The Last Woman Executed in Alabama’s Electric Chair — Lynda Lyon Block’s Final Word Was “No”

May 10th, 2002, Atmore, Alabama, 12:01 in the morning. The room is dead quiet. A 54-year-old woman is strapped into an electric chair. A black hood covers her face. Her head has been shaved. The electrodes are in place. The chair has a name, Yellow Mama. Officials lean in and ask her one final question, does she have any last words? She answers with a single word, no.

 No tears, no shaking, no final plea, just a blank empty stare right up until the current hit. Her name was Linda Lyon Block. And on that morning, she became the first woman executed in the state of Alabama in 45 years. And the last person in all of America put to death by electrocution without being offered any other option. But here is the part that will keep you watching.

 This woman was not always a killer. She was a mother, a published writer, a community volunteer who once investigated animal abuse and ran her local library group. So what turned her into someone who shot a police officer in broad daylight? In a Walmart parking lot in front of dozens of witnesses. That answer is going to shock you. Before we talk about the woman in that electric chair, you need to know who she took from this world.

 His name was Sergeant Roger Lamar Motley Jr. He was 38 years old, a husband, a father of four, and a proud officer with the Opelika Police Department in Alabama. Roger did not start at the top. He worked his way up from walking a patrol beat to earning the role of supply sergeant. It was not a behind-the-desk job.

 He was still out in the field, still showing up, still doing the work. And the kind of man he was, you can measure that in one small moment from the morning of October 4th, 1993. A rookie officer needed a bulletproof vest. Roger gave his away without hesitation. He walked out of that station with no protection on his chest, no vest, nothing.

 That is just who Roger was. He went to Walmart that morning for one reason, to pick up supplies for the department, a simple errand, nothing dangerous, nothing unusual. Just another day on the job, he never made it back. A stranger in that parking lot flagged him down. She was worried about a young boy sitting alone in a parked car.

 Roger did not hesitate. He walked straight toward that car because that was exactly what a good officer does. He had spent years keeping other people safe. On that morning, he was trying to protect a child he had never met. That decision would be the last one he ever made. Now, let’s talk about the woman in that chair.

 Her full name was Linda Cherry Lyon. She was born on February 8th, 1948 in Orlando, Florida. Her childhood was not easy. When Linda was just 10 years old, her father, Francis Frank Lyon, died of heart failure. Just like that, he was gone. And the parent she was left with, Linda later claimed her mother, Bereline Elizabeth Owen, was both physically and mentally abusive.

 The two were never close, never warm, never the kind of mother and daughter you would hope for. So, Linda grew up largely on her own terms. As a teenager, she did not follow the crowd. While other kids were listening to rock and roll, she preferred classical music. While others watched television, she read books.

 She was sharp, independent, and she had very strong opinions about the world around her. As an adult, she built what looked like a remarkable life. She moved to Key West, Florida, and threw herself into the community. She served as secretary of the Humane Society and worked as an animal abuse investigator.

 She became president of the Friends of the Library, a position she held for 2 years. She volunteered as publicity director for a local mayoral candidate. She was even a Cub Scout mom. On the surface, this was a woman who cared deeply about her community. But beneath all of that, something else was growing. Linda published her own political magazine called Liberatis.

 And court records show that even while she was sitting on library boards and attending community meetings, the pages of that magazine were filled with increasingly hostile attacks on state and federal government. She did not just dislike the system. She believed it was corrupt to its core. In 1983, she married Carl Block, an 80-year-old military veteran who had already suffered the unimaginable loss of his only son in a car crash.

 Together, they had a son of their own, but the marriage did not last. By December 1991, it was over. Linda kept the Block surname, and right around that time, she met George Sibley. That meeting would change everything. When Linda’s marriage to Carl ended, it did not end quietly. A bitter dispute broke out over property and custody. Carl wanted what he believed was rightfully his.

 Linda was not willing to give it up. And with George Sibley now in her life, things were about to get very dark, very fast. In August of 1992, Linda and George drove to Carl’s apartment in Orlando. They did not knock, they broke in. They grabbed Carl, a man in his 80s, forced him into a chair, tied him up, and gagged him. Then [clears throat] they demanded he drop every legal claim he had on the property.

 And then Linda stabbed him once in the chest and walked out, leaving him bound and bleeding on the floor. Thankfully, neighbors found Carl in time. He survived. Both Linda and George were charged with aggravated battery on a person over 65 years old, a serious felony. They pleaded no contest. A sentencing date was set. They never showed up.

