Killer's life, reporter's story end on Death Row

Twenty-five years after standing in the woods where state wildlife officer Peggy Park died, reporting on the manhunt for her killer, I walked through the first of many gates at the Florida State Prison that would lead directly to him.

Martin Grossman was 19 when he murdered Park. I wasn't a great deal older. It was shocking then, and it is shocking now a quarter-century after that crime faded into countless others across the Tampa Bay area.

It is 5:07 p.m. when I step through the first steel gates of the Florida State Prison near Starke, and the details of that murder are once again front and center.

On the way to Starke I received a call from a man who said he is a rabbi phoning me from Jerusalem. The Holy Land. He read my story about Grossman's impending execution on the Internet. He wants to know if I think Grossman will actually die today. I can't say. Privately, though, I suspect he will.

Department of Corrections handlers escort our troupe of seven reporters through five steel gates and a magnetometer to reach a break room where we pause to use the bathroom, then receive a briefing on Grossman's last visitors. His final routine. His state of mind: resigned to die.

At 5:42 we are moving again, past the death row cells where Grossman has spent his last 25 years housed with some of the most dangerous criminals in Florida. The halls are quiet, wide and bright. Three more gates and we are exiting the back door of the main prison building, walking down a long concrete ramp and climbing into the same van that dropped us off at the front gate what seems like an eternity ago.

Three minutes later we walk into a small room, 15 feet by 12, filled with 40 padded fold-up chairs facing a large picture window. It is now 5:45. There are 26 people in this tiny room and there is room for more. Martin Grossman has little more than 30 minutes left to live, but we have yet to catch a glimpse of him.

The reporters are told to fill the back row. There are four rows with ten seats each. The other witnesses are already seated. A serious-looking man in front of me turns around with a double take. He probably recognizes me from a recent court hearing in which he pleaded passionately to spare Grossman's life. The judge said no.

There is nothing to do for 15 minutes except measure the room with my eyes and size up the witnesses - victim's relatives on the front row flanked on one end by a rabbi, and on the other by four witnesses I presume are wildlife officers. A few people whisper. Most are silent.

At precisely 6:00 - the appointed time of Grossman's execution - the brown curtain behind a 9-foot-wide picture window in front of us mechanically rolls up. The faint reflections of the witnesses' faces in that window are replaced by brighter ones in the one-way mirror of the death chamber.

Behind that glass are two executioners and Martin Grossman, who is strapped to a gurney and covered by a white sheet. His feet are facing us. His wrists are lashed to boards, his hands covered with white cloth. His eyes are glassy and focused on the ceiling above him.

A warden is speaking to someone on the white wall phone next to him, but we can't hear because it's soundproof and the speakers are off. Martin Grossman now has minutes to live.

At 6:01, the warden asks Grossman if he has a final statement. We can hear this because the speakers are now on. Everyone leans forward when Grossman says yes. Someone turns off the window air conditioner so we can hear better. We only get one shot.

He must have practiced this because his speech is steady and unwavering. Rushed, but clear. He's sorry. He apologizes to the victim's family sitting almost at his feet. He recites a Jewish prayer.

It is now 6:02, and the execution begins.

It only takes a moment before Grossman closes his eyes. The first chemical is an anesthetic that renders him unconscious. It may be the best sleep he has had in 25 years. Only he knows.

At 6:04 he twitches. His breathing is heavy, his chest moves slowly under the sheet.

Three minutes pass before the warden leans forward for a "consciousness check". At 6:07 he brushes Grossman's eyelash with his finger. He shakes his shoulders abruptly. No response. Time for the second chemical. He signals the executioner with a nod and a paralyzing drug begins coursing through his veins. This will stop his breathing.

By 6:09, there is no discernible breathing. His jailhouse pallor seems to turn even whiter. Minutes pass in silence. No one moves. No one talks. The warden keeps leaning forward to check the IV lines in Grossman's right arm. If the lines clog they will switch to the left arm where more lines are already in place.

Another man in the death chamber - a special agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement - has been steadily taking notes. At 6:16, the warden turns to the mirrored glass behind the death chamber and nods. A doctor emerges from behind a brown curtain with a stethoscope in hand.

At 6:17 p.m., the doctor confirms the chemicals have done their job. The warden announces that the death sentence given to Martin Grossman on December 13, 1985 - one year to the day after he killed Peggy Park - is now complete. The brown curtain rolls down the picture window. Martin Grossman is dead.

At 6:18, the official witnesses in the front two rows file out. Park's 79-year-old mother, who sat impassively staring at Martin Grossman during the entire process, leans on the arm of her son, Stephen. She is smiling as she walks out the door.

At 6:20, the reporters, who've been asked to wait behind, begin comparing notes about Grossman's final words. Refining for each other precisely what he said. Everyone reaches consensus.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. Getting out of this prison seems much easier than entering it.

It's now 6:30. It has taken me 10 minutes to leave the confines of one of Florida's highest security prisons. It took Martin Grossman 25 years. We exit through different doors.