Vietnam veteran William Reaves executed by lethal injection despite letter from fellow veterans urging halt
Florida carried out its 18th execution of the year on Tuesday under Republican governor Ron DeSantis’s aggressive use of the death penalty in his final term.
William Reaves, 77, was pronounced dead at 6.12pm following a three-drug injection at Florida state prison near Starke. He was convicted of first-degree murder in the 1986 shooting death of Indian River county deputy Richard Raczkowski.
Agreement would have spared Mohammed risk of execution in exchange for guilty plea and life in prison
The supreme court on Monday rejected an effort to revive a plea deal for Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the accused mastermind of the attacks on 11 September 2001.
The agreement would have spared Mohammed the risk of execution in exchange for his guilty plea and a sentence of life in prison without parole.
In our first edition of The Backstory, a new newsletter about Times journalism, we’re diving into coverage of a rape allegation and talking to a critic who says we’re not tough enough on Trump.
President Donald Trump on Thursday called off plans to livestream the December 3 military execution of Nidal Hasan after the announcement generated widespread disgust.
Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth announced last week that the U.S. government would livestream the firing-squad execution of Hasan, a former Army major who shot and killed 13 people at the Fort Hood Army base in 2009. A court-martial jury sentenced Hasan to death in 2013.
It would have been the first public execution in the United States since a hanging in Missouri in 1937, though the last well-known public execution occurred a year earlier in Kentucky. Rainey Bethea, a black man, was hanged before a crowd of roughly 20,000 people in Owensboro. Kentucky became the last state to outlaw public executions two years later.
The plan to livestream Hasan's execution drew comparisons to the Taliban. The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops called it "a barbaric promotion of a culture of death." Writing at The Lamp, an orthodox Catholic journal, Matthew Walther noted that it would be the "first ever government-sanctioned snuff film in American history."
However, Trump and Hegseth didn't trip over just liberal and religious pieties, but a deep-rooted American aversion to bloody displays of state power that goes back to the colonial era.
Lynn Novick, the director of Ken Burns' upcoming PBS documentary series Crime and Punishment in America, tells Reason that public executions "haven't been a regular part of American life since the Colonial time in the early years of the Republic, and there's really good reasons for that."
One of American colonists' many complaints about oppressive British rule was England's expansive criminal code, known derisively as the "bloody code" because it contained more than 200 capital crimes.
"In Colonial America, [an execution] was an everyday occurrence," Novick says. "There were executions all the time, and one of our scholars told us that most people would have seen someone executed in their lifetime."
Excessive capital punishment also ran contrary to emerging theories by leading Enlightenment thinkers that punishment should be proportional to the crime and not driven by revenge or bloodlust.
Perhaps more importantly, public executions were disorderly affairs that, rather than reinforce the power of the state, inflamed the passions of the mob to a dangerous degree. "In many cases, crowds would become very boisterous, riotous, angry, excited," Novick says. "There were sometimes violent outbursts at these events."
As a result, many of the Founding Fathers saw frequent public executions as disruptive to the fragile social order. The early American republic's move away from sanguinary spectacle was driven by a desire to create a stable, virtuous citizenry and sever itself from the European continent's tradition of public torture and execution.
As Reason described in a recent cover story, the result of this was the invention of the American penitentiary in the early 1800s, which was sold as a humane and rehabilitative replacement for the whipping post and gallows.
States transitioned from public to private hangings behind their newly built prison walls in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, before switching to the use of the electric chair. This was not done out of entirely humanitarian concerns, especially in the South, where public executions often became quasi-religious ceremonies, with the condemned declaring their ultimate victory over death (and the state) through Jesus Christ.
"Executions had contested meanings," Michael Ayers Trotti wrote in The End of Public Execution. "They were moments of justice, of state power; but they were also moments of religion, exceptional moments that transcended normal life."
The main reason that public executions disappeared over the long term, though, is obvious to anyone who's not a sociopath: It's weird and dehumanizing to gather in a crowd to watch someone else be killed, to participate in the government's promotion of its power to take a human life.
Rachel Abbott, who witnessed Bethea's 1936 hanging when she was 5 years old, told WKU Public Radio in 2016 that she had nightmares about it years later.
"I remember it well, but I didn't want to," she said. "I tried to get away from it because it was hurting me so bad. I started having me nightmares after I was older. It's like his spirit was just hanging all around me. The first thing you'd know I'd start crying because I felt he wanted me to help him get buried, get sent back to his gravesite by his father. I still have tears running when I think of it."
Cuba has stated that, despite recent contacts with Washington, it sees no progress toward a serious dialogue, while denouncing U.S. restrictions on oil supplies as a form of collective punishment against the island’s population. This statement was made by Tanieris Diéguez, Deputy Chief of Mission at the Cuban Embassy in the United States, in an interview with EFE.
Diéguez explained that Havana has maintained contact with the administration of President Donald Trump, but that it perceives no movement toward substantive negotiations. “We truly do not see any progress toward a serious dialogue—which is what we are willing to engage in,” the diplomat stated.
In March, Cuban President Miguel Díaz-Canel confirmed that talks were taking place with the U.S. government. Since then, Washington has pushed for political and economic changes in Cuba.
