By Jerry Mitchell
jmitchell@clarionledger.com

If Paul Hill dies by lethal injection Wednesday in Florida as scheduled, many will debate what led to the first abortion violence-related execution in the United States.

Execution The execution of Paul Hill, convicted in the 1994 murders of Dr. John Bayard Britton and retired Air Force Lt. Col. James Barrett outside a Pensacola abortion clinic, is set for 6 p.m. Wednesday at Florida State Prison in Raiford, Fla.

They'll take measure of Hill's passionate, intractable beliefs. His days of showing up outside abortion clinics. His appearances on national television to defend the shooting of abortion doctors as "justifiable homicide." His saying that God told him to kill a doctor outside that Pensacola abortion clinic in 1994.

But few may realize Hill's obsession with abortion began in the 11 years he lived in Jackson, pioneering the "sidewalk counseling" movement outside abortion clinics, before leaving in 1984.

Two years earlier, his father had him arrested on assault charges and sought drug treatment for his son, who had been using marijuana.

A year after his arrest, something changed. "God graciously converted my proud and rebellious heart," he wrote recently in a publication called The Abortion Abolitionist.

Hill was noticeably different, but that didn't mean he was noticed. Friends described him as quiet and intense, a person who easily blended into the crowd.

While living in the capital city, he began to attend St. Paul Presbyterian Church, where the pastor was the Rev. Michael Schneider. He also met his future wife, Karen Demuth of West Memphis, Ark. Schneider married the couple there in 1978.

Hill became active in rallying against abortion.

Activist C. Roy McMillan of Jackson said Hill inspired him and others to go to the abortion clinics to try to talk women out of having abortions. "He was an early pioneer who had a lot of zeal," McMillan recalled.

He said Hill told him, "We're trying to stop the killing, and that's where the killing is going on."

In some cases, the talks worked, McMillan said. "We started realizing we were saving babies."

While his wife supported the couple as an accountant, Hill attended Reformed Theological Seminary in Jackson. One Sunday evening each month, a seminary student would fill the pulpit at St. Paul. Twice, Hill preached.

Elders told Hill his dedication impressed them, but they discouraged him from being a pastor because he struggled to speak and express his thoughts clearly, Schneider recalled.

One thing the pastor noticed about Hill was his intensity. "If he believed something, he held to it tenaciously," Schneider said. "It was very difficult for him to listen to another point of view.

"In some ways, it was commendable because he was standing up for a lot of good things. We didn't see it as unstable at that point, but it got more and more intense."

Ordained in the Presbyterian Church in America, Hill left Mississippi to preach in South Carolina. He later joined the Orthodox Presbyterian Church.

Two years after leaving, he returned to Jackson to be honored as Pro-Lifer of the Year at the second annual Mississippi Right to Life Convention.

"At that time, he was a leader and active participant in what is now considered mainstream pro-life ministry — prayer and counseling at abortion clinics," said Pat Cartrette, executive director of Right to Life of Jackson. "Since that time, he has committed an act that is not supported by pro-lifers. Although we realize abortion is the killing of unborn ... babies, we also realize it is the function of the state to dispense justice in these matters."

He started his own car-cleaning and detailing business and began to attend Trinity Presbyterian Church in Valparaiso, Fla., where Schneider then preached.

In January 1993, Hill resumed his pro-life activism, suddenly showing up at a Pensacola abortion clinic, holding up a sign that said, "Kill the Abortionists."

"Right to Life thought he was some kind of plant," Schneider recalled. He wasn't, and soon Hill became a regular, watching as Dr. David Gunn arrived in the morning.

On March 10, 1993, fellow activist Michael Griffin pulled a .38-caliber pistol from his pants and shot Gunn several times.

Five days later, Hill appeared on the Donahue Show and compared the killing of Gunn to the killing of a Nazi concentration camp doctor.

After the wave of national publicity, Schneider warned Hill he would be excommunicated from the church if he didn't repudiate his well-publicized calls for violence. Hill challenged him or anyone else to disprove the logic of killing abortion providers to save lives.

Schneider noticed Hill seemed to cherish basking in the publicity.

"You're just eating that up," Schneider said he told Hill. "That's wrong." Hill nodded in agreement. "I need to confess that," he said Hill told him.

