In early August, on the one-year anniversary of his father’s death, Samson Childs invited his godfather out to eat at a Wingstop on Nashville’s south side, not far from where his dad grew up. Hanging out with his godfather was a way for Childs to feel close to his father, Byron Black, who died at 69. “We talked and we cried and he gave me good memories – just old stories of my dad, him growing up, and how they stuck together,” Childs said.
Black spent more than three decades on death row before he was killed by lethal injection on August 5, 2025, at Tennessee’s Riverbend Maximum Security Institution. He’d been convicted in 1989 for killing his girlfriend, Angela Clay, along with her two young daughters. Black insisted he did not commit the horrific murders, but was swiftly found guilty and sentenced to die.
Over the decades that followed, Black’s lawyers argued that his intellectual disability should have barred him from facing the death penalty. The DA’s office that convicted him even conceded that they were right, but the courts disagreed. By the time Tennessee prepared to kill him, Black had been diagnosed with dementia, kidney disease, and congestive heart failure.
Defense attorneys argued that Black’s poor health put him at serious risk of a tortuous execution, raising specific concerns over his implanted heart defibrillator and pacemaker. Experts warned that the device could deliver painful shocks before he died. To their dismay, Black did suffer on the gurney – although not for the reasons they most feared. Prison staff struggled to insert an IV in Black’s arm, spilling blood on the floor. The drug that was supposed to kill him – a massive dose of the fast-acting barbiturate pentobarbital – did not work as intended. Media witnesses said they could hear Black moaning in pain.
Childs was not at the prison on the morning his father was killed. He was at home in Nashville after a sleepless night. “You know, I’m putting myself in his shoes,” he said. “How would I feel knowing that this is my last day on earth?” It wasn’t until he watched a local news segment that Childs learned things had not gone well. “It messed me up, I ain’t gonna lie,” he said. “I can’t imagine being there, viewing this, seeing this happen.”
Black’s execution reignited controversy over capital punishment in Tennessee, where advocates had warned against executing him with a new protocol that had not been subjected to legal review. The one-drug pentobarbital method had been introduced by the state following complications with its previous, three-drug formula, which was itself adopted despite ample warnings that it violated the 8th Amendment ban on cruel and unusual punishment. Nevertheless, Tennessee pressed forward – with disturbingly predictable results.
On May 21, just nine months after Black’s painful death, Tennessee attempted to kill 57-year-old Tony Carruthers, convicted in 1996 of a triple murder he swore he did not commit. As in Black’s case, prison staff tried clumsily to place the IV lines for lethal injection. But this time they never finished. Carruthers spent 40 minutes being poked and prodded, only for a physician to enter the chamber and attempt to place what is known as a central line in his chest. The descriptions of what followed were harrowing. As Carruthers’s attorney, Maria DeLiberato would later write, “I saw the process unraveling with my own eyes.”
“The executioners draped Mr. Carruthers in a blue surgical cloth with a hole for his face,” she wrote. “When the doctor prodded Mr. Carruthers’s chest with a scalpel or large needle, Mr. Carruthers cried out in pain. But the doctor continued to push into his chest. Mr. Carruthers started groaning… I told him that I was sorry. Mostly, I tried to hold his gaze and reassure him that we were still fighting for him.”
The ordeal ended only after the governor himself finally intervened, issuing an executive order putting off Carruthers’s execution for a year.
The temporary reprieve raised hopes that Republican Tennessee Gov. Bill Lee might put all executions on hold. Instead, the state soon announced it intended to proceed with the next one. Before long, officials at the Department of Correction were preparing to kill 66-year-old Anthony Darrell Hines. He is set to die on Thursday at 10 a.m. – one of three people scheduled to be put to death in the U.S. on the same day.
It was Hines’s looming execution date that prompted Childs to speak publicly again about his own father’s death. This past weekend, he joined anti-death penalty activists for a protest known as the “March 4 Mercy.” On the Sunday before every execution, activists walk nine miles from the prison on the city’s west side, to the Tennessee State Capitol downtown. With temperatures in the 90s and the air thick with humidity, the marchers were drenched in sweat as they made their way across town. Walking at a steady pace, Childs held up a sign for passing cars that read “Justice Requires Mercy” and “Blessed Are the Merciful.”
Childs could not begin to comprehend what had happened to Carruthers. But he also couldn’t shake the mental torture of a looming execution over everybody involved. It must impact everyone, he said, including the people witnessing and carrying it out. “Some of those people probably never want to do that again.”
Tennessee’s persistence in carrying out lethal injection is part of a recent spike in executions in the U.S. In Oklahoma, at the same time as Hines is set to be put to death, executioners plan to kill 70-year-old Carlos Cuesta Rodriguez inside the state’s death chamber in McAlester. Then, at 6 p.m., Alabama intends to execute 41-year-old Jeremy Williams at Holman Penitentiary in Atmore.
