The Last Executioner

by Chavoret Jaruboon

  The men were being held at Lumpini station and the police there had them on suicide watch. They were each in a cell of their own with their own officer who stayed with them 24 hours. They were allowed no contact with the world outside before the announcement—no visitors, no newspapers and no pencil and paper. They kidded with one another, flicking rubber bands through their bars.

  Sanong grew cocky and told the police man who was guarding him; ‘Since we are about to leave here I want to level with you bro. I have pick pocketed over a hundred times.’ The guard replied by asking him how many men he had killed. Sanong’s face darkened and he ignored the question. He turned away from the guard and said: ‘The worse case scenario is that I’ll be jailed for 20 years, but if I behave and receive a pardon I’ll be out in no time.’

  At noon on the day of the execution a crowd gathered outside the police station. The officers were distracted with trying to keep order, which allowed Sanong’s wife, Somkid Lareuang, and her aunt Jumpee Chanamit to sneak in to find Sanong in his cell. Sanong was agitated when he saw them. The three prisoners could hear the crowd and the noise and it made them nervous. Sanong asked them what was going on outside. Jumpee told him that it was just some people having trouble with the police. He told his aunt to help Somkid bring up their son and give him a good education. They were interrupted by an officer who ordered the women to leave the station. Jumpee broke down in tears and had to be helped out by her niece. Sanong called after them not to worry, that a 20 year sentence was the worst that could happen.

  A few hours later, at 3pm, officers marched into the three cells and handcuffed the men before escorting them outside to three separate police cars. The men looked visibly frightened now and Thanoochai’s voice shook as he asked an officer where they were being taken to. The officer refused to answer him or even look at him, which told the men all they needed to know. They paled and Jumnian’s legs went from under him. He and the others were held up by their arms and led out to the cars. There were six police officers for each prisoner and car. The leading car in the convoy sounded its siren while police jeeps brought up the rear.

  At 3.30pm the convoy stopped at Wat Larnboonna Junction on Ngamwongwan Road. The car that held Jumnian had broken down. Jumnian had also fainted again and had to be carried to another car. He fainted again in the five minutes that it took to reach the prison. At 3.35pm the convoy reached the prison gates. Superintendent Slab Visutthimuk ordered the execution team to make the necessary preparations. Mui had already left for his dormitory and had to be quickly summoned back. The prison had provided him with a room and it wasn’t too far away. At 3.40pm the prisoners were escorted by police officers and prison staff to the security tower. They were joined there by the Chaplain who read them Buddha’s words. Sanong, who was Islamic, asked the monk to do an Islamic ritual while Thanoonchai and Jumnian looked on miserably.

  An officer brought them three glasses of iced water which the men ignored. After the Chaplain had finished the prisoners were offered paper and pencils to write to their families. Juminian wrote:

  ‘Don’t follow in my footsteps. I have to pay now for all that I have done. I hope you stay well and happy.’

  Thanoonchai wrote to his mother: ‘I didn’t know what was happening. I wish I could see you now. Please take care of my children and my wife.’

  Sanong wrote one line to his family: ‘Goodbye, I have to pay for my sins now.’

  The Superintendent read out the summary execution to the seated men. Suddenly it hit the three of them that this was it. Thanoochai fell out of his chair and screamed for mercy.

  ‘Please don’t kill me sir. Let me see my mother first, she knows people, let her help me, please let me see her!’

  The prisoners hugged each other and cried like children.

  Mui cycled into the prison at 3.50pm and headed to the execution room to check on the gun. Finally at 5.25pm the other escort and myself led Jumnian out of the tower and over to the execution room. Nobody spoke. I think I half expected him to faint but he didn’t. He had resigned himself to his fate and was like ‘a dead man walking’. We had blindfolded him at the gazebo and when we reached the room we firmly secured him to the cross. The screen was pulled forward, and the gun adjuster, Sawaeng Puangsoodrak, stepped back from the gun to let Mui take his place. Mui readied himself over the Bergmann and waited for the flag to drop. He fired one shot, which sent eight bullets into Jumnian’s back. He died instantly.

