Inside Brad Sigmon’s Final Day On Death Row — He Saw His Family One Last Time Through That Glass

March 7th, 2025. Brad Sigman, a 67year-old man, stood on one side of a glass wall, saying goodbye to his family for the last time. He would never see daylight again, never eat another meal, never look into the eyes of someone he loved. And the way that final day began wasn’t with chains, and it wasn’t with a countdown.

 It was with his family standing on the other side of that glass, unable to reach through it.  His siblings were there. His son was there. Not one of them could touch him. Just a thick pane of glass standing between a goodbye and everything that came after it. Inside a visitation room at Broad River Correctional Institution in Colombia, South  Carolina.

 And here is the part that hits different once you know it. Brad Sigman had already made peace  with dying. He was 67 years old and he had spent over two decades on  South Carolina’s death row after being convicted of killing his ex-girlfriend’s parents with a baseball bat back in 2001. A crime he never denied.

 A crime he said he carried the weight of every single day since. He knew how March 7th  was going to end. What none of them knew was how to fill the hours before it did. And that is exactly what this video is about. Because the final day Brad Sigman spent on this earth was not just about an execution.

 It was about how a man chooses to spend his last hours, who he chooses to spend them with, and what he chooses to say when there is nothing left to lose. And what he did that morning before the curtain ever lifted tells you more about who Brad Sigman  had become than anything that happened after.

 When March 7th arrived, Brad had already been awake for hours. That is what happens when you know the date. You stop sleeping the way normal people  sleep. The silence inside the prison sounds louder than it ever has, and the  routine feels heavier in a way that is hard to explain.

 But Brad did not spend those early hours alone in silence. Between 9 in the morning and 11, he sat with Reverend Hillary Taylor, the executive director of South Carolinians for Alternatives to the Death Penalty, and another spiritual adviser who had walked with him through the final stretch  of this road. 2 hours. That was all the time they were given.

 And according to Reverend Taylor, who spoke publicly after the execution, those two hours were not spent in panic or grief. Brad used that time to talk about the people he loved, not about himself, not about what was coming, but about how he could  support his family and friends through what they were about to face.

 A man hours away from a firing squad  sitting in a room and asking, “How do I make this easier for the people I am leaving behind?”  That is not someone who had given up on being human. That is someone who had spent more than two decades  inside a cell quietly becoming a different person from the one who entered it.

 Reverend Taylor said it plainly afterward. Brad expressed remorse every single day of his incarceration. Not just on  execution day, not just when the cameras were watching every day for over 20 years. We will come back to what that transformation looked like inside those walls because it is one of the most quietly remarkable parts of this entire story.

 But first, the last meal, because this detail tells you something about who Brad had become, and it says it in a way that no statement or legal filing  ever could. His last meal was served on Wednesday evening, 2 days before the execution for pieces of fried chicken from KFC, green beans, mashed potatoes with gravy, biscuits, cheesecake, and sweet tea.

 That sounds like a standard final meal request. Except that is not the full  story. What Brad originally asked for was three sharing buckets of KFC, not for himself alone, but so he could split the meal with the other men on death row around him. His attorney, Bo King, confirmed it. Brad wanted his last meal to be a shared meal.

 Whether the full request  was granted varied by account, but the intent was unmistakable. He was thinking about his neighbors on the row right up until the very end. men he had lived alongside, prayed with, and quietly  guided through their own darkest moments. But that wasn’t the only thing Brad gave away before March 7th  arrived.

 He also gave away every dollar in his commissary account. Everything he had accumulated over those years inside,  gone, distributed to others before he left. He had nothing material to leave the world. So he gave away what little he had. And there was one more thing, something we will get to before this video ends that he passed on in those final hours.

 Something small, worn, and more personal than anything else he owned. Bo King described Brad as someone who served as an informal chaplain to the guys on death row. Someone who tried to be as supportive, loving, and kind as possible  to everyone around him. Whether that was a fellow inmate, a corrections officer, a pen pal, or a family member he could only reach from a distance.

 That wasn’t the behavior of a man performing remorse. That was the behavior of someone who had rebuilt himself from the inside out, one quiet day at a time, inside a place most people never come back from. Now, here is where the story  shifts into something most people do not fully understand. Because what Brad was walking toward on March 7th was something that had not been carried out anywhere in the United States in 15 years.

 Brad Sigman chose to die by firing squad. But calling it a free choice almost feels  wrong because the options were the electric chair, lethal injection, or the firing squad. His lawyers said the electric chair would cause him extreme physical suffering. As for lethal injection, Brad had watched what happened to the men executed before him in South Carolina’s recent resumption of capital punishment.

Marian Bowman Jr. had been administered two doses of pentabarbatital  and was later found to have had fluid in his lungs, the kind of detail that points to a terrifying  final experience. Brad had begged the courts for information about the lethal injection drugs. He wanted to know if they had expired, been diluted, or spoiled.

