How I came to oppose capital punishment

For those of us who are engaged by the world of politics, government, and public policy, it’s often difficult to come to the realization that you were profoundly wrong about a longstanding belief. Challenging one’s worldview with new facts can be a jarring experience; as a (still unknown) individual once remarked “My mind is made up. Don’t confuse me with the facts.”

Yet, if one hopes to move forward as a thinker, and to better understand the world we inhabit, it is necessary to allow conflicting facts and  realities to crack the thickly enclosed cage in which we safeguard many of our most strongly held stances.  Yet, as extensive psychological research has shown, assimilating and processing these contradictions is rather difficult, since, in political matters at least, individuals demonstrate a stubborn resistance to processing conflicting facts, and shaping our beliefs accordingly. In fact, being exposed to contradictory evidence, often causes us to become more entrenched in our existing beliefs.

My shift from an ardent supporter of capital punishment, to a committed opponent of this practice, has taught me a lot about both how hard, but ultimately how crucial, it is to allow one’s stance on an issue to evolve with new facts and knowledge. Based on my experience, I believe that empathy can serve as an effective remedy in fighting our inherent psychological resistance to psychological change.

I’ve had strong opinions on political questions since I was about 7. At age 12, I convinced one of my friend’s, who had come to hang out at my house for the afternoon (to play computer and Super Nintendo games, as I recall) that we should write a letter to President Clinton, regarding issues like education and defense spending. So, it’s probably no surprise that from early on, I held an opinion on a variety of issues, including the hotly contested death penalty.

Around the time I was 10, I was living in a suburb of Los Angeles. Democratic gubernatorial candidate Kathleen Brown had been defeated by Republican Pete Wilson in the 1994 gubernatorial election, in part thanks to Brown’s opposition to the death penalty, which caused many voters to perceive her as being soft on crime. Around this time, Californians were also reeling from the horrific 1993 murder of Polly Klaas, a 12 year old girl who was kidnapped from her home during a sleepover with friends. She was later found strangled to death. Richard Allen Davis, a repeat offender who had been incarcerated numerous times for an array of violent crimes, was ultimately convicted in Klaas’ death. Her murder created considerable momentum for the 3 strikes law, which provided that for those convicted of two violent or serious felonies already, the third felony would carry a sentence of 25 years to life.  

Growing up hearing about such horrific events, I couldn’t help but be scared. Unlike the bloody gang wars which enveloped Los Angeles in the 1980’s and early 1990’s, but were mostly confined to localities like Compton and Watts, crimes like those committed by Davis could happen just about anywhere. While in reality the risk of being a victim of a crime was considerably greater for poor Angelenos than for my suburban peers, as the pace at which the media breathlessly reported violent crimes increased, the more worried I grew.

What was the best solution to this risk of violence? It seemed there was a pretty simple solution to this problem. The people who were committing these crimes were most likely repeat offenders (known as “career criminals”), so the 3 strikes law seemed like a clear, simple approach to reducing crime rates. But what about for those who committed really horrible crimes, which took the lives of others under extremely gruesome circumstances? Equally easy: Execute them.

Such people, it was apparent, were such an incredible danger to the public, that there could be no risk of their being released. Ever the skeptic, I didn't really accept the government’s claim that life in prison meant life in prison. Still, it wasn’t just the chance, however remote, that a person could be walk free one day, which drove me to support capital punishment.

Rather, I believed that under certain circumstances, vengeance was the most necessary and appropriate response to a grievous wrong. Murder, especially under brutal and callous circumstances, was such a depraved act, that the person who committed it should have the punishment which he inflicted upon his victims, turned upon himself, as a sort of karmic mandate, carried out by humans.

I never thought that the death penalty would serve as a deterrent to future acts of brutality. Rather, it seemed to me to be an unfortunate but necessary feature of our judicial system, a strong response to the evil that manifested itself in some people. Those who would commit acts of horrific violence would not be scared by any warning or punishment that we could inflict upon them.  Rather, for reasons of morality and justice, it was simply best to execute them.  

