On the night of June 3, 1973, a Chevrolet Caprice,
driven by a woman, was forced off Interstate 57 in southern Cook
County, Ill., by a car carrying four men. One of them pointed a 12-gauge
pump shotgun at her, ordered her to strip and then to climb through
a barbed-wire fence at the side of the road. As she begged for her
life, her assailant thrust the shotgun barrel into her vagina and
fired. After watching her agonies for several minutes, he finished
her off with a blast to the throat. Less than an hour later, the
marauding motorists stopped another car and told the man and woman
inside it to get out and lie down on the shoulder of the road. The
couple pleaded for mercy, saying that they were engaged to be
married in six months. The man with the shotgun said, "Kiss your
last kiss," then shot both of them in the back, killing them. The
total take from three murders and two robberies: $54, two watches,
an engagement ring and a wedding band.
The man ultimately convicted of the "I-57 murders"
now sits confined in the Menard Condemned Unit, the official name for
death row in the Illinois prison system. Yet Henry Brisbon Jr., 28, does
not face execution for those three killings nearly ten years ago.
Illinois' death penalty was invalidated in 1972 and was not restored
until 1977, the year that Brisbon was finally brought to trial. At that
time, the judge sentenced him to a term of 1,000 to 3,000 years in
prison. It took Brisbon less than one year to kill again, this time
stabbing a fellow inmate at Stateville Correctional Center with the
sharpened handle of a soup ladle. At the trial for this murder, Will
County State's Attorney Edward Petka described Brisbon as "a very, very
terrible human being, a walking testimonial for the death penalty." The
jury agreed.
Brisbon's eleven months on death row have been quiet,
compared with his Stateville years, when he took part in 15 attacks on
inmates and guards, instigated at least one prison riot, trashed a
courtroom during a trial and hit a warden with a broom handle. "I'm no
bad dude," he says, "just an antisocial individual." The third of 13
children, Brisbon thinks that his upbringing by a strict black Muslim
father made him different: "I was taught to be a racist and not like
whites. As I grew up, I decided I didn't like nobody."
Brisbon has 90 well-supervised minutes each day
outside his small (7 ft. 7 in. by 5 ft. 10 in.) cell. He works out with
weights, keeping his 155 lbs. (on a 5-ft 9-in. frame) in shape. He
complains about his confinement: "Can't take two steps in this cage.
It's inhuman. And that dull-ass color blue on the walls in no way
brightens my life." He has devised a novel idea about judicial reform: "All
this talk about victims' rights and restitution gets me. What about my
family? I'm a victim of a crooked criminal system. Isn't my family
entitled to something?" The shadow of the death penalty does not faze
him: "I don't see that happening to me. What would killing me solve?
Isn't that just another murder? If I got to die, it's going to be of
natural causes." The state of Illinois thinks otherwise. Says Michael
Ficaro, who prosecuted the I-57 case: "On the day he dies in the chair
at Stateville, I plan to be there to see that it's done. Nobody I've
heard of deserves the death penalty more than Henry Brisbon."