Coverage of death row changes how David Crabtree looks at life
David Crabtree has covered some significant and wide-reaching stories during his 40 years as a journalist. In his final month at WRAL News, he's revisiting some of the issues that have impacted him most professionally and personally, to reflect and share where they stand now.
Penalty of death
North Carolina has not carried out a death sentence since August of 2006. His name was Samuel Flippin. I was there. It was one of seven executions I witnessed.
This state is one of 27 nationwide with a penalty of death.
I’ve spent a lot of time on North Carolina’s death row not only reporting on the inmates, I’ve also spent hundreds of hours visiting with them over the past 28 years.
Much has changed for those convicted killers and for me.
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A gift, a reminder: God is God
It was Christmas Eve 2020 along the coast of North Carolina.
Pine Knoll Shores had been decimated two years earlier by Hurricane Florence, and on this special night in anticipation of Santa and the savior of the world (not one in the same) we were weathering another storm. This time, a disease: COVID-19.
Pandemics come in all shapes and sizes, it seems, and Atlantic hurricane season had delivered more than three dozen towards the American shoreline in less than six months. On this night, multiple lines of severe thunderstorms were threatening severe weather and tornados.
The winds, my daughter Hayden reminded me (as I reminded her as a child), would not be enough to pierce the force field surrounding Santa, and all deliveries will be made intact and reindeer will be injury free. Still, the house shuddered and creaked as the 65 mph winds ripped through the trees of the maritime forest just outside the bedroom windows.
The maritime forests near the North Carolina coastline can withstand the strong winds, salt spray and even the short-term submersion under salt water often associated with life near the ocean and Bogue Sound. Bogue is brackish, a mixture of salt and natural water.
On my property are live oaks, and many of the survivors are very old.
There is one off U.S. Highway 17, not that many miles from where I was sitting, that, according to local legend, shaded George Washington when he stopped and ate lunch during a 1791 tour of the southern states.
The wood of live oaks was once used in shipbuilding. Remember of Old Ironsides? The USS Constitution is the oldest commissioned vessel in the U.S. Navy, and one of the oldest on the planet.
The wood was known to be strong and naturally bending. Bending, not breaking. Resilient.
The winds and accompanying rain woke me almost hourly yet all was well. When quiet finally found me I was at last able to sleep in heavenly peace.
The storms passed and bright sunlight opened my eyes early Christmas morning. Bells guiding mariners could be heard in the far distance, and I realized the storm of the darkness has passed. The birth of Jesus is remembered and I rose to make coffee.
As I gazed out the windows, I was reminded of Christmases past. The chaos, the laughter, the joys, the disappointments and the love all come streaming from the same ball of yarn.
Then I saw it. My gift. Santa didn’t forget me.
In the marsh straight ahead I spotted something through the field glasses I raised to my eyes. A blue heron, majestic, tall and wise. One old bird looking at another.
The feathers under its beak were long and proper as a beard with years of growth. Sitting silently my new friend rarely moved a muscle. The breeze gently blew the aging feathers and the eyes appeared to say, “Good morning God. We made it through another storm." Together.
I’ve not studied the theories of reincarnation enough to know whether I believe in it or not. As I looked at my new friend, I realized it doesn’t matter what I believe. I know what I see.
Life. Beautiful life.
Life is loss
Encapsulated in those feathers of the nearly six-foot wingspan might be elements/DNA/the soul of my dad who died in 1988, my mom in 2003.
My friend Ernest Basden who was executed in 2002.
Friends I lost in Vietnam and Afghanistan.
My brother whose life was cut short.
Billy was an amazing brother. An introverted commercial artist. Devoted husband. Father. Son. Brother. Steadfast. His stories of playing high school basketball were so rich you could hear the ball bouncing, feel your shoes squeaking on the old gym floor and leave you with the smell of a 1960s locker room. Billy left us way too soon. Cancer took him at only 57.
