Forgotten Sleep

I read something today that brought back a particularly terrifying part of my life. The Drudge Report posted an article that said John Allen Muhammad, also famously known as the D.C. Sniper, will be executed by lethal injection in Virginia on Nov. 10. For the past seven years, I have managed to not think about those three weeks in October (as Chief Moose so aptly named his book about the experience) very much, but reading the short story this morning brought back all the fear I felt at that time.

I was 23, and I was working as a reporter for the Montgomery Journal, the now defunct daily paper for Montgomery County, Md. I remember vividly walking across the county office building parking garage after covering a meeting about an increase of fire detectors in public schools and getting a call from Darling Boyfriend. He was freelancing for Major News Network at the time, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Are you alright?!” Darling Boyfriend, now Loving Husband, isn’t one to ever really sound scared or panicked, but his voice was filled with both emotions. I learned from him, then, in the brief moments he had on the phone that five people had been shot and killed, all within a 10-minute drive of my office building. One poor woman lost her life in the gas station in Kensington, Md., that I drove by every morning on my way to work. She was murdered 30 minutes after I passed that morning.

I felt as though ice water had suddenly been injected into my spine. This fear was different from what I felt on Sept. 11. The sheer proximity of this violence to my everyday life was overwhelming. My safe-zone, my work route, my normal activities had been infiltrated.

When I walked back into my office, my assignment editor was nearly in hysterics. All of her reporters (all whopping four of us) had been out covering stories that morning. I was the first one to return. Almost as soon as I walked in, she’d tasked me to go to two of the crime scenes and gather information. This wasn’t a job I relished. I dreaded what I would see as I drove to that gas station. Mercifully, the paramedics had removed the woman, and her family had come to take custody of the now-motherless infant that had been strapped in the car-seat. I talked with police, talked with employees of the gas station, talked with other witnesses.

I moved on to Leisure World, the retirement community in Silver Spring, Md., where another woman had been merely sitting on a bench waiting for the bus to come pick her up. She had been shot in the head. I arrived before the police gave the paramedics clearance to move her remains. I will never forget the sight of her slumped body, covered crudely, but respectfully, in a white sheet that was stained with so much blood. The photographer who worked with me at the paper was there, snapping some of the photos of his life. (I’ve always thought that journalism can be a cruel business — it’s often that the stories that make our careers are stories that devastate lives.) He sold a photograph to Time Magazine that day. I replayed the image of that lifeless form in my dreams for weeks.

The next day, when I returned to work, I was sent out to find the victims’ relatives to try and gather some reaction, some response to these tragedies. I could’ve made all the quotes up if I’d wanted to — I knew what people would say before they said it. Anyone could’ve predicted those reactions. But relatives were nowhere to be found, and I can’t say that I blame them.

News reports at the time were fingering a white delivery truck, and authorities were stopping, searching and marking all the trucks that had been cleared. At every stop light, I seemed to be engulfed by delivery trucks with ludicrously-colored Post-It notes stuck to their back hatches. But sitting still was torment. I felt like a helpless target if I wasn’t in motion. Many of the victims had been either in or near their cars. It seemed like nowhere was safe.

Over the next three weeks, I succumbed to fear. And, I hated myself for it. Yes, I hid in the backseat of my car every time I had to pump gas. Each time I left the grocery store, I ran. We left work in groups because our parking lot was dark. Most importantly, I only went to Maryland for work. I never went to Virginia, and I didn’t feel “safe” again until I was home inside the District. The violence wasn’t happening there because a quick getaway wasn’t possible.

You’re probably wondering what all of this has to do with testing my convictions. The mastermind behind this violence and these tragedies is about to die. He is about to be put to death by the American prison system. I have struggled with my feelings about the death penalty for years. When I was younger, I was in full favor of it. As I’ve grown older, my thoughts have become more complex. Part of me thinks that living out one’s days behind bars with the knowledge that freedom is never going to be an option would be far worse than dying. That dying is perhaps the easy, more lenient punishment. The other part of me, though, can’t help but feel that there are some crimes so heinous that death is the only applicable sentence. And, of course, there is my underlying belief that human life is human life, and ours is not to judge.

So, I’m conflicted. Do I think that this man who gripped the nation in fear, who terrorized my city and who shattered my sense of safety should be strapped to a table and have a drug cocktail injected into his veins? Should he die not only for the lives he took from his victims and their families but also for the life that he took from Lee Boyd Malvo, his underage accomplice? Or should he be left to rot in prison, knowing that he will never again walk free? Knowing that if given the chance, there are many other inmates who would likely try their hands at taking his life?

I’ve pondered these questions for seven years, and in that time, I’ve found no answer. Now, as I’m faced with the final countdown to Muhammad’s execution, I still don’t have an answer. I guess what it comes down to is whether he’s put to death, it doesn’t change what happened. His death can’t erase that experience, it can’t bring back all those people who had families who loved them. It could, however, give the ones left behind some sense of peace, some closure, some ability to move on.

Perhaps my real answer to myself is that I’m just thankful that I’m not the one responsible for choosing whether Muhammad lives or dies. It’s clearly a decision I couldn’t make.