Many Death-Row Prisoners Still Have Something to Give

When a maximum security correctional center was slated to be built right outside Potosi, Missouri, a modest little town south of St. Louis, "we wanted the prison—for the jobs," says Kris Richards, former president of the local chamber of commerce. Since Potosi Correctional Center opened in 1989, more than 40 executions have taken place there; about 80 of its current 800 prisoners await death by lethal injection.

 

But the proximity of death row seems to cause little stir among the town's 2,600 residents. The prisoners are shut up in a secluded and highly secured complex two miles away from the main traffic district. "We never see them," Richards recently told the Kansas City Star. "It makes executions an anonymous thing."

 

 

Something Personal

You have to go inside the prison to see the faces of the death-row inmates . . . to put them with names.

 

Names like Randy Knese, who sometimes spends hours a week in the prison infirmary so terminal patients don't have to die alone. Or Dennis Skillicorn, who participates in an in-prison 4-H Club with his 10-year-old stepson. Or William Weaver, who tries to prevent troubled kids from ending up where he ended up.

 

All were convicted of first-degree murder; all sentenced to die. All are now paying the price for reprehensible actions that left people dead and families in torment. And all, as William puts it, are now "trying to do productive things. Because if that hour comes and you're going to be executed, at least you have done something to say, 'I tried to make a difference.' "

 

These are men who still have connections to loved ones; who still long to do something worthwhile with their lives—in an unusual prison setting that values giving them that opportunity.

 

When William went to prison in 1988, death row was located at Jefferson City Correctional Center—segregated lines of cells that confined the prisoners 22 hours a day, with two one-hour slots for limited recreation and their prescribed three-minute shower. To talk to one another in their cells, the men yelled into the hallway—maybe mentioning a basketball game, some legal issue . . . nothing very personal. "We went stir crazy," says William. Tempers flared.

 

But after death row was moved to Potosi, it ceased to be a row at all. Although the staff still isolates dangerous prisoners, most of the "CPs"—those sentenced to capital punishment— now mingle with the general population of felons and can qualify to participate in several productive programs. While some might denounce such change as "coddling prisoners," those closest to the prison—the staff and inmates—simply call it common sense. "Keeping us caged is what had so many people angry and hostile," says William. Here there's less violence, more respect, more transformation.

 

"We can't do anything to fix what we've done," William recognizes. "But we can make a change."

 

William helped launch the Youth Enlightening Program (YEP) to convince at-risk youth that "crime does not pay." Periodically, YEP inmates—carefully screened, selected, and trained—host groups of kids referred by school administrators, judges, probation officers, and others. At first the designated "tough guys" start out with a "get-in-your-face" confrontation to grab the kids' attention and establish control. But the rest of the day—through testimony and small-group discussion—the inmates reveal their personal descents into drugs and crime, expose the harsh realities of prison life, and challenge their young listeners to ponder where they will likely end up unless they make a deliberate turn-about in attitude and behavior.

 

Besides kids, William reaches out to his fellow prisoners: tutoring some of them for their GED tests, teaching piano and guitar lessons, or doing legal research in the prison's law library. He also helps restore bicycles to give to needy children.

 

"I never forget why I'm here," says William, now 38 and in his twelfth year of prison. "But I'd like people to know there's more to me than the crime that put me here."

 

 

Drugs and Destruction

It's said that the eyes are the window of the soul, and Randy Knese's peaceful blue eyes of today contrast sharply with his wild-eyed prison mug shot of three years ago. Back then he was a cocaine addict—"no, I am an addict," he corrects himself, though he's been drug-free since his imprisonment. For he knows that apart from Christ, he'd be as powerless against the lure of drugs as he was before. Alcohol and marijuana caught his attention in high school. In college— and away from parental restrictions—he partied his way into LSD, speed, and finally the coke. Kicked out of school, for a while he "lived like a bum" on the streets—until he went home to work with his dad's printing business, and even got married. "But I just didn't want to give up that party life," he now says with regret.

 

After his wife, Lauren, got pregnant, he "cleaned up for a few months." And when he held his newborn son for the first time, "I really wanted to be a good dad," he recalls. But he couldn't stay off the drugs, domestic conflicts erupted, and one night during a violent fight with his wife, a cocaine-crazed Randy killed her.

 

When he realized the vileness of what he had done, "I was ready to kill myself," he says. "If I had gone out on bond, I wouldn't be alive today." Instead, he was confined in the local jail, where in the middle of a graffiti-covered wall someone had scribbled a Bible verse—and Randy started to read about God. As he pored over the Scriptures, he came to understand that Jesus was his "way out"—not necessarily out of his physical prison, but assuredly out of his spiritual one.

 

In the summer of 1997, at age 30, Randy received a sentence of death for first-degree murder. "In the beginning, it was scary," he says. But now, "I'm not worried about being executed; I know I'll go home to Jesus." Those nights that he lies sleeplessly in his prison bunk, "I'm thinking about the people I hurt, how I destroyed their lives. I pray for them every day."

 

At the time of Randy's arrest, his son, Kevin *, was barely a month old. Randy hasn't seen him since; Kevin, now four, doesn't even know that Randy exists. Lauren's parents have custody, although they let Kevin's other set of grandparents— Randy's mom and dad—spend a generous amount of time with him, so long as they never take him to visit or tell him about Randy.

 

"That hurts, but I blew that," he says. "If I had really wanted to be his dad, I wouldn't have been doing cocaine. I wouldn't have allowed this tragedy to happen. So I won't get into his life until he wants to know. But I pray that one day God will make his heart want to know me."

