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Governor Kay Ivey and Attorney General Steve Marshall have long stood together on matters of law and order, but when faced with the life of a man who may be innocent, their paths sharply diverged. Ivey, a steadfast supporter of capital punishment, did something extraordinary—she stopped an execution. She commuted the death sentence of Robin “Rocky” Myers, acknowledging the troubling doubts surrounding his conviction. It was a rare moment of conscience from a governor who has overseen 22 executions.
Marshall, consumed by his own brand of cruelty, responded with outrage—not at the idea that Alabama nearly executed a possibly innocent man, but that Ivey had the audacity to act without consulting him. His reaction was not that of a man seeking justice, but of one bitterly clinging to the power to kill. “I am astonished by Governor Ivey’s decision to commute the death sentence of Rocky Myers and am bewildered that she chose not to directly communicate with me about this case or her decision,” he fumed. Astonished that a governor would show mercy? Bewildered that she didn’t seek his approval before doing the right thing? This is a man who values his own authority over human life.
Marshall’s thirst for execution is well documented. Under his leadership, Alabama has pushed the boundaries of human decency, botching lethal injections, pioneering an untested execution method using nitrogen gas, and even allegedly authorizing the killing of an unconscious man—an act that, if true, would be illegal under the state’s own rules. He has not only defended these brutal practices but reveled in them, dismissing concerns about fairness, due process, and basic human dignity. He did not care about doubt. He did not care about fairness. He cared only about power.
No physical evidence linked Myers to the 1991 murder of Ludie Mae Tucker. The jury, by an 8-4 vote, recommended a life sentence. A judge ignored them and imposed death instead—a practice so egregious Alabama later banned it. And yet, that is what Marshall still defends. One juror later admitted, “I know he is innocent. They never proved he did it. They never proved he was in the house.” But Alabama was prepared to kill him anyway.
Worse still, Myers has an intellectual disability, a fact that alone should have disqualified him from execution under federal law. His IQ scores ranged from 64 to 73, marking him as a person with significant cognitive impairment. His attorneys pointed this out repeatedly, but the state never cared. “For those who support the death penalty, Rocky Myers’ case should give you pause,” his attorney Kacey Keeton said. “I believe, without reservation, that Rocky Myers did not commit a murder, but you don’t have to agree with me on that to believe that the death penalty is not appropriate in this case.”
Governor Ivey, for all her previous deference to Alabama’s execution machinery, took a stand when it mattered most. “I have enough questions about Mr. Myers’ guilt that I cannot move forward with executing him,” she said. That statement acknowledges a fundamental truth—when there is doubt, when a life hangs in the balance, the state has an obligation to show restraint. “In short, I am not convinced that Mr. Myers is innocent, but I am not so convinced of his guilt as to approve of his execution.” She recognized what too many in power refuse to admit: the justice system gets things wrong.
For Marshall, restraint is weakness. His rage over Ivey’s decision reveals a man who sees capital punishment not as a last resort, but as a political weapon and a personal crusade. His fury was not about justice; it was about power.
Alabama has long been at the forefront of executions in America, even as much of the world has abandoned the practice. The state’s commitment to death is so extreme that it has resorted to using nitrogen hypoxia, an execution method so experimental that no other democracy has dared attempt it. Pharmaceutical companies refuse to supply lethal injection drugs, unwilling to be complicit in state-sponsored killing. Alabama’s solution? Find another way to kill.
This is the legacy Marshall defends—one of botched executions, cruelty disguised as justice, and a disregard for human life that should alarm anyone who still believes in fairness. The case of Doyle Hamm, whose botched execution attempt in 2018 amounted to torture, should have been a clarion call for reform. Yet, figures like Marshall persist in their bloodlust, indifferent to the profound ethical implications.
Most of the civilized world has abandoned state-sponsored killing. They recognize what Alabama refuses to: a system that demands perfection but delivers human error is a system that cannot be trusted to decide who lives and who dies.
A government that embraces vengeance over justice is one that betrays its own people. The execution of an innocent person is not just a tragedy—it is an unforgivable crime, one that cannot be undone. Ivey understood this, in this one case. Marshall did not. And a man who delights in the power to kill should never be trusted with it.
