The Execution of Marcellus Williams: Missouri’s Dark Legacy of Race, Justice, and Power
Marcellus Williams was fifty-four when Missouri took his life on a late September Tuesday in 2024. Execution, they called it—but was it justice or something far more sinister? For over two decades, Williams sat on death row, convicted of a crime he swore he didn’t commit: the brutal 1998 stabbing of Felicia Gayle, a former St. Louis Post-Dispatch reporter. Even as DNA evidence ruled him out as the source of the male DNA found on the murder weapon, Missouri’s legal machine plowed ahead, indifferent to the growing doubts about whether they were about to kill an innocent man.
But Williams was never just an inmate defined by his cell and a death sentence hanging over his head. Over the years, he earned two college degrees, transforming his time in prison into a story of resilience and redemption. He became a mentor to younger inmates, preaching the power of education as a path to reclaiming their humanity in a system determined to strip it away. His sister, Patricia Davis, said, “Marcellus never gave up on hope. He believed the truth would set him free.” And even as his legal team fought relentlessly to prove his innocence, it was his light that continued to shine for others, showing that despite the system’s cruelty, the human spirit could still rise above it.
Despite this, the state remained unmoved. Even the victim’s own family, who had suffered a heartbreaking loss, began to question Williams’ guilt. As the DNA evidence emerged, excluding him as the source of the male DNA on the murder weapon, the Gayle family pleaded for leniency, suggesting life without parole would be more just given the uncertainty. But Missouri pressed forward, sparking nationwide outrage among those who had followed the case and could see the cracks in its foundation.
Felicia Gayle’s murder remains a tragedy, and the quest for justice in her name is understandable. But the rush to execute Williams—without fully considering the implications of new evidence—raises a haunting question: is the real murderer still out there? By closing the case so quickly, the state of Missouri may have failed both the Williams and Gayle families. Instead of delivering justice, the system may have sealed its failure, leaving both families with unresolved pain and a legal process that never truly sought the truth.
Williams’ execution did not happen in isolation—it is part of a much larger, deeply troubling legacy of racial injustice within Missouri’s legal system. His conviction was largely based on the shaky testimony of two jailhouse informants who had much to gain by implicating him. No physical evidence ever linked Williams to the crime. Despite the critical DNA testing showing that Williams’ genetic profile did not match the male DNA on the murder weapon, Missouri’s courts refused to conduct a full review. The state, it seemed, was more interested in upholding the status quo than seeking real justice.
This miscarriage of justice is far from an isolated incident. Missouri has long targeted Black men in its criminal justice system, incarcerating them at five times the rate of white men. When it comes to the death penalty, the odds are even more stacked: Black defendants convicted of killing white victims are significantly more likely to be sentenced to death than white defendants convicted of killing Black victims. Williams’ story is just one of many that highlight the racial disparities that turn life-or-death decisions into statistical certainties.
Meanwhile, the contrasting treatment of Mark and Patricia McCloskey, a wealthy white couple who brandished guns at peaceful Black Lives Matter protesters, lays bare the glaring double standards at work. In 2020, the McCloskeys pointed firearms at unarmed protesters outside their St. Louis mansion, a scene captured on video and widely circulated. Instead of facing significant consequences, they were turned into conservative icons. Governor Mike Parson swiftly pardoned them after they pled guilty to misdemeanor charges. The same governor who granted clemency to the McCloskeys refused to consider the new DNA evidence in Williams’ case, ensuring his execution would go forward. The message is crystal clear: while the McCloskeys were given a free pass for threatening violence, Williams was denied any chance of justice, even as evidence of his innocence mounted.
Josh Hawley, the U.S. Senator who had served as Missouri’s Attorney General during key moments in Williams’ case, played an equally damning role. Hawley’s office fiercely opposed efforts to overturn Williams’ conviction, even as the new DNA evidence raised serious doubts. As a Senator, Hawley has continued to align himself with controversial figures, from the McCloskeys to the January 6 rioters. He was famously photographed raising his fist in solidarity with the rioters before the violence broke out at the Capitol—a moment that encapsulated his far-right allegiances. The troubling irony is that Hawley, who once stood with those who stormed the Capitol and defended the McCloskeys, was also eager to see Williams executed despite the glaring questions surrounding his guilt. The image of Hawley running away from the very rioters he had supported underscores the deep hypocrisy at the heart of his political career.
This stark contrast between the cases of Marcellus Williams and the McCloskeys illustrates everything wrong with Missouri’s justice system. A Black man, convicted on the basis of unreliable informants, was executed despite DNA evidence pointing to his innocence. Meanwhile, a wealthy white couple, who threatened peaceful protesters with violence, were pardoned and celebrated. This is not just a story of Missouri—it’s a reflection of racial privilege and injustice deeply embedded in the fabric of America.
Missouri’s history is stained with racial injustice, from the infamous Dred Scott decision, which declared that Black people had “no rights which the white man was bound to respect,” to the present-day application of the death penalty. Nationally, Black defendants convicted of killing white victims are far more likely to face execution than their white counterparts convicted of killing Black victims. These disparities aren’t just numbers—they carry devastating, life-and-death consequences. And in Marcellus Williams’ case, they cost a man his life.
So why did Missouri ignore the DNA evidence that could have freed Williams? Why did a wealthy white couple receive clemency for threatening violence while a Black man was executed despite mounting evidence of his innocence? The answers lie in the very structure of Missouri’s justice system—a system that has long been skewed by race, determining who is granted mercy and who is condemned.
Tonight, Missouri may have killed an innocent man. But Marcellus Williams’ death is not just a singular tragedy—it is a testament to a system that delivers justice unequally, one that must be confronted if true justice is ever to be achieved. Until these disparities are eradicated, Williams’ execution will not be the last. And the McCloskeys of the world will continue to walk free.
