© Meridith Kohut para The New York Times
© Meridith Kohut for The New York Times
In 2020, seven years after he was appointed to represent a client who claimed he was wrongly convicted, attorney Scott Galloway told the judge that he was still looking into the case and needed more time.
“I am still in the process of interviewing individuals,” the lawyer wrote to the judge in Delaware County, outside Philadelphia, who had already granted him 32 extensions.
His client, Nolan O’Neal, had been a 20-year-old high school student when he was arrested for murder by Chester police, who had four eyewitnesses identifying him. At his 2005 trial, those witnesses all recanted, saying police had pressured them to accuse O’Neal.
By the time Galloway joined the case, in 2013, O’Neal had already spent eight years in prison insisting he was innocent. The lawyer’s job was to help him file a petition under Pennsylvania’s Post Conviction Relief Act. That law provided a narrow path to freedom if Galloway could find crucial new evidence or prove that previous lawyers had mishandled the case.
But court records do not show that the attorney did much other than ask for more time.
In 2022, after nine years, one unsuccessful request to access evidence and 41 extensions, Galloway filed a two-page petition addressing just one of the many issues O’Neal had wanted him to raise. It would not be enough to get O’Neal his day in court.
For more than half a century, Pennsylvania has promised people who claim they didn’t get a fair trial the right to “effective” post-conviction legal representation, regardless of their ability to pay. That’s more than most states promise people after they have been convicted and lost their appeals.
Yet Pennsylvania has done little to fulfill that promise. The Philadelphia Inquirer and ProPublica previously reported that Pennsylvania lets lawyers resolve cases quickly using a practice that is discouraged in several states: filing “no-merit” letters, also known as Finley letters, urging judges to reject their clients’ handwritten or typed claims. In Philadelphia, dozens who had received such letters later had their convictions or sentences overturned based on issues their lawyers had rejected or overlooked.
But the problems go deeper than that: The state’s loose rules and its failure to fund post-conviction work have made the type of breakdown O’Neal encountered a recurring feature of this system.
By filing public records requests with courts serving all 67 Pennsylvania counties and analyzing a decade of court dockets, an Inquirer and ProPublica investigation found that the system Pennsylvania set up to protect the right to counsel instead allows, or even encourages, shoddy representation.
The news organizations found that:
While almost every county in the state has a public defender office, most post-conviction cases are handled by private lawyers who are paid hourly, by the case or by the year and work with little to no supervision. Our review of court records found pay as low as $500 per case and delays as long as 19 years without a single court filing.
In some counties, contracted lawyers’ backlogs spanned dozens of cases. In Chester County, an affluent region west of Philadelphia, a lawyer left cases untouched for as long as two years before the county ended his contract last fall.
Delaware County, where O’Neal was convicted, relies on a group of part-time lawyers to handle most of its post-trial matters. One is Galloway, who has handled 20 or 30 post-trial cases per year for the county in addition to running his own law practice and, for a time, holding local elected office. Galloway said that his ethical obligation to confidentiality prevented him from commenting on O’Neal’s case. Judge George A. Pagano, who granted him 41 extensions on O’Neal’s case, declined to comment.
In the years Galloway was on the case, O’Neal wrote him dozens of letters from state prison, proposing legal arguments and sending leads to investigate.
“It is a daunting and exhausting task to navigate this legal process and be heard,” O’Neal said in an interview. “We at times even have to fight the attorneys who are supposed to represent us.”
In 2020, he received a letter from the brother of the murder victim, admitting that his testimony against O’Neal was a lie. “I want to fix it. I know my brother would want me to. It’s been long enough,” he wrote. O’Neal said he pleaded with Galloway to track down the man.
In 2022, Galloway attached the brother’s signed statement to a sparse two-page brief, which mentioned none of the other issues O’Neal had raised nine years earlier or the other witnesses who’d come forward over the years. The judge started the process of dismissing the claim. One reason: The filing had been made too late. O’Neal is still fighting his case, now with a new court-appointed lawyer.