The thing is, from a purely theoretical standpoint, my views on the death penalty haven’t really changed. Certain acts of murder deserve to be met with death. I don’t believe that capital punishment, from a moral standpoint, is unfair or cruel; if anything, it is just, when applied to an absolutely guilty person. In an alternate universe, where the guilt of a defendant in a capital punishment trial was without question, I would still support his execution. So, why do I now oppose the use of the death penalty?

What I’ve finally accepted, with considerable difficulty, is that we don’t live in that imaginary realm. For quite a while, I've understood, in a technical sense, a person could be wrongfully executed (though I did not actually know of a specific case where I was certain this had happened) . Additionally, it seemed like there were substantial safeguards in place, to prevent such a travesty. For one, in every state where the death penalty is applied, death sentences are automatically appealed. In my mind, this meant that any issues mitigating an individual’s guilt would be brought forward and explored on appeal, and so an innocent defendant likely wouldn't be executed.

I also assumed (incorrectly, I now realize) that because of the gravity and finality of a death sentence, these proceedings would be marked with a greater seriousness and depth than other matters. As a result, I believed, those serving in law enforcement, and on the prosecution, would act more competently and honestly. I viewed the numerous instances of death row inmates who were subsequently exonerated, as further proof that the system, however flawed, ultimately worked well. I categorically dismissed the idea that innocent people were being executed.

In my naivete, it hardly occurred to me that corrupt or overzealous prosecutors might deliberately withhold evidence that sent an innocent man to prison for 18 years, during which time, he would have seven execution dates set and then cancelled at the last minute. That’s what happened in the case of John Thompson of Louisiana. 

Among the pieces of evidence withheld from Thompson’s attorneys at his trial was a blood sample, recovered from the scene of the crime, which contained the blood of someone other than Thompson or the victim. Prosecutors also did not disclose that initial eyewitness descriptions of the murder suspect bore no resemblance to Thompson, or that the main witness in the case had been paid a reward by the victim’s family. Still, Thompson wasn’t executed. The system, however flawed it was, still ultimately delivered some semblance of justice. 

What really tipped the balance, for me, was the case of Cameron Todd Willingham. Willingham, a father of three, was executed in 2004, having been convicted of murder in the deaths of his children, who perished in a massive fire at the Willingham home in Corsicana, Texas in 1991.

Prosecutors had charged Willingham with setting the fire that killed his children, in order to cover up alleged abuse of his daughters. At trial, jurors heard the testimony of arson investigator Manuel Vasquez, who argued, based on the nature and patterns of the fire, that the death of Willingham’s children was caused by an act of arson. Additionally, Johnny Webb, an inmate who was being held in the same jail where Willingham was detained before trial, testified that Willingham confessed to him that he had murdered his children, in order to cover up abuse by Willingham’s wife.

The prosecution also offered testimony from a psychologist and a psychiatrist, both of whom claimed that Willingham fit the profile of a sociopath. Neither of these individuals met and interviewed Willingham prior to testifying. Tim Gregory, one of the witnesses, specialized in marriage and family therapy, and testified that based on Willingham’s tattoos, he had an interest in “satanic-type activities.” The second witness, forensic psychiatrist Dr. James Grigson, testified that Willingham was an “extremely severe sociopath.”Willingham was convicted,, and sentenced to death.

However, upon closer examination, many aspects of his conviction began to unravel. Dr. Gerald Hurst, a leading arson expert, agreed to investigate Willingham’s case; specifically, Vasquez’s testimony that Willingham’s death was caused by an act of arson. Based on his painstaking, methodical investigation, Dr. Hurst found that the fire was most likely accidental, and that Willingham’s conviction was based upon “junk science.” After Willingham’s execution, a panel of three more national arson experts, commissioned by reporters for the Chicago Tribune, concurred with Hurst’s conclusions, and expressed great skepticism towards Vasquez’s conclusions.

