DeSantis Doubles Down: Florida Sets Record Pace for Executions

Paul Riverbank, 2/1/2026Florida accelerates executions at a historic rate, reigniting debate over justice, deterrence, and humanity. As Gov. DeSantis pushes forward, families find validation, critics sound alarms, and the state’s resolve sparks national scrutiny on the true cost—and meaning—of capital punishment.

To put this into perspective, what’s happening now feels almost without precedent, at least for this century. Keep up at this rate, and by 2026, Florida could very well claim the highest number of executions nationwide. That’s more than just a statistic—it’s a signal sent with unmistakable intent.

But numbers alone don’t tell the whole story. There’s a past tangled up here—the kind people don’t easily forget. It stretches back to a cold night in Fort Pierce, January 1991. Officer Danny Parrish, doing what police do, stopped a car heading the wrong way. What followed was abrupt, violent. Witnesses say there was a struggle, and then a flurry of gunshots—loud, immediate. Kearse, disarmed the officer, and emptied the weapon: thirteen shots. Nine struck Parrish, whose police radio had stayed open, transmitting chaos out into the night. That open line would help officers locate their fallen colleague, but it came too late for saving him. The city went into mourning; memory imprinted with loss.

When Governor Ron DeSantis signed the most recent death warrants, he pointed to the drawn-out passage of years. “Justice delayed is justice denied,” he said. For families like Parrish’s, who have waited decades for a verdict to reach its final chapter, every legal twist—the vacated first sentence, the retrials—felt like fresh salt in old wounds. The system moves slowly; grief does not.

Records show that, in 2025, the state executed nineteen inmates, the highest in its own history. Nearly half of all executions in America last year took place here. Before Kearse’s date, two others—Ronald Palmer Heath and Melvin Trotter—are slated for lethal injection. Each of their cases is distinct, yet each brings those familiar public arguments back to the surface.

For supporters, there’s little question. They see DeSantis’s actions as unambiguous support for law enforcement and overdue deliverance for victims’ families. “If I honestly thought someone was innocent, I would not pull the trigger,” the governor remarked, aiming to settle doubts about possible error. For the Parrish family and many like them, the swift march toward execution brings a kind of acknowledgement. Maybe not solace—grief tends to resist closure—but an assurance that their pain hasn’t been forgotten.

Opponents see the situation differently: they question both the practical and ethical toll. There’s concern over mounting costs, the unending procession of appeals, and whether capital punishment achieves anything resembling deterrence. As executions grow more frequent, there’s a worry that Florida is normalizing what used to be an extraordinary, last-resort event. Even the method—lethal injection—remains controversial; designed to seem clinical, its humanity is debated still.

No surprise, the issue divides. For every voice demanding swifter resolutions and decrying “activist judges,” there’s another warning that urgency risks irreversible mistakes. And hanging over each of these debates is the reality that, for families marked by violent crime, days on the calendar don’t fox the ache. Pain isn’t theoretical—it is daily, it is lived, regardless of court dates or headlines.

What stands out as Florida presses ahead isn’t a rehashing of the death penalty’s ethics so much as a statement of renewed resolve: justice, by this measure, is moving forward briskly, even if the rest of the country watches with unease. For some, this momentum is proof that order is being restored. For others, it leaves a lingering question—one without easy answers—about what true justice means, and whose losses we’re ultimately willing to reckon with.

In this moment, the state’s message is unmistakable: after years of waiting, the machinery of capital punishment is not just back—but moving faster than ever before. Whether this offers relief or deeper anxiety depends largely on where one stands, and how much of the past they still carry.

There’s an almost physical heaviness in Florida when the state marks its calendar with yet another execution date. It’s the kind of announcement that lingers—hard to ignore, impossible to make routine. Now, for Billy Leon Kearse, that day comes up fast: March 3rd. He’s set to be the third person put to death in Florida within just a few months, a tempo that has caught the attention of folks both inside and well beyond the state border.To put this into perspective, what’s happening now feels almost without precedent, at least for this century. Keep up at this rate, and by 2026, Florida could very well claim the highest number of executions nationwide. That’s more than just a statistic—it’s a signal sent with unmistakable intent.But numbers alone don’t tell the whole story. There’s a past tangled up here—the kind people don’t easily forget. It stretches back to a cold night in Fort Pierce, January 1991. Officer Danny Parrish, doing what police do, stopped a car heading the wrong way. What followed was abrupt, violent. Witnesses say there was a struggle, and then a flurry of gunshots—loud, immediate. Kearse, disarmed the officer, and emptied the weapon: thirteen shots. Nine struck Parrish, whose police radio had stayed open, transmitting chaos out into the night. That open line would help officers locate their fallen colleague, but it came too late for saving him. The city went into mourning; memory imprinted with loss.When Governor Ron DeSantis signed the most recent death warrants, he pointed to the drawn-out passage of years. “Justice delayed is justice denied,” he said. For families like Parrish’s, who have waited decades for a verdict to reach its final chapter, every legal twist—the vacated first sentence, the retrials—felt like fresh salt in old wounds. The system moves slowly; grief does not.Records show that, in 2025, the state executed nineteen inmates, the highest in its own history. Nearly half of all executions in America last year took place here. Before Kearse’s date, two others—Ronald Palmer Heath and Melvin Trotter—are slated for lethal injection. Each of their cases is distinct, yet each brings those familiar public arguments back to the surface.For supporters, there’s little question. They see DeSantis’s actions as unambiguous support for law enforcement and overdue deliverance for victims’ families. “If I honestly thought someone was innocent, I would not pull the trigger,” the governor remarked, aiming to settle doubts about possible error. For the Parrish family and many like them, the swift march toward execution brings a kind of acknowledgement. Maybe not solace—grief tends to resist closure—but an assurance that their pain hasn’t been forgotten.Opponents see the situation differently: they question both the practical and ethical toll. There’s concern over mounting costs, the unending procession of appeals, and whether capital punishment achieves anything resembling deterrence. As executions grow more frequent, there’s a worry that Florida is normalizing what used to be an extraordinary, last-resort event. Even the method—lethal injection—remains controversial; designed to seem clinical, its humanity is debated still.No surprise, the issue divides. For every voice demanding swifter resolutions and decrying “activist judges,” there’s another warning that urgency risks irreversible mistakes. And hanging over each of these debates is the reality that, for families marked by violent crime, days on the calendar don’t fox the ache. Pain isn’t theoretical—it is daily, it is lived, regardless of court dates or headlines.What stands out as Florida presses ahead isn’t a rehashing of the death penalty’s ethics so much as a statement of renewed resolve: justice, by this measure, is moving forward briskly, even if the rest of the country watches with unease. For some, this momentum is proof that order is being restored. For others, it leaves a lingering question—one without easy answers—about what true justice means, and whose losses we’re ultimately willing to reckon with.In this moment, the state’s message is unmistakable: after years of waiting, the machinery of capital punishment is not just back—but moving faster than ever before. Whether this offers relief or deeper anxiety depends largely on where one stands, and how much of the past they still carry.