 The state refused  to disclose it. And so, without answers, Brad made the only calculation he could, and he chose bullets over the two options that frightened him more. What made it worse was that this was not a decision made in some abstract legal meeting. It was a decision made by a 67-year-old man who had to sit with that choice every single day after he made it, knowing exactly what  it meant.

 His attorney put it simply, “Brad was forced to choose between three methods no human being should ever have to weigh against  each other.” And on the morning of March 7th, the choosing was already done. All that remained was living out the hours. But that wasn’t the decision that would define how  the day ended. Because the real weight of what was coming had nothing to do with method and everything to do with what Brad still had left to say.

 The Supreme Court of the United States denied Brad’s final appeal on the afternoon of March 7th, just hours before the scheduled execution. Governor Henry McMaster had already denied clemency. Every door had closed. Every legal avenue had been exhausted. And somewhere inside Broad River, Brad Sigman sat with the knowledge that it was over.

 In those final hours before 6:00, Brad was dressed in a black jumpsuit. Officials noted that the dark clothing reduced  visible staining. He wore black crocstyle shoes. His ankles were shackled and on his chest over his heart, prison staff placed a white target with a red bullseye. That is the image that witnesses carried out of that chamber.

 A 67-year-old man strapped to a chair with a target placed over his heart, waiting in the specific kind of silence that only exists when everyone in the room already knows what  comes next. The death chamber sits just a short walk from South Carolina’s death row, where Brad  had lived for over two decades. At 6:01 in the evening, the curtain separating the witness room from the chamber was lifted.

 Behind bulletresistant glass stood Brad’s attorney, family members of the Lark family, a sheriff’s investigator, a representative from the prosecutor’s office, and three members of the press.  The room held the kind of stillness that settles over a space when there is nothing left to say. Before the hood was placed over Brad’s head, he turned his eyes toward Boing sitting in the front row.

 They held each other’s gaze through the glass and then King stood and read Brad Sigman’s final statement aloud to the room. I want my closing statement to be one of love and a calling to my fellow Christians to  end the death penalty. That is how it opened. Not with anger, not with bitterness, with love, and with  purpose.

 Brad quoted scripture from Matthew and John, pushing back against the reasoning  that had been used to justify his sentence. He said that at the time of his trial, he had been too ignorant to  challenge it. He said that nowhere in the New Testament does God grant man the authority to take another human  life.

 He said he was standing now under grace and mercy, not law. In his very last seconds, witnesses reported that Brad  appeared to try to speak to reach through the silence toward his attorney or his adviser with some final words that no one in the room could make out. King held his gaze until the hood came down and covered his face completely.

 A prison employee opened the shade that concealed the three volunteer shooters positioned 15 ft away, the same distance as the free throw line to the basket on a basketball  court. Brad made several audible breaths during the 2 minutes of silence that followed. There was no warning.

  There was no countdown. The rifles fired without any signal the witnesses could anticipate,  and the sharp crack startled everyone in the room. Brad’s arms briefly  tensed. The target was struck. A visible stain appeared and spread across his chest.  A doctor entered approximately 1 minute later, conducted an examination lasting 90 seconds, and declared Brad Sigman dead at 6:08 in the evening.

 Outside the gates of the prison, as news of the execution reached the crowd that had gathered, Reverend Hillary Taylor stood in the evening holding something in her hands. It was a Bible worn, wellread, highlighted throughout, not her Bible, Brads.  He had given it to her before the execution, pressed it into her keeping as one of his final acts.

 She stood there in the dark and read from it while the crowd around her called out the  words he had asked them to carry forward. That was the last thing Brad Sigman gave away. Not money, not a meal,  his Bible. The one thing that had traveled with him through more than 20 years on death row.

 The one he had read every day. The one that had shaped whoever he had become in that place. He handed it to someone who would keep using it because he believed the words inside it still mattered even  after he was gone. His legal team released a statement that night. It said that South  Carolina had ended the life of a man who had devoted himself to his faith, to ministry, and to  the service of everyone around him.

 It acknowledged that he had admitted his guilt at trial and shared his grief with his jury and with everyone who knew him in the years that followed. His brother  described the aftermath in the most honest terms he could find. He said it felt like living somebody else’s life  now because they used to be a family and that part of it was just gone.

 Brad Sigman was 67 years old. He had spent more than a third of his entire  life on South Carolina’s death row. He became the first person in the United States in 15 years to be executed by firing squad  and the first in South Carolina’s history. He shared his last meal. He gave away his last dollar.

He gave away his Bible. And in his  final statement to the world, he used what remained of his voice to ask that 28 more men on that same row be spared what he had just been through. Whatever you believe about justice, whatever you believe about what Brad deserved, the story of March 7th, 2025 does not fit neatly into any single verdict.

 And the image  that stays long after everything else fades, is not the chair, and it is not the target placed over his heart. It is that glass, that cold, thick, unmovable pain in the visitation room where Brad Sigman stood and looked at the faces of the people who loved him. And they looked back at his, and not one of them could reach through