capital punishment

On This Day in 1928: Very unlucky for some…


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Today it’s Friday June 13, 2018. June 13, 1928 was also a Friday, a Friday delivering the ultimate in bad luck to 11 men in three different States…

In Mississippi’s Yazoo County murderer Will Burdo nervously awaited his date with the hangman. While Burdo pondered his fate in Yazoo County Jail, over in Smith County Greene Kirk was doing the same after being convicted of robbery and murder. Mississippi wouldn’t centralise its executions until 1954 and the installation of the gs chamber at Parchman. That came after 14 years of Mississippi’s notorious travelling electric chair. Both Kirk and Burdo were entrusted to the tender mercies of hangmen they hoped would be both skilled and sober. Not that American hangmen had a great reputation for being either.

Over at the Georgia State Prison, Preddis Taylor and Sam Gower were pondering a similar fate shortly to be imposed by newer technology; the electric chair. Unlike Mississippi, Georgia had centralised its retribution, installing Old Sparky in 1924 at the old State Prison in Milledgeville. It’s doubtful that either Taylor or Gower appreciated what was then the relative novelty of being Southern-fried.

Two double executions in two different States on the same day, which wouldn’t have been a criminal curiosity had it not been for the electrical extravaganza scheduled in Kentucky. Kentucky, not the most hawkish of death penalty States, but not afraid to impose it, had no less than seven men doomed to its own electric chair. At the feared State Prison near Eddyville known as the ‘Castle on the Cumberland,’ Old Sparky was about to be fed a seven-course banquet.

In the 20th century only one other prison had executed seven inmates in one day. Sing Sing marched that number to their deaths on August 12, 1912. It had been a nightmare for all concerned. Not because of any technical hitches or other problems, but because the seven men didn’t react too well, or sanely, to being marched one after another through the death chamber door.  Nor, as it happened, did those condemned inmates still waiting for their own date with death. It was a day never before seen and never repeated, even at the notoriously tough Sing Sing.

Clarence McQueen, James Howard, Willie Moore, Milford Lawson, Orlando Seymour, Hascue Dockery and Charles Mitra would meet their maker one after another and quick succession, Kentucky’s largest mass execution of the 20th century. All in all, not a good Friday 13 for anybody apart the executioners who’d profit well from the day’s work, especially in Kentucky.

While Greene and Burdo dropped to their deaths in Mississippi, Taylor and Gower were doing the hot squat in Georgia. Of the four men three were black and one white. Without exception, and as usual in capital cases, all were poor and lacked the funds for even average lawyers. In Kentucky the balance was slightly less uneven. Lawson, Seymour, Dockery and Mitra were white while McQueen, Howard and Moore were black. All of these men were poor as well.

According to reports the black prisoners held up better than their white counterparts, singing hymns and spirituals as they waited to go one-by-one to their deaths. The three whites, however, are reported as having been virtually paralysed by fear as their time came.The result, be they brave and dignified or craven and catatonic, was still the same. All seven never got to hear the phone ring at the last minute, as it so often does in Hollywood’s more stylised idea of capital punishment. There weren’t any lawyers, expensive or pro bono, to delay their walking the last mile. Taken one-by-one they stood, walked, sat down and died.

Even in those less enlightened and perhaps more racially-charged times, Friday June 13 was a rarity. Nowadays few death penalty States execute eleven convicts per year while some haven’t had eleven executions in decades.

That didn’t make this particular Friday 13 any less unlucky for some.

Aum Shinryko: Japan’s largest execution since World War II?


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Japan, one of only two members of the G7 to retain capital punishment, the other is the US, has never liked publicity regarding its death penalty. Just as the British used to do until abolition, it’s shrouded in secrecy.

Even the condemned don’t know until shortly beforehand that their time has come. The public don’t know until after they’ve died and an official announcement is made. Until then, the condemned, the execution process and especially those who carry it out are hidden away, out of sight if not of mind.

Today’s mass execution has changed all that.

This morning Japan performed what is probably its largest mass execution since the war crimes trials after World War II. Seven members of the Aum Shinryko cult responsible for the Tokyo subway attack on March 20, 1995 were escorted from their cells one by one and dropped through the trapdoor at a Tokyo prison.

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One after another cult leader Shoko Asihara, Yoshihiro Inoue, Tomomitsu Niimi, Tomomasa Nakagawa, Kiyohie Hayakawa, Seiichi Endo and Masachi Tsuchiya were taken from their cells to the  trapdoor, strapped, hooded, noosed and dropped. Three prison officials pushed three buttons, only one of which released the trapdoor. Six more cult members are still awaiting the same fate.

Many, Japanese or not, would say it was justified. They’d littered Tokyo’s subway with packages of nerve agent Sarin, killing 13 people and injuring thousands. It wasn’t their first gas attack on their fellow citizens, they’d attempted a similar Sarin attack before and would try it with cyanide gas later. Even after today’s hanging of seven of them another six still remain on death row. All told, not prisoners likely to attract much, if any sympathy.

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Japan has long tried to keep its executions as secret as possible. Unlike the US where such criminals would attract more publicity than the biggest celebrities (at least around their executions), the Japanese like to keep it as discreet as possible. With a case like this, though, discretion is impossible. The attack was too notorious, the resulting executions were simply too big to hide.

Until recently Japan’s condemned were given no warning at all. They’d simply be roused if they were asleep, told it was time to go and within hours they’d be dead. Even Britain’s condemned knew their date and time beforehand. But Japan’s stance has softened a little in recent years. In 2010 Keiko Chiba, then Minister of Justice and an opponent of capital punishment, decided to stimulate debate by granting the media their first access to the death chamber itself. Traditionally, it’s also the Justice Minister’s responsibility to sign the death warrant formally beginning the execution process.