  I headed back with the other escort to collect Thanoochai. He blanched when he saw us but didn’t try to resist as we brought him out of the tower. However, all hell broke out at the execution room. He shocked me by suddenly tearing off the blindfold and shouting out for his mother. He kept insisting that his mother be allowed to see him as she could save him because of who she knows, and implored us not to kill him. All the time he was shouting his pleas his eyes roved around wildly searching for his mother but of course she wasn’t there. She was probably in her kitchen praying for him. The staff just stood there staring at him in horror. He really seemed to think his mother was going to appear and save him.

  Then he remembered his friend who had gone before him and began to call out for Jumnian.

  ‘Nian! Are you in there? Answer me man. Do you hear me? Answer me you asshole. Are you dead? Why don’t you answer me?’

  The silence was almost cruel, as if he was being taunted in his madness on top of everything else. I briefly wondered if some fool had told him something to get his hopes up—just tell the officers that your mother knows some government official and they will have to stop the execution. A split second passed and Thanoochai realised that Jumnian would never reply to his shouts, followed by the realisation that it was also too late for him. He crumpled to the floor in front of the execution room, surrounded by staff, and began to cry quietly. I had to do something. I signalled the other escort and we helped him to his feet. All his fight had gone now, but he still had not lost hope. As we half dragged, half carried him into the room, he still called out for his mother;

  ‘Please help me Mom, please help me.’

  It was tough to witness, but we had a job to do, with another execution still to be done. That was all I could allow myself to think about—we had orders and orders have to be obeyed. Also I was very aware that we were being watched by our superiors and their superiors. Thanoochai started to struggle when we got to the cross and I had to think quickly. It would be better for all of us, not least of all him, to get this over with as fast as possible. I grabbed my handkerchief out of my back pocket and shoved it into his mouth. I didn’t want to add further to his or our distress so I didn’t want to put him in a head lock or handcuff him. He became enraged and fell to the floor once more, rolling around trying to dodge us. It took four of us to get him standing in front of the cross again. Then I pushed my knee into his back to force him against the cross so that we could bind him to it. One guy tied his hands up around the cross; another guy tied his waist while the other escort and I tried to stop his squirming. Only when he was completely secure did he finally shut up.

  At 5.40pm Mui fired 12 bullets into Thanoochai.

  I was glad to be able to leave the room with the other guard to pick up Sanong. The couple of seconds of fresh air was like a balm to my aching head. Sanong didn’t give us any trouble at all. He walked obediently into the execution room, his head bowed by the guilt for his past actions. He didn’t acknowledge anyone or look for sympathy. It took just seconds to tie him to the cross. He died at 5.57pm from 12 bullets.

  By the time Sanong’s body had been removed to the morgue, the room stank of blood, sweat and gun powder. There was a lot of blood from each of the men all over the floor and the sand bags. Unfortunately the floor is never cleaned immediately after a shooting. Sand is just thrown down to blot up the puddles and left there overnight for the inmates, who are in charge of the room, to tidy up the following mo
rning.

  ***

  We were all emotionally drained and were more than glad when our shift was over that day. To alleviate tension, or guilt, a few of us went for a drink afterwards. Mui, as usual, was long gone. He always left immediately after the prisoner was confirmed dead. Thanoochai’s outburst dominated the conversation. We agreed that his reaction was completely understandable and natural—everyone is afraid of dying. Some of the men wondered why we didn’t see more convicts crack up in the execution room. After a while we moved on to other things. Some of the men believed the execution room to be full of ghosts. More than once officers had gone in to investigate noises or were convinced that there were a couple of people walking around the room, only to find it empty. One of the guys needed to grab forty winks a while back and had sat down to take a nap outside the room. He slept soundly until he was woken up by someone, who wasn’t there.

  Early the following morning Thanoochai’s mother arrived to pick up her son’s body. She asked to see the head of the custody section, Prayad Loharatana. She told him that her son appeared in her dreams the previous night and told her that he had lost his shoes. The chief summoned me and told me to take care of her. She was trembling and pale and I asked her how I could help her.

