on. The BRidge Agency, in Baton Rouge, still has to support families by breaking cycles of poverty and violence—offering mentorship, education, and resources that strengthen both young people and the adults that care for them. Silence is Violence, in New Orleans, still needs to support victims in the aftermath of violence to de-escalate and prevent future violence. Forever Takes a Village, in Bogalusa, a small town with high rates of violence, still needs to do street outreach to work with young people at risk of violence. 

This administration is not serious about protecting public safety. To the contrary, it is committed to creating the conditions for violence to thrive.

You can help us fight back. First, you can make a special investment in the work you make possible so we can weather this horrible storm. 

Then be on the lookout for more ways you can tell this administration that safety starts in the community, because we know what we need to be safe.

Toward justice.

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One Month Later: My Reflection on Louisiana’s Death Row Execution

Empty courtroom, seats lined in

It’s been exactly one month since Louisiana put a man to death. 

Jessie Hoffman was the first death row execution in the state in 15 years. Not only was Hoffman’s death by nitrogen gas suffocation cruel; it has done nothing to deter violence in the state. In fact, in the four weeks since his execution, headlines in cities across Louisiana have been riddled with stories of crime. 

Governor Jeff Landry told a reporter in the days leading up to Hoffman’s death that executions are necessary to fulfill a “contractual promise” to crime victims, but what about the contractual promise to constituents to keep their communities safe?

If the goal is community safety, it is clear that state-sanctioned death does nothing to advance it. The death penalty does not deter violence, heal survivors, or facilitate long-term community safety. 

Solutions like Community Violence Intervention (CVI), mental health support, youth diversion initiatives, programs that heal trauma, and other preventative measures have proven to be effective deterrents to crime. 

I have been part of the violence prevention movement in Louisiana for more than a decade. As a Baton Rouge Street Team member, I’ve personally gone to homicide scenes to console families. I’ve witnessed first-hand the hunger and desperation in our communities for investment in tangible solutions to violence that facilitate safety. Today, I help lead the statewide violence reduction coalition. 

Proponents of the death penalty claim that executions provide “closure” to families. First, I want to acknowledge that there is never closure after a loved one is killed; there is support and a pathway to healing, but the death penalty delivers neither. 

Andy Elliot, the husband of Molly Elliot, the victim in Hoffman’s case, acknowledged that putting Hoffman to death “will not provide closure” and that it has forced his family to “relive the past tragedy.”, Yet, the state proceeded with the execution anyway, as if it would somehow help the Elliot family. 

Brett Malone is another survivor who has called out the false promise of capital punishment. His mother was murdered, and he actively rejects the death penalty, explaining that it doesn’t represent his values or foster community well-being. Malone, instead, believes in restorative justice. 

Redirecting funds from the death penalty into areas like education, mental health support, youth programs, and job training is more effective at reducing crime in the long term. Prevention of violence must also include addressing issues such as poverty, lack of opportunity, and racial inequities—all of which the criminal legal system is steeped in. 

The death penalty is also extremely costly. A 2019 study found that Louisiana has spent more than $200 million on its death-penal­ty sys­tem over the last 15 years, result­ing in a sin­gle exe­cu­tion of a man who gave up his appeals. Imagine how far $200 million would’ve gone in truly serving communities had it not been wasted on putting a man to death.

Capital punishment also perpetuates the idea that killing can solve problems, which is a dangerous and highly flawed theory that we must move away from.

I am encouraged that the Louisiana Supreme Court last week halted the execution warrants of two men on death row, but I know through recent and past experience that a temporary stay is just that in most cases: temporary.  

Governor Landry and other Louisiana lawmakers must seriously assess the needs of people in this state and invest in community violence prevention methods if their goal is truly to keep their constituents safe. They have the power and responsibility to end state-sanctioned death permanently and reinvest in solutions that will make all of our lives and communities better. 

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BRidging the Gap

Founder of BRidge Agency, headshot photo

Nicole Scott, the founder of The BRidge Agency, has a deeply personal connection to the work she does. “This is my life story,” she shared. “I am the single mom who used to drop my child off at school and then go sit in the library to learn how to start a business from the ground up.” 

