In 1996, Illinois Governor Jim Edgar com­mut­ed the death sen­tence of Guin Garcia to life with­out parole, even though Garcia her­self had stopped fight­ing for her life. Garcia would have been the first woman exe­cut­ed in the U.S. in twelve years. She had been con­vict­ed of killing the man who had phys­i­cal­ly abused her, but she had dropped her appeals because she said she was done ​“beg­ging for her life.” Chicago Sun-Times reporter Carol Marin fol­lowed Garcia’s case after the com­mu­ta­tion and recent­ly wrote about the changes in Garcia’s life. Marin told the sto­ry of Garcia’s ear­ly life: her moth­er’s sui­cide, sex­u­al abuse by her uncle, becom­ing an alco­holic and pros­ti­tute by age 16. Last month, Garcia received an asso­ciate degreee in lib­er­al stud­ies from Lake Land College at a grad­u­a­tion cer­e­mo­ny at the Dwight Correctional Center. Fellow grad­u­ates at the cer­e­mo­ny point­ed to Garcia, now 49, as the rea­son they earned their GED’s, pro­fes­sion­al cer­tifi­cates, and fur­thered their edu­ca­tion. They called her ​“Granny” and said she demand­ed they straight­en out their life as she led through exam­ple.

The com­plete arti­cle appears below: 

A com­mut­ed sen­tence, and a life reborn

By CAROL MARIN | Sun-Times colum­nist | cmarin@​suntimes.​com

Ten days ago, I took a trip I would­n’t have pre­dict­ed. This is a sto­ry about a 
near-exe­cu­tion, a grad­u­a­tion and a deci­sion by for­mer Gov. Jim Edgar that has
deliv­ered unex­pect­ed con­se­quences.

It’s a sto­ry about ris­ing up and reach­ing down.

In January 1996, Guin Garcia, an inmate on Death Row at Dwight Correctional
Center in Downstate Illinois, was on the verge of exe­cu­tion.

Months ear­li­er, Garcia, a 36-year-old con­vict­ed dou­ble mur­der­er, had dropped
her court appeals, said she was done ​“beg­ging for her life” and put the wheels
in motion for her death by lethal injec­tion. It would mark the first exe­cu­tion
of a woman in the U.S. in two decades. It became an inter­na­tion­al sto­ry.

Garcia’s biog­ra­phy was­n’t pret­ty.

At age 2, she saw her moth­er jump out a win­dow and die.

Her father split. She was reared by grand­par­ents and an uncle. The uncle began
rap­ing her when she was 7, giv­ing her alco­hol to calm her and shut her up.

Family mem­bers con­firm the grand­moth­er knew but did noth­ing.

By 16, she was an alco­holic and a pros­ti­tute. By 17, she was mar­ried and
preg­nant.

Her baby, Sara, was not yet 1 when she suf­fo­cat­ed her with a plas­tic dry
clean­ing bag rather than face the prospect of DCFS tak­ing Sara away to live
with the grand­moth­er and the pedophile uncle.

She con­fessed, went to prison for 10 years, mar­ried one of her tricks, an
old­er man named George Garcia, who once, accord­ing to Supreme Court records,
gen­i­tal­ly muti­lat­ed her with a bro­ken bot­tle.

Drunk one night, she shot and killed George.

Her sor­row over Sara is some­thing Guin Garcia lives with every day. She is not
sor­ry about George.

Fourteen hours before her sched­uled exe­cu­tion in 1996, Gov. Edgar, who had
signed off on the exe­cu­tions of four men, sud­den­ly stopped the wheels from
turn­ing on this one. For a Republican who sup­port­ed the death penal­ty, it was
not an easy deci­sion. Edgar com­mut­ed her sen­tence to nat­ur­al life.

Last week, I went back to the prison at Dwight. With a 3.95 ​“A” aver­age,
Garcia was grad­u­at­ing magna cum laude from Lake Land College.

Dressed in caps and gowns, march­ing to ​“Pomp and Circumstance,” 57 oth­er women
received GEDs and cer­tifi­cates in com­put­er tech­nol­o­gy, com­mer­cial cook­ing, dog
train­ing and busi­ness man­age­ment.

Friends and fam­i­ly filled the prison gym. Small chil­dren were in their Sunday
best, wav­ing to their moth­ers. There aren’t many hap­py days in prison, said
Warden Mary Sigler. This was one.

As one of the inmates rose to claim her diplo­ma, a young man in a back row
proud­ly cried out, ​“That’s my Mom!”

Garcia was last to be called up, the only one that day to accept a col­lege
degree, an asso­ciate in lib­er­al stud­ies.

You might be ask­ing, what’s the point? Why waste tax dol­lars on a lif­er?
There’s an answer.

It’s what Pulitzer Prize-win­ning author Anna Quindlen calls ​“Rising up,
reach­ing down.”

Graduates I talked to that day, includ­ing one who is 28 and has been locked up
since she was 15, told me the rea­son she earned her GED last year and got a 
cer­tifi­cate in pro­fes­sion­al dog groom­ing this year was that Garcia, whom
younger inmates call ​“Granny,” demand­ed that she straight­en up and fly right.

Garcia’s quest for edu­ca­tion helped moti­vate hers.

That young woman — a slight, pret­ty African American — will get out in two
years bet­ter pre­pared to go for­ward because Guin Garcia, in life’s depths,
some­how found it in her­self to rise up and reach down.

Today, Garcia is 49, with no illu­sions about get­ting out. And yet, thanks to a 
deci­sion by a pro-death penal­ty gov­er­nor to spare one life, new life has been
giv­en.

Rise up. Reach down.

It can happen anywhere. 

(C. Marin, ​”A com­mut­ed sen­tence, and a life reborn,” Chicago Sun-Times, June 8, 2008). See Life Without Parole and Clemency.

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