Fourtesn lives have Bias taken by
process of law since Oklahoma became.
a state. Seven of those were by hang- |
ing and seven by electrocution. The
ligt follows:
On The Gallows.
“Frank Ford, negro, hanged at
Frederick for wife murder.
John Hopkins, white, hanged at
Miami for murder of his sweet-
heart, Lena Craig.
Will Johnson, negro, hanged at
Shawnee for murder of aged white
woman, Mary Cuppy.
Alf Hunter, negro, hanged at
Watonga for murder of George W.
Garrison, sheriff of Oklahoma county.
Henry T, Armstrong, white, hanged
at Perry for murder of Isaac W. Fell.
John Black, negro, hanged at Hol-
denville for murder’ of J M. Step-
hens,
Frank Henson, negro, hanged at
Tulsa for murder of’ Charles Stump-
er, {
By Electrocution. i
Heriry Bookman, negro, electrocut-'
ed December 10, 1915, for murder of |
Rich Hardin, McIntosh county farm- |
er.
Cecil Towery, negro, electroéuted |
November 6, 1916, for murder of Chas.
Vaughn, Morris oil man. |
Willie Williams, negro, electrocuted
inctpistiigsls
“April 13, 1917, for murder of Sam
Neal, Muskogee patrolman. |
Chester Taylor, negro, electrocuted
April 13, 1917, for murder of wife in_
Creek county. '
Charles Young, negro, electrocuted
April 13, 1917, for murder of George
Goode at Frederick.
esti s Prather, negro, electrocuted |
May 2, 1918, for murder of W. H.|
Techie. Oklahoma City. |
James Broken, negro, electrocuted |
November 8, 1918, for murder of Glen |
Jacobs, Muskogee—Oklahoman. i
“Soft
“Sculpture
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“Body
Fashions
6oln-La-La
4200 N. Western
Okla. City, Okla. 73118
(405) 524-4752
“TUBE BY FORMFIT ROGERS”
76 OKLAHOMA MONTHLY
r
Krench was found guiily of Sheiton’s
murder three difierent times in [itts-
burgh County and was given the death
penalty three times, Twice the comvic-
tions were overturned because of tech-
nicalities—one was his being brought
into court in chains before the jury—and
each time French denounced the actions
of the Court of Appeals, saying that they
were wasteful, useless and only prolong-
ing the inevitable.
“I killed him, right? Now they kili me,
right? Simple.”
French also complained that the death
penalty, though having his rather ag-
gressive support, was often unfair:
“Have you ever heard of anybody
dying down here that was rich? Have
you ever wondered why? The sysiem,
the courts, the juries; they're ail to
blame. They think that only the poor
should die. The wealthy are too impor-
tant. And if I had my way every jury
that handed out the death penalty would
have to comme down here to watch.
Maybe that would change their bias, But
I doubt it. And I don’t care. It’s
somebody eilse’s worry. I have mine
own,”
VRRY {he third time the state Court
of Criminal Appeals reviewed
French's case, it was sus-
tained. He said that he was pleased.
French wanted more than anything
else, I believe, to be considered iniel-
lectually competent, But he wasn't by
far. Not only did he lack a discipline of
reasoning, a substantive base, he also
could never untangle the abstract. His
head had a few words in it, but very tew
ideas. Moreover, he was forever conius-
ing names that he had doubtless heard
about but obviously hadn't read, names
that were supposed to certify that he
was a pretty sharp guy. To him, Brown-
ing was a philosopher not a poet; Donne
was romantic not metaphysical; Aris-
totldwrote the plays not Aristophanes.
But he faked it bravely, confidently,
knowing that it made precious littie dif-
ference, And it didn't,
His voice was slightly husky—about s
three-packs-a-day gruff—and he askea
me whether had things worked out
better for him early on, could he have
made it in radio. I said perhaps. He liad
the voice, but his hands were the™
problem, Could he have ever kept them
from someone's throat? French gigg'ed a
little and raising his finely tattooed
fingers, he said: ~
“These were made to strangle, not to
play Elvis records,”
We dropped the matter there, And
Cia
t
*.
(nen snaking hands as Freneh prepared
to return to death row, he leaned over to.
eny:
“If 1 were covering my execution, do
you know what I'd say in a newspaper
headline?”
“What?”
“French Fries. See ya."
