Their Dads Were on Death Row in Missouri. Here’s How They Faced Goodbyes, Executions and Grief.

Editor’s Note: Lance Shockley is scheduled to be executed at 6 p.m. Central time at Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center in Bonne Terre, Missouri. This story will be updated after that time.

For Father’s Day, Summer Shockley drove 60 or so miles from her home in Rolla through central Missouri to see her dad at Potosi Correctional Center.

Lance Shockley, 48, was convicted by a jury for the 2005 murder of Missouri Highway Patrol Sgt. Carl Dewayne Graham Jr. A judge sentenced him to death in 2009.

That day in June, Summer and several other family members were invited inside the prison for a restoration visit, where families were given unusual access to the facility.

They ate lunch and played pickleball. Later, the family clasped hands and prayed in a circle.

“It was just a really, really neat day,” said Summer, 27.

Deep down, though, she felt uneasy the entire time. Less than 30 minutes into her drive home, her dad called. He’d been given an execution date. It is set for 6 p.m. Central time today.

The experiences of children with parents on death row are often forgotten when it comes to capital punishment. There are few services for them, as they are not generally seen as victims. No organization tracks information on this particular group. Of the past 10 people who have faced execution in Missouri, at least six had children.

Survivors who shared their stories described depression and grief they say could have been avoided, along with complicated feelings about the meaning of justice.

“When we talk about the collateral consequences of using the death penalty, they should be included in that count,” said Robin Maher, executive director of the Death Penalty Information Center.

The impact Maher describes isn’t theoretical. Summer Shockley said she has lived it.

Summer said it was difficult as a child when kids heard about the killing and asked her about it. She credits her mom, who had split with Lance Shockley years before, for encouraging her and her younger sister to see him. They regularly went to Potosi.

“He just always told us how much he loved us and cared about us and how thankful he was that we could visit him and talk to him,” she said.

They bonded over their faith in God. Over the past seven years, that faith has grown even stronger as Shockley became a leader in a prison ministry program. His awakening has transformed both sides of her family, she said, allowing them to be brought to Jesus and overcome generational challenges like alcohol and divorce.

Now married and the head softball coach at Missouri University of Science and Technology, Summer has had time to think about the likely outcome of their relationship, especially as her father’s appeals waned.

Confronted with the actual date, Summer said she’s been “living in grief prior to something tragic happening.” She’s made space to sit and let her emotions out.

For months, she held onto hope that the execution would be called off. Her father claims he's innocent and requested DNA testing on items found at the crime scene. Because this is the first execution under Missouri Gov. Mike Kehoe, anti-death penalty advocates also hoped the governor’s Catholic faith would influence his clemency decision. On Monday, Kehoe's office announced he would not grant clemency.

Summer and her sister say they will be at Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center in Bonne Terre today for the execution, despite their dad's initial reluctance.

While Summer is still holding onto hope of a last-minute reprieve, Marcellus “Sadir” Williams Jr. has already watched the process play out for his own father. In the months after Marcellus “Khaliifah” Williams Sr. was executed in 2024, the younger Williams said he sank into a deep depression.

The elder Williams was convicted in the 1998 murder of journalist Felicia Gayle in her University City home. He was sentenced to death in 2001.

The younger Williams said he often replayed the moment his father’s arm fell onto the gurney inside the chamber at Eastern Reception. The man who had once been his guide — the voice that talked him through matters of the heart and brain — was gone.

The execution was complicated by uncertainty. Officials with the prosecutor’s office who sent Williams Sr. to death row later tried to stop the execution because of questions about his guilt and a lack of DNA on the murder weapon. The victim's family opposed the death penalty. The state moved forward, anyway.

Williams Jr. said afterward, grief followed him everywhere. He often came across places in St. Louis that evoked memories of his dad, like the basketball courts at Walnut Park. He was negative and sometimes mean, he said. He didn’t seek professional help because of the cost, although he suspects he needed therapy even before the execution.

The After Violence Project, which addresses the impact of mass incarceration and the death penalty on families, trains therapists through its Access to Treatment Initiative. Susannah Sheffer, the initiative’s director, said family members often experience “disenfranchised grief,” a kind of mourning that isn’t recognized or publicly supported.

Rev. Jeff Hood, a spiritual adviser for men on death row, said children who are left behind face complicated emotions. Many families experience a disconnect until an execution date is set, prompting a rush to form a relationship.

Then, the parent dies.

In May, Williams Jr. was at a park with his 4-year-old son and found himself out of breath lifting the child onto a slide. After that, he began working out again. He knew he had to “shift out of it” for his son.

On New Year’s Day 2022, Khorry Ramey learned she was pregnant. Her father, Kevin Johnson, also called, warning that his life could soon end. She said she didn’t know how to process it.

That August, her aunt called to tell her an execution date had been set for Nov. 29.

“It was a reality check for me,” Ramey said. “Honestly, it was like, ‘This stuff still happens?’”

Johnson was sentenced to death in 2007 for the 2005 killing of Kirkwood Police Sgt. William McEntee.

Ramey had already known loss from a young age. Her father was arrested when she was 2, and her mother was murdered when she was 4.

She was only 19, but she wanted to attend the execution. State law required witnesses to be 21.

“I was like, if he was in a hospital bed, I’d be there by his side,” she said. “So it’s no different for me. It’s moreso like comforting my dad [in] his time of [need].

“And this is almost a closure for me as well.”

Johnson got to see his grandson several times, and even got to hold him once. Ramey’s last visit was the day of his execution. She had never seen him cry before then.

“He was just telling me how much he failed me as a father. The last memory I have of him is not what I want it to be.”

She tried therapy, but it wasn’t for her. Few understand what she’s been through, she said.

Although she learned at a young age what it was like to lose a parent, her dad’s death was harder. She grew up visiting him often, playing Connect 4 and Scrabble in the visitation room at Potosi. He got her report cards from school. They talked about everything.

When she’s in a dark place, Ramey said she focuses on her son.

She is also steadfast in her belief that the death penalty is not “the Christian way to go about things.” Since her father’s execution, she’s attended other execution watches.

The next one will take place today, for Summer Shockley’s father.