As in the US, capital justice moves slowly. Technically a prisoner should be hanged within six months of sentencing. In practice, prisoners have remained on death row for decades between sentencing and execution while appeals are heard, sometimes granted and  often dismissed. Once the Justice Minister puts pen to paper, however, it moves far more quickly.

For the remaining six cultists and the hundred or so other condemned inmates, every day could be their last. They just don’t know which day it will be.

 

On This Day in 1934; The last British hanging witnessed by a journalist.


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When Frederick Parker and Albert Probert mounted the gallows at Wandsworth Prison, they died never knowing they’d taken a singular place in Britain’s chronicles of crime. Theirs would be last execution in British prison to be witnessed by a gentleman (or lady) of the press.

Until the Capital Punishment (Amendment) Act of 1868 executions were performed in public. Anyone, be they prince, pauper, journalist or ordinary member of the public, could watch a felon pay the ultimate penalty. After 1868 executions were performed entirely behind prison walls, although reporters were still permitted to be present. Both hangmen and prison governors alike came to prefer it if they weren’t.

Prison staff came to loathe many reporters who witnessed executions, believing them to fabricate reports of doomed men struggling to the last and kicking and screaming their way to their deaths. This, as a rule, very rarely actually happened. In the eyes of warders, governors and hangmen alike, it appeared in the next day’s newspapers far too often. As former assistant hangman Syd Dernley described it in his memoir ‘The Hangman’s Tale’;

“In the absence of genuine information, the wildest stories were heard and believed. Gruesome reports circulated of nightmare scenes in which condemned people had to be dragged kicking, screaming and pleading to the trap, where the rope had to be forced round their necks and they were dropped to strangle, moving and twitching for minutes on end.”

Reporters weren’t officially banned to avoid accusations of censorship and officialdom muzzling the press. In practice, though, prison governors were able to say yes or no. Increasingly, they said no. By the time of Probert and Parker, Associated Press reporter W G Finch was very much the exception to a firm though unwritten rule. He would also be the last of his kind to receive such a privilege.

Finch was one of the doyens of British crime reporting. A member of a group known in the profession as the ‘Murder Gang,’ Finch made it his business to report murders, sometimes arriving at crime scenes before police officers. Like his fellow ‘Murder Gang’ members, he was as much tolerated as accepted by the police of the time. They couldn’t freeze out crime reporters, so they had to (sometimes grudgingly) tolerate their existence.

 

Parker and Probert themselves were otherwise unexceptional criminals. They’d assaulted shopkeeper Joseph Bedford while trying to rob his store on November 13, 1933. Severely beaten, Bedford died of his injuries the next day. Arrested a few days after the crime, Parker and Probert now faced trial for murder, then carrying a mandatory death sentence.

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They were tried before Mr Justice Roche, legendary pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury testified for the prosecution which was led by the equally legendary Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, KC (King’s Counsel). Against such heavyweight opposition the pair could only blame each other. This, of course, made no difference. They had gone to rob together, had killed together and so, in the eyes of the law, would be tried, convicted and hanged together.

Convicted on March 16, 1934, they stood before Mr Justice Roche as he donned the traditional Black Cap to pass what reporters often called ‘the dread sentence’;

“Frederick Parker and Albert Probert, you stand convicted of the crime of wilful murder. The sentence of this Court is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison and then to a place of execution where you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that afterwards your bodies be cut down and buried within the precincts of the prison in which you were last confined before execution.

And may the Lord have mercy upon your souls…”

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Their appeals proved fruitless and were denied on April 18, 1934. With that in mind, chief hangman Thomas Pierrepoint was booked to hang the pair. Uncle and nephew would work together so frequently they became known as ‘the firm of Uncle Thomas and Our Albert.’ With him were his assistant and nephew Albert (undoubtedly needing no introduction) and two additional assistants, Stanley Cross and Tom Phillips. Cross was an experienced assistant and Phillips even more so. Albert, however, was the relative novice that day.

Parker and Probert were only the sixth and seventh notches on Albert’s rope. Beginning with Patrick McDermott at Dublin’s Mountjoy Jail on December 29, 1932 (assisting his uncle Thomas), Albert had only assisted at four hangings since then. His uncle, meanwhile, had been involved in almost 200 executions by that point. He would continue until hanging cop killer John Caldwell at Barlinnie Gaol in Glasgow on August 10, 1946. Caldwell would be Thomas’s 296th and final victim.

Parker and Probert died quietly and quickly at 9am, without trouble, dropping simultaneously was the fashion. As they had murdered and been tried together, so they dropped side-by-side. The presence of W G Finch, though causing no problems whatsoever with the hanging itself, was frowned on by higher authority. The customary placing of official notices on the prison gate, announcing the executions had been carried out, was undoubtedly the death knell for Parker and Probert.

It was also the end of media access to a British gallows. Executions would continue until August 13, 1964 when two inmates, Gwynne Evans and Peter Allen died simultaneously at Strangeways and Walton Prisons respectively. Like Parker and Probert thirty years previously, Allen and Evans had committed murder during a robbery. With their deaths the Black Cap, ‘dread sentence’ and the death penalty itself became part of penal history.

 

On this Day in 1925; The Biter (nearly) Bitten at Sing Sing.


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When heroin-loving gangsters Morris ‘Whitey’ Diamond and his brother Joey teamed up with John Farina for an armed robbery and murder, they surely knew they had a fair chance of joining him in Sing Sing’s Death House and Old Sparky as well. The 1920’s and 30’s were halcyon days for New York’s ‘State Electrician’ and his infamous contraption, after all.

What they would never live to know (and executioner John Hurlburt came to know all too well) was that Hurlburt very nearly joined them in Sing Sing’s morgue. Hurlburt’s story is no great secret (you can find my account of it here) but less is reported of the night he found himself almost as dead as any of his 140 ‘customers.’