My sister, who was lost in the world of dementia where those of us who love her experienced a daily funeral. She died six weeks ago, and I miss her terribly.
Love lost because of my own carelessness.
While I’m not sure why this gift was delivered to me at this time on this Christmas of the deadly pandemic, I am sure it is a sign to remind me once again simply that God is God. Always there. Always renewing and always surprising us, no matter what the wrapping may look like.
In a feeding trough, redemption and salvation came to us. No pampers. No sterilized bottles. Straw for a mattress. Torn cloth for a diaper. And a life we would adore when there is nothing else left for us to see.
A journalist's journey: To explore more deeply
The blue heron. A sentinel reminding all to wait and watch. To be alert. To love our neighbor (and relatives) as God loves us. In Christian tradition, the heron is associated with good luck and a long life. An image of this bird is often used to remind us of the virtue of silence as it relates to wisdom and patience. Charlie Cambridge, a Native American friend of mine, told me years ago, “The heron is a symbol of balance and represent an ability to evolve.” He looked at me with an expression of both wisdom and solemnity and added, “The longer the leg,s the deeper the water the heron will feed in, the deeper life can be explored.”
This means much to this news anchor who has spent the last 28 years as a part of the fabric of WRAL-TV in Raleigh, North Carolina. My work as a broadcast journalist has crafted and honed for me, as my dear friend, professor and mentor Dr. Ellen Davis of the Divinity School at Duke University says, a particular angle of vision. “You’re a journalist down to your feet. Don’t ever forget that. You must write about this angle of vision God has gifted to you.”
She added, “You’ve been granted access. You have a platform. You’ve been able to see things up close.
"Your angle of vision is different from most people’s. What you may take for granted David is actually really special.”
As a world-renowned Old Testament scholar, Dr. Davis' words encouraged and pierced me.
For several years in and out of the classroom Dr. Davis had heard my stories of access to the marginalized, the forgotten, the invisible, the profound and those who are on North Carolina’s death row.
I've experienced a different angle of vision with men who are sentenced to die. To be murdered by the state. Of the hundreds of stories I have covered in my journalistic career which began when I was 18, in 1967, none has touched me more than time I spent on death row.
Trust built on death row
No death row inmate impacted me more than Ernest West Basden.
This is his story and his impact on my life. His kindness and authenticity cracked my heart open. His challenging me with simple and wise questions nudged and at times drove me to examine my own life. This man, like each of us, created in the image of God, had so little yet gave of himself to me. His sense of self-worth and dignity came from his steadfast and resolute trust in God.
Over the course of seven years, we spent hundreds of hours talking face to face or writing to one another. We laughed together. Anger sometimes found its way into the room. We shed and shared tears. We both understood nothing forges and steels a friendship more than trust.
Ernest trusted me and I trusted him.
Light shines through each of us in both particles and waves. The ancient mystics allowed light to penetrate. Ernest Basden reminds me of my studies of the mystics as he was far more contemplative than most people I’ve ever known. Time with Ernest in a death row interview could always cure any case of dry bones. Surprisingly, we often spoke the same language and thus he helped me connect many of the dots of life.
Ernest Basden was executed by the state of North Carolina December 6, 2002, at 2 a.m. His was one of seven executions I have witnessed. We spent an hour together late December 5, just before he was led to be prepped to be executed.
I remember the events of that frozen Friday as if they were taking place right now.
Ernest is buried in a cemetery in his hometown of Kinston, North Carolina. I drive by often on my way to the NC coast. Occasionally I stop and visit. We talk. “Damn Ernest, I miss you. You taught me so much. Why did you have to die on that gurney?”
At times I just stare at the marker knowing I could have done more to save him yet time cannot be reversed.
Omar Khayya’m reminds us, “The moving finger having writ moves on. Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line. Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.”
Ernest Basden died on death row.
Summarily executed by the state of North Carolina December 6, 2002.
His voice still lives.
I am proud to tell his story.
