Timothy McVeigh and the Myth of Closure

The families of his victims were allowed to watch him die, but in the years that passed, many were left without a sense of finality. A new book follows these people, searching for an answer to a powerful question: When does a tragedy end? 

mvvictims.JPGShari Sawyer, right, wipes a tear as she leans on the shoulder of her husband, Jay, after witnessing the execution of Timothy McVeigh. (AP)


Eleven years ago today-- on June 11, 2001-- Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh was executed by lethal injection at the federal death chamber in Terre Haute, Indiana. He died with his eyes open, it was reported, staring up at the closed-circuit camera that was beaming his execution back to Oklahoma. Four years earlier, almost to the day, a federal jury in Denver, Colorado, had sentenced him to death for the murder of 168 people, killed in a truck bomb blast at the Alfred P. Murrah federal building on April 19, 1995.

When the death sentence was revealed on June 13, 1997, The Denver Post reported at the time, there was little of the public cheering that had accompanied the jury's first verdict. Then, there had been a measure of jubilation on the streets outside the courthouse in downtown Denver. This time, on Friday the 13th, there was mostly just a sense of relief. "I'm glad it's complete," juror David Gilger said. "I hope it brings a sense of closure to everyone."

Closure. To many it is just another "made-up word. A politician's word," a word that has proven, unsurprisingly, to be wholly inadequate to describe the range of emotions, often raw and conflicting, of any particular person's grieving process. Then again, many others evidently still swear by it. Search "'victims' rights' and closure" on Google and it comes back with 1,770,000 results.

Closure is acceptance of the unacceptable. Closure is perspective.

No surprise. Fifteen years ago, especially, the word had great political relevance. The concept of "victims' rights" was just then broadening its impact upon the criminal justice system, fueled by a United States Supreme Court decision styled Payne v. Tennessee. The 1991 ruling, written by Chief Justice William Rehnquist, held that a capital defendant had no Eighth Amendment right to be free from a sentencing trial which included "victim impact" statements.

After Payne came O.J. And then after that came McVeigh. It was in the name of justice, and closure, that the thousands of victims of the Oklahoma City bombing exerted remarkable political power to achieve their goals. The biggest example of their success was the swift, bipartisan passage of the 1996 Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act, an extraordinary statute that has influenced hundreds of murder cases -- and much of our legal war on terrorism -- ever since.

The new law guaranteed that McVeigh (and every other subsequent capital defendant) would get fewer appeal rights. And for the first time ever it opened up federal courtrooms to closed-circuit off-site viewing so that victims of the bombing could watch the trial at home in Oklahoma. Whether McVeigh's victims were seeking justice or closure or something far different from his trial, they had at least fought for the right to see it with their own eyes.


Out of this curious history comes Killing McVeigh: The Death Penalty and the Myth of Closure, a timely new book by Indiana University School of Law associate professor Jody Lynee Madeira. In it, Madeira asks a question most of us have asked at one time or another in our lives: "What is closure? Does it exist? If so, where and for whom. If not, why?" She then tries to answer those questions, often laboriously, using the bombing trial survivors as her control group. Here's her main takeaway:

Closure as I have come to see it is a phenomenon that is entirely unlike the rudimentary concept currently bandied about in popular culture. It is so radically different that we gut the concept in its entirety in order to redefine it, keeping only the semantic framework that points us to certain contexts in which we can appropriately apply the term (emphasis in original).

I take it that by "semantic framework," she means the seven letters that make up the word "closure." The word is a code, a totem, purposely left ambiguous to permit it to be interpreted differently depending upon the person, the victim, who is contemplating both its scope and its limitations. Madeira next tells us what her vision of closure is not. She writes:

First, closure is most affirmatively not what contemporary culture says it is -- absolute finality, in the sense of such colloquial phrases as "over and done with," "dealt with," "put behind one's self," "let bygones be bygones," "forgive and forget." Closure is not a state of being, a quality, or even a realization. If closure exists at all, it must be as a process, a recursive series of adjustments that a self makes in response to external, often institutional developments.

This "process" of closure, she writes, at least in the context of the Oklahoma City bombing:

is actually "memory work"-- an interactive process by which individual family members and survivors construct meaningful narratives of the bombing, its impact on their lives, and how they have dealt with, adjusted to, or healed from this event.

The goal, she writes further, is a level of personal emotional control:

At some point in our constant procession through response and readjustment, we come to a state of awareness that can conclude an event in our lives. This point marks are awareness of an ongoing stasis and is an ending of sorts, even if it is not a "happy" one, even if sorrow, anger, trauma persist. From this perspective, one's ability to state that there is no closure is itself a closure.

Got that? Closure is acceptance of the unacceptable. Closure is perspective. Closure promises nothing and guarantees even less. And it means so many different things in so many different contexts that it is not hard to argue that the word itself, at least, means nothing at all. People deal with their grief. They deal with sudden death. They deal with the awful effects of violent crime and mass murder. Some deal "better" than others. And some deal not at all. Whatever all of this pain and contemplation ought to be called, all of its was plainly evident from the comments made to Madeira by the bombing trial victims.

Presented by

Andrew Cohen is a contributing editor at The Atlantic. He is a legal analyst for 60 Minutes and CBS Radio News, a fellow at the Brennan Center for Justice, and Commentary Editor at The Marshall Project

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