 Instead of walking into that courtroom, they locked themselves inside George’s home in Pine Hills, Florida. Weapons and ammunition were stacked throughout the house. Then they did something that stunned everyone. They faxed written statements directly to newspapers and television stations. They said they expected police to storm the house.

 They said they would rather die than surrender to the government. Police watched the house. They waited. But what happened next shocked everyone and set off a chain of events that would end with a body in a Walmart parking lot. Stay with me. Police never raided the house. After days of quiet surveillance, they pulled back.

 And in the middle of the night, Linda and George slipped away. Now, let’s talk about who George Sibley really was. George Sibley was born on September 8th, 1942. He was Linda’s common-law husband and the one person who matched her growing hatred of the government beat for beat. Together, they did not just criticize the system, they completely walked away from it.

 They renounced their United States citizenship. They destroyed their birth certificates, their social security cards, and their driver’s licenses. Every document that tied them to the government, gone. In their minds, the state had absolutely no authority over them. None. And they were armed to prove it. Before leaving Florida, they loaded Linda’s red Ford Mustang with everything they had.

 Three handguns, two semi-automatic rifles, and an M-14 rifle. On the back bumper of that car was a sticker that read, “A woman is not a woman without a gun.” Riding in that same car was Linda’s 9-year-old son. They drove north through Georgia, stopped briefly with friends, then kept moving. No fixed address, no plan, just the road, their weapons, and their beliefs.

 They were fugitives living out of a vehicle, constantly looking over their shoulders. By October 4th, 1993, they had rolled into Opelika, Alabama. It was supposed to be nothing, a quick stop. Linda needed to make a phone call, just one phone call. Before we get to that Walmart parking lot, if you are finding this story as gripping as I am, hit that like button right now.

 It genuinely helps the channel. Okay, back to October 4th. October 4th, 1993. Opelika, Alabama. It is the middle of the afternoon. The Walmart parking lot is busy. Regular people running regular errands. Nothing about this day feels different from any other. Linda is standing at a payphone just outside the store entrance. She is mid-conversation.

George is parked nearby in the red Mustang. Linda’s 9-year-old son is sitting quietly in the passenger seat beside him. That is when a woman walking through the parking lot slows down. She glances at the boy in the car. Something about his expression stops her. He does not look right. She wonders if the family has been living out of that vehicle.

 She looks around the parking lot and spots a police officer. She walks straight over and tells him what she saw. That officer was Sergeant Roger Lamar Motley Jr. Roger had driven to Walmart that morning for one reason, department [clears throat] supplies, nothing more. He had no bulletproof vest on his chest. He had given it away to a colleague earlier that morning without a second thought. He heard the woman out.

Then he walked toward the red Mustang. He approached the driver’s side, identified himself as a police officer, and asked George one simple question. Can I see your driver’s license? George refused. He told Roger that he did not recognize the authority of the state of Alabama. He had no driver’s license because he did not believe he needed one.

 He launched into his beliefs, explaining that Alabama law did not apply to him. Roger stayed calm, but he read the tension. He placed his hand on his holster, a standard precaution. He did not draw his weapon. George saw that movement and made a decision. He reached inside the car, grabbed a semi-automatic pistol, and opened fire. Roger spun away from the door and ran for cover behind his patrol car.

 He pulled his weapon and returned fire, hitting George in the process. Then he grabbed his radio and called it in. Officer in trouble. The dispatch recording captured every word. Out in that parking lot, people screamed. Shoppers dropped to the ground behind cars. Others turned and sprinted back into the store. It was chaos.

 And across the lot, at that payphone, Linda heard every shot. She did not freeze. She did not run for safety. She reached into her purse, pulled out a handgun, and ran directly toward the gunfire. Court records and multiple witnesses confirm what happened next. As she got closer, Linda dropped into a crouched position and kept moving low and fast toward Roger’s location.

 Roger was focused entirely on George in front of him. He never saw Linda coming from the side. As he turned in her direction, she fired. Then she fired again. The second bullet struck him directly in the chest. He had no vest. There was nothing between that bullet and his body. Roger Motley collapsed right there in the Walmart parking lot.

 Paramedics rushed him to East Alabama Medical Center. The doctors fought to save him. They could not. Sergeant Roger Lamar Motley Jr. was pronounced dead shortly after arriving at the hospital. He was 38 years old. His wife Juanita and their four children would never see him walk through their front door again. He had gone out that morning to buy supplies.

 He stopped to check on a child he did not know. And multiple witnesses standing in that parking lot watched every single moment of it unfold. The evidence was overwhelming. Witnesses were everywhere. And yet, what Linda and George did next is something you have to hear to believe. The moment Roger Motley hit the ground, Linda and George ran.