Nicole’s experiences navigating systemic challenges fuel her passion for serving the families in her community.  “I understand that, and I think that’s one of the reasons I’m so passionate about this work—because my own lived experiences allow me to deeply relate to the families I serve,” she explained. 

Located in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, The BRidge Agency is dedicated to empowering marginalized communities by addressing systemic barriers such as disinvestment, limited access to education and economic opportunity, and the lack of mentoring. The organization focuses on education, mentorship, and connecting residents to resources to help break cycles of poverty and trauma leading to violent crimes.  

EJUSA is proud to partner with the BRidge Agency, offering 1:1 office hours, facilitating clinics that provide practical tools for building organization infrastructure and assisting with development plans to strengthen their youth programs and educational initiatives.

At the core of the BRidge Agency’s efforts, “We address the social-economic drivers of crime and those social disparities like poverty, lack of education, lack of quality, supportive education programs,” Nicole said. 

“If there’s a resource that exists in your community, but you have a barrier to understanding technology, then, of course, you can’t benefit from that,” Nicole pointed out. The agency works to break down these barriers, ensuring that families are equipped to thrive.

The BRidge Agency’s youth programs serve hundreds of young people each week. Nicole’s focus on mentorship and education extends beyond the classroom, offering opportunities for career exploration and community engagement. “We have our community clubs and circles where we meet in groups of 15 or 25,” she explained. These circles allow young people to discuss their experiences, build relationships, and prepare for the future.

The agency’s summer enrichment program also plays a crucial role. “It’s a free program, and we always offer paid internships for young people where they get to come in, learn advocacy skills, and connect with community leaders,” Nicole said. 

Nicole understands that working with youth alone is not enough; families must be supported as well. “I realized a long time ago, doing this work, helping and supporting the youth is phenomenal, but we’re sending them back to some of the same broken homes,” she said. 

“We’ve just brought on a social worker who is going to be instrumental in providing preventive education around physical, mental, and verbal abuse which occurs in some homes as a result of little to no positive youth development or parental skills in the home,” Nicole explained. This comprehensive approach ensures families are equipped to create a nurturing environment for their children.

Education is at the heart of the BRidge Agency’s mission. “We must be able to utilize every avenue possible to provide education, whether it’s in our faith-based communities, community centers… we have to always offer the opportunities for youth and families to expand their knowledge,” Nicole emphasized. 

From basic life skills to financial literacy, the Bridge Agency’s education programs empower individuals and families to overcome the challenges they face and achieve long-term success. As part of a broader community violence intervention and prevention ecosystem, The BRidge Agency’s work aligns with CVIPI strategies by addressing root causes of violence and building pathways to safety, healing, and opportunity.

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Remembering Najee Seabrooks – Two Years Later

Najee Seabrooks

Last month, March 3rd marked two years since the Paterson Healing Collective (PHC) lost Najee Seabrooks, who was killed by Paterson police during a mental health crisis.

Even though PHC is one of the most highly regarded programs of its kind in the country, Paterson police refused to allow their members to intervene for Najee on that fateful day when their skills and reputation meant everything!

Zellie Imani of Black Lives Matter Paterson summed it up painfully when he said, “All I need is to see some of y’all faces and hear some of y’all voices,” he pleaded on that fateful day. 

To mark the anniversary of Najee’s passing, the PHC held an in-house healing of reflection, including Najee’s family to reflect on what Najee meant to them and how Najee affected them.

They did it in their healing hub, named after Najee. His large smiling angelic image energized the room and comforted everyone in it.

His mother recounted how deeply personal Najee took the work, how he brought it home with him, telling her his stories about what they were all trying to do every day.

“Najee used to come every day with stories,” she reflected heartily. “I miss that now.”

As they took turns in sharing, they each captured Najee’s huge personality. His laughter. His courage. His sharing. His love…in singular and personal ways. 

Casey Melvin said it plainly, “Najee’s heart was not just gold; it was platinum.” To his team, he added and emphasized, “You guys pushed the machinery of government to make them look at what not to do and how to handle situations like that differently.”

Since its inception, PHC has helped over 330 victims of violence and has a less than 1% re-injury rate. Less than 1%! Since the loss of Najee, despite a challenging and at times hostile political and legal terrain, their work has grown, including their Healing Hub for Youth, the launch of their Leadership Academy, their neighborhood Summer Peace Challenge, and their Sam Summer Teen Academy. 

