Apr 99

Views expressed are those of the authors, not necessarily of the AFSC.

Not in our Name

Susannah Sheffir conducted this interview with Renny Cushing, executive director of Murder Victims Families for Reconciliation (MVFR), a national organization of people who have lost loved ones to murder and who oppose the death penalty (617/497-5273).

How was your father murdered?

On June 1, 1988, my father answered a knock at the front door. When he opened it, a couple of shotgun blasts went off, ripped his chest apart, and he died in front of my mother. But all my mother saw was the blast; she had no idea who had done it. We buried my father and spent a long summer trying to figure out who was responsible. After about 12 weeks, we got a call that a local cop had turned himself in and had been arrested. Then we found out that it was the cop who lived next door to my parents. After my father was murdered, we had taken some comfort in knowing that there was a police officer next door. Little did we know that that source of comfort had actually been the source of pain.

This man had had a long history of violence. He had a whole host of bad actions while he was on the police force. Then, in 1975, he pulled over a woman named Gladys who was on her way to church with a friend. They were both in their 80s. Gladys was roughed up and charged with resisting arrest. I found out about this because Gladys lived two doors down from my parents; she was Aunt Gladys to us in the neighborhood when I was growing up. My brother and I initiated a petition to try to get the local town fathers to look into what had happened. They ended up saying that it was Gladys's word against the cop's. So nothing came of it.

By June 1, 1988, this cop, Robert McLaughlin, had moved in next door to my parents in an apartment house, and, as we later learned, he had decided he was going to kill a Cushing. He knew we had initiated the petition, and I had had other encounters with him over the years. I did a lot of political work in opposition to the Seabrook Atomic Plant, and he was present at demonstrations and avowed as how my brothers and I didn't have much respect for law enforcement.

But then we forgot about him, we forgot his name, so we didn't realize that he had moved in next door. He later confessed that he talked over with his wife how he was going to kill a Cushing and together they came up with a disguise and concocted a plan. Eventually they were both convicted of first-degree murder and sent to prison.

Yours is the kind of terrible story that leads some policymakers to support the death penalty. Yet you say, "Not in Our Name." Why not?

Well, I think "why not" has everything to do with who I am and who my father was. I was opposed to the death penalty prior to my father's murder. For me to change my values because of it would actually give more power to the murderers. They would have taken away not just my father but my values. Not wanting to let that happen is part of wanting to have control of your life after an event that strips you of control.

Years later, arguing against the death penalty, you said to the New Hampshire legislature that execution would eliminate the possibility of healing.

For better or worse, I'm linked to my father's murderers. June 1, 1988 affected my life, their lives, my family, their families. I had a need to try to understand how it was that these people came to take my father's life away from me. Part of my journey was making the decision that I wanted to engage with them. It was a long process, but I finally decided that I would try to visit the wife in prison. The day after my father was murdered, she had done an interview with a TV station and said-as part of her alibi-that it was really strange to come home that night and see all the police lights on. She went on to say, "I think it has something to do with the nuclear plant." That comment was directed right at me. I wanted to ask her: why did she decide, not just to murder my father, but then to imply that my political activity against the nuclear plant was responsible?

Did she have an answer?

No. She said, "Oh, that was something my husband cooked up." She didn't have all the answers I was looking for. But I was glad I went. Part of it was just to speak truth to power. It was like a witness.

I remember after going to visit her, I went for a long walk with a friend. I said that I think on some level I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to figure out a way to help the McLaughlins get me to forgive them. That's convoluted but I can't put it more concisely. I'm not saying I know how to do it, but part of the process is trying to figure out a way-I mean, how do you forgive?

What does forgiveness mean to you?

Whenever I say forgiveness I think of healing. Part of it is continuing to honor my father and his life and what he was about.

There are victims' families who believe that execution will help them heal.

It doesn't bring anybody back. I suppose we could have justice if you could exchange the life of the murderer for the life of the one in the grave. But you can't. Healing is a process, not an event. I don't presume to prescribe a way to heal for other people. I just know for myself that healing does not come from murdering people.

Back then, did you know that the organization MVFR existed?

No. It's hard to find support, because murder is incredibly isolating. You get marked. People don't want get close to you because they're afraid it might happen to them. There is a tendency to impute responsibility for murder upon the victim, and by extension to family members. And even when I deal with death penalty opponents, I often hear what sound to me like rationalizations for why people were murdered, as if to absolve responsibility or minimize what the murderer did.

What should activists do now as they're jolted into action by your words?

They should support programs that help families of victims heal. And then I think you work to remove the root causes of violence. The best tribute you pay to the victim is not to replicate that violence.

I remember one neighbor who came up to me right afterwards and said, "I hope they fry those people so that you and your family can get some peace." I know he meant well; he was trying to reach out and somehow comfort me. But not everyone who has lost a loved one to murder thinks that the way heal is to kill another person.

And that's a microcosm of the whole thing, because that's what society is saying, in effect: executing the murderer is what we can do for you.

The reality is that, after the criminal justice process is completed, the state abandons you. There are people who support the death penalty who, years later, figure out that the state has the capacity to punish, but the state does not, at the present time, have any capacity to heal. I think the kind of society that we want to live in is one where we do help people to heal. Where people aren't forgotten.

What does reconciliation mean to you?

Coming to accept. It means I reconcile myself to the fact that I am a survivor of a murder victim, and then proceed to figure out how I lead a full life with that reality.

When I met the son of the man who murdered my father-we met outside the courthouse one day-I told him that we both lost our father on June 1st. Just as I'm forever marked, so is he. Just as I felt isolated, I could see clearly the isolation that comes from people knowing that you're the family member of a murderer. And I knew that to kill somebody else not only wouldn't honor my father's life; it would create another grieving family.

I think people don't actually want vengeance. They would like to end their own pain. Sometimes they think it's a zero-sum game: if they can make someone else feel pain, theirs will go away. I just don't think it works that way. My pain would not be lessened by having the son of my father's murderer lose his father through execution.

What are MVFR's goals?

We work in three areas: public education, public policy, and victim support. We're trying to develop regional organizations so that people can find each other and work in a mutually supportive way. We also want to help change the debate about capital punishment. I believe that when lawmakers understand the experience of MVFR members and the values that they hold in the aftermath of that experience, they'll come to conclude that our society does not require the death penalty.