Pr
“PRT | he chair is 64 years old, built
in 1915 of wood and welded
| steel, the unesthetie but utili-
tarian creation of a prison employee,
Rochard Owens. And Owens made sure
that it would sting. Rigged for
2,400 volts in its infancy, the electric
chair would so violently assault its
victims that they were spared just this
side of cremation. Later the voltage was
reduced to 2,300, then 2,200; but its
location has stayed constant, underneath
the warden’s office in a half-basement.
And there, on December 10, 1915, at
12:42 a.m., the first electrocution took
place, changing forever the state prac-
tice of giving each of the 77 counties the
right to hang anyone convicted of capital
offenses. Thereafter, 51 whites, 27
blacks and 4 Indians were to die to the
errie accompaniment of whirring dyna-
moes. “Bad music,” said one black.
Not only did Owens artfully construct
the electric chair, he was the state's
executioner from 1915 until his death in
1948. It was a job whose responsibilities
he embraced with relentless fidelity,
having presided at the switch during the
deaths of 67 men. He never lost a night's
sleep, never was plagued by ghastly
memories of terrified, half-crazed vic-
tims mumbling prayers and asking God
to make ready for their imminent des-
tiny,
The first man executed was a black,
Henry Bookman. He had been found
guilty of murdering a white farmer in
McIntosh County in May 1915. Six
months later, he was murmuring to
himself on death row.
“T'm ready. I’m goin’ to walk right in
like a man. Ain’t that the way to do it?”
Bookman, 28, protested his innocence,
and had barely escaped a mob lynching
by feverish advocates of law and order
near Eufaula, “I didn't even know the
white man they says I killed, and don't
remember killing anyone. Nah, I ain't
guilty. I never done nothin’ to get killed
for. Don’t know why they going to kill
me less it’s best because they got me in
here.”
And Bookman, aside from being in
retrospect a dream case for the Ameri-
can Civil Liberties Union, acted tough,
ashamed to say that he was scared,
ee ne a ee 0 mee ees
a ea ae ee ee ene ee
Vit PORTAL RERVICR
i ee i ‘ {
| STATEMENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT AND CIRCULATION ae
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ee ee eee
PS For
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Ponca City, Okiahoma (405) 765-6681
OKLAHGMA MONTHLY
4
tid ii a a Dt
si
18 OKLAHOMA MONTHLY
apprehensive and unsettled, There 1s no
doubt that he was, for be tried to kill
himself twice. Yet, he had to be brave:
“T ain't afraid to die. Everybody's got
to die. When I'm dead, I'm dead, That's
all.”
When he started for the electric chair,
though, he faltered. The prison chaplain
and a guard had to support his webbly
walk, the shuffling steps merging
mournfully with the incoherent biblical
passages that he was trying to remem-
ber. Once seated, his voice quivering,
Bookman sang one stanza and a chorus of
his favorite spiritual: “I Am Going to
Meet My Jesus Over There.” Al! the
while he was being prepared, being
strapped in for execution.
“Be good, boys,” he told the crowd.
And then, “Oh, Lord, have merey on my
soul.” His lips kept moving, but the
words were silent. The 2,400 volts
abruptly shot through him; his body
stiffened and just as quickly relaxed.
Bookman was still alive. His weary eyes
slowly opened; the pupils rolled about
arduously as though in empty sockets, A
second charge, surging with shattering
electricity for seventeen seconds; and
Bookman again stiffened, his hands
squeezing hard the arms of the chair, He
leaned slightly forward, limply, lifeless.
The 68 witnesses thought that Okla-
homa's first formal electrocution had
gone well and were pleased that Book.
man had not created a scene. Many of
them had bet that he would crack and go
out screaming.
But he did not. Nor did he get his final
requests. One was to see the daylight a
last time; the other was to die in a nice
black suit. But since the prison didn’t
have a black suit, Bookman decided to go
with a pattern of blue and brown. When
his body was carried out, the biue and
brown looked almost black, and had been
practically burned up.
Despite the gruesome circumstances
of«Bookman’s death, aside from the
obvious repugnance of delightedly
watching a man die, state officials saw
nothing wrong with it. They even had
tickets printed so that anyone could
attend. In time, that was changed to
exclude everyone but prison authorities
and journalists. But for awhile, come
one, come all. And in 1933, they couid
have watched fourteen executions, the
most ever in a single year. It was also in
1933 that George Oliver became the
youngest person to die in the eleciric
chair, his Uncle Claude dying along with
him.