All reflecting the prevention dimensions of the work in addition to their hospital-based intervention work, and how their work has led to a 50% reduction rate of gun violence victims coming through the hospital. 

“His spirit made us work more with kids,” said Liza Chowdhury, their executive director, lifting Najee’s inspiration.

Dr. James Pruden, their medical director, waxed even more spiritually. “Najee brought joy, brought energy, and he embodied hope. This is why, although his earthly travels have ended, the light of his inspiration will travel in our hearts as long as we live.”

Equal Justice USA is a national partner with the Paterson Healing Collective and the NJ Violence Intervention and Prevention Coalition.

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What is Felony Murder?

Balance sign in court room

Felony murder laws are among the most extreme and unjust policies in the U.S. criminal legal system. These laws allow prosecutors to charge individuals with murder even if they did not kill anyone, did not intend to kill, and in some cases, were not even present when a death occurred. The result? Harsh, disproportionate sentences that fuel mass incarceration and disproportionately harm young people, women, and communities of color.

Under the felony murder rule, if someone dies during the commission of certain felonies—such as robbery, burglary, or arson—every participant in that felony can be charged with murder. This is true even if the death was accidental, even if the person accused had no weapon, and even if they had no idea a death might occur. 

Prosecutors do not have to prove intent to kill, which is typically required for a first-degree murder conviction. Instead, they only need to prove intent to commit the underlying felony. This makes felony murder one of the easiest convictions for a prosecutor to secure.

Oklahoma’s felony murder law goes even further. In this state, individuals can face life in prison, life without parole, or even the death penalty under the felony murder rule—without the state ever having to prove they killed anyone or intended to. This is what happened to Tremane Wood. He was sentenced to death under Oklahoma’s felony murder rule, which does not require the state to prove he took a life—only that there was a crime being committed when someone else lost theirs.

Oklahoma is not alone. In many states, the felony murder rule can result in the harshest sentences possible, including the death penalty. In states like Alabama, Arizona, Florida, Georgia, Missouri, Texas, and more, individuals can be sentenced to execution for a murder they neither committed nor intended. 

Felony murder laws are not only unjust—they are ineffective. Studies show they do not deter crime, nor do they reduce the likelihood that felonies will turn deadly. Instead, they widen the net of extreme sentencing, consuming taxpayer dollars that could be used for proven public safety strategies, such as violence prevention, education, and trauma healing programs.

These laws disregard the cognitive development of young people. Research has long confirmed that the brain does not fully develop until around 25, meaning youth and emerging adults have a diminished ability to assess risk and foresee long-term consequences. 

Yet, felony murder laws treat them as if they have the same level of awareness and decision-making capacity as an experienced adult. This was the case for Tremane, who was only 22 years old when he was charged under the felony murder rule following a botched robbery in Oklahoma City.

These laws disproportionately target marginalized communities, further entrenching racial disparities in the legal system. In Pennsylvania, for example, 80% of individuals imprisoned under felony murder were people of color, and 70% were Black. 

The felony murder rule is an outdated relic. Originating in England in 1716, it was abolished there in 1957 because it was deemed unjust. Today, the United States is the only country in the world still using this doctrine. Currently, 27 states permit executions for felony murder (American Civil Liberties Union, 2023). A few states—Ohio, Michigan, Kentucky, and Hawaii—have abolished it. 

To end mass incarceration, we must take bold steps to eliminate extreme sentencing laws like felony murder. True justice demands sentencing based on individual actions and intent—not outdated laws that punish people for the choices of others. It’s time to abolish the felony murder rule and replace it with policies that uphold fairness, equity, and the true principles of justice.

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Building Support Survivors Need

Beyond Harm staff from New Orleans

In New Orleans, where traditional responses to domestic and sexual violence often fall short, Beyond Harm is charting a different path. This small but powerful organization is expanding its programs to address violence and trauma. EJUSA will partner with Beyond Harm and accelerate their growth, providing funding and critical supports needed to help organizations like Beyond Harm thrive.

