Former Warden Reconsiders Executions

He was on his way to watch his son play baseball when the regional director of the Texas prison system called and said he wanted Willett to replace the outgoing warden of the Walls Unit. Willett immediately thought of what the position would mean. He didn't like the idea of accepting higher pay for a post that included executions. He said he'd have to talk to his wife about it. When he did, Janice suggested he pray about his dilemma. He followed her advice. "When I woke up I felt more at ease," he says. "I went and talked to [the regional director], told him I wasn't comfortable with the executions." Willett suggested they go through the rest of the people on their list, and if afterward they still thought he was the best candidate, he might reconsider.

They called back a few days later and offered him the job again. This time, he accepted. If he was being called by God to do this, at least he'd made it clear that he wasn't comfortable taking people's lives in exchange for a raise. And he would see to it that when an execution did take place, it would go as smoothly as a killing can.

The morning of his first execution, Willett woke up and immediately remembered what the day held in store. He dressed in a sportcoat as always, said goodbye to his wife and walked over to the prison unit that he'd just been chosen to manage. There, in the employee dining room, he ate his usual breakfast of sausage, eggs and bacon. A meticulous man, he repeatedly ran through the series of tasks that were now his: Ensure the inmate is delivered to one of the death house's eight cells, see that he gets his last meal by 4 p.m., find out what his last words will be so he knows when to give the signal, and then, at 6 p.m., lead him down the hallway to the death chamber.

Willett, a Methodist, had prayed a lot about this–asking God to make it smooth and trouble-free–and as the day went on, he prayed some more. He reviewed the inmate's file. His name was Joseph Cannon, Death Row Inmate 634. He was 19 when his first mug shot was taken, and it shows a handsome young man, blond with a square jaw and a cleft chin. He'd been convicted of a petty crime in San Antonio a couple of years before, and his court-appointed attorney took an interest in the scrappy teenager. The lawyer's sister let Cannon stay with her while he served his probation. One day in 1977, Cannon shot her seven times with her own .22, then took some cash and traveler's checks from her purse and made off in her daughter's car. He was arrested a few hours later and confessed to the murder.

The man Willett greeted in the death house cell hardly resembled the tough-looking youth in the photograph. He was 38 now, heavier and tired-looking, with the resigned look of a man who had spent decades in small cells and prison yards.

"You'll be getting your supper after a while," Willett told him. "And the chaplain will be here with you until..." His words trailed off. He glanced toward the door. Hell, he thought, I'm not very good at this. He'd been worrying about this for days, planning ways to put the man at ease. Looking toward the door wasn't the way to do it.

"Will you want to make a final statement?" he asked.

Cannon was quiet for a moment and then nodded. "I guess I will," he said.

A few minutes before six, Willett met in the office with Wayne Scott, a friend who had served as a guard with him and was now director of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, as well as a few regional and deputy directors. Governor Bush's office called and said to go ahead, followed by the state attorney general's office. Scott looked at Willett. So did the other men. He left the room and walked down the hall to the second-to-last cell, where the chaplain was waiting with Cannon. "Inmate Cannon," he said, "it's time for you to go into the next room with me." The inmate followed without a word. When they got to the death chamber, Cannon paused in the doorway, taking in the gurney covered in white sheets in the 9-by-12-foot room. Willett didn't even have to tell him to get on it. As Cannon lay down, Willett stood at his head, the chaplain at his feet.

A group of officers called the tie-down team took their places around the gurney. In quick, practiced motions they strapped Cannon down, each person securing an arm, a leg, a wrist, an ankle. Others fastened belts over his torso. In about half a minute, their job was done and they were gone. Two people from the medical team came in to attach the IVs. The third medical technician remained in the next room and would serve as the executioner.

Twenty minutes later, the medical technician still hadn't found a vein. Usually they did two IVs, one as a backup. Willett's predecessor had told him that even on bad nights, this would take no more than five minutes, 10 at the most. What the hell was going on? Cannon watched quietly as the woman jabbed at his arm. Willett, sweating, wondered what the inmate was thinking. He hoped that Cannon's last meal of ribs, fried chicken, chocolate ice cream and chocolate cake wouldn't make him sick. Finally, the technician looked up. "Warden, I think we've got a good one in this arm," she said. "Can we go with just the one?"