Before they are assigned a lawyer, Pennsylvania prisoners must write the first draft of their post-conviction filing on their own within a strict one-year deadline. The lawyers appointed to revise their petitions, on the other hand, are not generally held to any timeline. The state courts say lawyers should act “expeditiously so as to reduce unnecessary delays.” Yet judges have granted extensions liberally, court dockets show, and in many cases failed to impose any deadlines at all.
An Inquirer and ProPublica review of court dockets found that hundreds of people have waited two years or longer, only to receive no-merit letters. That analysis is an undercount, since many court clerks don’t clearly label attorney filings on their dockets. In Philadelphia alone, some 65 people have waited three to eight years for lawyers to take action before reaching that same outcome. Similarly, across the state, dockets show that lawyers received seven or more extensions in dozens of cases before filing Finley letters or nothing at all.
In 2017, Lee Mandell, who has been practicing law in Philadelphia for more than 50 years, sent a Finley letter saying that he’d written to but never spoken with his client of four years and did not understand his claims.
“It is entirely unclear as to what the defendant really means,” wrote Mandell. In his own review of the case, Mandell failed to flag an erroneous jury instruction that four years later would lead to the conviction being overturned. Mandell was later formally reprimanded for allowing another client’s hearing to be delayed by six years, during which time two witnesses died. He did not return calls seeking comment.
Judges’ inaction added to lawyers’ delays, leaving matters to stagnate for years on end. In 2023, the state’s Superior Court registered such concerns about a case from Wayne County, where a lawyer filed a “two-page, deficient motion to withdraw, and the PCRA court did nothing in this case for 20 years.”
To be sure, there can be good reasons for delays, since investigations can be complex. Lawyers have spent years chasing down missing witnesses, litigating requests for DNA testing or combing through police files.
But in almost 200 post-conviction cases across Pennsylvania in the last 15 years, lawyers were appointed, then filed nothing at all over the span of a year or longer before being replaced with a new appointed lawyer. One of the cases stagnated for almost seven years, only for a new attorney to pick up the file. Another man was appointed five lawyers over eight years, dockets show, none of whom filed anything on his behalf.
Court officials have long been aware of the backlogs wracking this system, even publishing a law review article about it in 2003. The study outlined needed reforms but acknowledged the lack of political will, saying the “low status” of these cases stems from a bias among judges and lawyers who believe “that most post conviction claims are frivolous.”
The loose timeline is just one dimension of a system with few standards. The state has published no best practices for indigent defense or guidelines on how many cases a lawyer can take; it has provided no training and instituted virtually no guidelines to ensure that court-appointed lawyers are qualified. As a result, lawyers hold widely diverging views on just what obligations they have to their clients.
The Inquirer and ProPublica previously found that about three-quarters of the time, Philadelphia lawyers who ended up filing Finley letters did not take basic steps such as meeting with their client, tracking down the trial lawyer’s file and obtaining all available discovery.
“I do not know how you can evaluate trial counsel’s performance, which is the main role of post-conviction counsel, without talking to your client and reading trial counsel’s file,” said Jennifer Merrigan, a co-founder of Phillips Black, a nonprofit law firm. That file would reveal whether the lawyer consulted with experts, received all relevant evidence from the prosecutor and investigated potential witnesses.
The state’s lack of vetting and training stands in contrast with national norms. A majority of other states have centralized defender services or support offices that provide resources, education and oversight. For instance, in North Carolina, appeals lawyers seeking court appointments must apply with the state appellate defender and submit references, work history showing the lawyer is qualified to litigate appeals and legal writing samples. They’re also required to take a training course covering strategy and best practices.
Even without a statewide office, Pennsylvania’s Supreme Court could establish minimum qualifications for lawyers handling indigent defense. In August, a state court committee published such a proposal, but it recommends only that lawyers have relevant work experience “to the extent practicable.” Work experience requirements have been enforced in some other states, such as Ohio, for years. But the committee’s proposal argued that work experience is not “possible to quantify” and that “less-than-experienced representation is better than no representation.”
Ted Skaarup, a public defender who has advocated for training and qualification requirements, said inexperienced and untrained lawyers are more likely to default to writing Finley letters. New lawyers, he said, are left to consult with older attorneys who may pass on bad practices. “You go to them for advice and they say, ‘I’ll send you a copy of my [no-merit] letter.’”
