Missouri went through with its first execution of the year, as Brian Dorsey was put to death last night, just after 6 p.m. CT.

The U.S. Supreme Court on Tuesday declined to stop Dorsey's execution. He was convicted of murdering his cousin Sarah Bonnie and her husband Ben nearly 20 years ago.

The advocacy group Missourians to Abolish the Death Penalty launched several recent campaigns on Dorsey's behalf to spare his life.

Jenni Gerhauser, a cousin to both Dorsey and Sarah Bonnie, expressed belief in his redemption.

"Brian is more than the worst moment of his life," Gerhauser stressed. "There is so much more to him."

Gerhauser fondly remembered him as fun and charming from their visits during holidays. Dorsey's current lawyers said he was in a drug-induced psychosis when he killed the Bonnies in 2006 and his attorneys at the time had been offered money, preventing them from fighting the death penalty with his guilty plea deal.

Gov. Mike Parson confirmed Monday the state would move forward with Dorsey's death sentence, rejecting a separate request for clemency. More than 70 current and former corrections officers had urged the governor to commute Dorsey's sentence, arguing he had been rehabilitated.

Claudia Boyce, also a cousin in the family, said it should not be a decision for the state to make.

"You know, that's supposed to be God's decision, not ours," Boyce contended.

Dorsey received a lethal injection Tuesday evening. Lethal injection became an option for people on Missouri's death row in 1987, alongside lethal gas.


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An Alabama woman is on a mission to help people who've been incarcerated for decades successfully transition back into society. The mission to support returning citizens started with Kelly Lang's own fight for justice. Her loved one was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole at age 15 in 1994. And after years of advocacy, Lang came face-to-face with the gaps in Alabama's criminal justice system. Determined to make a difference, she co-founded On the Way Home, a nonprofit dedicated to helping people rebuild their lives.

"My loved one's juvenile sentenced, so he has no family, he has no one. I have another couple guys that I know that are incarcerated that have no one, they have no family. They have no one to go home to, they have no one to help them - they have nothing, but they've been in for a long time," Lang said.

Lang added her journey to reduce her loved one's sentence has been fraught with challenges, largely due to Alabama's rigid parole system. Through this struggle, she realized that many people reenter society with no support system and very few resources. On the Way Home was created to help fill that void.

Lang explained the organization plans to offer more than a roof over a person's head after they're released. It will provide psychological support, life skills training and crucial resources to help them transition back into society with dignity and independence.

"Most reentry centers house people, multiple individuals to a room. So, we plan to have their own space - so everybody will have their own room. No one will be in the shared space. We plan to offer counseling services, education services, training services - even basic training services, like cooking, driving, how to fill out applications," Lang continued.

She aid so far with the help of her co-founder, the group has been able to provide welcome-home packages with essentials like toiletries and clothing, easing the financial burden of those starting over. Lang's long-term vision is to build a 'tiny home' village for people who've served their time.

Tennessee's justice system may be getting a makeover, as a forum on Thursday will cover new ideas to modernize it.

The Sycamore Institute event will focus on using data-driven approaches, increased funding and policy changes.

Brian Straessle, executive director of the institute, said they want to provide clarity for people to learn about criminal justice policy in Tennessee. One session, with representatives from the District Attorney General Conference and Administrative Office of the Courts, will discuss criminal justice data reporting in the state.

"Last session in the Legislature, there were a couple of laws passed that required each of those entities to develop some unified case reporting and data reporting tools," Straessle explained. "Because right now, it's hard to get a real good sense of what is happening in the court system across the state of Tennessee."

More than 44,000 people were in state prisons and local jails across Tennessee in 2023. Straessle added the goal of the forum is to provide insights into the approaches groups are taking to implement their plans and identify areas for improvement.

Straessle added the second session will focus on paying for incarceration. He noted during the pandemic, the state saw an increase in crime, which in turn created concern about the capacity of Tennessee prisons.

"The winds have shifted a little bit to more of a 'tough on crime' focus at the state level, and that means, you know, more people behind bars for longer," Straessle pointed out. "There's questions about, what does that mean for Tennessee's jail and prison capacity? And whatever we end up doing, we need to know what that will be and what it's going to cost if we need more capacity."

While pre-pandemic interest in reform was high, rising crime has led to stricter laws. The final session will be a conversation with state lawmakers about public safety and criminal justice policy.


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Researchers have found that higher copays for health care obstruct access to receiving care behind bars, even as prison populations in Mississippi and nationwide face increasing rates of physical and mental health conditions.

One in 10 people with at least one chronic condition in state and federal prisons had not been seen by a clinician since they were incarcerated.

Wanda Bertram, communication strategist for the Prison Policy Initiative, said the copays are often less than $7 but they represent massive barriers to health care.

"If you want to be seen, you have to pay, typically anywhere from $2 to $5, or in the case of Mississippi prisons, $6,," Bertram outlined. "and if you can't pay that, either you can't see the doctor or that becomes a debt that you have to the prison."

The research found medical copays in prisons significantly impede health care access for more than 500,000 people with chronic conditions, from heart or kidney disease, to asthma and hepatitis C.

People in Mississippi prisons are not compensated for the jobs they may have while they are incarcerated, so Bertram pointed out it is up to their families to cover any medical costs. She added some states have dropped their copays for people behind bars. Her group thinks Mississippi should do the same.

"We have been advocating for years for states to abolish these copays," Bertram explained. "And some states are doing this, Nevada, I believe, abolished prison copays, either this year or last year. California has also abolished copays. To force people to pay to see a doctor, you know, causes people to not see doctors when they actually need help."

Bertram added the research revealed alarming gaps in mental health care access for incarcerated individuals. More than one-third of those with diagnosed chronic mental illnesses have not seen any mental health clinicians since entering prison.


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