“Justice Delayed Is Justice Denied”—DeSantis Accelerates Florida Death Penalty

Paul Riverbank, 1/31/2026Florida accelerates executions under DeSantis, igniting debate over justice, deterrence, and closure.

The case—grim as it remains—goes back to a cold January in 1991, on a street in Fort Pierce. Officer Danny Parrish stopped a car heading the wrong way. What should have been a simple traffic check became a violent struggle over a sidearm, too brief and too final. Thirteen shots rang out that night; nine found their mark. The police radio, left open after the chaos, brought help, but not soon enough. Officer Parrish died; his voice, though, had already led investigators straight to the shooter’s door. The suspect, Kearse, left behind more than just forensic evidence—he left a city mourning one of its own.

Conviction followed swiftly. Kearse was sentenced to death, not once but twice, after the first verdict unraveled on a technicality—one of those legal knots that keep cases alive far longer than anyone involved expects. During all these years, the legal machinery turned and ground; one round of appeals faded into another. Meanwhile, for the Parrish family, time stalled.

DeSantis has made little secret of his guiding philosophy: justice delayed, for him, is justice denied. “Some of these crimes were committed in the ‘80s,” he pointed out with a sort of stern practicality. The governor has argued that dragging out capital cases serves only to compound pain, not just for families, but for the trust society invests in its own system. “If I honestly thought someone was innocent, I would not pull the trigger,” he said, aiming to ward off criticism before it even materializes.

You only have to look at the numbers to see how determined the state’s become. In 2025 alone, Florida executed 19 people—more than double its previous annual record and accounting for nearly half of all executions nationwide last year. Before Kearse, the state already had back-to-back executions scheduled in February, with Ronald Palmer Heath and Melvin Trotter next in line.

It’s no secret that each execution—especially when they come this rapidly—reopens old wounds for families, raises uncomfortable questions for the courts, and brings out arguments on both sides of the debate. Florida uses lethal injection, a method intended to shield the process in a certain clinical detachment, yet debate over its humanity never quite disappears.

Supporters of the punishment point to the seriousness of the crimes and stress that the families deserve resolution. For critics, though, the costs, the length of appeals, and doubts about deterrence make for a compelling counter-narrative. There’s also the unsettling regularity now to the process; what was once rare enough to make front pages now risks blending into the background noise of state politics.

Still, for those like the Parrishes—who have lived each year of delay not as abstraction but as ache—these recent moves from Tallahassee seem aimed at validation after decades of uncertainty. It may not be solace, but at least it’s an answer.

As the state presses forward, Florida looks less interested in reexamining old questions about capital punishment, and more intent on reminding the public—and perhaps, above all, the families of law enforcement officers lost in the line—that the gears of justice are again in motion. For better or worse, the Sunshine State doesn’t look set to change course.

You might say Florida’s relationship with capital punishment isn’t just a headline—it’s something you feel, especially for those tangled in the events that lead to the ultimate penalty. That truth was never clearer than the morning after Gov. Ron DeSantis signed his latest death warrant, this time for Billy Leon Kearse. The date set: March 3. It’s difficult to ignore that this will be Florida’s third execution in as many months by that point in 2026, a pace the state hasn’t seen since before most of the people on its current death row had even been convicted.The case—grim as it remains—goes back to a cold January in 1991, on a street in Fort Pierce. Officer Danny Parrish stopped a car heading the wrong way. What should have been a simple traffic check became a violent struggle over a sidearm, too brief and too final. Thirteen shots rang out that night; nine found their mark. The police radio, left open after the chaos, brought help, but not soon enough. Officer Parrish died; his voice, though, had already led investigators straight to the shooter’s door. The suspect, Kearse, left behind more than just forensic evidence—he left a city mourning one of its own.Conviction followed swiftly. Kearse was sentenced to death, not once but twice, after the first verdict unraveled on a technicality—one of those legal knots that keep cases alive far longer than anyone involved expects. During all these years, the legal machinery turned and ground; one round of appeals faded into another. Meanwhile, for the Parrish family, time stalled.DeSantis has made little secret of his guiding philosophy: justice delayed, for him, is justice denied. “Some of these crimes were committed in the ‘80s,” he pointed out with a sort of stern practicality. The governor has argued that dragging out capital cases serves only to compound pain, not just for families, but for the trust society invests in its own system. “If I honestly thought someone was innocent, I would not pull the trigger,” he said, aiming to ward off criticism before it even materializes.You only have to look at the numbers to see how determined the state’s become. In 2025 alone, Florida executed 19 people—more than double its previous annual record and accounting for nearly half of all executions nationwide last year. Before Kearse, the state already had back-to-back executions scheduled in February, with Ronald Palmer Heath and Melvin Trotter next in line.It’s no secret that each execution—especially when they come this rapidly—reopens old wounds for families, raises uncomfortable questions for the courts, and brings out arguments on both sides of the debate. Florida uses lethal injection, a method intended to shield the process in a certain clinical detachment, yet debate over its humanity never quite disappears.Supporters of the punishment point to the seriousness of the crimes and stress that the families deserve resolution. For critics, though, the costs, the length of appeals, and doubts about deterrence make for a compelling counter-narrative. There’s also the unsettling regularity now to the process; what was once rare enough to make front pages now risks blending into the background noise of state politics.Still, for those like the Parrishes—who have lived each year of delay not as abstraction but as ache—these recent moves from Tallahassee seem aimed at validation after decades of uncertainty. It may not be solace, but at least it’s an answer.As the state presses forward, Florida looks less interested in reexamining old questions about capital punishment, and more intent on reminding the public—and perhaps, above all, the families of law enforcement officers lost in the line—that the gears of justice are again in motion. For better or worse, the Sunshine State doesn’t look set to change course.