Only one of the state’s 67 counties provided written criteria requiring specific work experience for lawyers to be appointed to post-conviction cases in response to records requests. Philadelphia court leadership says that lawyers must complete a training session and show they’ve recently handled three hearings involving disputed evidence. A volunteer panel tasked with approving prospective lawyers there rarely meets and is not empowered to approve or reject candidates based on writing samples, a core part of screening appeals lawyers in some other places.
In Pittsburgh, the nonprofit Allegheny Lawyers Initiative for Justice has urged local court officials to set up a system to screen and supervise appointed lawyers. For now, the organization is running its own voluntary trainings, as well as a resource center with office hours, a library of sample motions and help with social service referrals.
Without such systems, the organization’s executive director, Rob Perkins, said, “There’s no quality control.” Lawyers can get away with “doing a poor job in these cases for years without anyone really paying attention.”
When attorney Corrie Woods took over Washington County’s post-conviction caseload in 2020, he was startled to discover about a dozen files that had been untouched since being assigned to the previous lawyer in 2019 or earlier. In some, the lawyer’s inaction had caused the clients to lose their appeal rights.
Looking back, Woods said, it’s not surprising, given that the western Pennsylvania county was paying him $25,000 a year as a part-timer for up to 24 cases. “These cases are not going to take priority in most law offices,” said Woods, who now handles mostly personal injury cases.
Under such a contract, he said, “Your incentive is to do the least work. You’re not getting more for doing more.”
The American Bar Association has long opposed such flat-fee pay structures for that reason. States including Colorado, Idaho and Nevada have banned them.
Not Pennsylvania. The state began contributing any money to indigent defense only in 2023. Today it kicks in just 57 cents per capita; neighboring states, on average, pay $26 per resident. Counties provide the rest as they see fit. A pending American Civil Liberties Union lawsuit claims that has resulted in widespread violations of the right to counsel.
At 57 cents per resident, Pennsylvania’s state-level contribution toward funding legal defense for poor people is a fraction of what neighboring states pay.
About three-quarters of Pennsylvanians live in counties that use flat-fee arrangements or cap the amount a lawyer can bill for a case. Daniel Buzard, the court administrator in the county where Woods held the contract several years ago, said in an email, “This provides financial stability for both parties.”
Some counties pay as little as $500 per case. Based on time estimates from Maine, one of the only states to publish post-conviction workload standards, that would come out to $11 per hour.
Twenty-one Pennsylvania counties offer flat annual pay for part-time lawyers — sometimes then assigning them caseloads that exceed Maine’s standard for full-time work.
“We at times even have to fight the attorneys who are supposed to represent us.”
Nolan O’Neal, Pennsylvania prisoner
Only five of the 18 contracts obtained in response to public records requests included a limit on the number of cases the court could heap onto a lawyer. None of the contracts set deadlines, specified a time commitment or described any oversight mechanism.
Stuart Wilder said his contract to handle post-conviction cases in Bucks County, outside Philadelphia, kept the lights on in his office for years. He worked hard for clients, he said, and won several challenging cases. But he said the flat-fee structure did require him to deprioritize cases where he didn’t see merit.
“Being able to file Finley letters gave me the time to work on cases I could fix,” said Wilder, who recently retired.
But in at least three counties, contract lawyers left multiple clients stranded for a year or longer with no progress on their cases, dockets show.
In 2021, the court in Erie County yanked 50 cases from attorney James P. Miller and eventually reported him for discipline, citing extreme delays that cost some clients their appeal rights. Miller, whose law license was suspended as a result, declined to comment. But Erie court administrator Robert Catalde said the debacle spurred the county to double lawyers’ pay to $46,800 and provide benefits.
A similar situation played out last year in Chester County, which abruptly ended its contract with the lawyer handling all its post-conviction cases, Charles Thomas Jr., after discovering that he had been putting in an average of just five hours a week across his roughly 25 cases.
