Benedictine Discusses Her Murdered Father And Opposing The Death Penalty
My parents taught me from an early age to respect life. We didn’t kill things in our house, except maybe the occasional fruit fly. We learned early on how to treat others with kindness and compassion, even if they had done something to hurt us. When we argued, we had to stop and listen to each others’ positions rather than yelling and screaming. And most of all, my parents taught the three of us (my brother, sister and me) that it is never okay to kill another person.
I was born into a small house on what used to be known simply as the prison farm just outside of Eddyville, Ky. My dad was a guard and farm supervisor. Each day he took his crew of men out to milk the cows and complete the daily farm chores. But his time with his prisoners did not end when he clocked out at the end of the day. Each year he would sign out several of his guys so that they could go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. My mom and I would bake cookies to send to work with my father so that the guys could have a little snack on their break. From what I know, he never treated the men as though they were irreparably damaged goods. He didn’t see them for the crimes they had committed but for the human beings that they were. He had an inherent trust in other people. My aunt once asked him if he was ever afraid of working among so many criminals. He responded that they didn’t scare him – they were just people, too. Few ever tried to escape and if anyone ever did, Dad would hand over his truck keys immediately. He didn’t even carry a gun. He liked working with and learning from the men on his crew. In fact, my father’s attitude towards the men won him much respect among the prisoners as well as his superiors. He was well-liked by everyone.
On May 9, 1986, my dad set off for work early in the morning. He met with his crew and took them out to work. However, work halted quickly when the tractor they had planned on using broke unexpectedly. My father asked one man, William Thompson, to stay with him to fix the tractor and sent the rest of the crew on to begin the day’s work. Shortly after the other men left the two of them alone, my father leaned over to check something. Mr. Thompson took a wrench that the two had been using and hit my father repeatedly in the head. This was my father, a man who respected his men enough to stay after work for a talk, who had helped feed Thanksgiving dinner to his crew, who said that if anyone wanted to escape he would simply hand over the keys. And Mr. Thompson did not just hit him one time. Reports showed that my father was struck in the head 12 times, though he must have been unconscious after the second or third strike. My father, of course, had no chance. He was dead long before his supervisors found him a half-hour later. I was only three years old when I became a victim’s family member, when I lost my father to murder.
In Kentucky there is no gray area when it comes to killing a prison guard. Once convicted of this crime, the punishment is almost automatic – death by lethal injection. By October of that year, Mr. Thompson found himself still in my beautiful hometown of Eddyville, but now on the other side of the city in the maximum security state penitentiary, where he bore the label of death-row inmate. In a town with two state prisons, Kentucky’s law is held in high regard. Many friends spoke highly of the fate of Mr. Thompson. My mother, though, did not agree.
My mother is a truly amazing woman. She is a woman of faith who faced incredible hardship in her life. Her life changed drastically that morning in early May. She lost her husband and her home. She lost the father of her three children, and she lost the security most feel in small town life. All of these things, and so many more, had been ripped unjustly from her by a man that she knew, someone she had baked cookies for and even prepared meals for. But my mother was not vengeful. From what I’m told (though I have little memory) she almost immediately began working to change Kentucky’s law. She did not believe that the death penalty should be invoked in this case or in any case. When she had the chance, she would grab a politician’s ear. She wrote letters to lobbyists. She pushed for life sentences that would keep such dangerous prisoners locked up with no possibility for parole. She was known among pro-life advocates in Kentucky. But in our small town, people preferred that she keep her mouth shut. Most people who live there are either prison employees or related to one. Those citizens who work day in and day out with the most dangerous prisoners in the state feel that the only way to protect their own lives is to have laws that advocate strict and sure punishment. They believe that the death penalty is the only way to keep prisoners from attempting more murders like my father’s. And so my mother learned to be quiet, to keep peace. But she never said she agreed with it.
My mother’s witness was strong for me. She taught me a lot about right and wrong. I learned from her that the eye-for-an-eye policy does not lead to a just world. When I was 16, Mr. Thompson’s attorneys called for an appeal of the sentence. By that time, I was old enough to think for myself. I realized that I had always been against the death penalty just because my mother told me that was how I ought to feel. I remember finally coming to terms with exactly what had happened to my father. I was angry at Mr. Thompson for taking my dad away from me. I was upset with the system that had allowed such a dangerous man to be in a minimum security prison. I was sad that my father would never be around to see me play soccer or graduate from high school. But as I began to grapple with all of the issues, I realized that even in my anger and sadness, my sense of right and wrong was the same as it had always been. I did agree with my mother. Killing is not okay. I believe in life and in a consistent life ethic. To me, believing in life means believing that all life is of God, all life deserves respect and no human can make a judgment on who should live or die.
Proponents of the death penalty say that the execution can help bring closure to the victim’s friends and family. For me this is not theory, it is real life. I cannot speak for all victims’ families, but I can say this: I will not feel any better knowing that Mr. Thompson is dead. I watched my grandmother live 28 years of her life suffering the loss of her son. If Mr. Thompson ends up executed (he remains on death row to this day), there will then be two mothers grieving the loss of their sons, two graves filled with murdered men, and two families missing a loved one. I cannot understand how this is considered justice. Even at the height of my angry period, I have never had any sense that the death of another man will make my father’s death any more justified.
I asked to share this with you today because I wanted you to know about my dad and my mom and the wonderful people who raised me. I wanted you to know that for me capital punishment is beyond an academic topic. I wanted you to know that the topic of the death penalty stirs in me many thoughts and feelings in a profoundly personal way. Each morning that we as a community pray for someone who is scheduled to be executed, we also pray for all victims of violence. I wanted you to know that each time you say that prayer, you are praying for my father, for my family, for me. And, in all likelihood, someday you will also be praying for a man named William Eugene Thompson, scheduled to be executed in the state of Kentucky, who, for better or for worse, is forever connected to my life story. And I will be praying for him, too.
Sister Kathy is a member of the Sister of St. Benedict of Ferdinand, Ind. She teaches math at Trinity High School in Louisville, Ky. This is a transcript of a speech she gave to the Sisters of St. Benedict of Ferdinand some time ago. An edited version of the speech was published recently in the Catholics Mobilizing Network newsletter.
