Monday, 27 hours left until execution
The sky darkened Monday afternoon as Matt Friedich drove southeast from his home in Columbia to Bon Terre to visit a man sentenced to death the next day.
Minutes before leaving for the state prison, Friedich received the following information from Missouri’s governor: mike parson Brian Dorsey, 52, will not be pardoned.
As the moon passed in front of the sun and Friedrich processed the governor’s decision, the strange experience became even more eerie. That wasn’t surprising. Since taking office in 2018, Parson has refused to grant clemency to all death row inmates facing execution.
But “it was like a final realization that we were here,” Friedich said.
His journey to that moment began in early December when a friend who works at the federal public defender’s office asked if he would consider serving as Dorsey’s spiritual advisor.
About two years ago, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that spiritual advisers can pray with and interact with prisoners during their final moments during executions.
Although he took some time to consider his friend’s request, the role was a perfect fit for his background. Friedich, 36, of the St. Louis suburb of Kirkwood, grew up in the United Church of Christ, which combines social justice with its ministry. He is currently ordained in that denomination.
While a seminarian at Vanderbilt Seminary, he worked with a group in Tennessee that advocated for alternatives to the death penalty. He was also a hospital chaplain, including a palliative care unit.
Friedich returned to the area with his wife and young child in July after accepting a professorship at the University of Missouri.
On December 13, just days after Mr. Friedich agreed to assist Mr. Dorsey, the Missouri Supreme Court ruled that the execution date would be April 9.
“Everything has become more urgent,” Friedich said.
Mr. Friedich and Mr. Dorsey sent the email as the bureaucratic process of allowing the advisor to enter the Potosi Correctional Center was finalizing.
They met for the first time in February and again in March.
“We hit it off,” Friedich said. The two had a connection and a good conversation.
Friedich learned that Dorsey had formed relationships with correctional staff and other inmates in “places that weren’t designed for community.”
Dorsey was the prison’s barber, responsible for handling weapons and cutting the hair of wardens, officers, and other inmates.
Parson rejected a petition from more than 70 correctional officers who favored commuting Dorsey’s sentence to life in prison without parole and sparing him the death penalty.
Monday, 24 hours left until execution
Late Monday, Friedich arrived at the Eastern Reception Diagnostic and Correctional Center, the prison that houses the state’s death chamber, where Dorsey was transferred.
Friedich wanted to know what Dorsey was thinking, but he said Dorsey was generally in good spirits.
“This conversation makes me both laugh and cry,” Friedich said.
The two met for just over an hour. They talked about television shows and fond memories from Dorsey’s life. They faced the question of what would happen after her death.
Dorsey wanted to know if God would be hard on him. Friedich tried to convey “the security of love, the unconditional love.”
Friedich said Dorsey had mixed feelings about God and thought about them in his final days. Although Dorsey considered himself a man faithful to his faith in God, he had a troubled relationship with church and religion.
Dorsey tried several denominations, including Protestant and Catholic traditions, before he was sent to prison in 2006 for the murders of his cousin Sarah Bonney and her husband Ben Bonney.
However, he never felt accepted.
“I think in general, the church, in its manifestations, is not always attentive to people who don’t seem to fit in, and I think Brian felt that way,” Friedich said. Told.
While in prison, Dorsey thought deeply about how the Bible was created and what it means to have a relationship with God and Jesus.
“He has studied these things in a very thoughtful and rigorous way since he went to prison,” Friedich said. “That emotional part is still difficult, he can’t think for himself and step into it.”
Tuesday, nine hours before the execution.
As Friedrich prepared to meet Dorsey for the last time before they were together in the execution chamber, she worried about whether she would be able to “live through the moment and feel safe and compassionate in an uncaring moment.” ”
He found strength in his faith and its doctrines.
“That in itself is grotesque, but being able to do that with someone in that moment is what we do,” he said. “That is the mission of the faithful in the face of difficult circumstances.”