Webb’s testimony was also severely discredited. Webb had contacted authorities to inform them of Willingham’s alleged statements. At the time, Webb was facing charges of robbery and forgery; and so might have had an incentive to cooperated with authorities, in order to receive a reduced prison sentence (in fact, another inmate alleged that Webb told him this was the exact reason he chose to cooperate with authorities). Webb also had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, due to being sexually assaulted in prison. Perhaps most damning, after his release from prison, in March 2000, Webb later recanted his testimony (saying that Willingham was “innocent of all charges”), and soon after, withdrew this recantation (while admitting that “it’s very possible that I misunderstood” what exactly Willingham said). Webb was eventually diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

As I read David Grann’s piece in The New Yorker, detailing Willingham’s story, I was shocked. How could this happen? How did the court system make such a massive, and seemingly preventable, error, when a man’s life was at stake? How could evidence that cast serious doubt upon Willingham’s’ guilt be so easily overlooked at trial, and callously dismissed on appeal? My first reaction was that Willingham didn't commit the crime he was accused of, and yet, in spite of that, he was dead. I realized that if everything, or even most of, what was contained in this piece was correct, I had grossly overestimated the power of the judicial system to determine a man’s guilt, even in those matters where a defendant faced the ultimate punishment that the state could inflict upon a person.

Yet, even while I tried to process this reality at an intellectual level, my gut instincts still told me that the death penalty was right, and somehow, Willingham had to be guilty. I first tried to rationalize Willingham’s case, by telling myself that I wasn’t present on that night in Corsicana, so how could I know what really happened? This line of reasoning persisted briefly, but I was forced to confront one hard truth; the jurors in this case weren't present at the crime scene either, and in fact never are, and yet, I was seemingly willing to accept their verdict. Requiring someone to witness a murder before they could judge whether a defendant was guilty or not, was patently absurd. If those criteria were applied, the justice system would be nearly unworkable.

I also tried to convince myself that the evidence exonerating Willingham was weak. The science of fires and arson, it seemed to me, were less exacting, than, say, physics or math. As a result, I placed less faith Dr. Hurst’s testimony. I didn't think that he was acting in bad faith, so much as I doubted arson analysis as a discipline.

 Of course, that forced me to consider the uncomfortable contradiction that Willingham was convicted, in major part, on the basis of (by my own admission, likely flawed) arson evidence, offered by Vasquez. I couldn't simultaneously endorse the value of arson evidence, as used to convict Willingham, and yet also choose to disbelieve such evidence when it seemed to back Willingham’s innocence.

Despite mounting evidence that I was wrong, I continued these mental contortions. Whenever I found myself really grappling with the issues surrounding Willingham’s case, I would back away, almost instinctually repelled by what I might realize. I was having more and more trouble coming up with explanations for why Willingham’s conviction was proper, and yet, I didn’t want to accept that, and it’s broader implications.

Around mid-2012, I finally bridged the wide gap between the facts in my head, and the raw emotions which told me that the death penalty was so important. How did this happen? I tried something I hadn't given a shot before; empathy. I had always felt a connection with the victims of murder and other violent crime, perhaps because I’d always believed that the threat of random violence wasn’t as far away as I might hope.

But now, I sat down and tried to imagine myself in the position of a wrongfully convicted death row inmate. I still can’t say why I did it. Perhaps I was trying to hone that idealized, lawyerly sense of fairness, of hearing both sides of the story. I pictured the years of solitude, the terror of impending death, but perhaps most of all, the feeling that this was just all so wrong, so unfair. 

How would I feel if that were me? Would I want to know, if I were wrongfully convicted, that at least I wouldn't be put to death, and so might be able to one day clear my name, and experience freedom again? At first, I recoiled from this exercise. Why would I ever be in a position to be convicted of a crime? But, somehow, I let this thought experiment play itself out.

And then, soon enough, I understood. Of course I would want to be able to walk free again one day, unfettered by the confines of prison. And, without a doubt, it would be horrifying to be put to death for a crime, I didn't commit. Wouldn't I be a hypocrite, if I were to subject someone else to a different fate than I would accept for myself?