One client, Patrick Hickson, said he spent two years trying to get Thomas to track down evidence that could clear him of a 2018 shooting or at least prove he didn’t get a fair trial. His defense lawyer had failed to call a single witness — admitting to the judge, mid-trial, that he’d wrongly assumed the prosecutor would send a summons to an eyewitness who had told police Hickson wasn’t the shooter.
To raise the issue, Hickson needed Thomas to track down the missing witness. But when he reached Thomas by phone in August 2025, for the first time in months, the lawyer told him he was off the case. “He said the courts told him he was taking too long,” Hickson said. Thomas declined to comment.
Chester County criminal court administrator Jordan Ludwick acknowledged concerns about the delays but said he resolved the problem by finding a qualified lawyer to take over the contract.
That attorney, Shannon McDonald, said it was “not an easy transition.”
“There were many cases that had not been touched at all,” she said.
She cut through the backlog by filing 17 briefs in just over three months. All but three were Finley letters.
“The case has to survive on the merits,” she said, “and, frankly, the deck is stacked against overturning a case.”
This March, she also sent Hickson a Finley letter. McDonald said ethics rules prevented her from discussing Hickson’s case, but in the letter she blamed Hickson for failing to track down the would-be witness and said his trial lawyer had a strategic reason for not sending the subpoena.
Reading the letter, Hickson said, “I felt defeated.”
Since McDonald asked to drop the case, he is pursuing exoneration alone.
The post He Waited Nine Years in Prison for His Lawyer to File a Single Brief. In This State, There’s No Rule Against It. appeared first on ProPublica.
Over the course of two hours, witnesses watched and listened as Christa Pike cried, whimpered and snored through Tennessee’s attempt to execute her. By the end of it, executioners had given her two doses of the state’s lethal injection drugs. Her arms were swollen and blistered, and one had turned purple, her attorneys said. And she was still alive, marking what legal experts say is the first time a prisoner in the U.S. has survived one dose — let alone two — of lethal injection drugs.
Even if the outcome was unprecedented, what went wrong was not. Pike’s was the third Tennessee execution in 14 months to go awry. But as a reporter who has covered death row for nearly a decade and witnessed several executions, I know the state is not alone. The factors behind the breakdowns in Tennessee have popped up again and again across the country — and show how easily another botched execution could occur, even as soon as the ones planned Wednesday in Texas and next week in Florida.
Here’s what we know about Tennessee’s attempt to execute Pike: The procedure started more than nine hours late, delayed by last-minute legal fights. Then, inside the death house, executioners struggled to find a vein, jabbing Pike with at least seven needles, according to her lawyers, one of whom watched in dismay. As the caustic barbiturate finally started flowing into the IV lines, Pike did not fall into sedation quickly. Instead, witnesses said, she sang with her spiritual adviser. Then she said her arm felt like it was about to burst open. “Does this happen like that?” she asked.
Like Pike, many aging death row prisoners have medical problems that can complicate efforts to kill them, potentially turning what are supposed to be relatively quick deaths into agonizing, drawn-out procedures. Even when prisoners are healthy, several states have faced questions about the competence of their execution teams, as both the American Medical Association and American Nurses Association have strongly opposed their members taking part in death penalty procedures. And death penalty states across the country shroud their executions in such secrecy that it is often difficult or impossible to confirm the age, source or sterility of the drugs.
“The types of failures that went into this botch happen all the time,” said Robert Dunham, director of the Death Penalty Policy Project. “There is nothing in the execution process that states are incapable of getting wrong.”
The Tennessee Department of Correction declined to comment, though hours after the attempted execution the agency said in a statement that it had “followed every step” of the state’s established protocol, which “has been consistently effective.” On Saturday, the head of the agency resigned. Meanwhile, Gov. Bill Lee said in a statement that he had ordered “a comprehensive, third-party review to determine exactly what occurred” and that the execution previously scheduled for December would no longer take place this year. His office didn’t respond to a request for comment.
On Friday, Pike’s lawyers filed a motion asking a court to order the agency to preserve any evidence related to the state’s failed effort to kill their client. In a statement, they said the filing “details the serious complications that occurred during the execution attempt, many of which Christa and her attorneys had warned the State and the courts about months earlier.”
