I watched a premeditated murder yesterday. I walked into a prison knowing I was going to watch a man die. Not just any man, but Frank Walls, someone I’d known for almost 10 years. I thought about his broad smile the first time I met him, the eagerness in his voice to meet me, his new lawyer, and his new legal team, which I oversaw. Unlike some clients who are (oftentimes rightfully) distrustful of a new legal team, Frank trusted us right away.
I thought about how I later had the honor of passing Frank’s case on to a young lawyer, who I hired (after she told me in her interview about a pit bull she rescued while investigating a case — and I didn’t need to know anything else). She built the strongest record for an intellectual disability claim that’d I’ve ever seen. She raised every issue, every angle, and had Frank’s case perfectly poised for the court to fulfill their oath and follow the law. They didn’t.
We lamented our losses together, we raged at the State and the courts (ask me about the Thanksgiving punching bag story), and we resolved to keep fighting. Frank’s case was eventually passed on to another legal team, with new attorneys joining over the years. Frank trusted them all, welcoming each new person to his fight. Those lawyers continued to work to right this wrong. Their final litigation in the last 30 days of Frank’s life was fierce, righteous, and tireless. “Anything for Frank” his investigator texted.
Even after I formally left his legal team in 2019, Frank and I remained in close contact. I’d promised him that, if the time came, I’d be there and I’d make sure all his last wishes were honored. So, when his warrant was signed on November 18th, it was time to keep that promise.
Surreal is the best feeling I can use to describe the days and weeks leading up to Frank’s execution. Right after the warrant was signed, everyone sprang into action to make sure his legal and social needs were taken care of — visits and calls were set, from Florida to California to France, to connect Frank with his loved ones. His investigator joked that we needed a spreadsheet to manage Frank’s “social calendar.” She wasn’t wrong.
As the days ticked down, and his legal claims fell on deaf ears, I knew our time was drawing near. I was anxious about witnessing for the first time. Would I faint? Would I cry? Would I scream? Would I feel suffocated by the violence in the room? So, I leaned on members of our community near and far, including those who have also witnessed their client’s last moments. I talked to men and women of faith, and I held onto the unshakeable devotion of Frank, who believed without question that he would spend eternity in Heaven.
Frank and I shared the last half hour of his last legal visit on Wednesday night. His final appeal had not yet been denied. We lawyers knew a stay from the United States Supreme Court was essentially impossible, but Frank wanted to remain hopeful, and there was zero chance I was going to dash that hope. I was hoping for a miracle, too. As I shared in our final statement, Frank was ready for whatever his Lord’s plan might be — telling me that either the Lord would grant him a stay, or the Lord would bring him home. And my favorite, that he was “too blessed to be stressed.”
Our last visit was behind glass. No more opportunity to hug him, but we placed our hands on the glass. We sat and reminisced about our first meeting, and how we’ve both aged over the years. As our time ticked to the last minute, we put our heads to the glass, tapped our hands to our hearts, and said, either I’ll see you tomorrow, or I’ll see you on the other side.
Yesterday, I spent the day waiting, trying to distract myself, while also desperately pressing “refresh” on the Supreme Court website and exchanging anxious texts with his legal team, and our FADP staff. I had to be at the administration building at 4:15. They would take my phone away around 5:15. As I sat in the administration building, I could see the vigil bus driving by. I watched as you all set up your tent, your lights, your speakers. I watched as you filed on the wet lawn, ready to bear witness. I was sitting alone. I was scared of what I was about to see. But my people were out there. Waiting. Watching. Holding me and Frank, and everyone involved with his case, in your hearts and minds.
Around 5:15 they led me to the front of the prison. Vans pulled up, and about 25 people filed out. These were some corrections officers, some law enforcement, and several family members of the victim. I was shepherded carefully away from them, as I clutched my folder boldly marked “ATTORNEY.” I’m thinking, do they hate me? Do they blame me for the delay? Do they know that I feel deep and sincere sorrow for their losses even as I fight to stop this killing?
We all make our way through security and are led through the prison to another set of waiting vans that would drive us to the execution chamber. Everyone speaks in low tones, or not at all. It’s somber, eerie, and weirdly polite. We get to the chamber, and file into the witness room. I’m told to stand to the side to let everyone else file in first. The first seat in the first row is for me. The curtains are drawn on the viewing window. Will Frank be able to see me? Will he know that I am a face of love in the room?
At exactly 6 p.m., the curtain rises. The first thing I see is Frank’s spiritual advisor, Father Dustin. Father Dustin is seated on a stool near Frank’s feet, holding onto his foot. My heart is filled with ease knowing that, thanks to his lawyers’ determined efforts, Frank was able to have his priest with him for his last minutes on this Earth.
I will spare you the specific details of the next 11 minutes, because for me those words will come in a different place and time. I think it is important that we do not shy away from talking about the details, but also, we must manage the collateral trauma so that we can stay in this fight.
After it was over, in the same eerily polite manner, we filed out of the room, into the vans, and back to the administration building. I needed to breathe. I needed to scream. I needed to cry. I needed to get across that street and into the circle of protection at our vigil. Everyone waited for me. In the dark. On the wet grass. Praying, sharing, singing. I have no idea what I said when I got to the podium. But I do know that the heartfelt hugs and supportive words were exactly what I needed.
So, I wanted to say thank you. For your kind emails and texts, for your phone calls and Zooms, for your showing up — online, in person, on our social media. Thank you for bearing witness with me. And not just for Frank last night, but for the 18 other times you did so this year.
I’m a big believer in always searching for glimpses of light in the darkness. Listen to this: For the first time since January 10th we woke up this morning to not a single person on death watch. 343 days since those cells were last empty. We are not naive, we know those cells will be filled before too long, and maybe even before year’s end. But hear this: there are 12 more days in this year. That’s 12 days that we are certain the State won’t kill in our names.
Please, get some rest. Spend time with your loved ones over the holidays. Recharge your hearts and bodies and minds. Because friends, we have a lot of work to do. And I know I’ll be ready to continue this fight and honor our deep commitment to showing up and speaking the truth about Florida’s cruel and broken system. And I know you will be too.
Onward,
Maria DeLiberato
FADP Legal and Policy Director
