On the Way to Heaven, Via the Electric Chair
Steve Dennie
August 1995
Roy was 31 years old when, in April 1992, he died in Florida's electric chair. That was in April 1992, eleven years after he brutally murdered a young woman. He'd spent a third of his life on death row.
Chuck McKeown knew Roy for four of those years--the last four.
"When I moved back to Florida in 1988 and became pastor of the Daytona church, Roy's parents gravitated to our church, and they asked me to visit their son in prison. I didn't really want to, but I did.
"I went through two death warrants with him. The first time, he got a stay of execution several days from the execution date. The second time, he was within 20 hours. The third time, there was no reprieve."
* * * * * *
Roy was raised in a white, middle class, church-going home. His dad was a carpenter, his mother a bookkeeper--good, solid people living in a nice neighborhood. Roy's father, at age 9, escaped, with his mother and two sisters, from a Nazi concentration camp. Soldiers fired at them as they fled, and his mother died in his arms. He eventually emigrated to the United States and settled in Daytona.
Roy's best friend all through high school, Terry, is part of the Daytona church today. Roy grew up in the church and in a good home. But Terry remembers a fork in the road. "I went one direction, and Roy went the other."
Roy became a heavy drug user. One night he picked up two girls at a 7-11 store, and told them he knew where they could find some marijuana. They went out into the woods, and he went berserk, slitting their throats and leaving them for dead. One girl died, but the other girl survived to testify at the trial.
"It was a horrible crime," Chuck says. "Roy told me that after the trial, he knew he was guilty, but that he had no memory of the crime. He was on drugs. I never questioned his guilt. But Jesus died for Roy and loved him, and that's why I was there."
* * * * * *
"I started seeing Roy in the fall of 1988. We developed a very close relationship, well beyond clergy-parishioner duty. His family could visit only once a month, but as his pastor, I could see him every week."
Chuck had never been in a maximum security prison, and he felt intimidated by the process he'd have to go through to see Roy--the FBI background check, photographing, fingerprinting, body search.
"Initially, I was permitted what they call 'contact' visits. We would sit in a cafeteria or snack lounge with a guard 10-15 feet away. Roy was always shackled. It was difficult getting close to him. After the death warrant was signed, I could visit him through glass and with guards all around--no privacy.
"Roy was very receptive to me. When I got over the initial shock, we started talking about spiritual things. I never talked to him about the crime or the trial, except for the little bit of information he offered."
Before Chuck got involved, the Holy Spirit had already moved Roy a long way. Roy was reading his Bible and doing what I would say were all the right things, but his burden hadn't been lifted, if that makes sense. He hadn't internalized it; hadn't personally invited Christ into his heart."
How did Roy become a Christian? "Basically, through reading," Chuck says. "He was allowed to receive books. Whenever we talked, he had questions like, 'What does it mean to put your faith in Christ?' He asked a lot of questions about heaven. 'What will heaven be like? What do you think dying will feel like? What does the Bible say about going on to eternity? Will it hurt?'
"During his ten years on death row, Roy was a model prisoner. He led several prisoners to Christ. For a couple years, he was in the cell next to Ted Bundy, the serial murderer, and he talked to Bundy about Christ. He was kind of like a counselor on death row, helping other inmates with their problems.
"The last couple of years, he spent most of his time reading Christian literature and going through Bible study books. Many of the guards were Christians, and some of them told me how much they appreciated Roy's attitude and his witness. They were sorry to see him go."
* * * * * *
"I visited Roy regularly those last few days, and was with him when he died. He asked me to be there. My wife begged me not to witness the execution, because she knew how it would affect me--and I did have nightmares for a long time. But how could I say no to someone who was hurting and reaching out and saying, 'Please, will you be with me?' I couldn't say no.
"Roy was at peace with God and was convinced he was going to heaven. But he was afraid of how he would react in front of the witnesses and reporters. He wanted something to look at, to focus on. I told him, 'Roy, I'll sit right in front of you. Look straight at me.'
"I was with Roy during his last meal, though I could only hold his hands through the bars. I served him communion that way. Then, about 5 o'clock that morning, they escorted me back to join the other observers.
"I was first in line when they ushered us into the death chamber. I was told to go clear to the end, but I refused. Instead, I sat right in front of the electric chair. We were within about four feet of each other, with a glass window between us. Roy looked straight into my eyes as they strapped him in and put on the electrodes. Then, when they hooded him, I closed my eyes. I couldn't watch any more.
"As it turned out, the sister of the girl Roy killed sat right behind me. A reporter, standing off to the side in back, wrote that Roy stared at the victim's sister and showed no emotion. That really bothered me. The truth was, Roy didn't even know who the victim's sister was. He was looking straight at me, and the reason he showed no emotion was that he wasn't afraid. He was at peace with God.
"It was an experience I wouldn't want to repeat. And it changed me. I am not in favor of the death penalty now. To see that man breathe one second and then a few seconds later see no movement in his hands and chest--that he was dead--that the State of Florida had killed him....
"As I drove away from the prison, I saw a group of anti-death-penalty people--some of whom I knew--holding a candlelight vigil. I parked my car and walked over to them. But to get there, I had to pass the group demonstrating in favor of the death penalty. It's medieval how they act. They cheer when the hearse arrives, and carry signs with gruesome things written on them. As I walked by, one of them said, 'Let's fry the preacher, too.' I didn't say anything. I just walked on by."
* * * * * *
"Tragically, in situations like this, we fail to think about the criminal's family. Roy was guilty of a terrible crime, and he paid with his life. But his parents will suffer until they die. The victim's family can have a funeral and start to work through the grief process, but Roy's parents went through a ten-year grieving process while he was on death row, and they still go through it daily. He was their only child, raised in a good home by Christian people.
"I give them a hug and a kiss every Sunday."
* * * * * *
During those last few early-morning hours, Chuck asked, "Roy, where did you go wrong? You went to Sunday school and grew up in the church. What happened?"
He said, "There came a time when I started moving away from the church. I made obvious signs that I needed help, but nobody responded. The adults in the church treated me like a kid, like my opinions didn't matter. No one really wanted to fellowship with me, ask me what was going on in my life. So I moved away from the church, and there was nobody to encourage me back."
Chuck asked, "How can I prevent other kids from going down that path?"
Roy replied, "Listen to them. Talk to them. Encourage them. Make them think they're worth something and that they have value and that their opinions matter."
Those words stayed with Chuck.
"We had a basketball goal in our church parking lot. It used to bother me how kids would come play ball in our church yard and leave their trash. I took the goal down, because I was so irritated.
"After the execution, the first thing I did when I returned to Daytona was to put the basketball goal back up. And now, we have a bunch of basketball goals in our parking lot. Every day when I pick up that trash, I say, 'Thank you, Jesus, for this trash.' Kids are playing ball in our church's parking lot, and they know someone at least cares enough to let them be there."
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