  She replied: ‘Officer, I dreamt about my son last night. He was crying and when I asked him why he didn’t answer. He just stood there and then blood started to ooze out of every part of his body.’

  She broke down and sobbed at this and I just kept patting her on the arm until she was able to speak again.

  ‘He told me he lost his shoes and asked me to get them back. He just kept repeating that. I don’t really understand but I’m afraid he won’t be able to rest in peace, which is why I need your help.’

  I assured her that I would help in any way that I could and that I would be in touch. I asked the inmates who were in charge of removing the shackles from the prisoners after death, cleaning the body and putting it into the coffin. The bodies were kept in the Buddhist temple where they were collected by the relatives. Sure enough, Mhong, a former undertaker, saw Thanoochai’s shoes and fancied them for himself. Since Thanoochai wasn’t an inmate of Bang Kwang his shoes were much nicer and in better condition. Normally the dead inmates’ shoes would just be discarded but Mhong thought that would be a terrible waste. He took them, cleaned them thoroughly and left them out to dry in the sun.

  That afternoon Thanoochai’s mother left with her son’s body, including his newly washed shoes. She was a good woman and kept begging her son’s victims to see into their hearts if they could forgive her son. She was going to cremate the body and wanted Thanoochai to feel in the consuming flames, the goodness and forgiveness emanating from everyone he had hurt which would fill him with regret and sorrow for his criminal ways. A parent’s love can be the purest love there is; no matter what a child does he is forgiven and still fiercely loved.

  ***

  It troubles me still that I was driven to stuffing that handkerchief into Thanoochai’s mouth but I don’t think there was anything else I could have done. It had the desired effect of stifling his wrath, which allowed us to tie him to the cross. Once the prisoner is firmly secured he usually goes quiet. My priority was to speed up the process—the longer it took the more worked up he became. Also it is not fair to increase the stress of an already tense execution team. The situation is bad enough and no one takes their duty lightly. We are not proud to be involved in the ending of someone’s life—it is simply part of our job. The prison had received a summary execution order from the government about these three men and we were told to carry it out immediately.

  The summary execution order no longer happens in Thailand. Nowadays the prisoner has a chance to fight his case in court and prove his innocence to a judge. Even when it did, during the rule of General Thanom, the government only got involved in cases that had particularly shocked the nation or threatened national security. The two murdered husbands I mentioned, Sanan and Boonyarid, had done no harm to anyone. They had merely called attention to pick pockets and for this they lost their lives in the most cowardly and callous fashion.

  ***

  On 20 June 1972, the day after the men had been executed, journalists from Thairath, the big Thai newspaper, went to interview Boonyarid’s parents. His father had left for work but his mother told them that they were both glad that the government had acted speedily in punishing the killers. The family had received hundreds of letters of condolences, including one from General Thanom himself.

  Prom, Sanan’s wife, received lots of donations in the post to make up for the loss of her husband. She was also glad that the killers had been dealt with so efficiently. She had worried that they would not be punished at all. However, she did say that she would pray for the three men and send her forgiveness to them.

  An eye for an eye—Personally, I think that’s the way it should be. There are some people who will never see the error of their ways; who would not benefit from years in prison, they would go back out into the world and kill again. The death penalty is not the perfect solution but I cannot think of a perfect alternative. Some people are just evil to the core. As you can see from the reactions of Boonyarid’s and Sanan’s families’ people want the murderers of their relatives to pay the ultimate price, the same one that their loved one had paid. I remember once being asked by a victim’s mother if she could shoot the guy herself. Is this just a Thai thing?

  Chapter 8

  Not all of the inmates sentenced to death were common criminals or murderers, and I found myself at times involved in the execution of people caught up in political causes, but as part of terrorist groups, or even involving corruption within the State. In the end though, if they killed innocent people, they usually found themselves up in front of me.

