I REMEMBER LARRY LONCHAR
eles...@aol.com
I Remember Larry Lonchar
(c) 1996 by Sondra London
Sunday, June 18, 1995, Georgia Diagnostic & Classification Center,
Jackson, Georgia. Three people were shot to death in 1986, and now the
killer wants nothing more than to add his own name to the toll. His death
wish is not suicidal. It's symmetrical justice: "The prison system made me
what I am, so let it put an end to me."
Among the clippings stuffed in the pocket of the condemned killer's prison
whites is a cartoon of a firing squad. The guard asks the doomed miscreant
for his last request. His sly reply: "Could you stand in front of me?"
Though he smiles at his favorite cartoon villain's attempt at gallows
humor, Larry Lonchar wants nothing to stand between him and his own
execution.
He expects this sunny summer morning to be the last time he will see his
family before his life is terminated under the warrant issued by Judge
Robert Castellani on June 7th, covering the period from June 23rd through
June 30th.
Larry remembers the ordeal he went through the last time this happened. He
had come within 32 minutes of being strapped into the chair on February
24, 1993, when his brother's suicide threat and a dramatic last-minute
visit from Judge Castellani persuaded him to stop the execution by
announcing his intention to file an appeal.
"We talked and he said a prayer. The judge is a deeply religious person
and his wife is a minister. I told him I didn't hold anything against him.
The jury sentenced me to death, he didn't. When our visit was over, he
walked me to the door with his arm over my shoulder. He told my lawyers
outside that he hoped I'd change my mind and stop the execution."
Larry has changed his mind before, and it could happen again -- especially
when he is reminded of how his death wish affects others. The only thing
that keeps him connected to this earthly existence is the meaning his life
has for them.
This time he has resolved to resist the embraces and the tears. He is
determined that he will not allow his loved ones to visit him during his
final hours. This is to be their last goodbye.
His father and his only sister have flown in from out of state. His
youngest brother, John, is here, and his eldest brother Milan has come one
day after he tried to save Larry's life in an unsuccessful challenge to
his competency.
Larry has agreed to see them during this regularly-scheduled weekend
visit, four days before he expects to achieve the macabre apotheosis he
has sought for so long. The mound of rumpled clippings disgorged from his
pockets onto the table before him gives them a way to spend some time
together, without directly confronting about the painful purpose of their
visit.
Here's the coupon he forgot to give his mom when he said goodbye to her
yesterday. "You'll take it to her, won't you, Chris?" he asks his sister.
"I won't be seeing Mom again."
His mother Elsie Lonchar means all of life to the condemned man, and
leaving her is the only thing he regrets about ending his own visit to
this lively planet. "When they strap me in, I will be calm. I might be
crying a little bit, but it's not because of fear, it's just because I'll
miss my mommy."
For a moment, no one knows what to say. Then John drawls, "Well, if this
thing here goes through, you better not be crying for your mommy."
"Oh, don't worry. I won't be crying, but if you do happen to see a few
tears, that'll be what they're for."
"You better walk that walk like a man."
"I will. I'm not afraid to die. I'm looking forward to it."
The conversation has a hollow cheer as they pass the clippings around.
"D'ja see this one? A woman got stuck in a cesspool."
"Yeah. She was chasing her dog."
"A poodle."
"Yeah. Chased it right into a pool of shit."
"Here's one about a man who lost his hand in a tug of war."
"Yeah, they pulled it right off, and they couldn't put it back."
"How 'bout that OJ?"
"The glove didn't fit!"
Several clippings about lotteries are greeted with enthusiasm all around,
and the mood brightens briefly as everyone talks at once. Dad explains his
system; he always puts his money on the same numbers. Milan reveals a
dream that when he wins, the jackpot's going to be $104 million. The new
Power Ball game looks like a sure thing.
Larry has placed his last bet, but he is clearly pleased to know the
family tradition will be carried on, even though gambling has brought him
to the place where Murder Road comes to a dead end.
When the small talk falters and his sister starts to cry, the condemned
killer is visibly moved, but he still tells his weeping sister and the
rest of his family goodbye without flinching from his resolve to end a
life he calls "a total waste."
It all started in an argument over a gambling debt.
"It was so stupid. It wasn't even the money. It was words, just words."
Except that now Larry Lonchar can't even remember exactly what those
inflammatory words were - those words that sent him into a murderous
frenzy. He has blocked many details of the crimes out of his mind. He even
refused to attend his own murder trial - a fact that could have been used
in his appeals, if he would have allowed it. "I didn't want to hear them
go over and over what I had done."
He scarcely needs reminding. Just to be alive is punishment enough. The
violence he has done will haunt him for as long as his mind is capable of
recording images.
Closing his eyes does no good. Still their ruined bodies appear before his
inner eye. Again and again he watches their images explode: Wayne Smith,
his son Steven Smith, and his girlfriend Margaret Sweat. Shot down in cold
blood.
A fourth victim had lingered out of sight in another room - Wayne Smith's
other son Rick, shot by an accomplice and left for dead. This living
reminder of his homicidal rage would live to haunt Larry in another way.
The testimony of the only living witness would convict him.
In a few days, Rick Smith will petition the court to allow him to watch
his tormentor ride the lightning, and Larry will protest when the petition
is rejected.
Larry Lonchar is quick to take responsibility for his crimes. Even though
others have spoken of the chaotic conditions that tore his family apart
right before the confused and troubled youth was first locked up with
adult criminals at the age of thirteen, he will not allow these or any
other mitigating circumstances to be used in his defense.
