The remainder of the panting troops, unable to see the one thing they're there to cover, will simply coast on the gassy fumes of hyperbole, trying to earn their keep reporting on a seven-minute 7 a.m. event with an inevitable outcome and zero visuals. McVeigh, a man of few words, will have his final ones parsed for meaning. I am the master of my fate Captain of my soul. Executions do not bring out the best in journalists, even ones with a view. Time has not improved matters.
Revenge is an unfulfilling way to mete out justice.
The government, federal or state, should not be in the business of killing killers, turning the event into a sideshow. From all appearances, this execution will please McVeigh, who has aspired to martyrdom from the start. He's having it his way, down to the last repast, exiting in a hail of fervid verbs. The public will be spared witnessing the execution, but not those most affected by the tragedy. After intense lobbying from 100 survivors and victims' relatives, Attorney General John Ashcroft determined that watching the agent of their sorrow die would help them achieve closure.