The Diamonds and Farina found themselves awaiting death for an armed robbery committed in 1924. They stole over $43,000 from bank messenger William Barlow and guard William McLaughlin. In the process they shot Barlow (a retired NYPD officer) three times in the back. McLaughlin (a US Army veteran) managed to fire a few shots before dying.

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It might have gone better if the Diamonds hadn’t been using heroin before the job. It might have gone better still if Whitey hadn’t left a blood-stained finger print in the getaway car, hadn’t left a false licence plate where it was easily found and hadn’t falsely registered it under the name ‘Joe Samuels.’ It probably didn’t help that the address on the false registration was also where Whitey habitually collected his mail.

Further bad news came via bank clerk Antony Pantano, the gang’s inside man. For a lowly clerk, his colleagues thought, he had an unusual interest in the bank’s security \arrangements, especially those involving cash deliveries and collections. When their colleagues were ambushed and left dying in the street, they immediately pointed the finger at Pantano.

Grilled by NYPD officers furious at Barlow’s murder and no doubt wanting to avoid a seat in Old Sparky, Pantano cracked. He named the Diamonds and Farina as the shooters and Nicky ‘Cheeks’ Luciano and George Desaro as driving the two getaway cars. Luciano, no relation, takes no great role in the story. Desaro was later arrested in his native Italy, which agreed to prosecute him and gave him 30 years for his role. He was luckier than Farina and the Diamonds, but not Pantano.

Pantano also found himself going ‘up the river’ to await ‘Black Thursday,’ but his sentence was commuted. Those of the Diamonds and Farina, however, weren’t. New York’s courts had an unwritten rule of never interfering in the cases of condemned cop killers and that Barlow had been retired made no difference. The Whitey, Joey and Farina would die on the same night, April 30, 1925, one after another.

New York’s death warrants only specified a particular week for a prisoner’s electrocution. With that in mind, executions were traditionally conducted on Thursdays (barring last-minute legal appeals, stays of execution, temporary reprieves or commutations.

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As Pantano left the Death House for Sing Sing’s general population, it must have occurred to him that he’d had a very narrow escape. During its tenure, Sing Sing’s Old Sparky (New York once had three of them) claimed 614 of the State’s 695 electrocutions. For every three inmates who walked in, two were wheeled out.

New York wasn’t a State noted for its generosity to the condemned. Pantano’s information and his being a first offender had undoubtedly saved him. As career criminals the Diamond brothers and Farina knew the rules of the game. They must also have known they’d gambled their lives, and lost. John Hurlburt pencilled a lucrative date in his diary, as much as he’d come to hate the work.

Hurlburt’s contract with New York was the same as his predecessor Edwin Davis. For single executions he was paid $150 and travel expenses. For doubles or more, which weren’t unusual, he got $150 for the first inmate and an extra per head thereafter. He would leave Sing Sing with $250 for his night’s work, more than some people earned in a year. Hurlburt, however, was cracking up.

Hurlburt had taken over from Davis when Davis retired in 1912, Davis having trained both Hurlburt and another assistant, Robert Greene Elliott. Initially a believer in capital punishment, he now found himself doing the job only for the money. With his wife Mattie chronically-ill he had no other way to pay the medical bills.

In the months before his date with Farina and the Diamonds he’d become withdrawn, sullen, temperamental, aggressive and depressed. Tantrums were regular, Hurlburt throwing items of equipment around the death chamber and cursing at guards while preparing for an execution.

This time, hours before he was due to earn his fee, Hurlburt suffered a nervous collapse. Prison officials were facing a crisis. Under New York law only a State Electrician could perform an electrocution and Hurlburt was the only one they had. No electrician, no electrocution. After much soft-soaping, gentle persuasion and cajoling, Hurlburt recovered enough to do the job, but only just.

At 11pm, Morris was first in line. He walked in, sat down and died. As his body was wheeled away in came his brother Joey. When Joey had been pronounced dead John Farina rounded out Hurlburt’s triple-hitter. Hurlburt, a broken man by then, promptly  suffered another nervous collapse. He spent the next week in hospital before recovering enough to leave. Unfortunately for Hurlburt, who desperately needed relaxing, calm and above all safe surroundings, he was taken to the nearest available medical facility;

The infirmary at Sing Sing Prison.

Luckily for Hurlburt, he’d been a firm adherent to Edwin Davis’s approach to anonymity. The press had his name, but they never got a picture or any other personal details. His desire for anonymity and the safety thereof was about to save his life.

Some people just aren’t popular in prisons. Informers, ex-cops, ex-guards and sex offenders usually top the list of people considered fair game. Anyone wanting to make them suffer and possibly kill them has virtually free rein to do so if they can get away with it. Seldom, however, will you find anyone convicts hate more than an executioner.

Hurlburt must have been terrified. He couldn’t have avoided the fact (and fear) that, if anyone blew his cover, Hurlburt would be a dead man. He’d immediately be headed for the same morgue as the 140 or so inmates on whom he’d inflicted the ‘hot seat.’ If they even thought he might have been involved with Old Sparky, they’d kill him.

All in all, not what the doctor ordered. With the Diamonds and Farina dead, Hurlburt himself didn’t last much longer. He performed only two more executions, John Durkin on August 27 and Julius Miller on September 19, then resigned only hours before he was due to executed John Slattery and Ambrose Miller. on January 16, 1926. Slattery and Miller were delighted, their executions were postponed and subsequent legal action saw them commuted. Their accomplices Luigi Rapito and Emil Klatt were less fortunate.

By their date on January 29 New York had appointed the other of Davis’s two proteges, the legendary ‘Agent of Death’ Robert Greene Elliott. Another accomplice, Frank Daley, followed them on June 24. Daley played it tough until the bitter end, cursing Slattery and Ross for implicating him until the switch was thrown.

