The long road Idaho prosecutors sought to spare the families of Bryan Kohberger's victims by avoiding a death penalty trial

CNN

6 days ago

When the men who murdered Carmen Gayheart were sentenced to death in 1995, her sister, Maria David, thought it might be 12 or 14 years before they were executed.
She waited 31.
Life went on. David got married and had two boys. The family left Fort Lauderdale, Florida, she said, because it was too hard to live there with all the memories of Carmen, herself a mother of two and an aspiring nurse.
But 'for every good thing in my life, there was a sad shadow hanging over,' David said – because of what happened to Carmen, and the long wait for the executions.
David would open the mailbox and find an envelope from the attorney general's office, informing her that her sister's killers had filed another appeal. Another envelope would follow with the state's response, then another with the court's opinion. Later, another envelope. Another appeal.
For three decades, she worked to see the executions carried out, calling state officials and her victim's advocate, writing letters and attending hearings for the inmates' appeals so they would know Carmen's family had not forgotten.
'I devoted a lot of time to that. I feel like I put my family second a lot,' David told CNN. 'I think a lot of times I did put the kids in front of the TV more to get online and read something or to write a letter or, you know, just immerse myself in that, more so than my own life.'
David's experience is not uncommon for the loved ones of victims in capital cases. Her story illustrates the long road Idaho prosecutors say they wanted to spare the families of four University of Idaho students killed in November 2022 by agreeing to a plea deal that would see the confessed killer avoid a possible death sentence.
Instead, Bryan Kohberger will be sentenced this week to life in prison without parole, and he'll forfeit his right to appeal.
The agreement received mixed reactions from the families of Ethan Chapin, Kaylee Goncalves, Xana Kernodle and Madison Mogen. The fathers of Goncalves and Kernodle expressed anger, criticizing prosecutors for not adequately consulting the families before agreeing to the deal.
'We'll never see this as justice,' Steve Goncalves told CNN's Jim Sciutto.
Others voiced acceptance, saying they were relieved to avoid a drawn-out trial and the possibility of a yearslong appeals process.
The Chapin family's 'initial response was, 'an eye for an eye,'' Ethan's mother told NBC's 'Today.'
'But we've spent a ton of time talking about it with prosecutors, and for us, we always felt like this was a better deal.'
This split highlights how the death penalty – and the possibility of it – affects victims' loved ones, often referred to as survivors or co-victims, in deeply personal ways. They are not a monolithic group; resolution can mean something different to each person.
'Every co-victim of murder is different in what their needs are and are going to be different in how they see those needs being met and are going to be different in how they see justice being served,' said Scott Vollum, a professor at the University of Minnesota Duluth who has studied violence, the death penalty and its effect on co-victims.
To try and determine if the death penalty helps or provides closure to co-victims writ large, he said, is a 'conclusion that denies some people the validity of how they feel.'
Had Kohberger gone to trial, there was no guarantee he would have been sentenced to death. If he were, it likely would have been years, even decades, before an execution – and even that would not be certain.
For victims' families, a death sentence is not the end of a journey but the beginning of one. While some may find solace in the end, for many – even those who support the execution – the intervening years of appeals and uncertainty often reopen old wounds.
'It was difficult,' David told CNN several weeks after witnessing the execution of one of the men who killed her sister. 'It was a long road, hard road, sad road. Infuriating at times, because you just don't realize how long it's going to take.'
'You just don't realize 31 years is going to happen.'
Death penalty cases take a long time to conclude because of the finality of execution. Once put to death, an inmate can no longer appeal to remedy any errors in their case.
The appeals process following a death sentence is meant to be thorough, ensuring the defendant is truly guilty and deserving of the ultimate punishment, which is legal under federal law and in 27 states, though governors in four of those states have suspended executions.
That means victims' families often wait years to see an execution. As of 2024, an inmate spent an average of 269 months – more than 22 years – on death row awaiting execution, according to the Death Penalty Information Center.
'Many victims in death penalty cases describe getting victimized by the system,' said Samuel Newton, a law professor at the University of Idaho. He likened this appellate process to an 'emotional juggernaut' for survivors.
'We're talking eight, nine, 10, 12 legal proceedings that will take decades to resolve,' he told CNN.
Roger Turner waited two decades to see the man who killed his father, Henry Lee Turner, put to death. Even 10 years would have been too long, he said. 'That's additional suffering that does not need to happen.'