No question about it. I still didn't see any way that we could avoid the possibility of wrongfully executing an innocent defendant. I couldn't, in good conscience, continue to support capital punishment.  And, with that, my support for capital punishment gasped it’s final breaths. Yes, Cameron Willingham was innocent, and he was wrongfully executed.

I haven’t looked back since. I don’t believe that the death penalty is wrong because it puts guilty people to death, but rather, because in the past it has, and will continue to, execute the innocent as well.  Making the wrongfully convicted defendant a large part of my internal conversation on the death penalty, and connecting with his or her experiences, has allowed me to accept factual arguments against the death penalty.

I don’t mention any of this to hold myself out as a beacon of thoughtful, enlightened reasoning. Rather, this process has taught me how difficult it is to change one’s opinions and beliefs, even when faced with differing empirical evidence. Research from psychologists and political scientists sheds some light on why this is so.

In a landmark 1979 study, Charles Lord, Lee Ross and Mark Lepper examined how a person’s existing political stances were affected by the introduction of evidence which undermined and challenged a person’s prior beliefs. The three researchers introduced a series of statements to a survey sample of 48 people, half of whom supported, and half of whom opposed, the death penalty.  

Each participant in the experiment was presented with two fictional studies, one of which cast a favorable light on the death penalty (that murder rates decreased in many states, after adoption of the death penalty), while another seemed to undermine it (in pairs of states, one of which implemented the death penalty, and in the other, with no death penalty, states with no death penalty actually had lower murder rates).

After being told about these studies, each participant in the survey was provided with an academic research methodology, by which each study in this experiment was generated. That is, they were told that a study used either cross-sectional or longitudinal survey methods. The experiment was designed so that half of those who supported the death penalty were told that the (fictional) study which provided support for capital punishment used the cross-sectional method, while another half were led to believe that this same study used the longitudinal method. The same was done with opponents of the death penalty, such that half of death penalty opponents were told that the study opposed to the death penalty used the longitudinal method, and the other half were informed that the cross-sectional method was utilized here.

Subjects were also told that the study which challenged their existing beliefs used a different method than that which supported those stances. Thus, an anti-death penalty individual might be told that the study which offered arguments against capital punishment (and thus supported his current stance) used the cross-sectional method, while a study supportive of capital punishment used the longitudinal method.

At the end of this study, Lord and his colleagues made a fascinating discovery: people tended to discount evidence and methods that ran counter to their existing views, while accepting evidence that confirmed these initial beliefs. Additionally, subjects grew more, not less, entrenched in their viewpoints, after hearing the studies supportive of and opposed to their stated position.

Those who supported the death penalty, and were told that pro-death penalty research used the cross-sectional research method, would offer reasons for why this method was superior to the alternative longitudinal research method. Yet, other death penalty supporters, who were presented with the same studies, and told that the study supportive of capital punishment used the longitudinal approach, set forward arguments for why the cross-sectional research technique was flawed, and the longitudinal approach was preferable. Opponents of the death penalty behaved no differently; they too offered reasons for why the particular research methods used in studies that bolstered their beliefs, were actually more appropriate and effective than those present in studies that opposed their existing stances.

What's really happening here? Rather than assessing evidence for it's empirical value, individuals accept those facts and arguments which supplement with their existing views, while finding reasons to discount that which does not. In the end, people become more, not less, entrenched in their existing stances, despite being offered evidence which undermines and challenges what they already believe.

Lord and his co-authors weren't the only academics to find that people were all too willing to pick and choose what to believed. Brendan Nyhan of Dartmouth University and Jason Reisler of Georgia State University conducted another study, which found that, for many people with strong views on a particular political question, being presented with corrective evidence of a factual inaccuracy in these beliefs actually led to backfire, or a strengthening of their existing opinions. For others, these misperceptions didn't grow stronger, but rather, their views remained the same in spite of disconfirming evidence.