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As it turned out Hurlburt, in failing health himself, his nerves broken and grieving after Mattie’s death in September, 1928, wasn’t long in joining them. On the afternoon of February 22, 1929 he walked into the basement of his home near Auburn Prison where he’d worked as both electrician and performed his very first executions. In his hand was the revolver he always carried when visiting a prison.

He didn’t walk out.

 

Watching the detectives: The arrest of the inappropriately named Daniel Good.


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Daniel Good is probably an unfamiliar name, hanged as he was back in 1842. But the result of his crime if still familiar the world over. Good’s crime was unexceptional, the brutal murder and partial dismemberment of a woman he’d been living with. Horrific, certainly, but unfortunately not unusual.

His crime, committed on April 7, 1842, was discovered by accident. A uniformed officer of London’s Metropolitan Police went to arrest Good after he was seen stealing a pair of trousers from a pawnbroker in Putney. While the officer was busy discovering the victim’s corpse (and probably stunned by its having crudely dismembered) Good made his escape. A manhunt immediately began, nine divisions of officers joining the search.

With no plainclothes officers then in existence, the Met had a serious problem even with nine divisions of officers looking for him. Good, having committed a particularly brutal murder, was also facing a mandatory death sentence. If caught, he would almost certainly hang. But, uniformed officers being highly visible men, Good easily spotted them and slipped the net. Having successfully escaped London itself, Good may well have thought he was home free. As it turned out he couldn’t have been more wrong.

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Having found work in Tonbridge as a labourer, Good remained unaware that one of his new colleagues, one Thomas Rose, was a  former Metropolitan Police officer. Now off the force, Rose wasn’t in uniform and Good, looking for uniformed officers instead of anyone in plain clothes, was very much in harm’s way. Like many former police officers Rose kept a strong interest in crime and criminals. It wasn’t long before Rose recognised Good and alerted his chief pursuers Inspector Nicholas Pearce and Sergeant Stephen Thornton.

On April 25, 1842 Daniel Good was arrested. Once convicted, he was condemned to die. On May 23, 1842, only a month after his arrest, he ascended the ‘New Drop’ outside London’s notorious Newgate Prison to keep his date with the hangman. Executioner WIlliam Calcraft performed his grim duties with, unusually for him, speed and efficiency.

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After being left to hang for the traditional hour to ensure his death, Good was subjected to a rather creepy, but not unusual indignity; having his death mask made for him. This wasn’t unusual at the time, executed prisoners were often subjected to it. A mould was made of his face and a plaster bust made of his head. Good’s death mask now resides in Scotland Yard’s legendary ‘Black Museum,’ a place inspiring a 1950’s radio serial narrated by Orson Welles who famously called it a ‘mausoleum of murder.’

With Good safely in his grave, the Metropolitan Police had to reconsider having only uniformed officers in their ranks. Had some officers been working out of uniform, they reasoned, they might have caught him far sooner. With that in mind a permanent cadre of non-uniformed officers. the Detective Department, was set up in August, 1842. It later became the Criminal Investigation Department.

The Detective Department were the beginnings of Scotland Yard’s now-legendary detectives. In time, their reputation grew and their remit extended. Not only do they cover all crime within London, they are still regularly called in by local forces to assist in especially difficult cases.

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All local police forces today also have their own CID branches, following the Met’s example. Some of them (Frederick Wensley, Fred Cherrill, Jack Capstick, Robert Fabian, Leonard Burt, Ernest Millen, Jack Slipper and ‘Nipper’ Read among others) became celebrities, legendary in their own time.

Daniel Good obviously wasn’t there to appreciate his unwilling place in criminal history. The Yard’s detectives having grown to achieve legendary status, many generations of incarcerated or executed criminals won’t have appreciated it much either.

 

On This Day in 1949; Germaine Leloy-Godefroy, last French woman to face the guillotine.


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The name of Germaine Leloy-Godefroy won’t be as familiar as that of Hamida Djandoubi, the last man to be guillotined in France, but she’s worth a mention. She was the last woman in France to face the dreaded ‘Timbers of Justice.’ Marie Antoinette is without doubt the best known victim of the ‘National Razor,’ but Godefroy’s was France’s final female execution.

Her crime was unexceptional. The wife of coal merchant Albert Leloy, she brutally hacked him to death with an axe while he slept, later trying (very ineptly) to disguise it as a random robbery gone wrong. A vicious murder inflicted on a defenceless victim simply to replace him with her toyboy lover, Raymond. Not a case deserving of much sympathy or, you might say, of any mercy. There probably wouldn’t have been any fuss at all if Albert Leloy had wielded the axe on his wife to run off with a younger woman. But France is France and, as in most places, executing a woman was a big deal regardless of her crime.

On December 10, 1947 Albert Leloy would succumb to the axe. On April 21, 1949 Germaine would succumb to a different kind of axe, and for the last time in French history. Germaine and Raymond were soon caught and, when tried in 1948 at the Assize Court of Maine-et-Loire, Raymond drew ten years as an accomplice. Despite trying to shift the entire blame onto Raymond and another toyboy named Pierre, Germaine wouldn’t be as lucky. She was transported to Angers Prison to await a date with the sinisterly-nicknamed ‘Monsieur de Paris;

‘The Man from Paris.’

