Breaking: Napolean Beazley Executed | Crime, Last Meal + Final Words | Death Row US Texas……

On May 28th, 2002, after spending 7 years on death row, Napoleon Beasley was executed by lethal injection at the Walls Unit in Huntsville, Texas. He was 25 years old. In this video, we will talk about what happened during those final 9 minutes, his powerful written statement that criticized the very system that was killing him, and the carjacking murder that made international headlines.

But to uncover the events of that fateful day and why Napoleon ended up being executed, we have to go back to April 19th, 1994 and a quiet driveway in Tyler, Texas where a 17-year-old senior class president shot a man twice in the head to steal his Mercedes. And that man just happened to be the father of one of the most powerful federal judges in America.

April 19th, 1994, around 9:00 in the evening. John Luttig, a 63-year-old businessman, and his wife, Bobby, were driving home from Bible study in Tyler, Texas. They had been married for decades. John was a successful oilman, a civic leader, a respected member of the community. Their cream-colored 1987 Mercedes-Benz pulled into the driveway of their home in an affluent Tyler neighborhood.

 John pressed the garage door opener. The door lifted. He pulled inside. Neither John nor Bobby noticed the car that had followed them home. As John stepped out of the Mercedes, a figure emerged from the shadows. A young man, shirtless, running up the driveway with a .45 caliber pistol in his hand. Before John could react, the young man grabbed him and threw him to the ground.

Then he pointed the gun at John’s head and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through John Luttig’s skull, but he didn’t die. Not yet. He lay on the garage floor, stunned, bleeding, still alive. Bobby Luttig was getting out of the passenger side when the gunman ran around the car. He pointed the weapon at her face from close range and fired.

 He missed. Bobby fell to the ground anyway. She lay perfectly still. She held her breath. She played dead. It was the only thing that saved her life. The gunman turned back to John. He walked over to where the 63-year-old man lay bleeding on the concrete. John was still alive, still conscious, looking up at the young man who had just shot him.

The gunman raised his pistol and fired again, point-blank, into John Luttig’s head. This time, the bullet was fatal. The killer began searching John’s pockets. He needed the keys to the Mercedes. That’s what this was all about. A car, a status symbol, something to show off. While he searched, he called out to one of his accomplices, a young man named Donald Coleman, who was standing nearby with a sawed-off shotgun.

“Is she dead?” the killer asked, gesturing toward Bobby. Donald looked at the woman lying motionless on the ground. “She’s still moving,” he said. “Shoot her,” the killer ordered. Donald refused. The killer started walking around the car to finish the job himself, but Donald quickly changed his answer. “She’s dead,” he said.

 “She’s not moving anymore.” The killer found the keys in John’s pocket. He stepped through a pool of the dead man’s blood to get to the driver’s seat. He climbed into the Mercedes and backed out of the garage, but he hit a retaining wall. The car was damaged. He drove it a short distance down the street and abandoned it.

Then he got back into his mother’s car, where his two accomplices were waiting, and they drove 60 miles back home to the small town of Grapeland. The killer’s name was Napoleon Beasley. He was 17 years old. He was the president of his senior class, and he had just committed cold-blooded murder. Bobby Luttig waited until she was certain the killers were gone.

Then she ran to call for help. Her husband was dead in the garage, shot twice in the head, his blood pooling on the concrete floor. Tyler police arrived within minutes. They found John Luttig’s body. They found the abandoned Mercedes a short distance away. They began collecting evidence, shell casings, fingerprints, anything that could lead them to the killers.

But this was not just any murder case. John Luttig was the father of J. Michael Luttig. And J. Michael Luttig was a federal judge on the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals, one of the most powerful appellate courts in America. Judge Luttig had clerked for Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia. He had helped shepherd Clarence Thomas through his confirmation hearings.