They jumped into the red Mustang and tore out of that parking lot. Police dispatch immediately broadcast the alert. Units across the area were told the suspects were traveling at 80 to 90 miles per hour. They did not get far. Officers tracked them down and made the arrests the very same day. Both Linda and George were taken into custody.

Linda’s 9-year-old son was removed from the vehicle and placed in police care. And from that very first moment in handcuffs, neither of them showed a single sign of remorse. Linda had her story ready. She said she was protecting her husband. She called it self-defense. George said the exact same thing.

 They refused to cooperate with law enforcement. They made no statement acknowledging that Roger Motley was dead. Court records describe both of them as defiant, composed, and completely consistent in their refusal to recognize police authority. They acted like they had done nothing wrong.

 Meanwhile, back in Opelika, there was a knock on a door. Juanita Motley answered it. Her husband had left that morning for a routine supply run. He was not coming home. And the four children who had kissed their father goodbye that day would never see him again. Investigators did not have to search hard for witnesses. The Walmart parking lot had been full of people that afternoon.

Ordinary shoppers, bystanders, people who saw everything and were willing to talk. And when detectives sat down with them, their accounts lined up. Every single one of them said the same thing. George fired first. Linda moved into position, crouched low, and shot at Roger Motley while he was taking cover behind his patrol car.

 There was no confusion about the sequence of events. There was no conflict in the testimony. But investigators hit one significant wall. The volume of gunfire that afternoon was heavy. Both sides had fired multiple shots. And when forensic analysts examined the ballistic evidence, they could not say with certainty whose bullet had actually killed Roger Motley.

George fired. Linda fired. But the fatal shot could not be pinned to either one of them conclusively. It was a gap, and Linda and George were ready to use it. When the case moved toward court, both defendants refused the attorneys appointed to represent them. They told the court it had no legal authority over them whatsoever.

Their entire position rested on two arguments. First, they acted in self-defense. Roger had reached for his weapon before George drew his. In their telling, they were the ones who were threatened. Second, and this is where it gets truly extraordinary, they argued that the state of Alabama had no legal right to put them on trial at all.

 Their reasoning? Alabama had never been properly re-admitted to the United States after the Civil War. Therefore, in their view, the state did not legally exist as part of the country, and its courts had zero authority over them. Prosecutors were now facing something they rarely encountered. Defendants who would not cooperate, witnesses whose testimony directly destroyed the self-defense claim, and a ballistics report that could not name the shooter.

They thought the Civil War would save them. It did not. What the jury heard and what they decided is what we get to next. This was not a case that sat cold for months or years. Linda and George were caught the same day Roger Motley died. There was no long investigation, no years of waiting.

 The arrests happened fast, and the evidence that followed hit like a wall. First, the eyewitnesses. The parking lot had been full of people with no connection to Linda or George. Strangers, shoppers, people who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And every single one of them placed both defendants at the scene, weapons drawn, actively firing.

Their accounts did not contradict each other, not on a single key point. Second, George’s gunshot wound. Roger had returned fire before he went down. That wound on George’s body confirmed it. It matched Roger’s radio call word for word. An officer in trouble, exchanging fire with the occupants of that Mustang.

 Third, the weapon recovered from Linda. The caliber matched the wound in Roger’s chest. Court records confirmed that the firearm she was carrying was consistent with the shot that killed him. When you stack all of that together, the eyewitness testimony, the physical wounds, the recovered weapons, and the dispatch recordings, the picture was impossible to argue against.

 The grand jury agreed. They returned an indictment of capital murder against both Linda Lyon Block and George Sibley, but prosecutors did not stop there. They pulled Linda’s magazine, Liberatus. They gathered her public statements. They brought in records from the Florida assault on Carl. All of it was entered into the record, painting a clear portrait of two people with a deep documented hatred of law enforcement and a history of violence against anyone who stood in their way.

 Court records confirm it plainly. Physical evidence, independent witnesses, and the defendants’ own words and actions, all pointing in exactly the same direction. The trial began, and so did the confrontation. Before a single piece of evidence was presented, both Linda and George made their position crystal clear. They did not recognize the court.

They did not accept its authority. They rejected the attorneys assigned to represent them and chose to speak for themselves. What followed was not a legal defense. It was a performance. They stood in that courtroom and argued, again, that Alabama had no right to try them, that the state had never been properly readmitted to the Union after the Civil War, that everything happening in that room was illegitimate.

 The judge was not moved. The jury was not moved. And the prosecutors kept building. The state walked the jury through the full picture. The 1992 assault on Carl Block, a man in his 80s, bound, gagged, and stabbed in his own home. The failure to appear for sentencing. The flight from Florida. The arsenal loaded into a red Mustang.