In 1870, French law had changed. Regional executioners, long known by the towns from which they came, were abolished. From then on there would be only one chief executioner and, by law, he was required to live in Paris. While the likes of ‘Monsieur de Rennes and his brethren were disbanded, French convicts learned to dread hearing one guard say to another the simple phrase ‘Monsieur de Paris est arrivee…’

‘The Man from Paris has arrived…’

The then-current ‘Monsieur de Paris’ was one Jules-Henri Desfourneaux. Desfourneaux, like all French executioners for several centuries, came from a long-serving family of headsmen. Executioners, known disparagingly as ‘Bourreaux,’ were despised by the french public. They didn’t mind turning out to watch them work, but wanted nothing else to do with them. By abolition in 1981 all French executioners could trace their ancestry back to a mere handful of families, mostly intermarried with each other. The Desfourneauxs had been serving French justice for centuries. Jules-Henri himself had racked up scores of ‘customers.’

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Germaine Leloy-Godefroy wasn’t the only last of his career. On June 17, 1939 he’d been in Paris performing what would be France’s last public execution. German serial killer Eugen Weidmann would be the last to face the ‘People’s Avenger’ before an audience. So distasteful was the behaviour of the public outside Saint-Pierre Prison that day (an execution witnessed by 17-year old would-be actor Christopher Lee, that President Lebrun immediately banned any further public beheadings and, in the process, cut off centuries of French tradition as well.

Ironically, Lee (eventually to become Sir Christopher Lee) would later play legendary bouureaux Charles-Henri Sanson in one of his many screen and stage parts.

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With her appeals denied and Presidential clemency not forthcoming, Germaine prepared herself for the end. France’s condemned weren’t informed of their impending execution until it was time to take their final walk. It hindered suicide or escape attempts and didn’t leave them sitting in tiny cells watching the clock tick as they brooded on their impending death.

At around 4:30am on the cold, grey dawn of April 21, 1949, Germaine Leloy-Godefroy’s time finally came. Desforuneaux, by then ageing and sliding into alcoholism, was ready for perform his grim task. Things moved swiftly from then on. After a brief talk with Chaplain Moreau she attended Mass before writing a final letter. The grim ritual known as the ‘toilette du condamne’ was performed, her hair being trimmed and her neck bared, ready for the blade. Offered the traditional final cigarette and glass of rum, she declined.

All that remained was one final piece of bureaucracy. Under French law a convict couldn’t actually be executed. Instead, they had to be formally paroled by the justice system into the custody of the executioner. With the paperwork attended to, nothing else stood between her and her unwilling date with destiny.

It was over quickly. Like England’s hangmen, the bourreaux didn’t waste time. As soon as she reached the guillotine after a brief walk from her cell, they laid her out and strapped her down. Without any further ado, the blade fell. The audience, now composed only of those specifically invited to view an execution behind prison walls, signed their witness statements and departed.

Germaine Leloy-Godefroy was dead.

 

 

Executed executioners; the biters bit.


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Executioners are seen as a strange breed. Usually tolerated, sometimes celebrated, frequently feared and often despised, the man (for it usually is) who drops the blade, swings the axe, pushes the lever or throws the switch remains a breed apart. With their particular profession in mind, you might think that, death being touted as a deterrent, they might be those most deterred by the thought of facing their own particular brand of punishment.

They haven’t, not by a long shot.

A surprising number, having dispensed the ultimate penalty, have later suffered it themselves. It’s said that it’s better to give than to receive but, despite their experienced eye for such matters, some of them didn’t get the memo.

We’ll start with Brazil, now a non-death penalty country. Brazilian executioners were often slaves with no choice of whether to wield the axe or the rope. Three of the didn’t get to choose whether to receive the axe or rope, either. In 1828 Joao Pablo de Sousa faced his own form of justice, he wasn’t alone. Ten years late ‘Francisco’ met the same same end. In 1850 it was the turn of ‘Ananias.’ The trend wasn’t confined to Brazil and neither started nor ended there.

Sweden saw two executioners feel the kiss of their own axes. Jorg Volmar went to the block in 1541 while the appropriately-named ‘Styf’ became exactly that in 1854. Ireland’s Dick Bauf, a hangman of considerable experience, found himself ‘scragged’ for theft in Dublin in 1702.

Germany too lost at least one executioner, Frederick Stigler in 1590. Stigler, an assistant executioner himself, found himself facing his boss Franz Schmidt, although this particular job saw Stigler taking far too prominent a role for his liking. One swing of the sword later, Stigler became less prominent by about twelve inches.

The United States adopted hanging, shooting, lethal gas, electrocution and lethal injection, a veritable smorgasbord of slaughter. In 1905, Ohio State Penitentiary inmate, the appropriately-named Charles Justice, helped his captirs refine their new electric chair. Noticing that the leather straps originally used caused additional burning and that a prisoner’s skin often came away when the straps were removed, Justice proposed replacing them with metal clamps (think of the chair used in ‘The Green Mile’). Ohio continued using the metal clamps until its last electrocution, that of Donald Reinbolt in 1963. Justice, however, wasn’t around to see his creations in action. Paroled for his assistance (other inmates might have killed him otherwise), he returned to prison in 1911 convicted of murder. His clamps worked as effectively on their inventor as on some 300 other inmates.

Montana’s Henry Plummer also came to the end of his own rope. Plummer, a lawman in the Montana town of Bannick, was also its principal criminal. While carrying a gun and wearing a badge, Plummer also ran a motley crew of killers and thieves who terrorised the area, all while hiding in plain sight behind his tin star. He even installed a town gallows, such was his outward devotion to upholding the laws he conspicuously ignored. Eventually, he ignored them a little too conspicuously and locals, finally fed up with his depredations, lynched him. Plummer was denied the dubious distinction of dying on his own gallows, his lynch mob preferring to simply put a rope round his neck and ahul him off the ground until he died.

