I Never Believed In The Death Penalty — Then I Was Selected To Be A Juror For A Serial Killer’s Trial.
I was 14 when I first really considered the death penalty. Our teacher wrote a new question on the whiteboard every day in first grade English class. Before the class started, we had to write a short essay on the topic. One day, the prompt read:
“What is your opinion about the death penalty?”
Policy: His Brother Confessed to Murder. He is being prepared to be executed for this.
I hadn’t thought much about it until that moment. Whenever I heard that someone had been sentenced to death, I assumed they probably deserved it. But I’ve never been asked to consider whether this is morally right. I wrote my first sentence with pencil number 2:
“I believe the death penalty is appropriate when a serious crime has been committed.”
Then I stopped. I took the eraser and erased. I realized that I could not justify the death penalty in good faith.
Contrary to my answer to the question on the board, death was not a decision that could be undone by simply picking up an eraser. Death was final. From that moment on, I knew where I stood: I was against the death penalty.
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As I got older, my opposition to the death penalty never diminished. It has become a core part of my identity; It has become a topic I return to frequently in my conversations with friends, and sometimes even strangers. The more I read about it, the more disturbed I became by the unfair application of the death penalty. Two people can commit the same crime and receive completely different sentences depending on where the crime is committed and their access to money and legal resources.
I learned about many people who were executed and later turned out to be innocent. I began donating to the Innocence Project, an organization that works to free the wrongfully convicted. Sometimes my donations were small. But it was my way of holding on to a belief I had held since I was 14 years old.
I never expected that 20 years later I would come across the same question written on that whiteboard again. But this time it wasn’t hypothetical.
I received a grand jury summons in April 2025. I did not have time for jury duty, but the court’s website stated that most trials last only two to three days. I assumed I wouldn’t be selected, and if I was selected, I expected it to be brief.
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I was eventually chosen as a juror and I quickly realized that wasn’t going to be the case. It was the trial of a serial killer who allegedly killed eight people: Andrew Remillard; Parker Smith; Salim Richards; Latorrie Beckford; Christopher Cameron; Maria Villanueva; his mother, Rene Cooksey; and his partner Edward Nunn.
As the scope of the case became clearer, I realized that the death penalty was a real possibility, and as a juror, I felt conflicted about moving forward. But as I listened to other potential jurors answer attorneys’ questions during selection, I began to think that maybe I belonged there. I hoped to keep an open mind and be able to add nuance to deliberative conversations.
One of the hardest days as a juror was the day Maria Villanueva’s youngest daughter testified. Maria was kidnapped and sexually assaulted. Her lifeless body was found in an unpaved alley, almost naked, surrounded by trash cans and cigarette butts. After listening to him talk about his mother, I made dinner reservations for pasta and drinks with my neighbors at 6pm. The juxtaposition was embarrassing, but I was helpless to think about anything other than what was going on in court.
After months of testimony, the jury deliberated over whether the defendant was guilty. We found the defendant guilty on all charges, but the jury still had to decide whether the defendant should be sentenced to life in prison without parole or the death penalty.
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Before the penalty phase of the trial began, victims’ families read impact statements.
When Kristopher Cameron’s partner spoke, I knew his words would hurt.
“Our son was only 10 months old when his father was kidnapped. My daughter never got to meet him. My children will never experience dancing or donuts with their father. He had dreams. Now all we have left is the void that his absence will carry.”
Kristopher’s children will never hear his voice or watch him walk through the front door after work and kiss their mother. Instead, they are left with ashes on a mantle. They won’t know her smell, her smile, or what it feels like to hug her. They will never open a gift package that says “From Dad” on it. Kristopher’s murder ended one life, but it also shattered all the lives it was connected to.
After a few more months of hearing the prosecution and the defense arguing over mitigating circumstances, it was time for the jury to deliberate again. We immediately pre-voted.
I was the only one who didn’t instantly vote for death.
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The writer is with his dog. Photo courtesy of William Ehlers
Trying to keep an open mind, I voted “undecided” six out of eight votes. I voted for life without parole in the murder case of the defendant’s mother and partner.
I prepared for the verdict of the other jurors. I explained that I had tried to take into account all mitigating circumstances regarding the defendant. He had been abused. I know your childhood was difficult, and I know you had a problem with drugs. Legally, all of these factors allowed us to show tolerance. But any attempt to have these conversations fell on deaf ears.
Many jurors refused to acknowledge the defendant’s history of drug use and mental illness, despite expert testimony from both the defense and prosecution. All extenuating circumstances were unimportant to them. The only thing that mattered was ensuring that the defendant was executed.
For the victims, this didn’t feel like justice; It was to take revenge on the defendant.
After just a few days of consideration, I knew that if I did not change my vote to execute, I would have a hung jury, which meant the punishment phase would have to be retried, a process that would take months. A new group of jurors would be tasked with deciding the sentence for a verdict they did not make. And there was no way of knowing how long until the new trial began.
I sat on the floor in the jury room hallway and made a list.
If I choose death, that’s it. He died.
But if I choose life, the jury is hung. His sentencing will be retried, some new jurors will reconsider the process, and victims’ loved ones will be denied closure.
There was no option that wouldn’t hurt one, if not many, people. There were no options to minimize the damage. I went into this hearing initially believing that I would not vote to execute the defendant under any circumstances. I romanticized the idea of refusing to crack under pressure and the compassion I would extend to someone. But after a week of sleepless nights and a few bottles of wine, I knew what I had to do.
“Everyone is pro-life, raise your hand for issue one regarding Parker Smith.”
“Now, all of you, be on the side of death, raise your hands.” Twelve votes.
I had to raise my hand on every accusation until I voted for death six times. I did not dare to vote for death in respect of the murders of the defendant’s mother, Rene Cooksey, and her partner, Edward Nunn, because I did not believe that the defendant was in a coherent state of mind when committing these murders.
After the voting was over, I managed to lift my head from the table, but I put my face in my hands and cried. I couldn’t stand it anymore. While I was just crying, I could hear the other judges’ backpacks zipping as they packed up for lunch.
The defendant was arrested on December 17, 2017. Exactly eight years later, we made our decisions. They were read aloud the next day.
Being a juror in a capital murder case brought to light frustrations in our system that I never knew existed. I always knew I did not support the death penalty, but after this experience I supported it even less.
I know I will always partially regret my decision. My life will forever be in two parts: before the trial and after the trial. If I could give up my strongest belief, what would I really believe and what would those beliefs mean? Being in charge of an execution is a burden I will carry with me. While I am deeply saddened by the death of every victim, the inevitable death of the defendant is also painful.
I wish the case had not ended this way. But I wish the trial had never been necessary, because I wish all eight victims were still here. I think about Andrew, Parker, Salim, Latorrie, Kristopher, Maria, Rene and Ed all the time. I will always do my best to keep them alive.
I chose death not because I wanted the defendant to die, but to bring closure to the families and to ensure that the victims could finally rest in peace. Even though I know I will carry the burden of this choice forever, I hope this has lifted at least some of that burden off of them.
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