Pike remains in the hospital where she is receiving critical medical care, they said. After several days on a ventilator, intubated and unconscious, on Tuesday afternoon her attorneys said she was awake and speaking. “Her prognosis remains unclear but, at a minimum, we expect a long recovery,” they wrote in a statement. “We continue to ask the Governor of Tennessee to commute Christa Pike’s sentence to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.”
By the time the Tennessee Department of Correction strapped her to the gurney last week, Pike had been on death row for 30 years. She had been sentenced to death for the 1995 murder of 19-year-old Colleen Slemmer, a fellow Job Corps student in Knoxville. Pike was 18 at the time and, like many people on death row, had a history of mental illness and childhood sexual abuse.
Now 50 years old, Pike has faced an array of health problems, which her legal team had repeatedly warned could lead to a bungled execution. During a three-day hearing in August, Pike’s attorneys argued that her small veins and a blood disorder would make it harder and more painful to put in the IV lines to administer the lethal dose. The Tennessee Supreme Court did not agree, calling their arguments “speculative” and rejecting their request for a stay.
Tennessee’s execution protocol relies on pentobarbital, a caustic barbiturate that slows down breathing and has been used to treat seizures, sedate people before surgery and euthanize animals. But its use in putting to death humans has drawn scrutiny. After relying on the drug for all 13 federal executions during the first Trump administration, the Justice Department under President Joe Biden said there was too much uncertainty about whether it would cause “unnecessary pain and suffering” and decided to stop using it “unless and until that uncertainty is resolved.” This year, President Donald Trump’s DOJ reversed course and readopted its use.
Despite supply difficulties and repeated lawsuits from death row prisoners arguing that using pentobarbital is cruel and unusual, several states still use it, including Georgia, Missouri, South Carolina and Texas, where I witnessed five executions in the late 2010s as a reporter for the Houston Chronicle. Four of the condemned prisoners said the drug burned. Two said they could taste it. One said he could “hear it going through the vein.” But all of them stopped moving within minutes and were declared dead in under an hour.
Tennessee prison officials have not offered an explanation as to why Pike’s attempted execution was so drastically different. Initially, Pike’s attorneys and several death penalty experts raised the possibility that the drugs may have been too old or degraded to work as intended. Yet in Friday’s legal filings, Pike’s lawyers focused on the way the drug was administered, saying it was “abundantly clear” that Tennessee prison officials either didn’t know that the IV lines were out of place or didn’t realize her veins had been so badly damaged that the highly alkaline liquid started leaking out into the surrounding tissue of her arm. Joel Zivot, a professor of anesthesiology in Atlanta and one of Pike’s medical experts, said that meant there wasn’t enough of the drug in her bloodstream at once to kill her. “It just got into her arms, and most of it stopped there,” he said.
Like Pike, many people on death rows nationwide have significant health problems often compounded by old age. As the appeals process has drawn out, condemned prisoners are spending longer awaiting execution. People put to death in 1988 had spent an average of less than seven years on death row, federal data shows. By 2023, the most recent year with data, that figure had ballooned to more than 23 years. That means more people reaching the execution chamber are old, ill, worn down by decades of poor prison medical care and potentially harder to put to death. One analysis, by the nonprofit human rights group Reprieve, found that the odds of a botched lethal injection increased 6% on average with each additional year of age. Some of the most notorious failed executions of the past decade involved prisoners whose bodies were failing them.
In 2017, Ohio halted the execution of Alva Campbell after the execution team couldn’t find a usable vein. His attorneys had warned in legal filings beforehand that his medical problems — including lung cancer, COPD, prostate cancer and pneumonia — could make for an exceptionally painful execution. The 69-year-old died on his own in prison three months later. The following year, Alabama failed to kill 61-year-old Doyle Hamm, a terminally ill cancer patient. Executioners spent more than two hours trying to find a vein, possibly puncturing his bladder before giving up. He died three years later from cancer complications. And in 2024, Idaho called off the execution of 73-year-old Thomas Creech after trying to find a vein for nearly an hour. He’s still alive and on death row.
