Ten years ago, the governor of Connecticut, Dannel Malloy signed a bill ending the state’s death penalty. This victory was the result of years (decades, really!) of organizing and advocacy, and I was lucky enough to be on the frontlines of the final couple years of that push.
There are so many people and events that made repeal possible, but on this anniversary, I want to share the story that I often tell when presenting to classes or bragging to friends how cool my work is. It’s the story of a mother, outside a courthouse, knocking on the door of a news van with a clear message: “My son matters, too.” This woman, and this refrain, were crucial to the demise of the death penalty in Connecticut.
The woman is Vickye Coward. Her son, Tyler, was murdered in 2007. That same year, Jennifer Hawke-Petit and her two daughters were killed in a home invasion. The trials for the two men who murdered the Petits and the man who killed Tyler took place at the same courthouse, at the same time. Tyler was a Black kid from the inner city. The Petits were white and from an affluent neighborhood. One of these cases got far more attention than the other.
While Vickye attended the trial for the man who murdered her son, news vans swarmed to tell the story of the Petits. Vickye felt pain for both her son and the Petit family. And she was frustrated that only one of their stories was being told. The Petits had become a household name; Vickye wanted Tyler remembered as well. When the press paid no attention, she started knocking. “My son matters, too.”
Her advocacy on behalf of her son became a news story. Then I went knocking on Vickye’s door. She welcomed me with open arms and an infectious smile, and then rolled up her sleeves.
Vickye knew that the death penalty was exacerbating the disparities she saw in the system: Some cases received much more attention and resources. The loss of white women was far more likely to be considered worthy of the ultimate punishment than the death of a black man. Instead of helping grieving families heal, the current system fed them lies about punishment as closure.
Vickye and other family members of murder victims were the backbone of the campaign to end Connecticut’s death penalty. They had to be.
In 2011, we thought we had enough votes in the legislature to pass the bill, but at the 11th hour, a senator changed her mind. Dr. Petit, the lone survivor of the high profile home invasion, had come to talk to her. He was adamant that the men who killed his family be executed. Citing his pain, the bill died that year, and the future of Connecticut’s death penalty was framed as a question about murder victims’ families.
For years murder victims’ families in Connecticut had been sharing their beliefs about the death penalty. But Vickye and a core team decided they could add more voices and share a clear message: regardless of how one personally feels about the death penalty, the system harms murder victims’ families. The strategy worked.
The murder victims’ family members in Connecticut set out – with grace, compassion, and fierce determination – to educate lawmakers and the media of the many ways the death penalty inflicts harm on surviving families. Vickye was at the helm of this – writing op-eds and letters to her local paper, hosting press conferences, having small group meetings with lawmakers, speaking at community events, and mobilizing 179 Connecticut murder victims’ family members to sign a group letter in support of ending the death penalty.
The result was that Connecticut became the 17th state to end the death penalty. They also forever changed the way media and the public framed how the death penalty harmed murder vicitms’ families. After the Connecticut campaign, news stories and common wisdom said, “of course murder victims’ families oppose the death penalty, look at what a rotten process it is for them.”
This work rippled beyond Connecticut to other state campaigns to end the death penalty. And so did Vickye. After the victory in Connecticut, I started working intensely with the team in Colorado. One of the first things we did was fly out Vickye to meet with Colorado murder victims’ families. Vickye’s story, and the story of the Connecticut win, inspired a core group of Colorado murder victims’ families who were instrumental voices for Colorado’s 2020 repeal.
Vickye is also a part of EJUSA’s Trauma and Healing Network. This network of local leaders share their experiences with trauma, healing from violence, and how they are doing the work of reimagining the justice system. Just the other day, Vickye told me she’d met a grieving mother in her new hometown and was helping her make connections to healing services.
Throughout the Connecticut campaign, Vickye and the other murder vicitms’ families would explain they do this deeply painful and personal work because they don’t want any other families to suffer the way they have. That selflessness and clarity of purpose cuts through the noise of a controversial debate where so often people have long-held positions they don’t want to reconsider. A mother, knocking on a door to make sure people understand “my son matters, too,” can change history. That’s something to celebrate 10 years later.
Stay tuned. Later in May we will bring together voices from the Connecticut repeal campaign, including Vickye, in a webinar to reflect on what we’ve learned from the campaign and the 10 years of repeal efforts since then.