He appreciates the earnest efforts of the attorneys who have fought to
preserve his life, and says of Clive Stafford-Smith, "It's hard for anyone
to hold any animosity towards him, which I don't. We are lucky to have a
person like him who does care for us."
"However," he continues in a letter written April 17, 1995, "I've told him
many times I feel he has no right to be interfering in my life."
Larry Lonchar had been doing hard time for most of his life, and in 1986,
after release from prison on the last of a series of robbery convictions,
he moved to Georgia from Battle Creek, Michigan to live with his brother
in a modest home just south of Atlanta. He started betting on sporting
events with Wayne Smith, and before long had fallen behind on his
payments.
When he handed Wayne $3,000 cash on a $10,000 debt, Wayne's reaction was
not as cordial as Larry might have preferred. Remarks that would have been
taken as nothing more than routine trash talk by someone from even the
meanest of streets triggered a lethal level of violence in a mind
conditioned by years of imprisonment. "He was woofing, and to me, that was
a form of disrespect."
In the unthinking instant he used a bullet as the last word in an
argument, another petty crook became a murderer in the first degree. "I
never thought I would kill anybody - much less three people. It was over
before I knew it."
A gun had always been something to frighten someone into giving him money.
But after the first body hit the killing floor, Larry Lonchar couldn't
stop until he'd finished what he started, slaughtering every living soul
in sight.
Now utterly disgusted with himself, filled with remorse and self-loathing
and blaming no one but himself for his fate, he considers his execution
the only exit from a life that is no life.
As for his last request, he just wants to go peacefully to the death
chamber after his last meal: a platter of fresh fruit.
The last time he was shaved and prepped for the fatal encounter he has
desired for so many years, his last meal was a bowl of Kellogg's Corn
Flakes. Nobody could understand why he chose so humble a dish when he
could have requested virtually anything. He never told anyone what that
last meal meant.
To Larry Lonchar, that bowl of Kellogg's Corn Flakes was a way of going
home to Battle Creek, to the days before life - and death - became so
complicated.
June 22, 1995, Death Watch.
This is the day before Larry Lonchar expects to be executed. This time
three other people are present: a death penalty activist named Jane, a
minister, and Larry's brother Milan, who has defied Larry's directive to
refuse admission to his family members, and been allowed one more visit
with his brother.
Larry will not look directly at anyone, except for unexpected brief direct
shots of brilliance from his restless and searching blue eyes. Convict
eyes, to be sure. As a man who has spent most of his life locked up with
desperadoes who might make a fatal move any second, his highly-developed
peripheral surveillance system has served him well. But there is more to
it than that.
He doesn't want to be touched. Twice Jane approaches him with the offer of
a hug. He adamantly rejects her altruistic offer of comfort.
"Larry, tomorrow could very well be your last day on this earth."
"I know. I'm going to die, and I want to die. No hugs."
"OK, but I'll be back tomorrow. And I'm gonna give you a hug then."
"All right."
Larry had been distant the previous Sunday, but now, as he approaches
extinction, he is so remote it's almost like he isn't even there. During
most of the visit, he keeps his chair turned all the way around backwards,
and his face turned away.
"Larry?" I call as he gazes at the wall. Nothing.
"Larry?" I persist, concerned.
"Huh?" he starts.
"Why are you looking at the wall?"
"Oh, this way, that way, what's the difference?"
"Well, your friends are on this side, for one thing. We've all come here
to see you."
"Yeah."
Self-consciously, he scoots his chair around and put his hands up on the
table, like a good boy. But it doesn't last more than a minute, before his
face is once more turned towards the wall, his gaze locked not on the
painted plaster of the prison walls, but on an exit only he can see.
For Larry Lonchar, the execution chamber does not represent a door that
opens on to a life eternal. Nor does any philosophical belief in
reincarnation comfort him. "I've gone to church, and I've listened to what
they have to say, but religion is something that depends on faith. And I
just don't have any faith."
"I don't want you to die," his big brother says softly, groping for words.
"And if you're not going to fight for your life, I will. Even if you won't
see me, I just want you to know that right up to the last minute,
somewhere in the walls of this prison, I'll be there."
"I don't even know why y'all came down here. You ought to go on back to
work. You shouldn't be taking so much time off."
"This is where I want to be, Larry. This is where I need to be."
"Yeah, but what are you going to do next week when you don't have a
paycheck?"
"I got 26 hours of overtime built up. Use it or lose it. That's what it's
there for."
"All this is just a waste of time." Larry leans back, holding his neck in
his hands and eyeing the ceiling. "I'm gonna die and that's all there is
to it."
"Larry, what if it was the other way around?" I interject. "What if Milan
was on Death Watch? Would you just go on with business as usual? Wouldn't
you be right here to see your brother one more time?"
When Larry turns his gaze inward, he sees nothing. Only when he imagines
his own brother in his place does he respond. The argument is over. The
condemned man will see his brother again.
In a televised interview, Larry Lonchar tells a reporter he wants to go to
the electric chair because that's what he deserves. But hours later, he
tells me the real reason he wants to die: "Because you so-called Christian
rednecks want me to." He apologizes because he can't express himself
better. "Of course, there's more to it, but that's what I really wanted to
say."
Sondra London
"Life is a warfare, & a stranger's sojourn,
And after fame is oblivion."
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus
imun...@gmail.com
> I Remember Larry Lonchar
> (c) 1996 by Sondra London
>