It is 6:00 pm, January 24, 2000, and I am walking across the open space between the “Justice” Building and the Walls Unit, Huntsville, Texas. Thirty State Troopers, in full uniform, stand at attention to my left. I have come to witness the execution of my friend, Billy Hughes, convicted of killing a police officer in 1976.
As I enter the viewing chamber I am truly shocked, despite the “training,” because it is barely the size of a closet and just as dark. There are no chairs, and we are literally pressed into a large picture window. Only two feet on the other side of it, all lit up on the gurney, is Billy. The killing apparatus is already hooked up to his arms and his hands are all covered in ace bandages so we won’t see his hands curl in death. Nothing nasty here! There is Billy, looking unusually cheerful, a microphone suspended over his head.
The stylishly suited warden is standing about a foot from Billy’s head, and the chaplain is by his feet, with one pudgy hand on Billy’s leg. I want to call out and ask Billy if he really wants this dude touching him, but, conveniently, Billy cannot hear me. The microphone only goes from him to the viewers. The warden asks him if he has anything to say, and in a strong voice, Billy answers, “Yes I do.” He then launches into an excellent statement about his innocence and the fact that he would gladly trade the last 24 years to bring back Officer Frederick, his own father, and his mother’s health. He encourages us to keep on fighting this madness. Then he adds, “Who would have thought 24 years ago that it would come to this moment, but if I am paying my debt to society, I am due a rebate and a refund.” Our sobbing stops and we almost laugh. Billy has kept his humor to the end.
The warden then takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, and I think, “Wow, even he is touched by all this.” Wrong. It is the signal to start the poisons. Billy tries to give us a wink, but it is more of a grimace, and I see his eyes half close. The next poison, the one that collapses the lungs, is the most horrifying, because you actually see and hear them depress. Finally, there is the literal heart stopper. Each dose is independently lethal, so they actually kill him three times. The warden then starts looking at his watch to count off an interminable four minutes. Billy’s eyes are not really closed, so I keep waiting for him to pop up and say, “Hey, we were only kidding.” Instead, a rather dapper doctor comes in and brusquely examines Billy’s eyes and mouth for signs of life. Finally, he pronounces him dead and leaves. The door behind us opens, light flows into the viewing closet, and we are escorted out.
A month has passed. I can sleep again. The memory I carry forever is that this was cold-blooded, orchestrated murder. There is no passion, no immediacy, not even anger. It is cold. It is mean. It is without emotion. It is falsely cloaked in clean techniques and courteous protocol. I participated because I couldn’t say no to Billy, who needed his friends with him during his last moments. And so I joined Texas in the murder of Billy George Hughes.