Last year, Tennessee put to death Byron Black, a 69-year-old with dementia and congestive heart failure who used a wheelchair and had a defibrillator implanted in his chest. The defense team warned the device could cause painful shocks and prolong the execution, but Tennessee’s highest court refused to intervene and prison officials left it on. After the drugs started flowing, witnesses said Black lifted his head up, groaned and said, “It’s hurting so bad.”
Defense attorneys worry similar problems could surface again as soon as next week, when the state of Florida plans to execute William Lee Thompson for a 1976 murder in Miami-Dade County. Since August, the 74-year-old — who has dementia and does not always remember that he is facing execution — has suffered from sepsis, pneumonia, blood clots in his lungs, a severe sacral wound and an array of other debilitating conditions. Bri Lacy, the lead attorney on Thompson’s case, told ProPublica her client is also malnourished and dehydrated, which could make it even harder for executioners to access his “hard, fragile veins.” She said Thompson had been in an outside hospital until the night before Gov. Ron DeSantis signed a warrant for his execution, after which prison officials put him in death watch, the section for people with scheduled executions.
Last week, DeSantis issued an executive order temporarily staying the execution and requiring that Thompson be evaluated by a panel of three psychiatrists to determine whether he is competent to be executed. The results are still outstanding. DeSantis and the Florida Department of Corrections did not immediately respond to a request for comment.
If the prisoner’s health is not a problem, sometimes the execution team is.
In May, Tennessee tried to execute Tony Carruthers, who’d been sent to death row in connection with a 1994 triple murder for which he has long maintained his innocence. Executioners jabbed his hands and feet more than a dozen times trying to find a working vein, according to Maria DeLiberato, senior counsel at the American Civil Liberty Union’s Capital Punishment Project, a member of his defense team who was there as a witness. Eventually, a physician — who DeLiberato said had introduced himself as Dr. Mark Fowler — decided to try placing a central line, an invasive procedure that involves puncturing the neck, chest or groin to insert a deep IV near the heart.
DeLiberato objected, saying Fowler wasn’t qualified. Less than a year earlier, he’d admitted in a deposition that he didn’t have hospital privileges and hadn’t placed a central line in about 12 years. “His hands were shaking, and it appeared to me he didn’t know what he was doing,” DeLiberato told ProPublica. By the time Fowler gave up trying to put one in Carruthers, DiLiberato could hear her client moaning and see blood oozing out of his puncture wounds. After more than an hour, the governor called off the execution and gave Carruthers a one-year reprieve.
“Placing a central line is like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget,” Fowler said in a text message to ProPublica. “My hands were not shaking and the process requires deliberation. I stopped because it was uncomfortable for Carruthers.” He added that his lack of hospital privileges was “irrelevant.”
It’s not clear whether Fowler took part in Pike’s attempted execution last week. Though he previously told local media that he would, neither the state nor the defense team confirmed his participation. He declined to comment on the matter to ProPublica.
After the failed attempt to execute Carruthers, several dozen Tennessee doctors and nurses wrote to the governor urging a moratorium on the death penalty. They said medical providers who take part in executions “are those willing to set aside their professional ethics” and that bungled executions “are the predictable result of working with such unscrupulous actors.”
For years, the physician overseeing executions in Missouri was a surgeon who’d been disciplined by the state board and sued about 20 times for malpractice, he estimated in a deposition, according to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. At least five of those cases ended in settlements, and one ended in a court judgment that he appealed and lost, the paper reported. In court testimony in the mid-2000s, he admitted that he sometimes confused names of different drugs and said he’d decided on his own to halve the amount of anesthetic given to condemned prisoners. A court eventually banned him from taking part in executions in Missouri — though federal officials later put him on the execution team at the federal death chamber in Indiana. He did not respond to phone calls and an email seeking a comment.
After Oklahoma executed Clayton Lockett in 2014 in a drawn-out and bloody procedure, a paramedic involved later testified that it took a long time because “Black people have smaller veins than white people.”
