I thought about the death penalty for the first time. Every day in New English, our teacher wrote a new question on the whiteboard. Before the class started, we had to write a short essay on the topic. One day, the prompt read:
“What is your opinion on the death penalty?”
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Until that moment, I didn’t think much of it. Whenever I hear of someone being sentenced to death, I just assume they deserve it. But I was never asked to consider whether it was morally right. I wrote my first sentence with a number 2 pencil:
“I believe the death penalty is appropriate in cases of serious crimes.”
Then I stopped. I picked up an eraser and erased. I felt that I could not, in good faith, justify the death penalty.
Contrary to the answer to my question on the board, death was not a decision that could be canceled simply by picking up an eraser. Death was final. So, from that moment forward, I knew where I stood: I was against the death penalty.
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As I grew older, my opposition to the death penalty never diminished. It became a core part of my identity, a topic I often return to in conversations with friends, or sometimes even strangers. The more I read about the subject, the more disturbed I became by how disproportionately the death penalty is applied. Two people can commit the same crime and receive completely different punishments depending on where the crime took place, or their access to money and legal resources.
I learned about many people who were executed and later acquitted. I started donating to the Innocence Project, an organization that works to free the wrongfully convicted. Sometimes, my donation was small. But it was my way of relating to the faith I had held since I was 14 years old.
I never thought that after 20 years, I would face the same question written on the whiteboard again. But this time, it wasn’t imaginary.
In April 2025, I received a jury summons. I didn’t have time for jury duty, but the court website says most proceedings last only two to three days. I thought I wouldn’t be selected, and if I was, I expected it to be short.
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Eventually, I was selected to be a judge, and I quickly realized that this would not be the case. It was the trial of an accused serial killer accused of murdering eight people: Andrew Remillard; Parker Smith; Salim Richards; Latorrie Beckford; Christopher Cameron; Maria Villanueva; his mother, Renee Cookey; and her partner, Edward Nunn.
As the scope of the case became clear, I knew the death penalty was a real possibility, and I felt conflicted about proceeding as a judge. But as I listened to other potential jurors answer the attorneys’ questions during selection, I began to think that maybe I belonged there. I hope I can keep an open mind and bring nuance to thoughtful conversations.
One of the hardest days as a juror was when Maria Villanueva’s youngest daughter testified. Maria was kidnapped and sexually assaulted. Her lifeless body was found in a dirt alley – nearly naked, surrounded by garbage cans and cigarette butts. After hearing her talk about my mother, I reserved a 6pm dinner with the neighbors for pasta and drinks. The juxtaposition felt embarrassing, but I was desperate to think about anything other than what had happened in court.
After months of testimony, the jury deliberated whether the defendant was guilty or not. We found the defendant guilty of all charges, but the jury still had to determine whether the defendant would receive life in prison without parole or the death penalty.
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The victim’s family read their impact statements before the sentencing phase of the case began.
When Christopher Cameron’s partner spoke, I knew her words would hurt.
“Our son was only 10 months old when his father was taken. My daughter never got to meet him. My children will never experience dancing or donuts with their father. He had dreams. Now all we are left with is the void his absence carries.”
Christopher’s children will never hear his voice or see him walk through the front door after work and kiss their mother. Instead, they are left with ashes on the mantle. They don’t know her smell, her laugh, or how it felt to hug her. They never open a gift with a tag that says “From Dad.” Christopher’s murder ended one life, but it shattered every life connected to him.
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After several months of hearing the prosecution and defense argue the mitigating circumstances, it was time for the jury to deliberate again. We immediately voted default.
I was the only one who voted for death.
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The author with his dog. Photo courtesy of William Ehlers
Trying to keep an open mind, for six of the eight counts, I voted “undecided.” For the murders of the defendant’s mother and her friend, I voted for life without parole.
I braced for the other jurors’ verdicts. I explained that I had tried to consider all the mitigating circumstances relevant to the defendant. He was abused. I know he had a difficult childhood, and I know he had a drug problem. Legally, these factors allowed us to grant leniency. But any attempt to have these conversations fell on deaf ears.
Several jurors refused to acknowledge the defendant’s history of drug abuse and mental illness, despite expert testimony from the defense and prosecution. All mitigating circumstances were irrelevant to them. The only thing that mattered was that the defendant was sentenced to death.
It didn’t feel like justice for the victims—it was revenge toward the defendant.
After a few days of deliberation, I knew that if I didn’t change my vote to execute, I would be the cause of a hung jury, which would mean the penalty phase would have to be retried, a process that would take months. A new group of jurors will be tasked with deciding punishment for the verdicts they did not reach. And there was no way to know how long it would be before a new trial began.
I was sitting on the floor of the jury room hallway making a list.
If I choose death, that is. he is dead
But if I choose life, the jury will be hung. His sentence will be retried, some new set of jurors will go through it all again, and the victim’s loved ones will be denied closure.
There was no choice but to harm some if not many. There was no alternative to damage reduction. I initially went into this trial believing that under no circumstances would I vote to execute the defendant. I romanticized the idea of refusing to crack under pressure, and I would have mercy on anyone. But after a week of sleepless nights and several bottles of wine, I knew what I had to do.
“Raise your hand, in favor of life for one count, regarding Parker Smith.”
“Now to all death, raise your hands.” Twelve votes.
I was forced to raise my hand for each individual charge until I voted for death six times. I could not bring myself to vote for death in connection with the murders of the defendant’s mother, Renee Cookey, and her partner, Edward Nunn, because I did not believe that the defendant was in a coherent state when he committed these murders.
When the vote was over, I managed to lift my head from the table, put my face into my palms and cry. I couldn’t last much longer. I heard the zipping of backpacks as the other judges packed their things to head out for lunch, when I just cried.
The defendant was arrested on December 17, 2017. Exactly eight years later, we reversed our decision. It was read aloud the next day.
Being a juror in a capital murder trial revealed a frustration with our system that I never knew I had. I always knew I didn’t support the death penalty, but I’m even less supportive after this experience.
I know I will always partially regret my decision. My life will always exist in two sections: before the trial and after the trial. If I were able to acknowledge my strongest beliefs, what do I really believe, and what do those beliefs mean? Being responsible for the death penalty is a burden I will carry with me. Every victim’s death saddens me, even the defendant’s inevitable death.
I wish the trial hadn’t ended this way. But I wish there wouldn’t be a trial at all, because I wish all eight victims were still here. I constantly think of Andrew, Parker, Salim, Latori, Christopher, Maria, Rene and Ed. I will always do my best to make sure they live.
I chose death, not because I wanted the defendant to die, but to bring the family closer and allow the victims to finally rest in peace. Even though I know I’m going to carry the burden of that choice with me forever, I hope it takes at least a little of the burden off them.
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