When asked about potential threats of U.S. military intervention—like to the kidnapping of President Nicolás Maduro and his wife Cilia Flores in Venezuela—Diéguez noted that Cuba takes any statement from U.S. authorities seriously, given that the United States is the world’s foremost military, nuclear, and economic power.
When asked about potential threats of U.S. military intervention—similar to the operation that took place in Caracas—Diéguez noted that Cuba takes any statement from U.S. authorities seriously, given that the United States is the world’s foremost military, nuclear, and economic power.
Nevertheless, she emphasized that Havana considers the defense of its independence to be its highest priority. “Our people will never allow that to be sidelined or subjugated under any circumstances,” she affirmed.
As has become customary, the US government has imposed a new aggressive measure against Cuba, this time against BICSA, an absolutely legitimate bank whose transactions in Cuba and the world are also absolutely legitimate.
The diplomat linked the worsening of Cuba’s energy crisis to the restrictions imposed by Washington on oil supplies—a situation exacerbated following the events in January involving Nicolás Maduro in Venezuela, the island’s primary fuel supplier.
According to Diéguez, fuel shortages and power outages are affecting essential services, including hospital care and surgical procedures. “This is a form of collective punishment; it is entirely contrary to international law and directly harms the Cuban people,” she denounced.
The official presented figures attributed to the impact of the situation: infant mortality has reportedly risen to nine deaths per 1,000 live births; 96,500 people are awaiting surgery, and 32,000 pregnant women are waiting for an ultrasound.
Diéguez also rejected U.S. criticisms regarding Cuba’s economic management. “It is not a matter of ineptitude; rather, we have managed to put our scarce resources to work thanks to our organization,” she maintained.
🇿🇦 At the Human Rights Council, #SA delegate highlighted harmful impact of unilateral coercive measures against #Cuba & warned of its humanitarian consequences.
Delegation also addressed the extraterritorial & deterrent effects of the #blockade, which hinders trade & investment. pic.twitter.com/70wM404eyO
The Cuban representative expressed confidence that the international community will once again support the lifting of the U.S. blockade during the annual vote at the United Nations General Assembly, scheduled for late October.
“Cuba does not feel alone. We have received the support of the vast majority of the international community,” Diéguez stated, noting that for more than three decades, resolutions against the blockade have secured overwhelming majorities.
In 2025, the Cuban-sponsored resolution received 165 votes in favor, seven against, and 12 abstentions in the General Assembly—though the text is non-binding.
Diéguez further asserted that the restrictions also harm U.S. citizens by limiting their access to products from the Cuban biopharmaceutical industry. “Cuba deserves to live in peace,” she concluded.
Use of death penalty against people for crimes committed when they were children a ‘new low’, say rights groups
A young man faces imminent execution in Saudi Arabia for attending protests and funerals when he was aged 15 to 17, say human rights groups, in the latest example of the kingdom’s surging use of the death penalty for non-violent crimes.
Louisiana recently started executing death-row prisoners after more than 20 years of not doing so (save a “voluntary” execution in 2010, when a prisoner waived his right to appeal and said he wanted to die). John Corley, an award-winning writer who is incarcerated at Louisiana’s Angola prison, reflects on how MAGA politics have re-invigorated the practice of state killing in Louisiana and elsewhere, and what it means for the tenor of life in institutions like Angola:
Dalton Prejean Jr, who is serving time for manslaughter, found Hoffman’s execution particularly painful. When he was ten years old, in 1990, his father died in the penitentiary’s electric chair. “The day it all went down, it was almost like reliving the moments leading up to my father’s execution,” Prejean told me. “At ten o’clock the news reporter announced that Hoffman was dead. My heart skipped. I couldn’t believe they had actually killed somebody. Was what he did so bad that he just couldn’t be allowed to go on living? Wasn’t there anything about him that was redeemable?”
Twice a week, the inmate counsel substitute Gary Boudreaux makes rounds on the five death row tiers. He knows each of the surviving men housed there. “There was no tension on the row because the guys believed the execution wouldn’t happen,” Boudreaux said. “It had been so long, and they have good lawyers. They just didn’t think executions would come back.”
A week after the execution, Boudreaux returned to the row. The atmosphere was “totally different.” The men now knew that Governor Landry “is serious about executing people, and the state will execute people. There’s no doubt in their minds about that any more.”
When Steven Judy was executed for rape and murder in 1981, he was little more to the public than a monster. To Traci and Randy Carr, he was something else: a hero and a protector. After all, he was their foster brother. For The Guardian, Masha Hamilton—who covered the Judy trial as a young reporter more than 45 years ago—returns to Indiana to meet the Carrs, and to take the measure of the hole rent in their lives by Judy’s actions and disappearance.
Her mother has begun appearing again in her sleep: Mary holding her, comforting. Almost as if speaking aloud what had been buried for decades had called her mother back.
“Everyone hated Steve, and we were told we should too,” Traci says. “For a long time, I thought we did something wrong, and I was ashamed. People treated us like we had raised a murderer. It’s still how people remember us. I don’t think Mom ever got to grieve properly. I don’t think any of us did.”
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