Death penalty experts compared what happened last week in Tennessee to a 2006 Florida execution, where the first dose of drugs failed to kill 55-year-old Ángel Díaz. He struggled for about half an hour, and executioners eventually dosed him a second time. It turned out the needles had gone through his veins and the drugs had seeped into the surrounding tissue, leaving footlong burns on his arms. An investigation found the state hadn’t provided adequate training or followed its own protocols, and the lead executioner later testified he had “no medical training and no qualifications.” Following a short moratorium, the state revised its procedures and resumed executions in 2008.
Cases like these come to light largely by accident. Secrecy laws generally shield the names of execution team members, so it’s almost impossible to know whether they have a troubled history.
Secrecy laws likewise conceal information about the drugs themselves, as well as their effects. Maya Foa, who heads up Reprieve, said that states have “gotten more secretive over time” and that some hide aspects of executions that could shed light on the effects of lethal injection drugs. Some states do not allow witnesses to watch the placement of the IV lines, and in Florida, she said, officials “tape [prisoners’] fingers so you can’t see if they’re wiggling or still conscious.”
Various states withhold everything from the supplier name to sterility testing results to purchase dates — all of which could help determine if the drugs have degraded or become tainted. When executions go badly, that lack of information can make it difficult to know whether the age of the drugs or inadequate testing could have played a role.
Tennessee’s record gives little reason for confidence. In 2022, citing a “technical oversight,” the governor called off the execution of Oscar Smith, then paused future executions and ordered an investigation that ultimately found the state hadn’t been testing its death drugs for bacterial toxins as required by its own rules. After a three-year hiatus, the state resumed executions last year.
It’s not clear how old the drugs were that Tennessee used in Pike’s execution, though records obtained by ProPublica suggest the state purchased some earlier this year. An email from the corrections department to the state comptroller, turned over in response to a public records request regarding payments for lethal injection drugs, showed that the prison agency spent $650,000 this year on execution-related expenses. Legal experts said it’s still not clear where the drug supplies came from, when they were made or even whether they were manufactured by a pharmaceutical company or mixed in a compounding pharmacy.
Prisoners across the country have repeatedly sued over this kind of secrecy, demanding to know more about the drugs used to kill them. Right now, that’s happening in Tennessee, where six condemned men are suing for information about the age, origin and expiration dates of the state’s pentobarbital supplies. One of the lawyers involved in the lawsuit — Kit Thomas, a deputy chief in the Middle District of Tennessee’s federal public defender office — said state officials have resisted providing basic details such as whether the drug was manufactured by a pharmaceutical company or mixed in a compounding pharmacy. The case is ongoing. The state attorney general did not offer a comment on the lawsuit.
“Without public accountability or transparency,” Thomas said, “we should expect to see more people strapped to gurneys and tortured for hours at a time.”
That is what Jamaal Howard’s attorneys fear could happen Wednesday in Texas. The 46-year-old is scheduled for execution in connection with the May 2000 shooting of a convenience store clerk in Hardin County. On Saturday, his legal team asked Gov. Greg Abbott for a 30-day reprieve — not because their client is innocent, but because they want more information about the drugs Texas plans to use. In the past, the state has routinely turned over testing results and other records. But in recent months, that’s changed — and after the botched execution in Tennessee, Howard’s attorneys say they want more proof the drugs are still good. “We expect [the Texas Department of Criminal Justice] will assure you that its drugs are sound,” Don Bailey and Jeff Newberry wrote. “Tennessee gave the same assurance.”
Abbott’s office didn’t immediately respond to requests for comment. Amanda Hernandez, a Texas prison spokesperson, said the state has successfully put to death more than 600 people since 1976 and “stands ready to carry out the execution scheduled for Oct. 7.”
I’m still reporting. If you are involved in preparing or carrying out lethal injections, I want to hear from you.
Keri Blakinger
I welcome any tips leading to tough accountability stories about the legal system. Right now, I’m particularly interested in hearing from federal prison employees and federal prisoners with information about untold and revelatory stories.
The post I’ve Covered Death Row Cases for Nearly a Decade. What Happened to Christa Pike Wasn’t an Anomaly. appeared first on ProPublica.
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