George, 18, and Claude, 28, were con-
victed of murder in Murray County,
Mt se
ee UGA, te aS =
eee oe
om
Renee ore
OR wi
ae eS
BUG 5 ie oF er OR
ties lek eT re
a te
She
having been found guilty of beating |
Claude's wife to death. They used tire
tools to kill her--then left her body in a7
wrecked car to make it look like an
accident. They later confessed that
$5,000 in insurance money was the
motive,
George went first, telling the crowd of 7
200:
“I did a crime and now I must die for
it. 1 feel like I am going to heaven.”
He was pronounced dead at 12:13 a.m.,
August 25, 1933. Removed from the
chair, his body was taken out as Uncle
Claude was brought in. He only talked to
himself, muttering the final dark secrets
of an unlearned farm boy, and was dead
as 12:19.
Multiple executions had begun in
April, 1917, and happened again in 1921,
1924, 1928, 1930; in May, August,
October and November, 1933; 1935 and
the last in 1937. Of all these, which were
either two or three, never more, the
most imfamous was in September 1935.
It was the state’s fourth triple play
and took only fourteen minutes. The
victims were Chester Barrett, 36, from
Creek County; Bun Riley, 28, from Pitts-
burgh County, and Alfred Rowan, 29,
from Jackson County.
Barrett came first, wearing a grey suit
and prison-made shoes. His record did
not inspire sympathy. Barrett had been
found guilty of killing three of his child-
ren, putting rat poison in their milk. But
Barrett had also been accused of trying
to kill off his entire family, which
included his wife and four other children.
They all drank the poison, but a quick
team of Sapulpa doctors saved their
lives; only the three died—Betty, 6;
Mary Cathering, 3, and Wanda, 2.
Again, the motive was insurance
money. And Barrett was also nuts about
another woman. But it was her testi-
mony that put him away. Then he con-
fessed, saying that poverty had made
him do it, that the “goddamned depres-
sion” was to blame, and that he had
intended to kill himself too after he had
finished off his family. Somehow he
never got around to it, and the speedy
verdict was death,
Barrett's wife then wrote to the
governor, E.W. Marland, saying that she
feared for the lives of herself and
children if Barrett were not either kept
in jail or executed.
“I hope he dies,” she said. “He'll be
getting exactly what he deserves,”
Shortly before her dreams came true,
Barrett told a preacher that he was
leaving a Bible, and that the name of the
real murderer of his children would be
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OKLAHOMA MONTHLY '
- States Supreme Court; he had been on
ae eas Wee ee
5) ea mA Rite cE Sin at
fit Geath pre
Intor. expresse a relief when Pate was
temporarily removed to Vinita, |
Rhome used to talk for hours about |... aT
the “barbarity” of procedures at McAT-
ester that attended an execution, the
shaving of a. man’s head so his hair
wouldn't burn; the shaving of his ankles;
the four guards, one for each arm and
leg, that were assigned to strap an
inmate in the electric chair; the heavy“!
copper headgear; the sponge, soaked in
brine water, that was placed between
the shaved head and the copper plate;
the éar-splitting roar of the hideous
AWE Ti tnw/lhhi SPATHG Mh
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Learning to share
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Our deepest grief,
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We get to the center
With tears in our eyes.
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dynamo and its cackling like a witch; the
bubbles that escaped from a dead mouth;
the vacant eyes—he loathed it all.
He also believed that Carl Austin
DeWolf was innocent. DeWolf died
about ten minutes after midnight, No-
vember 15, 1953, after fifteen stays of
execution, two appeals to the Oklahoma
Supreme Court and one to‘the United
death row for more than four years.
‘No other execution has been as con-
troversial, nor has divided the state
more, —
DeWolf was found guilty of the
murder, of a Tulsa policeman, Jerry St.
Clair, in 1946, mainly because of a gun
found on DeWolf that the FBI ballistics
report identified as the murder weapon.
DeWolf maintained that he had been
given the gun by Victor Everhart, a
Tulsa hood who was later killed after
escaping the Tulsa County jail in 1946.
Another DeWolf argument was the
trial’s conflicting testimony on his de-
scription. Taken together these factors
kept the courts busy and DeWolf calmly
confident of vindication, right up until
the night of his execution. He even
expected a last-minute stay, but after
being told that he had been turned down
for the final time, DeWolf accepted it in
the pacific style that had become his
most attractive virtue.