 He was on the short list to become a Supreme Court Justice himself someday. Now, his father was dead, murdered in his own driveway for a car. The investigation would be relentless. The FBI got involved, and it wouldn’t take long to find the killers. Napoleon Beasley was not your typical murderer. On the surface, he was the all-American kid.

 He was born on August 5th, 1976 in the small East Texas town of Grapeland, population 1,451, a quiet place with one blinking yellow light, a few mom-and-pop stores, and a farmers co-op where generations of families had made their living raising peanuts and cotton. Napoleon’s family was prominent in the community. His father, Ireland Beasley, worked as a line supervisor at a local steel mill.

He was also Grapeland’s first black city councilman. His mother, Rena Beasley, was the first black teller at Grapeland State Bank. The Beasleys lived in a tidy brick house in a section of town called The Quarters. They went to church every Sunday. They raised their children with discipline and high expectations, and Napoleon exceeded all of them.

He was a star athlete, starting running back for the Grapeland High School Sandies football team. He ran the 440-yard relay on the track team. He was on the debate team. Articulate, charismatic, quick with a smile that could light up a room. Napoleon was elected president of his senior class.

 He was voted runner-up for Mr. Grapeland High School. He was an honor student with dreams of attending Stanford Law School. He didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. He went to church on Sunday. But beneath the surface, Napoleon Beasley was living a double life. It started with his cousin, Danny. When Napoleon was 13, Danny came back to Grapeland driving a tricked-out Cadillac, gold chains around his neck, money in his pockets, respect in the streets. Napoleon wanted that.

 He wanted the status, the admiration, the proof that he had made it. So he started dealing crack cocaine. He never got caught. His parents had him tested for drugs twice, but the results came back negative. They had no idea their son was selling poison in the streets. Napoleon also started carrying a gun, a Haskell .

45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. He tucked it into his jeans and walked around Grapeland like he was untouchable. He became close friends with Cedric Coleman and his younger brother, Donald, nicknamed Fig. Cedric had been a football star, too, but injuries and bad grades had derailed his dreams. He dropped out of Navarro College in Corsicana and came back to Grapeland, deflated and directionless.

 Napoleon and Cedric bonded over their frustrations. They talked about making money, about getting ahead, about taking what they wanted. One day, Cedric mentioned a drug dealer he knew in Palestine who had carjacked a Mercedes. Cedric proposed they do the same. “You down with that?” Cedric asked. Napoleon, the senior class president, the honor student, the kid who was supposed to make something of himself, answered without hesitation, “I’m down with that.

” April 18th, 1994, the night before the murder, Napoleon, Cedric, and Donald drove from Grapeland to Corsicana. Cedric had plans to meet some girls at a college there, but Napoleon had other plans. He brought his .45 caliber pistol on the trip. He kept looking at cars on the campus, asking Cedric when the students would return to their dorms.

Later that night, Napoleon said he wanted to go to Dallas to steal a car. Cedric talked him out of it. They went home instead. But Napoleon wasn’t done. He told a friend the next day that he might soon be driving a Mercedes to school. That evening, April 19th, 1994, Napoleon came home from track practice. He showered.

 He changed into a fresh pair of blue jeans. He loaded his .45 caliber pistol and tucked it into his waistband. He grabbed a sawed-off shotgun for good measure. Then he borrowed his and picked up Cedric and Donald Coleman. They drove to Corsicana first, then to Tyler. Napoleon was hunting for a Mercedes. In Tyler, Napoleon spotted a Lexus.

 He told Cedric to follow it. They did, but they lost sight of the car. Napoleon was angry. Later, they stopped near a restaurant. Napoleon saw a Mercedes in the parking lot. He jumped out of the car with his pistol and approached the driver, but the driver went into the restaurant before Napoleon could reach him.

The man apparently never even noticed the armed teenager coming toward him. Napoleon got back in the car. According to trial testimony, he told Cedric he wanted to go back and shoot the driver and steal the Mercedes anyway. Cedric refused to drive. “You want to do it? You drive.” Cedric said. So, Napoleon took the wheel.

