We had been sitting in a breakroom inside the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison in Jackson for nearly an hour when our driver, a prison employee whose name I did not get, came around the corner. Three of us were there to witness the execution of Warren Lee Hill, 54, who had been sentenced to death for bludgeoning a cellmate to death in 1991. At the time, he was serving a life sentence for killing his girlfriend in Lee County in 1986. Around 7 p.m., at the request of our driver, the four of us – the two other witnesses, an official from the Department of Corrections Office of Public Affairs, and I – exited the prison and boarded a van bound for the death chamber.
After clearing a checkpoint and waiting another half hour, we received the go-ahead to proceed through the prison yard to the door that would take us into the chamber. I knew what was on the other side of that door. Inside the non-descript building would be Lee, strapped to a gurney, facing the final few minutes of his life.
Knowing what you are about to see and actually seeing it are two very different things.
I was unprepared for what was behind that door. I stepped into a small rectangular room with three rows of benches that strongly resembled church pews. At the front of the room was a large glass window. And behind that window, laid out on a gurney staring at each individual in the room, was Warren Lee Hill. His arms were fastened down, his palms taped upward to extensions stretching from either side of the gurney. He appeared very much alert and aware of what was taking place.
The first pew was reserved for family, friends, and guests of the condemned. It was full. The second pew was where representatives from the victims’ family sat. There were three. The back row was media and other witnesses. It too was full. Behind the pews and down the left wall stood more people. All told, there were between 35-40 people in the small room.
We were the last ones inside. Once we were seated, Warden Bruce Chatman read the death warrant aloud. After reading the warrant, he asked Hill if he would like to say any final words. Hill declined. Chatman then asked Hill if he would like a prayer. Hill nodded his head in the affirmative. At no time did the condemned ever say a word. As the chaplain led a short prayer, Hill laid his head back and closed his eyes. During the prayer, the chaplain asked God to allow Hill to “experience the peace that this world cannot offer.” He also asked that Hill would pass “from strength to strength” and to live “a life of perfect service in Your kingdom.” After closing the prayer with an amen in Christ’s name, the chaplain and warden exited the chamber.
Following the prayer, Hill opened his eyes and again looked to the witnesses. Throughout the entire ordeal, he remained emotionless. He had a look of resignation on his face, as though he understood what was happening and he had come to terms with the eventual outcome.
When the one-drug cocktail that Georgia uses made its way through the IV lines and into Hill’s veins, there was no warning at all. No announcement, no flashing light, nothing. Hill continued looking at us until he suddenly laid his head back and closed his eyes. His breathing intensified and muscles in his throat began contracting. He did not make a sound and he did not otherwise move. After two minutes or less, his breathing stopped. A minute or so later, the contractions in his neck ceased as well.
Warren Lee Hill was dead.
A few more minutes passed before two doctors entered the room and examined Hill for signs of life. Finding none, they nodded at each other. Warden Chatman announced Hill’s death at 7:55 p.m. A guard pulled a curtain over the window. We stood up and exited the death chamber.
I wasn’t sure how I would feel when it was over. I wasn’t even sure how I should feel. Should I be happy? After all, a convicted double murderer had gotten what he deserved. Should I feel angry, upset with Hill for what he had done and for what his actions had cost the taxpayers of Georgia for funding 25 years of incarceration and legal maneuverings? Or should I be distraught that a man declared mentally disabled who had seen his execution stayed three times in the past was, according to some, unfairly and illegally killed?
Oddly, I felt none of the above. Yes, Hill was a killer who, if given the chance, would likely have killed again. He had committed acts of unspeakable violence that caused tremendous pain and suffering for countless individuals. At the same time, Hill was a fallen man living in a fallen world, and with an illness that no doubt affected his ability to make the right decisions. I felt compassion for him as he lay there, helpless while 80 eyes watched the last moments of his life. Yet Hill’s own actions had placed him on that gurney in the death chamber, and some of the brightest legal minds in the state had reviewed his case innumerable times. They felt his actions deserved the punishment he was receiving.
What did I do during the execution? I prayed. I prayed for the families of the victims, for Hill’s friends and family, and I prayed for Hill’s soul. He lived a life of torment, violence, and confinement. I prayed that God would receive Hill as one of His own, and that in death, Hill would find the peace and freedom that had eluded him during his time on Earth.
And with that, I stepped outside, back into the van, and set out for my car at the front of the prison.