He walked to his execution, devoid of
apparent anxiety, and before he sat
down in the death cage, he addressed the
spectators:
“Tl want you shople to know that I'm
innocent, that I never saw Jerry St,
Clair in my life, I couldn't kill anyone
that I didn’t see. why I'm here I can’t
understand,
‘I'm going to die now. Some people
will suffer over it; my people will, but for
me it will be over within a few minutes,
“There stands a man who helped put
me here, Are you happy?”
He was talking to Roy Hanna, the
police reporter for the Tulsa Tribune,
whose articles on the case had struck
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OKLAHOMA MONTHLY 5%:
, Bes? ois lie: ie = tate sileadi “oe Tie le!
Tusa Werld, whom Williains
to know and like,
Williams, DeWolfe and most of the
others have gone to their deaths like
“Cool Hand Luke,” embellishing the
Gan tome
notion that to die at all, at a time and ~
place not of one’s choosing, is to die
without whimpering whatever the cir-
cumstances, and if possible, to worry
less about God's likely reaction and more
about the immediate future of those lives
that a death chair’s victim has affected,
And so it was with Melburn J. Mott.
He was convicted in 1949 of murdering
his six-year-old daughter, slashing her
throat with a dull butcher knife; and
spent more than two years on death row,
One of his companions was a convicted
rapist, Inzion Henderson, 33, who had
“made his peace with God,” and whiled
away the hours listening to Negro
spirituals on his automatic record player.
Oh, did he ever love Swing Low, Sweet
Chariot. He would put it on, infecting ail
of death row with his therapeutic
benediction, and would occasionally
shout about it. Swing Low, Sweet
cha-a-a-ariot, comin’ for to carry me
home—and Henderson would interrupt
with “I’m Comin’ too Lord, Wait! Wait,
Lord!” Oh, swing low, sweet chartot—"I
love it Lord, do you hear me??"—comtn’
¢
for to cd a; Le
home. "Yes, Bord, yes, 'm comin’ home,”
Henderson's athletic fundamentalism
did not affect Meiburn Mott. But then
nothing could. Mott was_the father of
four other children, besides the one he'd
murdered, And they were all he thought
about during his time awaiting execu-
tion, especially the last night. Mott,
whose last meal request called for a
bacon and tomato sandwich, a malt and
cigars, talked repeatedly about the
daughter he'd slain in a drunken rage
and how repentant he had become and
that “one thing you can print is that I
will meet death like a man when the time
comes.” September 20, 1951.
Mott’s estranged wife and his four
children were living in Sand Springs and
their interest in his future came from
her:
“Let him die. He should die. I hate him
for what he did.”
Late that night, he said: “As far as I’m
concerned, 12:01 means the last of
Melburn Mott.” He was inexact by three
minutes. He walked into the mesh cage
surrounding the electric chair at mid-
night. He greeted the warden, Jerome
K. Waters, Jr., a retired army officer,
and said softly: “Sir, I know you are a
gentleman and a soldier, I want to ask
‘and ine, Lord, me’
that you seC Liat ih CHL? i aeet Lan
eare of.” Mott then repeated the same
ords twice, and Waters said that he
would see what he could do.
“He died like a soldier,” Waters
fatuousiy said, shortly after Mott was
pronounced dead at 12:04 a.m, But Mot!
had been dead for months, probably
since Christmas, 1949. Following his
conviction, he wanted to tell anyon:
who'd listen that he “didn’t -emember «
thing. Oh, God, why did I do it? Why did
I doit?” And now it was Christmas, time
to spread the yuletide gaiety on dea.h
row. And Mott was erying uncontro!
lably. Ia his hands were four Christmas
cards that he had sent to his surviving
children; and on each envelope was
stamped “refused.”
Over and over, Mott kept lamenting:
“God! God! Why did their mother send
them back? Why didn’t she just tear
them up and let me think that the kids
got them? Why? Why?”
His tears, belated homage to a secona
chance that was not to be his, kept
flowing.
“I don’t remember, I don't remember
cutting Mary Frances with the knie
She was daddy's giri.”