  On 28 January 1977, in the Aranyapratade District of Prajeenburi Province, police officers arrested five men; Mun Boonprasert, Thianchai Thongyoo, Somjai Jantra, Yoo Jark and Suheng Saekoo. They had led a group of Cambodian soldiers to attack three defenceless Thai villages and burn them to the ground. 28 Thais lost their lives. It was all part of a big criminal operation involving corrupt police and customs officers. Guns, bullets and explosive devices had been smuggled out to Cambodian soldiers, along with top secret information about the Thai Army, and also to a terrorist group in the Wattananakorn District. Illegal substances and stolen goods were also being exported out of the country.

  The arrests were the result of a lot of investigation and patience on the part of the police. This was a serious breach of trust by those in uniform. Not surprisingly, a summary execution order was issued by the Prime Minister Thanin Kraivichian on 13 June 1977. The following is an excerpt:

  ‘These men are a threat to national security and have sabotaged peace among Thai citizens. Therefore it is necessary to act quickly and confront this threat for the sake of our peaceful society. Guided by Section 21 of the Constitution, and with the approval of the Cabinet and Council, the Prime Minister orders that the following men be punished by execution; Mun Boonprasert, Yoo Jark, Somjai Jantra. Suheng Saekoo is sentenced to life imprisonment. Since 15-year-old Thianchai Thongyoo is a juvenile, and has co-operated with the police in custody he is to be shown leniency and imprisoned for just five years. The Ministry of Interior must deliver this order immediately.’

  That meant it was time for my team to go to work. At 10.30pm, 13 June, the Governor of Prajeenburi, Direk Sodsatid, summoned Han Pansomboon, then Superintendent of Bang Kwang, and Chaleaw Sithiprasert, then Superintendent of Prajeenburi Provincial Prison. After a brief meeting they decided that the executions would take place in the Kabinburi district prison. The police were informed and they contacted the soldiers holding the convicts in a camp in Aranyapratade District with instructions to bring them to Kabinburi. However, the Governor was then informed by officers who had reached the district prison that it wasn’t suitable
for the executions; it lacked the adequate space required. The decision was quickly taken to use the prison in Prajeenburi instead.

  The following morning almost 100 officers guarded the new location and were kept busy dispersing the crowds that tried to gather at the front of the prison. As usual they were not going to be permitted to witness the execution so they did the next best thing and handed their cameras to the police, imploring them to take pictures for them. At 2.50am the Bang Kwang execution team arrived in two vans at Prajeenburi. This included the Superintendent, Songwut Arsachai, who was heading the team and would perform the flag duties; the executioner Prathom Kruepeng, and me, in my new role as the gun adjuster. We had all travelled together from Bang Kwang and it felt like a road-trip. The journey took six hours, having left Bang Kwang at approximately 9pm and making several food stops. The conversation ran from general topics to going over the details of the execution; it was crucial that everything went smoothly since this was our first job away from home, and we were representing our prison. We were brought to where the execution would take place outside—at the back wall of the building, near a pond. About an hour later the Chaplain, Phrakroovijid Suphasunggarn, arrived to perform the last rites. He was followed a short while later by the convoy of police and soldiers who were escorting the three condemned men.

  While I was still an escort I had shown an interest in the gun itself. I always like to know how things work; even now, I don’t understand why people my age are not computer literate. My generation tends to shy away from such things, even touching them, reckoning they have lasted long enough without using one, whereas I signed up for courses and am quite proud today of my skills. So it was with the equipment at work. After one execution, a while ago, I had passed by the room in order to deliver some papers and spied Sawaeng inside cleaning the gun. I wandered in and found myself helping him. I think he was touched by my interest and took the time to teach me about all the different parts—how to load it, lock it and clean it. He was the one who emphasized to me how the onus to ensure a speedy death for the prisoner, lay squarely on the shoulders of the guy who adjusts the gun and lines it up for the shooter. He started to let me clean the gun after a shooting and gradually the machine was as familiar to me as it was to him. So it was a natural progression when Sawaeng reached retirement that my name was put forward to take his place. Knowledge is power and I always urge my kids to learn, learn, learn.