In 2022, after years working in traditional victim services, co-founders Eva Lessinger and Amanda Tonkovich recognized a critical gap in the system—the lack of real, structured support for those who cause harm, many of whom have experienced harm themselves—and launched Beyond Harm to fill it.  

“We felt like there was this giant missing piece,” Eva explains. “After working with survivors over and over, we wanted to put that knowledge towards an upstream solution.”

Their approach challenges the reliance on punitive systems, offering alternatives that prioritize accountability and transformation—values that drive every aspect of their work.

“Survivors want their partners to change, to get help, to be better co-parents,” Amanda says. “But we weren’t getting at that by only serving survivors. Others need to be involved.”

Beyond Harm is a small team with just three full-time staff and they plan to bring on a fourth team member to expand their impact. Their work centers on group interventions,  individual counseling and restorative processes for people who have committed domestic and sexual violence, creating paths to accountability while addressing both the trauma they’ve inflicted on others and their own trauma. Louisiana lacked a structured program like this, so they looked to national models.

“We see ourselves as a survivor service,” Eva says, “but also as part of building a new and better way outside of carceral systems.”

Their work intersects with criminal justice reform, offering pretrial intervention in partnership with the New Orleans District Attorney’s Office. Many survivors prefer a path where their partners complete the program and have their charges dropped.

“Most survivors don’t want their loved ones locked away,” Amanda says. “They want safety, accountability, and real change.”

In addition to their work with individuals, Beyond Harm is deeply involved in the community violence intervention (CVI) movement. They are committed to a vision of community safety that emphasizes prevention and healing over punishment. 

“It’s a catch-22,” Amanda acknowledges. “We don’t believe jail is the answer, but some people wouldn’t make it to our program without that initial arrest.”

Recognizing their impact, EJUSA awarded Beyond Harm funding to expand their trauma counseling and restorative programming.

“Right now, it’s just the two of us doing all the counseling,” Eva explains. “Many participants need deeper individual work.”

This new position will also introduce somatic healing practices, a component of trauma recovery. “A lot of folks we work with have never had access to body-based healing,” Amanda says. “It’s not a cure-all, but it helps mitigate trauma symptoms.”

Somatic work is especially effective for PTSD survivors because trauma is often stored in the body, manifesting as physical symptoms like chronic pain, tension, or emotional dysregulation. By incorporating movement, breathwork, and embodied healing techniques, this approach helps participants process and manage their trauma more effectively. As a result, the new staff member will be better equipped to support PTSD survivors in their healing journey.

With over half their participants likely qualifying for PTSD diagnoses, this expansion is critical. The new staff member will provide much-needed individual counseling, lead a women’s program, and develop culturally relevant interventions for LGBTQ individuals.

“This position helps us fill gaps and respond more holistically to our community,” Eva says. “It’s about building the support system that survivors have been asking for all along.”

For Eva and Amanda, Beyond Harm is about more than addressing violence—it’s about transformation.

“We hope to build a future where the criminal legal system isn’t necessary for people to want to change,” Eva says. And with every step forward, they are making that future a little more possible.

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A Clear Picture of Racism

African American Woman Holding a "Being Black Should Not Be A Death Sentence" Sign

A Legacy of Racially Disparate Executions

Oklahoma’s death penalty has always disproportionately targeted people of color. The earliest recorded execution in the state occurred in 1841, and of the 39 people executed in the 19th century, 79% were Native American men, while 15% were Black men. It wasn’t until 1899 that the state recorded the execution of a white person. This pattern of racial disparity has persisted into the modern era.

Since 1976, 41% of the 117 people executed in Oklahoma have been people of color, the majority of them Black—despite Black residents comprising only about 7% of the state’s population. The state’s own data reveals a staggering racial bias in sentencing: a person charged with murdering a white woman is 10 times more likely to receive a death sentence than if the victim is a minority male. 

From 1990 to 2012, just 3% of homicides in the state resulted in a death sentence, yet in 74% of those cases, the victim was white. These disparities reflect a long-standing truth—Oklahoma’s justice system, like much of the country, assigns more value to white lives than to Black and Native American lives. This pattern is evident in the stark contrast between executions for crimes involving white victims versus Black victims, where those convicted of killing white victims are far more likely to face the death penalty than those convicted of killing Black victims.

