Why I'm Not Interested in Weapons

Are these two martyrs, or fools?

Here are snippets of a fuller account from the Sampler:

Our hell began, not with the agencies, but with Karl, my ex-husband, who had decided to sue me for possession of the valuable house. He petitioned the judge to allow him back into my house until the case was settled, a preposterous idea. George urged me not to go to Karl's apartment to try to reason with him, knowing Karl to be a violent-tempered man. But I was desperate to keep my home and was prepared to offer him a deal, so George went with me. Karl let us in to talk, but he became angry at my attempt to bargain. In a rage, he lunged at me. George managed to pull him off, but Karl had sustained a cut from a small knife I had pulled out and held up as a warning just as he had grabbed me. The cut was not large or deep, and when we offered to take him to a medical center, he refused, though he did allow us to bandage the cut.

George and I were arrested in our home at 2:30 am that same night. Karl had called the police and told them we had broken in and attacked him. George and I had never been arrested before, never been in any trouble other than traffic tickets. We were in shock - George's face was pale and grim, and I felt faint when the deputy began to read us our "rights".
[...]
We didn't show up for sentencing; we'd been tipped off that Judge Hauser was going to send us to prison anyway, under "orders." We had three days to file a temporary restraining order in federal court, but the man who had promised to draft the document never did, and a capias was issued for our arrest.

A friend in the Sheriffs department, and a member of my church, called me the evening of the third day, his voice shaking. "Lynda, the warrants for you and George came up on computer. I just heard there's a plan to raid your house. They know you have guns - they're going to use a SWAT team." I was incredulous. "A SWAT team!" His voice became softer, sadder. "You and George have made a lot of important people angry. They're going to kill you and then say you shot at them first." He paused, to let this sink in, then said, "I've put myself at great risk telling you this. Please, get out of Florida. They mean business."

George had heard this on the speaker phone. His face was as somber as mine. As a last, desperate attempt to stop this insanity, I called to talk to Sheriff Beary. I had interviewed him when he ran for election. But he wouldn't come to the phone.

George and I were not criminals and we did not want to become fugitives. But my friend had made it clear we had no choice.
[...]
George pulled the car into a parking space and he and Gordon stayed in the car while I walked to the store to call. Unknown to us, the woman saw a police officer coming out of a nearby store. She approached him and told him that we were living out of our car and she was concerned about the child. She gave him a description of our car and left.

Roger Motley was the supply officer for the Opelika Police Department and hadn't been on patrol for years. He was irritated that he had to stop and check on this situation. He drove his car up and down the aisles, and when he found our car, he stopped behind it.

I had my back turned while talking on the phone and didn't see the officer pull up. When George saw the officer in the rear view mirror, he got out of the car, closed the door, and waited to see what the officer wanted. The officer approached George with the typical "I'm the guy with the badge and the gun" attitude. In a curt voice he demanded to see George's

driver' s license. George told him he didn't have one, and was prepared to get our legal exemption papers from the car. The officer then decided to arrest George and told him to put his hands on the car. George hesitated, knowing this was arrest, yet he had done nothing illegal. Motley, thoroughly irritated now, reached for his gun. When George saw him go for his gun, he reacted instinctively and drew his own gun. When Motley saw George's gun, he said "Oh shit'." and, with his hand still on his gun, turned and ran for cover behind the police car.

When I heard the popping noises, it took me a couple of seconds to realize it was gunfire. I heard people yelling and running to get out of the way. Quickly I turned and saw Motley crouched beside his car, shooting at George. Fear gripped my stomach. I cried, "Oh God, no!" and dropping the phone, began running, ignoring the people scrambling for cover.

I saw George standing between the rear of our car and the right side of the police car; he was holding his gun in his right hand, but his left arm was hanging strangely. Motley didn't see me approach, and just as I came to a stop I pulled my own gun and shot several times. He turned to me in surprise, and as he did, one of my bullets struck him in the chest and he fell backwards, almost losing his balance in his crouched position. His gun was pointed at me and I prayed he wouldn't shoot. Instead, he crawled into the car, and after grabbing the radio microphone, he drove off.

I immediately ran to our car and got in. The parking lot was quiet - everyone had sought shelter inside the stores. I was shaken, yet incredibly calm. "What happened?" I asked. George's face was extremely pale. "He tried to arrest me for not having a driver's license." He shook his head in disbelief. "I was going to show him our papers, but he didn't give me a chance - and he went for his gun. " He looked at me, his eyes begging me to believe him. "I couldn't just stand there and let him shoot me."

I did believe him. George is the most honest person I know. He would not have placed himself or us in danger. He took the law seriously. He was never the showoff gunslinger-type and would walk away before being drawn into a fight.
[...]
[Lynda was executed May 10, 2002. George is scheduled to be executed August 4, 2005.]