Then in a sobbing rage:
“She loved her daddy best of all.” @
”
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OKLAHOMA MONTHLY 33
*
oe
Sahat ie SRA SCR Nalin I a Ss hg cy sme
oe
Di ia i, ii i Bee
DeWoll, as well as others, as decidedly
$5. Fes 1 Sega § a Benth biased. Hanna was a typical crime
reporter, indifferent of dress, envious of
ae. Be Oo u sr rae anyone whose salary was larger than his,
and menaced by unwarranted seli-im-
Qf 1.8 3 O--ur Fr “arene PRErRETS;
DeWolf then recognized friends:
Howard Cowan, at the time editor of a
McAlester newspaper, now a Tulsa
executive for Public Service Company;
a on Kirksey Nix, a state senator and DeWolf
supporter, later a member of the Court
alae 8 of Criminal Appeals and a close friend of
Rhome West's who probably influenced
aon Rhome to forever believe that DeWolf
had been framed; and DeWolf said of
Nix: “There is one of the best men in the
state.”
DeWolf’s closing words were:
a on “There isn’t much more to say. I never
had a chance to prove my innocence in
a on court. I believe I have been a Christian
since 1946. The people who were against
aon me must of had some kind of an axe to
grind.”
DeWolf denounced Eimer Davis of
Tulsa, who had prosecuted him, pre-
dicting that “you will never rise higher
CY DEL fC 0: FIA OF PE FF OO
Ror Legs oO u fF ee in politics than the judgeship you now
hold.” And he was right.
eet es OT ao R DeWolf was finished at 12:08 a.m.,
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having turned from his audience to
‘casually place his claim, as though he
were saying this seat is taken. When the
current was shut off, DeWolfs body was
slumped forward, restrained by the
thick straps.
One other person died in the electric
chair who went out recognizing a
reporter. Edward Leon “Pete” Williams,
who at age 26 had spent twelve years in
either prisons or reformatories, was
convicted of murder in Tulsa in 1957. As
he prepared for the death blow, he said:
“I don't know why, but people who are
about to die are supposed suddenly to
express some profound words. I wish I
could do it, but I don’t feel any wiser now
than I was a week ago.”
His last gesture was to wink at a
reporter, and his last word was “Jack,” a
deferential farewell to Jack Kelley of the
Tulsa World, whom Williams had come
to know and like.
Williams, DeWolf and most of the
Opening November others have gone to their deaths like
“Cool Hand Luke,” embellishing the ~
notion that to die at ail, at a time and
1840 Utica Square place not of one’s choosing, is to die
Tulsa, Oklahoma 74114 without whimpering whatever the cir-
cumstances, and if possible, to worry
less about God's likely reaction anc more
about the immediate future of those lives
that a death chair’s victim has affected.
82 OKLAHOMA MONTHLY
found int, dhe Bible is atl tac
Seated in the eleetrie chair, Barretl
said: “I forgive you all. Make it as quick
as you can.”
The three bodies were removed; only
two were claimed: Liley’s and Rowan’s,
The body of Chester Barrett, who had
He was struck with a current that.— given rat poison to his children, was
lasted 67 seconds, and as he squirmed
and struggled, trying to hold on to a
depleted life, the top of his shaved head
was singed with smoke,
Efficientiy, the prison staff un-
strapped Barrett and he was placed ona
stretcher near the entry passage. And
wanted by no one. :
Prisoners and prison officials have
long wondered about what is worse:
death itself or waiting for it. In July
1930, Tom Guest put the argument in
perspective. A bank robber found guilty
of murder, Guest arrived at McAiester
his body, draped with a sheet, was the.--on December 14, 1927, and then spent
first thing that the next victim.saw. Bun
Riley had to walk right by it, his eyes
dropping in sickness as he sank at the
knees. It was 12:15 a.m.
Riley had killed three partners in his
liquor smuggling gang; now, standing in
front of the electric chair, he asked for
understanding and forgiveness. He re-
cited a perfunctory Bible verse and was
seated. After 109 seconds, during which
he, like Barrett, helplessly strained his
few free muscles, it was over. And his
scalp was similarly burned.
Now. there were two bodies on
stretchers. And at 12:21, in came Alfred
Rowan; he briefly staggered and then
walked upright to the wired cage.
“Keep Jesus in your mind and follow
him always,” Rowan said, and then died
two-and-a-half years living eight steps
away from the electric chair.
