Vietnam Vet on Death Row Receives His Medals and Waits for Execution

A recent arti­cle in the Fayetteville Observer in North Carolina cap­tures the poignant sto­ry of one man’s life on death row. James Floyd Davis is a Vietnam vet­er­an who lashed out with a burst of vio­lence four­teen years ago, killing three peo­ple includ­ing his boss who had fired him a few days before. He suf­fers from men­tal ill­ness and post-trau­mat­ic stress dis­or­der. Through the inter­ven­tion of a ther­a­pist who also served in Vietnam, it was learned that Davis was enti­tled to a Purple Heart and oth­er medals earned dur­ing his ser­vice. The army agreed to award him the medals and the prison even­tu­al­ly agreed to let him receive them. The reporter, Chick Jacobs, sums up the sto­ry this way: ​“This is a sto­ry of how one vet­er­an, wound­ed in body and spir­it, reached into the demon-filled dark­ness of a fel­low vet­er­an who lost his way long ago. It’s the unlike­ly tale of how a medal earned in one hor­ror helped bring a touch of human­i­ty to anoth­er.” The entire arti­cle can be read below:

Sept. 5, 2009

N.C. death row inmate receives medals earned in Vietnam 

By Chick Jacobs, Staff writer

James Floyd Davis would nev­er know freedom again.

Now 62 years old, slight­ly stooped with thick read­ing glass­es and pasty skin, he looks far removed from the wild-eyed lon­er who snapped in a vio­lent, bloody spree 14 years ago.

And he looks far removed from the tanned, wiry young man who trad­ed an abu­sive home life for two tours in the jun­gles of Vietnam — and a chunk of shrap­nel that still throbs in his thigh when the weath­er turns cold.

All of that past, all of that hor­ror and hurt, stared through thick read­ing glass­es at Jim Johnson as the retired Fayetteville ther­a­pist tried to dis­cov­er who James Davis was.

This is a sto­ry of how one vet­er­an, wound­ed in body and spir­it, reached into the demon-filled dark­ness of a fel­low vet­er­an who lost his way long ago.

It’s the unlike­ly tale of how a medal earned in one hor­ror helped bring a touch of human­i­ty to another.

It’s prob­a­bly best to get the unpleas­ant truth out of the way: James Floyd Davis is a killer.

On a spring morn­ing in 1995, just before lunchtime, Davis calm­ly strolled into an Asheville tool com­pa­ny where he’d recent­ly been fired for fighting.

Instead of his usu­al bag lunch, the 47-year-old was car­ry­ing a semi­au­to­mat­ic rifle and a pis­tol. Davis was­n’t look­ing for a fight; he was look­ing for death.

He fired about 50 shots, killing three peo­ple — includ­ing two boss­es who had fired him two days ear­li­er. Then he lit a cig­a­rette, stepped out­side and sur­ren­dered to police.

At his tri­al, tes­ti­mo­ny told the court what every­body already seemed to know: James Davis was crazy. He lived alone, had no life beyond work, ate by him­self, talked to him­self and picked fights with co-work­ers, threat­en­ing to ​“take every­one with him” if he were fired.

He also used a .44 mag­num to shoot imag­i­nary ground­hogs in his front yard.

But the tri­al pre­sent­ed much more. As a child in west­ern North Carolina, Davis lived with an abu­sive, drunk­en dad who would threat­en to cut his chil­dren’s throats in their sleep and burn down the house. Davis was reg­u­lar­ly beat­en with a leather strap that drew blood; if he spoke at the din­ner table, he was beat­en with a mop handle.

He was left hun­gry, and his father locked the freez­er and kept the key.

This was the man, the mon­ster, the cow­er­ing child that Jim Johnson saw star­ing blankly at him at Raleigh’s Central Prison.

Johnson, a trained ther­a­pist, pas­tor and coun­selor, had dealt with the abused and men­tal­ly ill before. In Davis, he saw ​“a throw­away kid with lit­tle hope from the beginning.

“He had nobody who’d vis­it him, nobody he could relate to,” Johnson said. ​“You’re trained to remain pro­fes­sion­al, but you begin to devel­op an under­stand­ing of what leads a per­son to become what they are.”

Johnson, how­ev­er, was­n’t there because Davis was dis­turbed. He was there because Davis, like Johnson, was a sol­dier. Both had served in Vietnam dur­ing the mael­strom of the Tet Offensive.

Johnson was a chap­lain along the Mekong River, armed only with faith as he stepped into a dai­ly bar­rage of shelling and suf­fer­ing. He saw chil­dren die and young men grow old quick­ly — if they got the chance.

Davis served on a fire­base in the Central Highlands, los­ing his hear­ing and gain­ing a chunk of shrap­nel along the way. He spent a week in the hos­pi­tal recov­er­ing from the wounds; part of the met­al remains in his leg.

“He was a cor­po­ral at one of the 105 mm how­itzer bases,” Johnson said. ​“Those were key tar­gets of the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese during Tet.”

The men also shared post-trau­mat­ic stress dis­or­der, the result of bat­tle stress dur­ing the war. Johnson, though even­tu­al­ly a lieu­tenant colonel and a suc­cess­ful ther­a­pist, strug­gled with its effects for decades. His con­di­tion gave him a unique per­spec­tive as a fam­i­ly and mar­riage coun­selor at Snyder Memorial Baptist Church.