In the end, Hill "humbled himself," Schneider said, "but he never changed his mind."

By the time Griffin's trial began, Hill's house had become a gathering place for activists who shared his beliefs that killing abortion doctors was "justifiable homicide."
Those who visited him in those days described him as an ideal family man, an attentive husband and a loving father of three children.

In February 1994, he circulated a petition calling for Griffin's acquittal: "We, the undersigned, declare the justice of taking all godly action necessary to defend innocent human life, including the use of force. We proclaim that whatever force is legitimate to defend the life of a born child is legitimate to defend the life of an unborn child."

Thirty others signed the petition, including McMillan.

About the same time, Hill became friends with Neal Horsley of Atlanta, who put up a controversial Web site that listed abortion doctors' home addresses.

Horsley supported a political party aimed at secession, but he said Hill "believed the rivers of America had to run red with blood before that would happen."

Horsley said Hill looked him in the eye and said, "So be it."

"So be it," Horsley replied.

It was something he had been thinking about for the past eight days, waiting until his family left town, he wrote in The Abortion Abolitionist.

Days earlier, he had learned Dr. John Britton usually showed up at the clinic about 7:30 a.m., sometimes minutes before the security guard arrived. "This information was like a bright green light, signaling me on," he wrote.

On one of his last days of freedom, he went with his wife and three children, then 9, 6 and 3, to the beach. Back home, they dined. "Like a man savoring his last supper, I enjoyed watching them through eyes unknown to them," he wrote.

Hill went to the clinic and stood in the driveway. He fired a shotgun, killing Britton and his escort, Air Force Lt. Col. James Barrett, and wounding Barrett's wife, June.

Hill then laid the shotgun at his feet and awaited his arrest. "I was relieved when they cuffed me," he wrote. "I gave a hopeful and non-resisting look to the policeman who ordered me under arrest with his drawn handgun. I did not want to be shot, and was glad to be safely in police custody."

Some experts have suggested Hill's lack of remorse shows he suffers from mental problems, perhaps a personality disorder. Schneider sees it differently: "I don't believe Paul is insane. I think he's unstable."

Hill remains a friend, but Schneider also believes Hill deserves to die. "I don't want to see him executed, but the state has to do this," he said.

Hill has made that job easy. He's abandoned all appeals and publicly vowed that given the same circumstances, he would kill Britton again.

When he dies, he has said, "I want to mix my blood with the blood of the unborn."

Hill's family couldn't be reached for comment, but his friends say the 49-year-old is at peace.

McMillan has no plans to travel to Florida to witness the execution. McMillan said he's never advocated violence, but he refuses to condemn the killings by Hill.

"I'm not prepared to denounce violence to stop violence," he said. "After 9-11, we responded with violence. Why? To protect us. Paul Hill did the same thing."

The Rev. Michael Bray of Bowie, Md. — imprisoned for four years for bombing abortion clinics — has called Hill a prophet of God and suggested someone else may take action once Hill is gone.

"The last time a poll was taken on the position of justifiable homicide, about 3 percent from the population supported it," he said. "The numbers have increased since. Let's say it's 5 percent. That's 12 million people. Any of those 12 million could take action."

Horsley plans to show up for the execution. "If the Lord Jesus Christ gave Paul Hill the kill command, he is an authentic Christian martyr," he said. "George Bush is being given a kill command, or he's being disobedient in Iraq. The spirit of murder has been unleashed."

The last killing of an abortion provider in the United States was in 1998, and violence against clinics has since been on the decline.

But on the day Hill is executed, clinics will be on full alert, said Vicki Saporta, executive director of the Washington-based National Abortion Federation, which has 400 member clinics. "We're working closely with authorities to prevent another murder from taking place."

As reprehensible as Hill's action is, said state Rep. Erik Fleming, D-Jackson, he believes killing Hill will make things worse, not better.

"People like Paul Hill and Timothy McVeigh for some crazed reason want to be executed," said Fleming, who has sought a moratorium on state executions. "When we cater to that wish, we create the situation where we could have another Paul Hill or Timothy McVeigh. By executing Paul Hill, all we're doing is endorsing what he did to the abortion doctor."

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