“Now therefore, you are herby
commanded…[by] the Judgment of this Court, to receive said Defendant into your custody,
and on the [date] you shall cause the execution of said sentence of death to
take place…” The first time I read these words a chill went down my spine. It
is one thing to hear about someone being sentenced to death and another thing
to actually be holding the death warrant in your hands and reading it for
yourself.
At this moment, a man is sitting in
a tiny cell in San Quentin prison waiting to see the outcome of this election.
He is waiting to see whether he will live the rest of his life behind bars or
whether he will finally be put to death.
The reality of this became clear to
me when I took an internship working for the Los Angeles County District
Attorney’s office. I realized that my chosen profession would mean I would
frequently confront this issue in the years to come.
Growing up as a practicing
Catholic, I formed the belief that murder is wrong. No man or woman has the
power to take another’s life. It is God’s will, and God’s will alone. Yet,
confronted with the facts of these cases while working in the District
Attorney’s office, I realized the role of the death penalty in keeping society
safe.
My position required me to work on
death penalty cases—working to put to death those who have harmed others in our
society in unthinkable ways. But as a Catholic, I struggled with my role. I
wondered how I could be a part of an institution engaged in activity that I
knew to be morally wrong. I was thrilled to be working for the District
Attorney and my role in keeping this city safe. Yet, I found myself at a
crossroads.
At those first couple of trials,
when I heard the judge sentence someone to death, the pronouncement made me
lose my appetite. I was sitting in the same room with someone who had just been
sentenced to die at the hands of the state—not God—and I had helped in the
process. We, as an office, were happy with the outcome; however, I felt uneasy.
I knew that by our social norms the proper justice had been carried out;
however, my morals told me we were just committing another atrocity. We were
punishing an individual by doing the same exact thing he had done to others. Murder
for murder was the answer. An eye for an eye.
I felt as if my heart and my mind would
never agree on this issue, and as a result I found myself engaged in an
internal debate, the likes I had never known before. I questioned how I could ever become a
prosecutor—a profession that I had come to love and aspire to—if I couldn’t
make peace with the role of the death penalty in our legal system.
To come to terms with this issue, I
had to spend sometime researching within my faith and meditating upon what I
learned and what I knew to find an answer. Resolution would only come in time,
with much contemplation. It wasn’t until I had a conversation with one of the
attorneys in the office that I really had a paradigm shift. He described how
those individuals who end up in prison for life adapt to their surroundings. It
is evolution and it is inevitable in that situation. We view being in prison as
the worst possible outcome, yet for many death row inmates, they have cycled in
and out of prison before the crime that sentenced them to death. They adapt and
prison becomes home. If we lose the death penalty as a disincentive for the
worst of the worst criminals, who have no regard for the sanctity of human
life, then what will society have as a deterrent?
It was that argument that helped me
understand and resolve my internal tug of war. As a Catholic I am against the
death penalty, however as a professional, I see its role in society. I see
these violent offenders who are beyond the bounds of rehabilitation. It is the
duty of prosecutors to protect the population and their loved ones from people
who will take a life as if it were nothing. People who have hurt innocent
individuals in the most brutal and unforgiving ways are those who need to be
sentenced to death. It is an unfortunate reality in our society but one that we
need to live with.