The effects of PTSD on the already-frag­ile psy­che of Davis were far more dam­ag­ing. Although he reached the rank of sergeant, ​“He said the war just wore him out,” Johnson said.

After com­ing home, Davis’ mar­riage col­lapsed, he attempt­ed sui­cide and he was diag­nosed by a Veterans Administration physi­cian as suf­fer­ing from para­noid schiz­o­phre­nia and depression.

The two were brought togeth­er by Ken Rose, a lawyer with the state’s Center for Death Penalty Litigation. The group says Davis received inad­e­quate coun­sel dur­ing his tri­al, lead­ing to a death sentence.

“Make no mis­take, James Davis needs to be con­fined for the remain­der of his life,” Rose said. ​“I think he’s the most men­tal­ly ill per­son on death row today.

“However, his defense did not ever raise the issue of his men­tal ill­ness until well into the trial.”

Rose had learned about Johnson and hoped his train­ing and mil­i­tary back­ground ​“could help me under­stand my client.”

Johnson, who had worked with inmates in California’s San Quentin prison, was aware of Davis’ bloody past. But, he said, ​“I was­n’t look­ing at a crim­i­nal. I was look­ing at a fel­low vet­er­an, wound­ed phys­i­cal­ly and men­tal­ly in ser­vice to his country.”

Johnson, close to Davis’ age and shar­ing the bond of com­bat, was able to get him to open up. They talked about life and death, com­bat and fear.

That’s when Johnson learned that Davis had nev­er received the award due him as an injured soldier.

“You have to remem­ber, this was dur­ing the chaos of Tet,” Johnson said. ​“There were so many peo­ple injured and killed, so much going on, it’s not sur­pris­ing that a num­ber of sol­diers nev­er received the proper recognition.”

“No sol­dier’s ser­vice to our coun­try should be ignored,” Johnson said. ​“A lot of peo­ple would say, ​‘It’s just a medal. Forget it.’

“Not to me, it’s not. To me, it’s the recog­ni­tion that every sol­dier deserves. No mat­ter what hap­pened, his ser­vice should be recognized.” 

Davis was ​“meek, hum­bled by the idea” of get­ting the medal, Johnson said. ​“It was as if he nev­er expect­ed any­one to do some­thing for him.”

His lawyers were less than encour­ag­ing. ​“To a per­son, every­one said not to get my hopes up,” Johnson said.

Rose admit­ted, ​“It was a long shot at best. As far as I could tell, there had nev­er been a death row inmate in North Carolina receiv­ing a medal. And I did­n’t think this would be the first.”

In November, the Army agreed that Davis’ med­ical records were enough proof that he should receive the Purple Heart. As the only mil­i­tary medal that is award­ed by action, rather than rec­om­men­da­tion, any sol­dier injured by ene­my action is enti­tled to it.

But Johnson and the lawyers learned some­thing else: Davis had been award­ed oth­er medals as well, includ­ing the Good Conduct Medal. 

The Army was hap­py to send the medals. The prison was less enthu­si­as­tic about let­ting him receive them.

“They said no, like we expect­ed,” Rose said. ​“It was some­thing that was just too unusu­al. It would take inter­ven­tion by some­one high­er up the ladder.”

Johnson found that some­one in James French, a for­mer war­den of Central Prison and now deputy direc­tor of the state’s correction system.

He also was a Vietnam vet­er­an. He was wound­ed dur­ing the war and received a Purple Heart. Would he be will­ing to allow a fel­low vet­er­an the same honor?

French thought about it and agreed. 

On July 29, James Davis was unshack­led and escort­ed into a small hear­ing room just off death row.

Johnson and Rose were there. So were two fel­low vet­er­ans, Ray Shurling of Fayetteville and Ron Miriello of Sanford.

Johnson, at 6‑foot‑6, tow­ered over the slouched pris­on­er stand­ing before him. ​“But when I pre­pared to pin his medals on, he stood straight up, hands cupped to the side,” he recalled.

Johnson pinned on two of the medals: the Purple Heart and the Good Conduct award. He stepped back and saluted.

Davis replied with a textbook-sharp salute.

For a moment, it seemed he was­n’t a prisoner.

Forty years lat­er, he was a soldier again.

“Jim, you’ve just pulled off a mir­a­cle,” Rose said afterward.

“It was­n’t a mir­a­cle,” Johnson replied. ​“It was just the right thing to do.” 

Davis was­n’t allowed to keep the medals. He’ll nev­er be able to touch them again. His world has returned to the unyield­ing rou­tine of Unit III in Raleigh.

There’s no cer­tain­ty that Davis will be exe­cut­ed, although he has giv­en up his appeals. Rose and the Center for Death Penalty Litigation con­tin­ue to speak on his behalf.

Still, James Floyd Davis will nev­er know free­dom again. But his ser­vice to coun­try has been recognized.

“Jim said that regard­less of what he had done lat­er, he was a sol­dier,” Rose said. ​“And it was impor­tant to rec­og­nize that sacrifice.

“In 30 years of work­ing here, I’d nev­er seen any­thing like it. I’ll prob­a­bly nev­er see it again.”

/​Staff writer Chick Jacobs can be reached at jacobsc@​fayobserver.​com <mailto:jacobsc@fayobserver.com> or 486‑3515./

(C. Jacobs, ​“N.C. death row inmate receives medals earned in Vietnam,” Fayatteville Observer, Sept. 5, 2009). See Death Row and Mental Illness.