The last time the country saw three executions scheduled for the same day was in 2018, when Alabama, Texas, and Florida were supposed to kill three different men. Only one execution moved forward that day; in Texas, the governor granted a rare clemency request. In Alabama, which intended to execute Doyle Hamm, a terminally ill man in his 60s, the lethal injection was suddenly stopped because of problems setting IV lines. It was the first in a series of botched executions that would make Alabama infamous for torturing people condemned to die.
Although Tennessee has made the most recent headlines following its disastrous attempt to kill Tony Carruthers, both Oklahoma and Alabama have long been known for their own ugly track records. It was Oklahoma, after all, where a medical examiner first invented the three-drug protocol that originally comprised lethal injection, later griping that he never intended for it to be managed so incompetently. After the state made international headlines for the harrowing 2014 execution of Clayton Lockett, famed death row prisoner Richard Glossip was nearly executed using the same method the following year – only to be spared at the last minute after officials realized they had procured the wrong drug. Glossip, who has insisted on his innocence for three decades, was released on bail earlier this year to await a new trial.
In Alabama, after officials were forced to call off Hamm’s execution, the state took three hours to place IV lines in the body of a man named Joe James, whose execution is believed to be the longest in U.S. history. The state’s ongoing inability to carry out lethal injection ultimately led to a cruel new invention for executions: death by nitrogen hypoxia. Earlier this year, a judge declared the method unconstitutional, prompting the state to revert back to lethal injection.
In many ways, the controversy looming over Hines’s scheduled execution is a variation on a very old story. Lethal injection may be cloaked in the veneer of a surgical procedure – the doctor who tried to help the state kill Carruthers referred to him as a “patient” – but, in reality, it has always been a crude human experiment, using the tools of medicine in order to kill. In Tennessee, concerns over potential pain and suffering during lethal injection have prompted some people facing execution to instead choose the electric chair.
But lethal injection remains the prevailing method – and lawyers have little recourse when it comes to fighting against it. Years of U.S. Supreme Court rulings have inoculated lethal injection against legal challenges, no matter how much evidence reveals it to be torture. As Justice Samuel Alito reasoned more than a decade ago in upholding Oklahoma’s three-drug protocol, preserving the death penalty is ultimately more important than devising a humane way to kill the condemned. “Because capital punishment is constitutional,” he wrote in 2015, “there must be a constitutional means of carrying it out.”
There is one way in which Tennessee’s current lethal injection controversy is different from what came before. Despite the state’s attempts to keep the identities of executioners secret, the doctor who tried to assist in the killing of Tony Carruthers was revealed earlier this year as Dr. Mark Fowler, whose medical background includes working in an emergency room as well as, more recently, according to a profile in the Guardian, “weight loss and aesthetic clinics.” Fowler also writes opinion columns “for his local newspaper, the Union City Daily Messenger, that are reproduced by the conservative blog the Patriot Post.”
Most alarming for those facing execution, Fowler also lacks the qualifications to do what the job entails, according to attorneys for Hines. Last year he admitted under oath that he had not placed a central line in 13 years and lacked the privilege to do so at a hospital. Yet the Department of Correction has refused to assure attorneys that they will not rely on him. The department “knows that Dr. Fowler can’t do the job the protocol requires him to do,” Hines’s lawyer said in press statement this week, “and we’ve seen what that means in practice: a torturous, failed procedure that leaves staff, witnesses, and the prisoner traumatized.”
Fowler has declined to speak with reporters and it remains unclear whether he will participate in Hines’s execution. Whether he does or not, Hines’s age and poor health puts him at heightened risk of pain and suffering as his execution approaches. In December he had the first of two strokes, according to his attorneys. “The prison initially called for an ambulance to transport him to an outside hospital for care,” the lawyers wrote in legal filings, but the corrections department’s medical contractor “inexplicably turned the ambulance away, determining that an in-house CT scan would suffice.”
Despite a scan eventually confirming the stroke, Hines was denied proper care, his lawyers said, and he “suffered another stroke in mid-January and collapsed, hitting his head. Since that time, he has been confined to the prison infirmary, where he remains paralyzed on the left side, has partial left-sided blindness, and has suffered severe muscle atrophy.”
Today, according to advocates who regularly visit people on death row, Hines remains isolated from the rest of the condemned population. As with Byron Black, whose shower chair had to be moved along with him to the “death watch” cell where he would spend his final hours last summer, prison staff recently had to devise ways to accommodate Hines’s hospital bed in the area near the execution chamber. When the time comes, he will be lifted from the bed and strapped to the gurney – a “grotesque spectacle,” in the words of his attorneys.
Nevertheless, the governor, who is just months away from leaving office, remains unmoved. On Monday, he announced that he would not intervene to stop Hines’s execution.
Whatever happens in the death chamber, there are some signs that some of Tennessee’s staunch conservatives are starting to worry that the state is starting to look bad. In June, nine senate Republicans wrote to Lee, asking him to spare Hines, who they describe as “profoundly disabled,” and questioning whether the state is currently equipped to carry out executions. “Repeated failures of this kind do not advance justice,” they warned. “They obstruct it, prolong the suffering of victims’ families, and hand the opponents of capital punishment their most effective argument against a penalty Tennesseans have chosen to keер.”
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