California’s Alfred Wells was an inmate at the notorious San Quentin in 1938 when he was assigned to help install California’s latest wrinkle in supposedly painless, humane execution. Ordered to help install the two-seater gas chamber known variously as the ‘little green room,’ ‘the time machine,’ ‘the Big Sleep’ and ‘the coughing box,’ Wells finished his grim task and declared he hoped it was the closest he ever got the gas chamber. It wasn’t. In 1942 Wells returned to San Quentin, this time to Death Row for violent crime spree including a couple of murders. On December 3, 1942 he came closer to the gas chamber than he’d intended…

Returning from the gas chamber to the gallows, several of Britain’s executioners have faced the rope or the block. Whether top of drops of top of the chops, at least six of them met their end on their own scaffolds. In 1538 the singularly unpleasant ‘Cratwell’ found himself wearing a hempen necktie. Amputee executioner ‘Stump Leg’ found himself entertaining the Tyburn crowd with a nifty ‘Paddington frisk’ in 1556. Scotland’s Alexander Cockburn faced his replacement, a man traditionally nicknamed the ‘Dooomster’ by Scottish gallows fans, in 1681.

Perhaps England’s most notorious executioner was ‘Jack ketch, a man so reviled for his barbaric incompetence that he was fired and replaced by his assistant Pascha Rose. At least he was until 1686 when Rose, convicted of sheep-stealing, became gallows fruit himself. In the absence of anyone else, the clumsy Ketch found himself back on one end of the rope while Rose danced merrily at the other.

In 1718 John Price, once reprieved on condition he become a hangman, blotted his copybook with another capital crime and swung from the Triple Tree. In 1785 it was the turn of Thomas Woodham. His execution was the last time an English hangman performed the Tyburn jig.

From top of the drops to top of the chops, we’ll pay a brief visit to La Belle France by way of its dreaded penal colonies in French Guiana. In 1418, executioner Capeluche was both a brute and a cleaver of heads. He was however, competent enough to have trained his own replacement. That same replacement graduated with honours when Capeluche’s own head had to roll.

A century later it was the turn of Florent Bazard. Having bungled one job too many, much to the disgust and fury of the crowd, they conveyed their displeasure by publicly lynching Bazard near his own scaffold. In 1625 Simon Grandjean met a similar fate, although he dangled beside his wife who was acting as his assistant. Last in France’s trail of terror came Jacques Joseph Durand. Remember the argument that capital punishment is a deterrent to potential murderers? it didn’t seem to deter Durand, who was executed in 1819 for murder.

The executioners in Guiana were volunteers. They were also convicts. Not surprisingly, they were the most hated men in the Penal Administration. Guards and inmates alike hated them for having turned on their fellow prisoners in return for extra privileges. Being splashed repeatedly with the blood of fellow prisoners,however, doesn’t seem to have tempered their criminal instincts much.

Isidore Hespel (known as ‘the Jackal’) cared not for their scorn. He didn’t care much for the deterrent effect of his own guillotine, either. Sent to Guiana for murder and having killed twice there even before becoming ‘Monsieur de Guiane,’ Hespel’s assistant also graduated with honours when Hespel committed one extra-judicial killing too many in 1921.

Georges Bonfils didn’t fare any better. Having graduated to ‘Monsieur de Guiana’ in 1930 (earning universal hatred from guards and convicts alike), Bonfils too would be shaved by the ‘National Razor. He would be the last of Devil’s Island’s executioners to be executed, although at least two others were murdered by fellow prisoners.

On this day in 1947; George Sitts, (appropriately named).


sitts-000

As regular readers know, I do like crime’s more unusual case, the firsts, lasts and onlys. Minnesota’s George Sitts is certainly one of those. Born in Leroy, Minnesota on October 29, 1913, he was a serial felon, escape artist and double cop-killer. He was the first, last and only inmate to sit in South Dakota’s electric chair.

So, the appropriately-named Sitts did indeed sit April 8, 1947. Once, and very briefly.

Sitts had escaped escaped from the Hennequin County Jail in his native Minnesota where he was awaiting transfer to Stilwater State Prison for murdering liquor store clerk Erik Jhansson during a robbery on December 12, 1945. A life sentence at Stillwater didn’t appeal to him so, with three other inmates, he broke out. This was very bad news for several people.

By January 24, 1946 he’d got as far as South Dakota, leaving a trail of gas stations without actually paying for his gas. Near the town of Spearfish he was confronted by Butte County Sheriff Dave Malcolm and State Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Tom Matthews. Sitts murdered both of them, reportedly shooting one of them as his victim lay on the ground wounded.

Sitts had gone from escaped felon to the target of a multi-State manhunt. Already wanted by Minnesota, now he was wanted in Wyoming, South Dakota and Nebraska as well. The double killing in South Dakota could see him electrocuted if he was caught and caught he eventually was.

On January 28 he arrived in Deadwood, South Dakota. Either out of sheer bravado or, more likely, not knowing whose house it was, he broke into the home of former Deadwood police chief Ross Dunn. He lived secretly in Dunn’s basement, living off canned food and seemingly invisible to law enforcement.

By now local newspaper the Rapid City Journal had started a fundraising drive for a reward, assisted by the Black Hills and Badlands Association. On January 31, the same day the fund drive started, Butte County Sheriff Dave Malcolm was buried and a successor appointed. On February 4 Sitts crept out of Deadwood.

The same day he flagged down motorist Leonard Ronneburg, abducted him at gunpoint, forced Ronneburg to drive him across the State line into Beulah, Wyoming and left him there. Sitts, having relieved Ronneburg of his car, kept going until he drew near the town of Lysite. There, mistaking a posse for a group of ranchers, he was arrested and returned to South Dakota to be tried for the murder of Agent Matthews.

The trial was both brief and a foregone conclusion. It began on March 18, Sitts was convicted on March 22 and Judge Charles Hayes sentenced him to death on March 30. SItts, the fourth man condemned to South Dakota’s chair, would be the first, last and only man to sit in it.

