Death penalty is considered a boon by some California inmates
Given the state moratorium on executions and
an appeals process that can last for decades,
inmates can expect to live a long time, and with
privileges other prisoners lack.
By Carol J. Williams
November 11, 2009
White supremacist gang hit man Billy Joe Johnson got what he asked for from the Orange County jury that convicted him of first-degree murder last month: a death sentence.
It wasn't remorse for his crimes or a desire for atonement that drove him to ask for execution; it was the expectation that conditions on death row would be more comfortable than in other maximum-security prisons and that any date with the executioner would be decades away if it came at all.
Although executions are carried out with comparative speed in states such as Virginia, where Beltway sniper John Allen Muhammad was put to death Tuesday night,
capital punishment in California has become so bogged
down by legal challenges as to be a nearly empty threat,
say experts on both sides of the issue.
"This is a dramatic reaffirmation of what we've already
known for some time, that capital punishment in California
takes way too long," Kent Scheidegger, legal director for the l
aw-and-order Criminal Justice Legal Foundation in Sacramento,
said of Johnson's bet that he will live a long life on death row.
"This guy certainly feels like it's worth the risk."
Statistics suggest that Johnson may be correct in his calculations.
California has the nation's largest death row population, with 685 sentenced
to die by lethal injection. Yet only 13 executions have been carried out since
capital punishment resumed in 1977 and none of the condemned have been
put to death since a moratorium was imposed nearly four years ago.
Five times as many death row inmates -- 71 -- have died over that
same period of natural causes, suicide or inside violence.
Though death row inmates at San Quentin State Prison are far from coddled,
they live in single cells that are slightly larger than the two-bunk, maximum-security
confines elsewhere, they have better access to telephones and they have
"contact visits" in plexiglass booths by themselves rather than in communal
halls as in other institutions. They have about the only private accommodations
in the state's 33-prison network, which is crammed with 160,000-plus convicts.
Death row prisoners are served breakfast and dinner in their cells, can
usually mingle with others in the outdoor exercise yards while eating
their sack lunches, and have exclusive control over the television,
CD player or other diversions in their cells.
"Death row inmates probably have the most liberal telephone privileges
of anyone in state custody," said Terry Thornton, spokeswoman for the
California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, explaining that
they need ready access to their attorneys and can often make calls from
their cells over a phone that can be rolled along the cellblock.
The condemned wear the same jeans and chambray-shirt prison garb,
eat the same food as prepared in other prisons and enjoy the same access
to mail-order and canteen goods paid for by their families, as long as
they maintain good behavior, Thornton said.
Those on death row are also allowed more personal property
inside their cells, to accommodate their voluminous legal documents
without infringing on the 6 cubic feet of snacks and entertainment
devices allowed each prisoner, said Lt. Sam Robinson, spokesman for San Quentin.
"It's not that he thinks conditions will be better; they are better,"
Johnson's attorney, Michael Molfetta, said of his client's request for
death row. Johnson, 46, figures that he will be close to 70 by the time
his appeals are exhausted, Molfetta said, "and he says he doesn't care to live beyond that."
Johnson was convicted last month of first-degree murder with
special circumstances in the March 2002 killing of former gang associate
Scott Miller. Johnson, a "shot caller" in the white supremacist Public Enemy
Number One gang, was found guilty of orchestrating Miller's execution-style
murder for having revealed gang secrets in a television interview.
On Oct. 29, Johnson's jury decided that he should be sentenced to death.
Orange County Superior Court Judge Frank F. Fasel is expected to
impose the execution order when he formally sentences Johnson on Nov. 23.
As an "L-WOPP," a prisoner sentenced to life without the possibility of parole,
Johnson could have been sent to any maximum-security facility in the state,
where other Level IV offenders share an 8-foot-by-10-foot cell, a sink and a
toilet. Gang leaders are often sent to the special housing unit at Pelican Bay
State Prison, where they live in isolation with few of the comforts allowed elsewhere.
It costs the state about $49,000 a year to house each prisoner, according to
corrections department statistics. Thornton said her department has never
put a figure on the cost for "more staff-intensive" death row housing, but a
state commission of experts last year estimated that the additional security
and legal spending for capital inmates costs taxpayers $138,000 per
death row prisoner each year.
Legal analysts say Johnson's request for a death sentence highlights how
delays in executions could undermine any deterrent effect of California's death penalty.
"If you accept the premise that the death penalty is about retribution,
about punishing someone for intolerable acts, you might argue that it is
completely inappropriate to grant someone's request to have a death penalty
imposed because it is more suitable or convenient for him," said Kara Dansky,
executive director of the Criminal Justice Center at Stanford University.
"It does seem to weaken the position of those who say the death penalty
is a justified mode of punishment."
Laurie Levenson, a former prosecutor now teaching criminal law
at Loyola Law School, said Johnson is probably correct in gauging
that he'll be better off on death row.
"We have a perverse system, given that we have a death row but we
don't really have executions," she said. Convicts seeking death sentences
"don't really feel like they are making life-and-death decisions."
Executions have been on hold in California for almost four years,
following a federal judge's orders for review and reform of lethal injection
procedures. Those orders came after concerns were raised that some
of those executed by the three-shot sequence might not have been
rendered unconscious by the first injection. That could expose the
condemned inmate to pain from the final shot that would be
unconstitutionally cruel and unusual punishment, U.S. District Judge
Jeremy Fogel ruled in 2006, when he ordered the state to correct
the alleged deficiencies.
New protocols were proposed earlier this year but are pending
approval by corrections officials still sorting through thousands of
comments and challenges, and are facing at least another year
Both sides back ouster of judge, who would reject boy's plea deal
by Dennis Wagner - Nov. 10, 2009 12:00 AM The Arizona Republic
What's to become of a 9-year-old boy who pleaded guilty in connection with a murder?