“From the day I got in here I thought
only on one thing. Burning in the hot
seat. I was scared stiff. The longer I
stayed the more I thought and the less
afraid I was. Sure I want to live. But I'll
be glad whei it’s over. Looking at the
same thing all the time. Doing the same
thing all the time. Three paces forward.
Three paces back. Thinking of the same
thing all the time. It’s enough to drive a
man crazy.”
On July 17, 1930, near midnight, Guest
was scheduled to die in about a half-hour.
“Thank God. The next thirty minutes
can’t be as bad as the last couple of
years.”
Guest went gladly. Others went in-
sine, kKhocking th te A i
on the sides of aie ce lis, ivi (6 ‘ill
themselves. They were usualiy removed
from death row and taken to Vinita for
observation; if they were ruled sane,
back they went. If not, they stayed at
Vinita, under the provision that were
they to get weil, they would return to
McAlester to await execution.
- dre of the iast inmates to whan
pee -happened was Gerald
Cie I saw him severai days
after he had tried to kill himse.t,
ramming his head repeatedly against «
wall and screaming that he couldn't take
it anymore. Pate sat down and was
offered a cigarette. His hands shoox so
badly, he couldn't hold it; nor could he
answer a question. Indeed, he couldn't
form a sentence. Just unclear, unew.-
lected words, gentle grunts. Eyes
that were blank, that never looked up.
But it was his hands that conveyed his
sense of terror. Never still, moving
about without purpose, dragging finger-
nails across the surface of a table. With
me was the late Tulsa attorney Rhome
West, and a former member of the
Pardon and Paroie Board. West jus.
looked at Pate, and then me, saying
nothing, but slowly shaking his head,
James Strickland is a nationally known sculptor who lives aie works i in n Oklahoma.
BEN M. PICKARD GALLERY
541 N.W 39th OKC, OK 73118 405-524-3514
M, oy,
80 OKLAHOMA MONTHLY
A few years ago, capital punishment meant dying in the chair.
By Bob Gregory
Editor's fobs The fish of haneleddae
occurring in Okiahoma the past two
years has rekindled an insistency among
people that something must be done,
that the death penalty, ufter being
fretted over morally in the conscience of
the Supreme Court, must finally,
again, be invoked. Not since James
French, a two-time convicted killer, was
electrocuted in the chair in 1966 has a
person been executed by the state, but
there are a number of inmates currently
awaiting capital punishment on death
row. Four of their cases reevntly were
assigned to individual judges on the
Court of Criminal Appeals, a step that
could mean pAlcenerss * first execution
’ od i ie ‘
es 4 Crit ie ts buh
’ ene NS a Sy) ese le
4 ee
ey an ’ ure
: es
tsi a ee Sy
ine ae bal) Pence
under tts new law within two years.
The method of state execution, of
course, has changed since French be-
came the &3rd person to die in the elec-
tric chair. The wooden chair and
accoutrements, capable of producing
2,200 volts, have been dismantled, and
in their place have been constructed
facilities for administering a lethal injec-
tion of drugs. Twenty-one men and one
woman {the second ever on death row}
have been sentenced to die in such a
manner, including five persons convicted
during October: Roger Dale Stafford for
killing six steakhouse employees in
Oklahoma C.iy; Steven and Michelle
Binsz for slaying a state corrections
ules
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Dee or ON Ene a ‘3 “Sy Sa? Wn he
officer; Bins vamin Brew ei Te stab binds ‘A
death a young woman in 7. <0, an:
Charles Troy Coleman for nis fering «
qrural Muskogee couple. In addition, las:
month a record fourteen vioi.s deaths
occurred in Oklahoma City, and
Okarche a Baptist minister ani his wife
were murdered tn their home.
In December 1976 Oklahoma Month:,
published an article on Oklahoinn's death
penaliy cases that received tremendous
response. Due to the recent events, and
the fact that readership has ur geones
considerabiy since i876, the orticlé js
reprinted here in its entirety, «ih som
minor updating.
~David Fritz
tom By
OKLAHOMA MONTHLY °
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74 OKLAHOMA MONTHLY
On August 10, 1966, just after 10 p.m.,
James French walked to the electric
chair.
Escorted in by two guards, French
wore a black suit, dark tie and black
shoes, looking fit enough to give a ser-
mon to an impoverished congregation.
He briskly took his seat, where 82 others
had died before him, and said not a word.