Nyhan and Reisler discovered this by running several experiments. In the first experiment, people read a newspaper article which reported on a campaign stop by President Bush, during the 2004 election cycle. In this appearance, Bush told an audience that there was a strong risk that Saddam Hussein would pass weapons of mass destruction to terrorist organizations, and so it was crucial to attack Iraq. Of course, as we now know, no such weapons were ever found. Liberals, moderates, and conservatives (determined by a general test of political orientations), all participated in this study.

Nyhan and Reisler sought to better understand how those with strong conservative beliefs (who were more likely to accept President Bush’s claims, and support the military campaign against Iraq) would react to corrective information that, contrary to what Bush implied in his speech, no weapons of mass destruction were ever found in Iraq. 

After reading a note that corrected Bush’s claims on weapons of mass destruction, liberals and moderates altered any erroneous belief they held, that weapons of mass destruction were found in Iraq. Yet, conservatives became more likely to believe that these weapons were found, after being presented with the same corrective information.

Another experiment by Nyhan and Reisler, this time correcting the belief that the 2001 Bush tax cuts increased federal government revenue (another argument offered by President Bush) found a similar backfire effect amongst conservatives, while, as with the previous question, moderates and liberals accepted this corrective information.

The study’s authors also sought to assess the strength of backfire amongst liberals. To this end, they tested how people’s political leanings affected corrections of the (erroneous) belief that President George W. Bush had banned stem cell research (an incorrect argument advanced by both Senators Edwards and Kerry during the 2004 Democratic presidential primary, since President Bush only banned federal funding for stem cell research, but did not eliminate the possibility of private funding for such research). This experiment applied similar methods, having subjects of varied political leanings read an article quoting Kerry’s and Edwards’ claims that Bush had banned stem cell research, and then testing the effect of subsequent corrections on people’s views.

Unlike conservatives, there was no backfire effect amongst liberals, when corrected on this misconception. However, there was a neutralization effect, where, while conservatives and moderates were less likely to believe that Bush had banned stem cell research, after reading this corrective information, liberals continued to maintain their erroneous beliefs. Thus, to varying degrees, both liberals and conservatives appear unreceptive to factually accurate evidence that corrects mistaken beliefs.

Examining my longstanding support for the death penalty, we can observe some of the flaws in thinking, which the researchers in the aforementioned studies spotted. In order to discount Willingham’s innocence, I tried to convince myself that I couldn't really know what happened in his case, since I wasn't present when the deadly fire occurred.  

I also searched for reasons to disbelieve the veracity of arson evidence. I was, I now know, searching for reasons to believe that Willingham was guilty, because, if he were innocent, it would pierce the moral veil in which I had shrouded my support for capital punishment. 

My search for reasons to believe in Willingham's guilt, is indicative of what Lord and his colleagues observed in their studies, with people deliberately discounting evidence that contradicts what they already believe.

Nyhan and Reisler’s work also seems to have some applicability here, in that when I was offered “corrective” information (that an almost certainly innocent defendant had been executed), I recoiled from accepting such evidence. While I didn’t grow stronger in my pro-death penalty views (as did Republican voters in Nyhan and Reisler’s study), I didn't' alter my existing beliefs without considerable resistance.

What helped me finally accept Willingham’s near-certain innocence, and ultimately shift my thinking, was empathy. Research has shown that empathy is a powerful force in human interaction. People tend to feel the pain of others whom they are close to (such as a friend), much more intensely than when such suffering is inflicted on someone who appears unfamiliar. Empathy also allows us to function as more effective leaders, and can improve creativity and critical thinking.  In the case at hand, empathy allowed me to humanize a person, and so accept a set of facts that contradicted a longstanding worldview.   

I’ve learned how hard (in fact, nearly impossible) it is to truly be an objective thinker, and to accept evidence at face value, rather than through the lens of how it interacts with our existing stances. Such resistance seems hardwired into our psyches. Yet, it is also crucial for ultimately painting a more reasoned and accurate picture of the world we live in.

The real question is, if I were presented with credible evidence that another longstanding political viewpoint suffers from misconceptions and inaccuracies, would I change my views? In the absence of powerful empathy, or some other deeply felt emotion, it certainly won’t be easy. And, I now know, I’m not the only one.