Execution of a Sniper

On Tuesday, November 10, John Allen Muhammad, strapped to a table, silently accepted a cocktail of chemicals through his veins, and he died. I went to cover the “event”, driving 2.5 hours to the sleepy town of Jarratt, VA, with two reporters. We each recalled our own experiences of seven years ago. For three weeks, Muhammad and his 17 year-old cohort, Lee Boyd Malvo, terrorized the DC area, through random lethal attacks, striking out from the shadows of hillsides and parking lots.

The road to the parking lot in front of the correctional facility was guarded tightly...

We drifted down to the correctional facility unsure what to expect. The skies darkened and the night turned misty and foggy, creating an eerie mood. I walked toward the media crush, hours before the appointed execution time. Dozens of satellite trucks stationed themselves across from the prison entrance, while a makeshift podium, lonely, covered in bag-wrapped audio equipment, stood quietly, addressing the dozens of cameras in front of the shifty and impatient dozens of journalists who operated the equipment. We waited. We looked. But there was nothing to see. Nothing more than our own company. And that singular podium. Three flags fluttered in the breeze, Greensville County, Virginia, and United States, all at half-mast, honoring those who lost their lives in a similar outburst, though in a fury of bullets over the course of one day, instead of a month-long rampage. The skies continued to drip over us.

Suddenly, hope appeared in the form of an attorney. Muhammad’s stand-by attorney from Baltimore, spoke with a few reporters about his interactions with Muhammad. We were caged animals huddled around a piece of meat. What started as several, became a dozen, became a 20, became a big clusterf***. The lonely podium stood quiet before empty camera stands and tents, twenty yards away, until angry calls from photographers on the outside of the crush, prompted an “orderly” Q&A. The podium was now the center of attention. The execution was still 2 hours away but the deadline for the paper loomed larger. Safe shots in hand (first of the building, then of the attorney), I walked back to the car to send my photos into the ether.

The all-important podium...

Keeping dry is always important. Sometimes you just set up an umbrella in case you need it for later...

Satellite trucks abound...


J. Wyndal Gordon, stand-by attorney for John Allen Muhammad: "Muhammad is a dignified man...". When asked about remorse, he responded, "no, he doesn't have remorse, because he maintains his innocence...".

Protesters slowly filed into the general parking where we were. Computer in lap, I viewed, edited, and sent my photographs back to the office. The next task was to search for more photos. Technology is a wonderful thing…usually. But what it also fosters is a false sense of confidence. It is always ready to fail, and usually at the worst moment. Again, with a safe shot in hand, I tried twice to send it to the office over the course of 30 minutes, and it never worked. So as 9pm (execution time) came and went, I continued to sit in the back seat of our car, trying in vain to send one more photo. It never sent, and at 9:11pm, Amanda, our reporter, let me know that Muhammad was officially dead. His family, fortuitously parked right next to us, joined hands in prayer outside their vehicle. Protesters lit candles, tolled a bell, and said a prayer for both the victims and John Allen Muhammad.

praying for victims and perpetrators alike...


Muhammad's family holds hands and prays at 9pm, moments before he is executed...

Seven years ago, the nation’s Capital was held hostage by random acts of terror over the course of three weeks in October. We all searched for The White Van, and theorized who it might be. We zig-zagged to and from fuel pumps, and on Tuesday night, the case was finally brought to a methodical, anticlimactic end in the wetlands of southern Virginia.

The skies, once breathing a misty, dreary fog, opened up into a soaking autumn rain, and the wet, somber, quiet crowd drifted out of Jarratt, on their way back to their lives knowing they had been “there” when John Allen Muhammad was executed. For some, it was a measure of closure, for others an opportunity to protest and pray, and for still others living in the quiet, humdrum communities of these southern Virginia counties, it was an opportunity to see what all the fuss was about.