When South Dakota condemned its first inmate to electrocution, Clifford Hayes for murdering Grant County Sheriff Melbourne Lewis in 1939, they didn’t actually have an electric chair. As the law offered only electrocution as a method, the State had to borrow one from Illinois and have inmates make a replica. Illinois had adopted electrocution in 1928 and had three chairs at Menard, Cook County Jail and Stateville Prison, so lending South Dakota one of their wasn’t a problem.

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The replica, connected, wired and tested, sat in the jute mill at the South Dakota State Penitentiary in Sioux Falls, still awaiting its first occupant. When inmates two and three had their sentences commuted Sitts, South Dakota’s fourth candidate for the dubious distinction of being its first victim, found his number was up. Despite a brief problem with obtaining a head electrode (someone went out and bought a football helmet to use for the occasion) Sitts was doomed. As a double cop killer, escape artist and serial felon he could hardly have been surprised.

At 12:15 on April 8, 1947, the fateful time finally came. After a last meal of chicken chow mein, Sitts, his head and leg shaved, was escorted from his cell to the jute mill. 41 witnesses were there for this first in South Dakota history. As he was strapped into the chair, Sitts was asked for any final words. Defiant to the end, he replied;

“This is the first time authorities helped me escape prison.”

Minutes later, the switch was thrown. Four jolts of around 2000 volts each seared through Sitts’ body. The switch was thrown by SCI Agent Floyd Short, a personal friend of murder victim Agent Tom Matthews. As the current was turned off and the generator wound down, Sitts was pronounced dead.

South Dakota wouldn’t have another execution for 60 years, until Elijah Page died by lethal injection on July 11, 2011. Page was from Lawrence County, scene of the Sitts trial in 1946. He’d also committed his crime near the town of Spearfish, where Sitts had earned his place in criminal history.

 

 

George Kelly, falsely convicted and quickly hanged.


George-Kelly

 

For most crime buffs the name ‘George Kelly’ inspires memories of rattling Tommy guns, bank robberies and the kidnapping of Charles Urschel, all attributed to American crook George ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly. Kelly, a second-rate gangster at best, was made out to be far worse than he actually was, spending the remainder of his life in Leavenworth and Alcatraz before dying of a heart attack in 1954.

For residents of Liverpool, however, that name reminds them of a double murder, a rigged trial and a fast hanging in 1950. Like his American namesake, our George Kelly was also made out to be far worse than he really was. A petty crook, he didn’t deserve to title of ‘gangster.’

He didn’t deserve to go to the gallows, either. For a double murder he didn’t commit.

But, at 8am in Liverpool’s Walton prison on March 28, 1950, he did exactly that. When the time came Albert Pierrepoint and assistant Harry Allen walked into the condemned cell, strapped Kelly’s arms, led him the few short steps to the gallows and justice, so it seemed, had been served.

It hadn’t, by a long way.

Kelly’s alleged crime, armed robbery of Liverpool’s Cameo Cinema on the night of March 19, 1949, also resulted in a double murder. Cinema manager Leonard Thomas and assistant manager John Catterall were shot dead. Local gossip blamed Kelly and his alleged accomplice, local strong-arm man Charles Connolly. If tried and convicted, the pair would almost certainly be hanged. They were arrested on September 30, 1949 on the basis of an anonymous letter.

Enter local hoodlum Robert Graham who came forward and blamed the pair. He claimed that, while in Walton with them, Kelly had admitted the shootings and named Connolly as his partner. According to Graham, Kelly was the shooter and Connolly the look-out. Under the rules governing common purpose, that made both men equally responsible for the shootings and, therefore, equally likely to hang if convicted. In return for his information, and likely for his own safety, Graham was immediately released from his prison term.

A prison term for dishonesty…

First, Kelly and Connolly were tried together. The jury were unable to reach a verdict, but only an acquittal would have barred the Crown from a arranging a retrial. The fact that neither could be proved as having ever met, that both offered sound alibis and that the evidence of both Graham and fellow prosecution witnesses James Northam and Jacqueline Dickson, a pimp and prostitute respectively, was less-than-stellar, probably saw the collapse of the first trial. Dickson was also outed as writing the anonymous letter. Faced with prosecution witnesses of such low character, the jury couldn’t agree a verdict against either defendant.

Second time around the pair were set to be tried separately. Connolly, warned that a murder conviction would probably see him hang, accepted ten years for robbery and conspiracy while Kelly was awaiting both his own appeal and execution.. He died in 1997, still protesting his and Kelly’s innocence. His chance of a reprieve effectively destroyed by Connolly’s deal, Kelly remained in Walton’s condemned cell under 24-hour suicide watch.

Kelly’s trial was, by modern standards, a dubious affair. It was also Britain’s longest murder trial at that point, lasting 13 days of February, 1950 with Mr. Justice Roland Oliver presiding. The prosecution’s case was riddled with flaws, allegations of police coaching prosecution witnesses, the prosecution withholding evidence from the defence and of Kelly generally being railroaded to the gallows.

It also saw the first appearance of a woman as lead counsel in a capital case. Rose Heilbron had become a King’s Counsel (a senior barrister) in the same month that Kelly and Connolly supposedly murdered Thomas and Catterall at the Cameo. With Kelly facing the rope if convicted, her first murder case as lead counsel couldn’t have been any more challenging.

Inexperienced in capital cases, she did as much as anyone could. It wasn’t enough. The jury convicted her client, Mr. Justice Oliver donned the traditional Black Cap and sent Kelly back to Walton under sentence of death. Under the law as it then stood, George Kelly had only a minimum of three Sundays between sentencing and execution. With that in mind, letters from the Prison Commissioners went to Albert Pierrepoint and senior assistant Harry Allen offering them a morning’s work.