Turner had long ago forgiven the killer, citing his Christian faith. But he struggled with the case's repeated resurfacing, which forced Turner to relive the ordeal of his father's murder and the night in 2005 when his dad – a kind man who would lend a hand to anyone in need, including his killer – didn't meet him as expected.
'I'd kind of forget about him for a little while,' Turner said of the killer, 'and then, boom. It would come up in the news. It was always there.'
'I know that I can go on with my life,' he told CNN after witnessing the execution in June. 'But that still doesn't change the fact that I had to carry that burden for 20 years, in my mind and on my shoulders.'
An execution – or even a death sentence – is not a foregone conclusion, even in high-profile, notorious cases like the one in Idaho.
Anthony Montalto would have willingly waited and endured many appeals to see the man who murdered his daughter in the 2018 Parkland shooting executed, he said. Though the shooter pleaded guilty to murdering Gina – whom her father fondly remembers for her smile, her personality and her desire to help others – and 16 students and staff, the jury did not unanimously recommend the death penalty, resulting in a sentence of life without parole.
'Given the trade-off … I would have accepted that,' Montalto told CNN of the lengthy appeals process. 'When you lose a child, you think about her every day. There's no day that will ever be truly happy again after you have your daughter murdered.'
Even when imposed, a death sentence may not be carried out. Convictions or death sentences can be overturned during appeals, and some defendants may be spared from execution. A governor, for instance, might grant clemency, pause executions in their state or clear death row altogether.
A Death Penalty Information Center analysis of more than 9,700 death sentences found that fewer than one in six death sentences will lead to an execution. Additionally, at least 200 people since 1973 have been wrongfully convicted and sentenced to death before later being exonerated, according to DPIC – underscoring the importance of a thorough appeals process.
And it's always possible a defendant will die of other causes before entering the execution chamber. One of Carmen Gayheart's two killers died in prison two years ago 'without accountability,' David, her sister, said.
'That was really a sucker punch.'
After enduring all this, survivors may have the opportunity to witness an execution. But resolution is subjective, and whether the execution brings peace or comfort to a victim's loved one will vary from person to person.
The idea of 'closure,' however, is one Vollum believes is 'somewhat of a myth.'
'That word, 'closure,' even amongst co-victims, often gets rejected,' he said, even by those who desire an execution. 'Closure,' he believes, is an idea imposed on co-victims by politicians and policymakers, who have promised an execution will 'be a magical point of closure.'
But the loss of a loved one is never over, he said. Instead, co-victims will refer to an execution as the start of 'a new chapter,' or something that helps them 'turn a page, and maybe move on to a different stage in life.'
Not everyone feels that way. Some co-victims oppose executions, perhaps wanting the killer to live with their crimes, or hoping to later seek answers from the perpetrator, he said. Others who witness an execution, he said, may leave the death chamber dissatisfied, either because they don't feel resolution or because they feel the process focused on the offender rather than the victims.
'I think a lot of people are promised that this will somehow bring them some kind of catharsis or some kind of healing,' he said, 'and I think to some degree that's false hope for individuals who are experiencing a loss that isn't so easily remedied by another act of violence.'
'That's not to say,' he added, 'that there aren't co-victims that feel better having seen the offender that killed their loved one executed, whether seeing it directly or knowing that it happened.'
Maria David is one of them. Before the execution of her sister's surviving killer last month, she was skeptical it would bring her relief. But after she and 16 family members gathered to witness the execution, she felt differently.
It wasn't immediate, she said. But a couple of hours later, she and her family visited Carmen's grave, lighting candles in the dark. She felt a sense of peace. The next day, she looked out the window and saw a rainbow – a sign, she said, from Carmen.
'I do feel differently than I thought I would,' she said. 'I felt like, prior to that, it was just closing the legal chapter and that, of course, I'm never going to get over what happened to her.'
'But I do feel calm. I feel better. They're dead now,' she said. 'There is not another piece of paperwork that is going to come here regarding either one of them. That is a blessing in and of itself. And I do feel like I'm going to be more on a healing journey than anything else – focus more on myself, taking care of myself better and my family.'
CNN's Elizabeth Wolfe, Julia Vargas Jones and Norma Galeana contributed to this report.
Correction: An earlier version of this story misidentified the Florida city Maria David left following her sister's death. Her family moved away from Fort Lauderdale.