As they drove through Tyler, Napoleon spotted another Mercedes, a cream-colored 1987 model. He followed it through the streets, through the neighborhoods, until it pulled into the driveway of a nice home. Napoleon parked the car. He stripped off his shirt. He grabbed his .45 and he walked up that driveway to commit murder.

The killing took less than 2 minutes. John Ludig was dead. Bobby Ludig had survived by playing dead. And Napoleon Beasley drove away in a stolen Mercedes that he crashed into a wall and abandoned. For the next 6 weeks, Napoleon went back to his normal life. He graduated from Grapeland High School with honors.

 He was set to leave for the Marines in 1 week, planning to attend college on the GI Bill. But on June 6th, 1994, a Crime Stoppers tip sent FBI agents racing from Tyler to Grapeland. The Colemans were arrested first. After a lengthy interrogation, both brothers gave statements implicating Napoleon as the shooter.

Near midnight, FBI agents arrived at Napoleon’s grandmother’s house. Napoleon’s father, Ireland, was there. He watched in disbelief as agents read his son his rights. Ireland followed the convoy of police cruisers down the dark country roads to Tyler. His son was in one car, the Coleman brothers in the others.

Ireland’s world was collapsing. Later, Ireland asked his son directly, “Did you do it?” Napoleon said yes. He later described the carjacking and murder to investigators. He called it a trip. Napoleon Beasley’s trial began on January 26th, 1995 in Smith County, Texas. He was charged with capital murder for killing John Ludig during a robbery.

The prosecution was led by District Attorney Jack Skeen. The evidence against Napoleon was overwhelming. Bobby Ludig testified. She described hiding on the ground while her husband was executed. She described the gunman ordering his accomplice to shoot her. She described the terror of those moments.

 The Coleman brothers testified against Napoleon. They confirmed he was the shooter. They said Napoleon had expressed a desire to “See what it’s like to kill somebody” before that night. Ballistics matched the shell casings to Napoleon’s .45 caliber pistol. Fingerprints placed him at the scene. His own admissions sealed his fate. On March 13th, 1995, the jury found Napoleon Beasley guilty of capital murder, but the trial was not without controversy.

Napoleon was black. John Ludig was white. The jury was all white. Defense attorneys would later argue that racial bias infected the proceedings. One juror allegedly said, “The N-word got what he deserved.” Another juror was a member of the United Daughters of the Confederacy. None of it mattered in the end. On March 17th, 1995, the jury sentenced Napoleon Beasley to death.

 He was 18 years old. Napoleon Beasley was sent to death row at the Ellis Unit in Huntsville, Texas. He would spend the next 7 years waiting to die. During that time, something changed in Napoleon. He began to reflect on what he had done. He educated himself. He wrote letters. He expressed remorse. He publicly apologized to the Ludig family.

He said there was no excuse for what he had done. He acknowledged that he alone was responsible for his actions. But he also began to question whether he deserved to die for a crime he committed at 17. Napoleon’s case attracted international attention, not because of his guilt. No one disputed that he killed John Ludig.

The attention came because of his age. At the time of the murder, Napoleon was 3 and 1/2 months shy of his 18th birthday. He was too young to vote, too young to drink, too young to serve on a jury, but not too young to be executed by the state of Texas. Amnesty International took up his cause. The European Union condemned the execution of juvenile offenders.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu wrote to the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles saying he was astounded that Texas takes children from their families and executes them. Even the District Attorney of Houston County, whose jurisdiction included Grapeland, called for clemency. The man who prosecuted criminals for a living said Napoleon Beasley should not be executed. But Texas was unmoved.

Napoleon’s execution was originally scheduled for August 15th, 2001. But his case had a unique complication. John Ludig’s son, Judge J. Michael Ludig, was one of the most connected jurists in America. He had clerked for Justice Antonin Scalia. He had helped confirm Justices David Souter and Clarence Thomas. When Napoleon’s appeals reached the Supreme Court, three justices had to recuse themselves.