Warden Ray Page, like everyone else
watching, and there were more news-
men there than had attended any other
execution in Oklahoma history, expected
a melodramatic, maybe even an eloquent
statement, extending probably from the
efficacy of capital punishment to the
emotional weaknesses of pre-Raphaelite
poetry. But French, customarily garru-
lous and passably articulate, stayed
mute, not inclined to even criticize his
tailor. Page was so surprised that he
asked French to stand.
“James, do you have any last words?”
“Everything's already been said,”
came the accurate whispered reply.
He then shook hands with Page and
the captain of the guards, B.E. Mann,
and sat back down. Leather straps were
fastened to his arms, chest, waist and
ankles, There was stress about his eyes,
but no tears; he looked stoically doomed,
as though almost relieved that alter
several years of waiting he was finally
getting his death wish, A black rubber
mask was put over his vaguely hand.
some face; and a heavy copper skull cap
was placed on his shaved head. An elec-
trode was attached to the calf of his left
leg and the ritualistic preliminaries were
over. Me had heroically refused the final
counsel of a priest, consonant with his
posturing toughness; but he had in-
duiged in a last meal, his one concession
_to privileges of the condemned, And it
was a fairly decent spread, prepared by
the warden’s wife: shrimp salad, French
onion soup, braised pheasant under
glass, smali onions, baby lima beans,
creamed potatoes and, for dessert,
Cherries Jubilee. The warden said that
he had never had a meal like that before;
French said that he was rather sad that
he would never have another again.
Inside the prison—now sounding like
jammed radio signals—French sat there
waiting. The newsmen, in a large but
Stig he tulsa Sal Feat
ee ee ee
Cn ne I es OR 6 EBS A RD
4 aoe
ae
eas
;
~~
'
ere seated right across,
looking straight ahead at the electric
chair and separated from French only by
a grisly barricade of wire from which
hung a crudely lettered sign: Crime
Does Not Pay.
French had vowed that he would puii
the switch if necessary, but his help
wasn't needed. Mike Mayfield, who
worked in the prison’s carpentry shop
and who had been conscripted for the
task, since the penitentiary had no
payroll executioner, threw the switch,
and French was knocked unconscious
immediately. The lethal charge of 2,200
volts sizzled through him for 45 seconds,
although some witnesses said it seemed
like hours. French was dead, all right.
But the prison doctor, James D. Moore,
looked him over to make it official. The
four inmates scurried in with a stret-
cher, as if under strict orders to get rid
of the corpse quickly. They plopped his
body down, obscured it carelessly with a
white sheet and lugged him off to hell.
James French was the most genial
psychotic that I have ever known. We
talked at great length and on several oc-
casions before he died. And the conver-
sations, in the office of Ray Page, the
warden, were purgative for French, or
so he said; and intriguing to me. I knew
we ra ‘
Stuliy .area,
about his background, that he had
committed murder twice and had pro-
fessed an impatience to sit in the electric
chair; but toat's what he wanted to talk
about, along with philosophy, poetry, the
death penalty, television, prison reform
and insanity.
fst
When we first met, after asking for a
cigarette (“I left mine behind and would
like a Marlboro, if you have one,”),
French rambled on about his early years
in Peoria, iilinois, and the three menia.
institutions to which he had heea eon
mitted, only to have each pronounce hin
sane. “I may be a little crazy, but who
isn't?” Hie talked also about his two trips
for observation to Eastern State Hospi-
tal in Vinita; and there, too, he had been
ruled sane. “So you see, I know what I've
done.”
That included the murder that first
put him in McAlester. He was thumbing
a ride near Amarillo, Texas, and was
picked up by Franklin R. Boone of
Morgantown, West Virginia; Boone's
body was later found in Oklahoma, nea:
Stroud in 1958:
“I repaid his kindness with a bullet. |
didn’t have to kill him to take his money.
But there are violent impulses in violent
men. I’m one of them.”
French was caught, he confessed, and
in 1959 was sentenced to life. “Why not?
I was guilty as heli.”
His ceilmate at McAlester was Eddie
Lee Shelton; and on October 27, 1961, he
choked him to death on the arguable
grounds “that he wasn’t fit to live. He
deserved to die. And now because oi
what I did, I deserve to die, too. I dow’!
want to die. Who does? But the rules are
clear: to take a life is to forfeit your
own.”
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OKLAHOMA MONTHLY ‘5
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