A Book of American Martyrs(133)

“In the eyes of many, Luther, you are a ‘hero’—you are a ‘martyr.’ People who do not condone violence nonetheless honor you. We are praying for your soul.”

Luther took pleasure in signing his name on the front, inside page of the New Testament. Never in his life had he signed his name in such a way—as if his name mattered, and was of value. Luther Amos Dunphy seemed to him a significant name, a name of dignity and worth, to which by some accident he was himself attached.

Signing copies of the New Testament through the day, slowly and with care, imagining the young Christian boys and girls to whom the books would be given, and how they would see his name as they opened the books, and began to read, Luther felt as if he were climbing a ladder—with each rung higher, ever higher.

A ladder beyond any ladder to the highest peak of any house.

Reverend Davey took away signed copies of the New Testament with its soft black covers, and brought new copies for Luther to sign.

“Take your time, Luther! You need not hurry.”

Luther noted this remark of the chaplain’s. Was it calculated to signal to him that, though the execution might be imminent the following week, or rather in five days, Luther could expect another reprieve—another “stay”?

It was possible that Reverend Davey already knew that the execution would be stayed another time, but was not allowed to tell Luther.


THE THIRD STAY, in August 2004, had been just forty-eight hours before the execution was scheduled. Luther recalled how Edna Mae and the children had come to see him at Chillicothe for the last time—looking so scared—but that had turned out to be mistaken.

Luther had not been so very concerned, at the time. Almost, his heart had felt light.

There would be a “stay”—or there would not be a “stay.”

How simple that was! God would spare Luther Dunphy another time, or God would not spare Luther Dunphy another time. From a great height, like climbing a very high roof, standing at the edge and staring over—the difference between the two was not significant.

Oh but he wished he’d braked earlier, on the highway. Skidding into the pickup helpless in the light-falling wet snow it had been too late.

Da-da! the child had screamed behind him. Da-DA!

Lately he’d been thinking of the crash. As in a TV sequence in which a brief scene is played, replayed and replayed he saw repeatedly in his head the pickup truck edge out onto the highway; but now he was hearing the child in the backseat, that he had not heard (he was certain) at the time of the crash.

Luther had requested of his dear wife Edna Mae that she not come to see him for the last time. It had been six or eight weeks since Luke had last driven Edna Mae and Dawn to see him at Chillicothe, a visit that had been very awkward, and that was recent enough.

For Luther had confidence (he’d told Edna Mae) that the execution would not take place when it was scheduled in early March. He requested of her that she share this confidence with him and express it to the children.

But what if we never see you again?—oh, Luther!

We will see one another in paradise, then. You know that.


ONE OF THE GUARDS on Death Row was also named “Luther”—“Luther Crowe.” He was a light-skinned black man with a thin mustache on his upper lip, about Luther Dunphy’s age.

From a certain manner in Luther Crowe, a way of smiling, a look of kindness, it was communicated to Luther Dunphy that this was a fellow Christian. Between them was the bond of Jesus, that Jesus had entered the hearts of both men and there was no necessity to speak of it, in a way that would draw the attention of other COs.

Also, Luther Crowe expressed a particular interest in Luther Dunphy signing copies of the New Testament.

He’d showed Luther Dunphy photos of his family. Luther Dunphy stared at these with eyes that so flooded with tears he could not see clearly.


WORKOUT. MEALS. Bible reading. New Testament signing.

Workout. Meals. Bible reading. New Testament signing.

There were not enough hours in the day allotted to Death Row prisoners, to accomplish all that was expected of Luther Dunphy.


NONE OF US wanted to be the one. The warden said, draw lots.

Sure there’s a bonus—three hundred dollars. But still.

Nobody had any training. You would need a medical worker to inject a needle into a vein and to do it correctly but none of us knew shit. Because we had no practice, only just the condemned man. And by then, it’s too late.

God damn I did not want to be the one. Because Luther Dunphy was a kind of a friend of mine. That’s why it’s forbidden—fraternizing.

You can get in all kinds of shit—fraternizing.

But it came to me this time, and it was like my turn because I had not administered the drugs in almost four years because last time I was sick pretty bad and had to cancel just three hours before the execution and took plenty of shit for that.

Nobody wanted to administer the “lethal injection.” Not to Luther Dunphy.

Luther was a special case on Death Row. What he’d done had not been for himself like some other, common criminal—the kind of animal you find on Death Row usually. Luther had been protesting an abortion clinic and had shot two abortion doctors there and had not fled but gave himself up right away. He had not presented any danger to law enforcement and at Chillicothe, he had never presented any danger to the staff.