Rose Heilbron, however, had other ideas. She lobbied hard to have Kelly’s verdict and death sentence overturned. She went to the Court of Criminal Appeal, Kelly beside her as she listed 11 error’s in Oliver’s summing-up of the case. She also pointed out that a man named Donald Johnson has been tried and acquitted of the crime.

Johnson (also represented by Heilbron) had given police two statements. One admitted Johnson’s role as an accessory, which was ruled inadmissible and caused his trial to collapse. The other, not rediscovered until the 1990’s, had been withheld from the defence.

Johnson, a career criminal with a lengthy record, had also been stopped by a police officer near the Cameo Cinema before the crime. The shooter was also described as being left-handed. Johnson was left-handed, George Kelly wasn’t. Northam and Dickson’s statements appear to have been withheld from Kelly’s lawyers, Kelly was tried separately from Connolly without legal cause, Connolly’s guilty plea was obtained by threats of execution and Robert Graham’s first statement had been withheld from Kelly’s legal team as well.

The case against him was also based entirely on circumstantial evidence, without even forensic evidence linking Kelly to the crime. All told, the defence had plenty of grounds for appealing a conviction that should never have occurred in the first place.

None of it did any good at the time. Kelly’s conviction was upheld, his sentence approved and he duly went to the gallows. It wasn’t until the 1990’s that local man Lou Santangeli, a friend of Connolly’s, began a campaign to prove Kelly’s innocence. Digging through old files and using Connolly’s own memories, he pushed the case to the Court of Criminal Appeal in 2001. In 2003 the court ruled; George Kelly’s conviction had finally been quashed. Connolly’s robbery conviction went with it. According to Mr. Justice Rix;

“There was in these cases a breakdown in the due administration of justice and a failure to ensure a fair trial, we consider that the consequence was a miscarriage of justice which must be deeply regretted.”

Before his death in 1997 Charles Connolly expressed regrets of his own;

“If capital punishment had not been in force and George Kelly had not already been sentenced to hang I would never have pleaded guilty. i would have shouted my innocence whatever the consequences.”

Shortly after the ruling Kelly’s body, buried within prison walls in accordance with the law governing hanged prisoners, was finally returned to his family. Daughter Kathleen Hughes stated;

“I have waited a long, long time for this day. I hope now I can give him a decent Christian burial, which I have previously been thwarted from doing.”

 

 

 

Sparky’s Revenge; South Carolina considers reinstating the electric chair.


So, the State of South Carolina (previously responsible for executing then exonerating 14-year old George Stinney)   is considering dusting off Old Sparky. Difficulties in obtaining lethal injection drugs have caused a backlog on Death Row. South Carolina has numerous condemned inmates, wants to start executing them, but can’t obtain the legally-approved means to do it.

A number of drug companies (Pfizer among others), no longer sell drugs for the purpose of executing people. Negative publicity has affected their bottom line, so it’s simply unprofitable to keep doing so. European drug companies also face the European Union’s declared opposition to the death penalty and have felt pressured into withdrawing their supply.

One of the reasons for introducing lethal injection in the first place was, its supporters claimed, to provide a more humane (or less inhumane) method to replace the gas chambers, gallows, firing squads and electric chairs once so popular in dispensing death on demand. This also helped sidestep legal challenges to executions, particularly those citing the 8th Amendment outlawing cruel and unusual punishment. That wasn’t a problem for the pro-execution lobby, either.

That discussing more humane methods allows some legislators and supporters to evade discussing executions per se is no great secret. From the pro lobby point of view it’s often easier to avoid debating abolition simply by diverting attention to killing them nicely instead. A debatable concept if ever there was one, but a useful dodge when needed.

Despite lethal injection being introduced (allegedly) to make death more humane, it seems several states are quite willing to discuss reinstating the same methods they cited as outdated and passe. As its boosters claimed at the time, lethal injection would do away with horrific spectacles like those of James Wells in Arkansas’s electric chair or Donald Harding in Arizona’s gas chamber. Botches like that of Clayton Lockett in Oklahoma have already proved it every bit as unreliable a method as any other. Prisoners still die, granted, but not always quickly, cleanly or humanely.

Part of South Carolina’s problem (aside from the drug boycott) lies in its own execution laws. Lethal injection is the norm unless an inmate specifically chooses electrocution and (rather inconveniently) inmates aren’t choosing to ride the lightning. Unless they do, lethal injection is the only available method under State law.

The  combination of the drug shortage and intransigent inmates has led Republican State Senator William Timmons to champion a return to Sparky’s revenge instead. The idea is currently in committee at the State Senate and will be discussed further. Timmons is also pushing for a ‘shield law’ to stop identification of drug companies supplying lethal injection drugs in an effort to encourage new suppliers.

South Carolina is the latest in a long line of States to reinstate defunct methods or consider doing so. Virginia’s Governor vetoed restoring the electric chair, but allowed secretly importing execution drugs instead. Tennessee has already returned Old Sparky to active service. One Missouri legislator called for a return to their gas chamber. Oklahoma is considering using a nitrogen gas chamber instead of cyanide.

Nebraska was caught trying import generic drugs not approved by the Federal Drug Administration, as was Arizona. Other States including Ohio and Texas have been warned about similar efforts.The thought of an inmate giggling their way into the grave does seem off-putting at best. The irony of killing to protect the sanctity of human life and uphold the law by breaking it seems lost on them. By cloaking drug suppliers in anonymity the ‘shield law’ makes such abuses easier.

The attitude of the pro-death lobby seems to be hardening under pressure from abolitionists and increasing public opposition. From once touting lethal injection as more  humane than electrocution, gas, shooting or hanging,  the new attitude is blunter and more hard-line;

‘If we can’t kill in the way we touted as better, we’ll simply kill with something worse.’