 

Until that day, Randy's mom sends him photos. She tells him how smart and happy Kevin is; how he's starting to play T-ball, and learning about Jesus. "I'm elated about that!" Randy says with a grin. For it's Jesus who has transformed his own life, enabling him "to get up every day and say, 'I'm worth something. I can help somebody today. I can be somebody today.' " Two years ago he started serving as a hospice volunteer, helping other inmates face their own unique journeys toward death.

 

And while Randy can't have contact with his own son, he, too, works with YEP, helping other children find a positive life purpose. "I realize what drugs did to my life. And if I'm going to be executed, if I've helped save one life, then I'm still living in that kid."

 

 

A New Role Model

"I love you" is something many prison dads also long to say—and demonstrate—to their children, particularly when the inmates know they will likely never go home again. Typical prison visits, however, don't allow much opportunity for deep bonding and affection. At Potosi, inmates and their families sit at small tables with a list of rules taped to the top. The kids have few games to play with; parent and child battle the distracting din of all the other conversations in the room.

 

Then earlier this year, to help enhance family bonding, the prison administration agreed to "host" a monthly 4-H Club for selected dads and their children. While they have to forgo the popular animal husbandry aspect of the club, they still enjoy a variety of crafts, music, and activities to enhance communication.

 

"There are some who don't think it's right to give convicts these things," says death-row inmate Dennis Skillicorn, who participates in the club with his stepson Regi. "But they're missing the picture: This isn't about the convicts; it's about the kids!"

 

"Anything that helps these men become positive role models for their kids is worthwhile," adds Dennis's wife, Paula. The club helps the dads teach their children "that people can in-deed turn their lives around, and that they are not doomed to follow in their parents' footsteps."

 

Dennis's life demonstrates how dramatic a turnaround some men can make with the forgiveness and power of Jesus. A "career criminal" since his youth, he's spent about 20 of his last 24 years in confinement. "Pretty much all my criminal activity has had a foundation in drug use," he explains. His mom died when he was nine, and while his dad worked, "my brother and I had a lot of free time to do what we wanted." He started with pills he found in the medicine cabinet, moved on to glue-sniffing, marijuana, "uppers," "downers" . . . "I can't think of a drug I haven't tried," he admits. He started stealing to support his habit—and to enhance the defiant "high" the drugs aroused.

 

In 1992, released after a 13-year prison stint, "I hadn't been out in society for a long time. I didn't know how to deal with my problems"—except through drugs. But he checked into a Salvation Army treatment pro-gram, which helped him stay drug-free for five months—"the longest I'd ever been sober since I was a kid!" The workers also "showed me the reality of God's love." But although Dennis heard the Gospel, "I just couldn't see that God could forgive me," he says.

 

In 1994, again consumed by drugs, Dennis joined up with two other men in a multistate crime spree that included burglary, kidnapping, armed robbery, and murder. By the time he was arrested, "I was tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of hurting people."

 

In jail, devouring the words of the Bible, Dennis learned in John 14 that God would send a "comforter." Dennis confessed his sin, acknowledged Christ as his much-needed Savior, and experienced a peace that had eluded him so many years. That peace sustained him to hear his sentence: Although Dennis and the triggerman both claimed Dennis had nothing to do with the shooting, both were sentenced to death.

 

Dennis and Paula married nearly three years ago—since he has been on death row. They met when Paula, then an award-winning reporter with the Kansas City Star, inter-viewed him for a story. A staunch atheist at the time, "I had never before seen such true joy in anyone's face when they talked about God," she recalls. Over time, his redeemed life and convictions drew her into two covenants: with Christ and with Dennis.

 

Although pursuing appeals, "I've submitted to the fact that I am going to be executed," Dennis says calmly. He opposes the death penalty for a number of social, practical, and spiritual reasons. But whatever happens to him, however much time he has left, he plans to spend it in ministry. He, too, serves as a hospice volunteer, because "anger, hate, unforgiveness . . . all that stuff goes out the window when you are giving," he claims.

"There is a mission field right here," adds Dennis, now 40. "There are guys I believe I can reach that other people couldn't."

 

 

Facing the End

Downstairs in the prison, Chaplain Powell points out a gray door, marked simply AO-008. Locked most of the time, 48 hours before an execution it opens to the condemned prisoner to provide a few final "perks." Here he has a TV and a VCR. Here he eats his last meal—anything he wants from a local restaurant's menu. And here he can share longer, though guarded, visits with his family—as well as a spiritual adviser, if he wants one. Chaplain Powell likes to get other clergy involved as advisers at the end. "It's hard on me, if I've spent a lot of time with the inmates before," he admits. These are friends he's losing. And often the prisoners prefer that he focus on ministering to their families.

 

Nearby sits the execution room. When not in use, the room is shrouded by venetian blinds. When it's in use, the blinds on three walls open up to small bleachers of witnesses in the hallways—prisoner's family on one side, victims' families on another, and state's witnesses on another. After the pronouncement of death by lethal injection, they're all quickly "whisked away," says the chaplain—to avoid contact with one another.

 

Then the fresh grief of the prisoner's family and friends joins the persisting grief of the victims' loved ones. Throughout the prison, where all the inmates have been confined to their cells, the mood is "tense, reserved, somber," says Randy Knese. For some, any execution seems to put them a step closer to their own. For others, says Randy, "we lost a family member, too."

 

But for most of the world outside, it's just another "anonymous" execution. How little they know.

 

*Starred names have been changed to protect privacy.