I was 14 the first time I really thought about the death penalty. Every day in freshman English, our teacher wrote a new question on the whiteboard. Before class began, we had to write a short essay on the topic. One day, the prompt read: “What is your opinion on capital punishment?”

Until that moment, I hadn’t given it much thought. Whenever I heard that someone had been sentenced to death, I just assumed they probably deserved it. But I’d never been asked to consider whether it was morally right.

I wrote my first sentence with a No. 2 pencil: “I believe the death penalty is appropriate when a serious crime has been committed.”

Then I stopped. I picked up the eraser and erased it. I realised I couldn’t, in good faith, justify capital punishment.

Unlike my answer to the question on the board, death wasn’t a decision that could be undone just by picking up an eraser. Death was final. So, from that moment forward, I knew where I stood: I was against the death penalty.

As I grew older, my opposition to the death penalty never faded. It became a core part of my identity, a topic I often returned to in conversations with friends, or sometimes even strangers.

The more I read about the topic, the more disturbed I became by how unevenly capital punishment is applied. Two people can commit the same crime and receive completely different sentences, depending on where the crime occurred, or on their access to money and legal resources.

I learned about the many people who were executed and later found to be innocent. I began donating to The Innocence Project, an organisation that works to free the wrongfully convicted. At times, my donations were small. But it was my way of staying connected to a belief I had carried since I was 14.

I never expected that 20 years later, I would again be confronted with the same question written on that whiteboard. But this time, it wasn’t hypothetical.

In April 2025, I received a jury summons. I didn’t have time for jury duty, but the court’s website said most proceedings last only two to three days. I assumed I would not be selected, and if I was, I expected it to be brief.

Ultimately, I was selected to be a juror, and I quickly realised this wouldn’t be the case. It was a trial of an accused serial killer who was alleged to have murdered eight people: Andrew Remillard; Parker Smith; Salim Richards; Latorrie Beckford; Kristopher Cameron; Maria Villanueva; his mother, Rene Cooksey; and her partner, Edward Nunn.

As the scope of the case became clear, I knew that a death sentence was a real possibility, and I felt conflicted about moving forward as a juror. But as I listened to other potential jurors answer the attorneys’ questions during selection, I began to think maybe I belonged there. I hoped I could keep an open mind and bring nuance to deliberative conversations.

One of the most difficult days as a juror was when the youngest daughter of Maria Villanueva testified. Maria had been abducted and sexually assaulted. Her lifeless body was found in an unpaved alley – nearly naked, surrounded by trash cans and cigarette butts.

After listening to her talk about her mother, I had a 6pm dinner reservation for pasta and drinks with my neighbours. The juxtaposition felt shameful, but I was desperate to think about anything other than what had happened in court.

After months of testimony, the jury deliberated on whether or not the defendant was guilty. We found the defendant guilty on all charges, but the jury still had to determine if the defendant would receive life in prison with no release or the death penalty.

Before the sentencing phase of the trial began, the victims’ families read their impact statements.

When Kristopher Cameron’s partner spoke, I knew her words would hurt.

“Our son was only 10 months old when his father was taken. My daughter never got to meet him. My kids will never experience dances or donuts with their dad. He had dreams. Now all we are left with is the void his absence will carry.”

Kristopher’s children will never hear his voice or watch him walk through the front door after work and kiss their mother. Instead, they’re left with ashes on a mantle. They won’t know his smell, his laugh, or how it felt to hug him. They will never unwrap a gift with a tag that says, “From Dad.” Kristopher’s murder ended one life, but it also fractured every life he was connected to.

After several more months of listening to the prosecution and the defense arguing over mitigating circumstances, it was time for the jury to deliberate again. We immediately took a preemptive vote.

I was the only one who didn’t instantly vote for death.

Attempting to keep an open mind, for six out of the eight counts, I voted as “undecided”. For the murder of the defendant’s mother and her partner, I voted in favour of life without parole.

I braced for the judgement from the other jurors. I explained that I had tried to consider all the mitigating circumstances related to the defendant. He had been abused. I know his childhood was difficult, and I know that he had a problem with drugs. Legally, these factors all allowed us to grant leniency. But any attempt to have these conversations fell on deaf ears.

Many jurors refused to acknowledge the defendant’s history of drug abuse and mental illness, despite expert testimony from both the defense and the prosecution. All the mitigating circumstances were irrelevant to them. The only thing that mattered was making sure the defendant was executed.

It didn’t feel like justice for the victims – it was vengeance toward the defendant.

After just a few days of deliberation, I knew if I didn’t change my vote to execute, I’d be the cause of a hung jury, which meant the sentencing phase would have to be retried, a process that would take months. A new group of jurors would be tasked with deciding a sentence for a verdict they hadn’t delivered. And there was no way to know how long it would be before the new trial began.

I sat on the floor of the jury room hallway, creating a list.

If I choose death, that’s it. He’s dead.

But if I choose life, the jury will hang. His sentence will be retried, some new set of jurors will go through it all again, and the victims’ loved ones will be denied closure.

There was no option that did not harm someone, if not many people. There was no option that minimised the damage. I’d gone into this trial initially believing I would not vote to execute the defendant under any circumstance. I romanticised the idea of refusing to crack under pressure, and the mercy I would be extending to someone. But after a week of sleepless nights and several bottles of wine, I knew what I had to do.

“All in favour of life for count one, regarding Parker Smith, raise your hand.”

“Now, all in favour of death, raise your hand.” Twelve votes.

I was forced to put my hand up for each individual charge until I had voted for death six times. I couldn’t bring myself to vote for death regarding the murder of the defendant’s mother, Rene Cooksey, and her partner, Edward Nunn, because I did not believe the defendant was in a coherent state of mind when he committed these murders.

Once the vote was done, I managed to lift my head off the table, only to drop my face into my palms and weep. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I could hear backpacks zipping as the other jurors packed up their belongings to head out for lunch, while I just cried.

The defendant had been arrested on Dec. 17, 2017. Exactly eight years later, we turned in our verdicts. They were read out loud the next day.

Being a juror on a capital murder trial unearthed frustrations with our system that I never knew existed. I always knew that I didn’t support capital punishment, but I supported it even less after this experience.

I know I will always partially regret my decision. My life will forever exist in two sections: before trial and after trial. If I was able to give in on my most strongly held belief, what do I really believe in, and what do those beliefs even mean? Being responsible for an execution is a burden I will carry with me. While the death of each victim brings me sorrow, so does the inevitable death of the defendant.

I wish the trial hadn’t ended this way. But I wish there didn’t have to be a trial at all, because I wish that all eight victims were still here. I think about Andrew, Parker, Salim, Latorrie, Kristopher, Maria, Rene and Ed constantly. I will always do my best to make sure they live on.

I chose death, not because I wanted the defendant to die, but to bring closure to the families and to allow the victims to finally rest in peace. Although I know I am going to carry the burden of that choice with me forever, I hope it lifted at least a little of that burden off them.

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