 The shooting in a busy Walmart parking lot in broad daylight. And the testimony of multiple witnesses who watched it all happen from just a few feet away. Then came the question the defense tried to lean on. No one could confirm with certainty whose bullet had killed Roger Motley. The prosecution had a clear answer for that. Under Alabama law, it did not matter.

Both Linda and George had been present. Both had drawn weapons. Both had fired. Both had actively participated in a deadly attack on a law enforcement officer. The law did not require the jury to pick one shooter over the other. Equal participation meant equal responsibility. The jury deliberated.

 It did not take long. Capital murder, guilty. Both defendants sentenced to death. On December 21st, 1994, Linda Lyon Block was formally entered into Alabama’s death row. She was assigned to the Julia Tutwiler Prison for women in Wetumpka, Alabama. Her institutional serial number was Z575. She filed no appeals, not one.

 Linda refused to go through a process she believed was corrupt from top to bottom. She would not give the system the satisfaction of engaging with it, even if it cost her everything, and it would. Linda Lyon Block spent over 7 years on death row at Julia Tutwiler Prison for women in Wetumpka, Alabama, and she did not go quietly. She gave interviews.

 She wrote letters. She spoke to anyone who would listen. Her message never changed. She was a political prisoner. The courts were corrupt. She had done nothing wrong. She maintained that position every single day for 7 years without wavering once. She filed no appeals, not one. To file an appeal would mean acknowledging that the court had authority over her.

 She refused to do it. But as her execution date drew closer, she made one final move. In 2002, Linda wrote a two-page handwritten letter to Alabama Governor Don Siegelman. She asked him to put together a seven-member panel to review her case. She believed the prosecution had been unfair. She wanted someone, anyone, to listen. Governor Siegelman read it.

 Then he said no. He found no mitigating circumstances, no discrepancies in the evidence, no reason to intervene. The execution would go ahead. Here is the cruel detail that history will never let go of. Alabama had passed a law allowing death row inmates to choose between the electric chair and lethal injection.

That law was set to take effect on July 1st, 2002. Linda’s execution was scheduled for May 10th, just weeks too early. She was given no choice. The electric chair was the only option available to her. May 9th, 2002. Her final hours. Three close friends came to spend time with her. They stayed for several hours.

 Her spiritual advisor, Sally Micho, the only name Linda had placed on her official witness list, was also there. Linda did not ask for a last meal. Shortly before midnight, she was escorted from her cell to the execution chamber at Holman Correctional Facility in Atmore, Alabama. She wore a plain white prison uniform. Her head had been shaved so the electrodes could be attached properly.

 A black hood was placed over her face. Officials asked her one final time, did she have any last words? She answered with a single word, “No.” At 12:01 in the morning on May 10th, 2002, the current was switched on. Yellow Mama, a chair that had already been used in 177 executions before that night, delivered 250 volts for 20 seconds, then 250 volts for 100 seconds.

Witnesses reported seeing steam rise from the wet sponge placed beneath the electrode on her left leg. Her body tensed, her fists clenched. Alabama Department of Corrections Commissioner Mike Haley was in the room. He watched every second of it. Afterward, he said, “She never displayed any emotion. Her stare was a very blank stare.

” At 12:10 in the morning, Linda Lyon Block was pronounced dead. She was 54 years old. Three years later, on August 4th, 2005, George Sibley was strapped to a gurney at the same facility and executed by lethal injection. In the days before his death, he filed a handwritten petition claiming that it was Linda, not him, who had fired the shot that killed Roger Motley.

 Legally, it changed absolutely nothing. Both had been convicted of capital murder. Both had been sentenced to death. The law did not require a single shooter. Roger Motley’s widow, Juanita, his son, two stepsons, his mother, Ann Motley, and his sister, Betty Ann Foshee, all sat behind the glass and watched George Sibley take his last breath.

After George Sibley’s execution, Juanita Motley spoke. “I am ready to just close this chapter of my life and go on. I believe justice was served.” Roger’s mother, Ann Motley, put it in her own way. “Thank the good Lord I had a son like mine.” As for Linda’s 9-year-old son, he was taken into state custody on the same afternoon his mother was arrested in that parking lot.

 What happened to him after that remains private. And Roger Motley? He went to Walmart to buy supplies for his about a child sitting in a parked car. He walked over because that is exactly what he would always do. He never came home. Tell me in the comments what moment in this story hit you the hardest. Was it the vest, the payphone, the one-word final statement? I read every single comment and if this story moved you, subscribe. New cases every week.

 I will see you in the next one.