A Book of American Martyrs(134)

Poor bastard didn’t seem to know there was public sentiment now for changing the laws, putting pressure on politicians, not attacking abortion centers or shooting people. Making abortion illegal—that’s the goal.

People said, a man like Luther Dunphy is worth more to the cause dead than alive. Jesus!

Good thing, he hadn’t a clue.

Luther did not talk politics. He did not even talk—hardly at all—about his religious beliefs. He did not despair, that you could see. Mostly he did his workouts in his cell, and he read the Bible. You would wonder how many times a man could read the Bible from start to finish but that’s what Luther seemed to do. It took up all his mental life. He would forget it was mealtime—like, none of the inmates forget when mealtime is! The CO bringing his meal, slid through the slot in the door, the inmate has to say he wants it, give a sign that he isn’t sleeping but awake to eat the meal otherwise the meal isn’t delivered and some times Luther would just forget—wouldn’t seem to hear. And the CO would feel sorry for him and call to him, Luther? Is that “verbal refusal”?—you don’t want to eat?—and Luther would say real quick no, or yes, he wanted to eat, he just hadn’t heard.

Of all the inmates in the unit, Luther Dunphy was the one who never complained about the food. He would say grace over the meal no matter what shit it was—and he would eat it.

You had to respect the man. His family must’ve sent him money credit for the commissary but he never cared to purchase much of anything except a new toothbrush now and then and toothpaste. And he had a few letters he was writing when he first came to Death Row, that he never finished and didn’t mail.

None of us had ever seen anybody so serious about workouts. The age he was, mid-forties, Luther Dunphy didn’t have an ounce of fat on his body, just muscles, and these were big muscles—he was impressive.

It was said he’d been a minister at one time so I asked him about this and he seemed embarrassed saying he’d taken courses at a seminary in Toledo but it hadn’t worked out.

“Jesus didn’t call me. I guess that was it.”

People would ask us, is Luther Dunphy crazy. Is that the one killed two men because God told him to. Does he say that God talks to him right now. Your average inmate on Death Row, the years they have been in solitary, which is what Death Row is, you’d have to say that they are not normal in their minds. They are maybe not raving insane and banging their heads against the walls but they are not sane. Just to be a CO in the unit, you are in some danger of losing your grip. But Luther Dunphy was not one of these. I would swear to this and so would the chaplain who spent a lot of time with Luther.

Must’ve been, the chaplain and the warden had some kind of deal, Luther Dunphy would sign copies of the New Testament. Supposedly the books would be distributed to Christian youth—that was what Luther told me—but what happened was they were sold on eBay after his death. Some of the copies with Luther Dunphy’s signature, they sold for as much as two hundred seventy dollars. For a cheap-printed book worth a couple of bucks! Who got this money had to be the warden and Reverend Davey if it was anyone.

As a kindness, seeing that I was a Christian like him or anyway tried to be, Luther gave me one of these New Testaments. He told me not to tell the chaplain. He said, I better give it to you now Luther before it’s too late.


“LUTHER. Whatever is ‘on your mind’—you must clear it away.”

In his voice that was low and soft and cajoling Reverend Davey said it would be a salve to Luther’s conscience if he made an official statement regarding that other man he’d shot—Timothy Barron.

“For you know, Luther, you are thinking of him. He is ‘on your mind.’ You have never acknowledged this innocent man and you have not expressed remorse for your act and it would be a kindness to the Barron family, you know, if you did. And if you did soon.”

Luther Dunphy stared at the smudged floor of his cell.

Many times he had tried to remember. He had tried to summon back that vision. But he could not for there was blankness and numbness there. After the shotgun blast propelling Voorhees backward and down onto the driveway there was blankness and numbness and a roaring in Luther’s ears.

God had acted through Luther Dunphy just this single time. God had given Luther Dunphy the strength to pull the trigger of the shotgun, as a streak of electricity runs through a living being.

Then, God had withdrawn. There had not been a second shot—Luther Dunphy would swear.

Yet Reverend Davey (who had not been in the driveway at that time, who had not been a witness, who could not know) persisted. Saying how “healing” it would be for Luther’s conscience, for his soul, if he gave a statement in writing pertaining to Timothy Barron just to acknowledge what he’d done, if (perhaps) he had not meant to do it, had not meant to shoot Timothy Barron, but if (perhaps) he might express remorse for the death of Timothy Barron, as a gesture of kindness to the Barron family.

“Christian charity, Luther. But also—a healing for your soul.”

Luther appeared to be thinking. You could not have guessed how furious Luther was, hearing these words. How his muscles clenched, and the tendons in his neck.

But again, Luther said no, explaining patiently that that was not possible for there’d been just one man he had shot in all of his life—“The abortion doctor Voorhees. And I don’t regret that act. That act is why I was born, Reverend. I am seeing that now.”