Scalia recused because Ludig had clerked for him. Thomas and Souter recused because Ludig had been involved in their confirmations. That left only six justices to decide Napoleon’s fate. On August 13th, 2001, the Supreme Court voted three to three on Napoleon’s request for a stay of execution. The tie meant the lower court’s decision stood.

 Napoleon’s appeal was effectively denied. But on the morning of August 15th, hours before he was scheduled to die, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals granted a stay. Napoleon was spared. For 9 months, he waited. His attorneys filed more appeals. They argued that executing juvenile offenders violated international law. They argued that the all-white jury was tainted by racial bias.

They argued that Napoleon had been transformed during his years on death row. On April 17th, 2002, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals lifted the stay. Napoleon’s execution was rescheduled for May 28th, 2002. This time, there would be no reprieve. May 28th, 2002. Napoleon Beasley’s final day. He sat in a windowless cell in the death house at the Walls Unit in Huntsville.

Outside, a light rain had begun to fall. Protesters gathered by the police barricades, holding signs with smeared ink. Some chanted. Some prayed. Napoleon spent his final hours writing. He composed a statement to be released after his death. He would not speak from the gurney. He believed that last-minute contrition would be viewed as cynical, like a jailhouse conversion.

Days earlier, he had said goodbye to his family, his parents, Ireland and Rena, his sister, Maria, his younger brother, Jamal, who was about to graduate from Grapeland High School with honors, just as Napoleon had 8 years before. For the first time in 7 years, they were allowed to touch him, a contact visit. They held their son. They wept.

 They prayed. That morning, the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles voted 10 to 7 against commuting Napoleon’s sentence to life in prison. They voted 13 to 4 against granting a reprieve. Governor Rick Perry declined to intervene. “To delay his punishment would be to delay justice.” Perry said. At the Supreme Court, Napoleon’s final appeal was rejected 6-0.

There was nothing left to do but die. At 6:15 p.m., Napoleon Beasley was led into the execution chamber. He was dressed in prison whites, covered with a white sheet that partially hid the straps holding him to to gurney. The witnesses were assembled. On one side, Napoleon’s family and supporters. On the other, members of the Luttig family, including Suzanne Luttig, the victim’s daughter.

The warden asked Napoleon if he had any final words. Napoleon turned his head. He looked at Suzanne Luttig for a few long seconds, the daughter of the man he had killed. Their eyes met. Then Napoleon shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. He turned away and faced the ceiling. The lethal injection began.

 Sodium thiopental to render him unconscious. Pancuronium bromide to paralyze his muscles. Potassium chloride to stop his heart. 9 minutes later at 6:17 p.m., Napoleon Beazley was pronounced dead. He was 25 years old. He had been on death row for 7 years. He was the 18th juvenile offender executed in America since the death penalty was reinstated in 1976.

He was the 11th in Texas alone. After the execution, prison officials released Napoleon’s written statement, the words he had composed in his final hours. “The act I committed to put me here was not just heinous. It was senseless,” Napoleon wrote. “But the person that committed that act is no longer here. I am.

I’m not going to struggle physically against any restraints. I’m not going to shout, use profanity, or make idle threats. Understand though that I’m not only upset, but I’m saddened by what is happening here tonight. I’m not only saddened, but disappointed that a system that is supposed to protect and uphold what is just and right can be so much like me when I made the same shameful mistake.

If someone tried to dispose of everyone here for participating in this killing, I’d scream a resounding no. I’d tell them to give them all the gift that they would not give me. And that’s to give them all a second chance. I’m sorry that I am here. I’m sorry that you’re all here. I’m sorry that John Luttig died.