The Race-of-Victim Effect and Oklahoma’s Death Penalty Today

The racial disparities in Oklahoma’s death penalty reflect a longstanding history of racism in the state’s legal system. A study of Oklahoma’s execution data found that, in cases involving victims of a single race, 19 Black people were executed for the murder of white victims, while only two white people were executed for the murder of Black victims. These statistics highlight how racial bias in Oklahoma’s legal system aligns with patterns seen across the country, where people of color are disproportionately sentenced to death, especially when the victim is white.

Additionally, Oklahoma’s history as a site of forced Native American relocation has had a lasting impact on its death penalty system. The Trail of Tears led to a concentration of Native American populations in the region, and as a result, in the 19th century, most people executed were Native American. That legacy continues today—Oklahoma has sentenced more Native American people to death than any other state and is responsible for a third of all executions of Native Americans nationally.

Tremane Wood: A Case That Exemplifies This Broken System

The racial injustice embedded in Oklahoma’s death penalty isn’t just a relic of the past—it continues to destroy lives today. Tremane Wood’s case is a devastating example.

Tremane, a bi-racial Black and white man, was sentenced to death in Oklahoma County in 2004 for the murder of Ronnie Wipf, a white man from Montana. However, his older brother, Zjaiton “Jake” Wood, admitted to committing the murder and stated that Tremane killed no one. 

Unlike Tremane, Jake was represented by a competent legal team and was able to secure a life sentence. Tremane, on the other hand, was appointed a solo practitioner, John Albert, who was struggling with alcohol and substance use disorders while handling approximately 100 cases. At the time he represented Tremane, Albert was also defending two other people against the death penalty—both of whom later had their convictions overturned due to ineffective counsel. Tremane received no such relief.

Had Tremane’s lawyer properly investigated and presented mitigating evidence, the jury would have learned about the trauma that shaped his life—his struggles as a bi-racial child in a predominantly white community, the lingering effects of domestic violence on his mother, and his deep admiration for his older brother, Jake, who was a central figure in Tremane’s life. Tremane looked up to Jake, but his brother’s involvement in criminal activities exposed him to a world of violence and poor decisions that deeply affected Tremane’s own choices. Instead, Tremane was left defenseless against a system that disproportionately punishes people of color.

The racial bias in his case extended beyond his defense. The judge who presided over his trial and later denied his appeal, Judge Ray Elliott, has been overheard making horrific racist remarks, referring to Mexicans as “nothing but filthy animals” who “deserve to all be taken south of the border with a shotgun to their heads.” This is the judge who decided that Tremane Wood received a fair trial.

Moreover, only one Black juror served on Tremane’s jury, and she later revealed that she had been bullied into sentencing him to death.

A Call to Action

Tremane Wood’s case is a continuation of Oklahoma’s long history of racial injustice in capital punishment. The state has repeatedly shown that it is willing to execute people of color at a disproportionate rate while prioritizing the lives of white victims. These patterns are not accidental; they are deeply ingrained in the criminal legal system. 

Oklahoma’s history of racial violence, exemplified by the Tulsa Massacre of 1921, continues to haunt the state’s legal system, where Black residents have long faced systemic discrimination and violence. The legacy of that massacre, where Black lives were destroyed with impunity, lingers in the unequal application of justice today.

Oklahoma’s death penalty is a direct descendant of racial violence, from 19th-century executions of Native Americans to modern-day cases like Tremane’s, where inadequate defense, racist judges, and biased juries lead to unjust outcomes. Tremane’s case underscores why Oklahoma must abandon the death penalty entirely.

His case also highlights another deeply flawed aspect of Oklahoma’s legal system: the felony murder rule. Under this rule, a person can be sentenced to death even if they did not personally kill anyone, so long as the prosecution argues that the death was a foreseeable consequence of a felony. This rule disproportionately targets people of color and those with inadequate legal representation—like Tremane, who was sentenced to death while his brother, who admitted to the murder, received a life sentence.

We’ll be diving deeper into Oklahoma’s felony murder rule in an upcoming piece—stay tuned to learn how this outdated and unjust law continues to destroy lives, including Tremane Wood’s.

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