At the same time, I continued to move for the rest of my life. Friedich, who is teaching three courses at Mizzou this semester, had papers to grade and lectures to prepare.
“That’s strange,” he said. “I feel like if we’re going to do something like this, the world should stop, stop and reflect. But I don’t think it’s going to work.”
Friedich said being intimately involved in the process has only solidified his feelings against the death penalty.
He went through this experience as “someone who finds the death penalty inconsistent with my faith background, my political beliefs, and my understanding of what it means to do justice.”
“I feel confident.”
He also said he had not forgotten that “the heart of the Christian faith is execution.” Its theological weight and symbolism, including how Jesus was betrayed and left behind, “made it poignant when advising people on death row.”
Tuesday, seven hours before the execution.
Friedich arrived at the prison about the same time Dorsey ate his last meal. It was two bacon double cheeseburgers, two chicken strips, two large fries, and a Casey’s pizza with sausage, pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, and extra cheese.
they talked about music. Dorsey was a fan of everything from Shania Twain to the Beastie Boys to Pink. Dorsey also shared a photo he had saved on his tablet. One photo showed a young Dorsey with his grandfather. Another photo showed him laughing with his cousins at his birthday party.
“When you think about the trajectory of his life, at the time he had no idea what direction his life was going to take,” Friedich said.
They also sat and prayed.
“In a way, he was like, ‘I’m ready,'” Friedich said. “I don’t want it to last any longer. I’m not afraid of dying. I just don’t like waiting.”
Tuesday 6pm
When Friedich entered the execution chamber, Dorsey was already hooked up to an IV that administered a lethal dose of pentobarbital. A white sheet was draped over his shoulders.
Friedich was allowed to touch Dorsey’s left shoulder.
Mr. Dorsey, who was wearing glasses, looked at his defense team in the witness room to his left and smiled. They wore matching maroon T-shirts with white hearts on them.
At one point he asked Friedich what time it was and when it would start.
As a hospital chaplain, Friedich had learned that the moment of death is humbling, terrifying, and sad. But there is also a “strange peace” that emerges “out of the depths of that sadness.”
Dorsey found that peace even before his death.
Dorsey said, “I was able to clearly say, ‘I said what I needed to say, I expressed my sadness and guilt, and I asked for forgiveness.’ I’ve done everything I needed to do, and I’m ready.” Friedich said.
Dorsey wrote in his final statement that he was “deeply and overwhelmingly sorry.”
“To my family, friends, and everyone who tried to stop this, I love you! I’m grateful. I owe the peace in my heart primarily to you.”
Friedich said Dorsey appeared lucid and comfortable.
He spoke to Dorsey.
“I just wanted to let him know he was loved. He was loved by the (legal) team. You know, he’s worthy of God’s love, and it’s free. It was a gift, and in God’s eyes, we are not judged by the worst thing we have done.”
As the drug coursed through Dorsey’s veins, his chest rose and fell several times. Then he took a few shallow breaths. Then he stayed still.
“This is what I said to him over and over again as he died: ‘We love you Brian, and God loves you.’ Hopefully that’s the last thing he said. I hope those are the words I heard,” Friedich said.
Dorsey was pronounced dead at 6:11 p.m.
The highway was dark and quiet as Friedig drove back to Columbia late Tuesday.
When he stopped at Casey’s to refuel, Dorsey remembered the last convenience store pizza he had eaten.
Friedich called his family, who said they were proud of him.
Wednesday, 20 hours after the execution.
As expected, Friedrich said he felt incoherent and strange.
As he went through the hectic process, he thought, “I’ll pick up the pieces later.”
Now, he is getting back to normal and is starting to find ways to express his gratitude to people, tell them about his experiences, and make them understand.
On the other hand, he also focuses on teaching his classes and family.
Friedich said he is experiencing a wave of gratitude as he has been a part of Dorsey’s journey and has come to understand the importance of his role as a spiritual advisor when someone faces death by execution. Told. But he also feels “troubled by the current bleak state of our response to injustice in society.”
“So it’s all about the rise and fall.”