And I’m sorry that it was something in me that caused all of this to happen to begin with. Tonight, we tell the world that there are no second chances in the eyes of justice. Tonight, we tell our children that in some instances, in some cases, killing is right. This is a very sad night for all of us.” 3 years after Napoleon Beazley’s execution, the Supreme Court handed down a landmark ruling.

 In Roper versus Simmons, the court declared that executing juvenile offenders was unconstitutional, cruel and unusual punishment under the 8th Amendment. The vote was 5-4. If that ruling had come 3 years earlier, Napoleon Beazley would have been spared. His attorney, Walter Long, later reflected on the timing. “Napoleon considered it his calling to demonstrate the possibility of rehabilitation in a youthful offender,” Long said.

The court’s decision was a victory in that regard. Napoleon’s parents took some comfort in the ruling. Their son had fought for the principle that children could be redeemed, that juveniles deserved a second chance, that death was not the answer. In the end, Napoleon lost his own battle, but others would live because of the fight he waged.

 The case of Napoleon Beazley is a study in contradictions. A young man with everything going for him who threw it all away for a car. A cold-blooded killer who transformed himself on death row. A juvenile offender executed for a crime committed at 17. A family destroyed by violence and another family destroyed by the state’s response to it.

 John Luttig was 63 years old when he died. A successful businessman, a loving husband and father. A man who had done nothing wrong except pull into his own driveway on a Tuesday night. He deserved better. His family deserved justice. But what is justice? Is it killing a 25-year-old man for something he did at 17? Is it executing someone who has demonstrably changed, who has expressed genuine remorse, who might have contributed something positive to the world if given the chance? Napoleon Beazley asked those questions in his final statement.

He didn’t claim innocence. He didn’t ask for pity. He simply wondered whether the system that killed him was any better than he had been when he killed John Luttig. “A system that is supposed to protect and uphold what is just and right can be so much like me when I made the same shameful mistake.” Those words hang in the air.

 They have no easy answer. Today, the Luttig family has moved on as best they can. Judge J. Michael Luttig continued his distinguished legal career, eventually becoming general counsel for Boeing. He has spoken publicly about his father’s murder and his support for the death penalty in Napoleon’s case. The Beazley family buried their eldest son 2 days after his execution.

More than 700 people attended the funeral at Mount Zion Baptist Church in Grapeland. The day before, they had celebrated as Jamal, Napoleon’s younger brother, graduated from Grapeland High School with honors. One son in a cap and gown, the other in a casket. Cedric and Donald Coleman, Napoleon’s accomplices, received life sentences.

 They avoided the death penalty by testifying against their friend. They are still in prison today. And in Grapeland, Texas, the small town with one blinking yellow light, people still remember Napoleon Beazley, the star athlete, the class president, the kid who had everything and threw it all away. The execution of Napoleon Beazley was not the end of the story.

 It was part of a larger national conversation about juvenile justice, about the death penalty, about whether people can change. 3 years after Napoleon died, the Supreme Court answered one of those questions. Juveniles cannot be executed. The Constitution forbids it. But that ruling came too late for Napoleon. Too late for the 21 other juvenile offenders executed in America between 1976 and 2005.

Too late for all the families torn apart by crimes committed by children who were then killed by the state. Napoleon Beazley knew he was going to die. He accepted it. But he wanted his death to mean something. “Tonight, we tell our children that in some instances, in some cases, killing is right,” he wrote. Maybe he was wrong.

 Maybe justice demanded his life. Maybe some crimes are so terrible that death is the only appropriate punishment. Or maybe Napoleon Beazley was right. Maybe a system that kills to prove that killing is wrong has already lost its way. That’s the question his case leaves behind. And it’s a question that has no easy answer. Rest in peace, John Luttig.

Rest in peace, Napoleon Beazley. Two lives cut short, one by murder, one by execution, neither forgotten. If you made it to the end of this video, thank you for watching. This is True Crime Matters, and these stories matter. Subscribe if you haven’t already, and I’ll see you in the next one.