That question has twisted the Apache County justice system in knots for nearly a year asattorneys, psychiatrists, victims, probation officers, a judge and residents of St. Johns consider the fate of Christian Romero.
What sentence would best serve the interests of justice, the community and the child? The query remains unanswered, compounded by small-town dynamics and financial obstacles.In the past few weeks, those issues erupted in controversy at Apache County Juvenile Court.
First, Judge Michael Roca announced that he was going to reject a plea agreement that calls for probation, instead sentencing Christian to the state's Department of Juvenile Corrections.
Then, defense attorney Ron Wood filed a motion claiming Roca was swayed by local politics and should be removed from the case for bias.
Finally, prosecutor Michael Whiting joined the defense, arguing that Roca's decision to put the child behind bars was all about money, not justice.
A Navajo County judge is expected to hear those arguments and make potentially crucial rulings on the future of the case and the defendant. A Tuesday hearing was continued; no new date was set.
Legal conundrum
On Nov. 5, 2008, Christian - at the time an 8-year-old in third grade - came home from school, loaded his .22-caliber rifle and waited.
His father, Vince Romero, arrived at the residence a short time later and was shot multiple times on the stairwell. Then, Tim Romans, a family friend and housemate, was gunned down in the front yard.
Authorities struggled to grasp the horror of it all and to deal with such an immature and diminutive defendant.
The first major issue involved prosecution. Legal experts said no child Christian's age had been tried for murder in Arizona. If the boy had been charged as an adult, the case likely would have been dismissed because he would not have been competent to assist in his own defense.
Had he been charged as a juvenile, under Arizona law, the court would have lost all control once Christian turns 18, when he would walk away without parole conditions.
And if prosecutors had decided to wait until Christian was more mature, perhaps age 15, to file adult charges, the courts would have had no control or custody in the interim.
In February, Whiting worked out what appeared to be an acceptable compromise with the boy's attorney: Christian admitted to negligent homicide in the slaying of Romans, and charges involving his father's death were dropped.
As part of the plea agreement, the boy accepted intensive probation, community treatment and possible juvenile detention - but not state incarceration.
There was no trial, just a guilty plea accepted by the judge. And although the boy accepted probation, a specific sentence was not set, pending psychiatric evaluation.
For seven months since then, Christian has remained in legal limbo, his sentencing delayed by complications and conflicts. Simply put, Apache County either had no place to put him, not enough money to pay for his placement, or both.
Now, the plea deal itself is in jeopardy. Should it collapse, the case could start over with a decision on how to prosecute.
Courtroom players
The list of courtroom players includes the judge, the prosecutor, the defense attorneys, Christian's mother, her lawyers, a guardian assigned to protect the boy's interests, and probation officers.
At least a half-dozen specialists, including a Harvard-trained expert, have evaluated Christian. Although their recommendations are sealed, the cost of housing and treating him has been estimated at up to $100,000 per year, a huge sum in the small, rural county.
Whiting, the prosecutor, said it was clear early on that treatment expenses would be a concern and that sentiments in the tight-knit community might influence justice.
"It gets into politics," he said. "It gets into money."
Last month, he asked to delay yet another sentencing because he had not found a way to pay for the boy's care.
Prohibitive costs
Attorneys in the case say private treatment centers are prohibitively expensive. The regional mental-health authority has declined to take the boy. Even Arizona's juvenile-corrections system, which Roca now says is right for the boy, claims not to have a place for him.
Laura Dillingham, director of communications for the Arizona Department of Juvenile Corrections, said last week that Arizona has not imprisoned an inmate younger than 13 for at least the past decade, if ever. She said the state could not take custody of Christian.
"There's too much of an age difference," Dillingham said. "We are not equipped to handle someone that young."
The cost of housing in juvenile corrections is nearly $39,000 per inmate, plus expenses for treatment and education.
Dillingham said youths enter the system because they are deemed incorrigible, and most are tough kids with numerous offenses. She said a 9-year-old with no criminal history would have to be isolated for his own protection, with a separate staff.
'Poison' and 'politics'
After eight months of looking for an appropriate place to house Christian, Roca announced Oct. 22 that he intends to revoke the plea agreement.
The judge declared that St. Johns is "pure poison" for the boy, adding that it would be irresponsible to let him stay in town and that the juvenile-corrections system is best equipped to handle the boy.
"I don't see it as a money issue," Roca said. "I see it as an issue of not having a place to spend the money."
Whiting and Wood, opposing lawyers, said they were dumbfounded. Corrections officials made it clear they had nothing for Christian, yet the judge was planning to put the boy behind bars despite the plea deal he sanctioned.
"We all looked around: Is he being serious?" Whiting said.
Wood filed motions to remove Roca from the case or have charges thrown out entirely.
He argued that the judge demonstrated bias against Christian and made his comment about "poison" based on off-the-record conversations - he calls it "politics with a small 'p' " - rather than on court testimony or evidence.
Wood said St. Johns is hardly toxic for the boy, who has remained in town for the past year.
Both sides await today's hearing on whether Roca will remain on the case.
Meantime, Christian lives with his mother and paternal grandmother.
Michael Ellison, who represents the mother, said she just wants Christian to receive treatment and an education.
I love teaching and sharing knowledge. The Internet is a free passage to an amazing amount of knowledge provided by some of the greatest minds of the day. MIT, Oxford and other universities are now sharing lecture notes with the public and allowing us to dip into the overflowing fonts of wisdom that abound. Yale is but one university that has put actual lectures on the web.
Posts
