RALEIGH, North Carolina — In the predawn darkness of November 2, 1984, Margie Velma Barfield, a 52-year-old grandmother who had confessed to poisoning four people including her own mother, became the first woman executed in the United States in 22 years, her death by lethal injection at Central Prison marking the end of a journey from quiet farm girl to death row inmate.
The woman known as the death row granny, her gray hair neatly set and wearing pink pajamas, was strapped to a gurney at 1:45 a. m. , catheters inserted into her arms as three syringes hung ready, each operated by a different volunteer so none would know which delivered the fatal dose.
Her calm demeanor never faltered. As the warden gave the signal, Barfield spoke her final words, apologizing for the hurt she had caused. At precisely 2:15 a.
m. , she was pronounced dead, the clinical process unyielding in its finality. Within 10 minutes, her body was taken away in a waiting ambulance, passing crowds of demonstrators on both sides of the capital punishment debate.
What set the hours leading to that moment apart was not the horror of the crimes she committed, but the remarkable composure Barfield displayed, a calm that seemed to defy the gravity of the situation, a peace that inmates, guards, and chaplains would remember as almost unsettling. The final 24 hours of her life, meticulously documented in prison logs, revealed a woman who slept soundly, drank coffee, read her Bible, and ministered to others even as the clock ticked down to her own execution.
Barfield slept soundly in her cell at Central Prison the night before her execution, as though the weight of her fate had finally given way to exhaustion. In the quiet of that night, a guard assigned to watch her closely broke the silence. You okay, he asked softly.
Yes, she murmured, rolling over and settling back into sleep, her voice calm as if tomorrow were not rapidly approaching. She did not stir until just after 6 a. m.
, coughing softly and asking the guard for hot water and instant coffee. I really slept well, she remarked with a faint smile as she wrapped her hands around the cup. Must have been because I barely slept the night before.
She even chuckled, amused at the irony of sleeping so soundly when the countdown to her final day had already begun.
Coffee in hand, Barfield turned to her Bible, flipping through the worn pages with steady hands. On death row, she had become a born again Christian, finding solace in her faith. Her newfound spirituality became her anchor, and she spent her remaining years ministering to other inmates and even to some of the guards.
Her pleas for clemency to Governor Jim Hunt centered on this transformation, arguing that her faith was proof of her redemption. But redemption, no matter how sincere, could not undo what the poison had done.
As the log books recorded her every move, a guard jotted a simple observation: appears very calm. Shortly before 9 a. m.
, Barfield removed her hair rollers, leaving her hair neatly set. As the guards arrived to escort her, she was handcuffed, her fresh hairstyle in sharp contrast to the somber tone of the day. Visits were scheduled to begin at 9 a.
m. and stretch until 11 p. m.
Flanked by guards, Barfield walked down the hallway toward the inmate elevator, where a correctional officer stepped forward with a flower in hand. Mrs. Barfield, he said softly, holding out the bright yellow mum from the prison chapel.
This is from the men of Central Prison, a small token of their love and concern for you today. The guards hesitated, unsure whether she should be allowed to accept it, but when Barfield reached out, they did not stop her. Thank them for me, she said calmly, her voice steady as she cradled the flower.
Just after 11 a. m. , Barfield sat waiting in the visitor room, anticipation lighting her face.
She had been looking forward to this specific visit for months. When Hugh Hoy, her pastor, finally arrived for the first time since Christmas, she rose to greet him, her smile warm and genuine. Later, he would remember her joy so genuine it seemed almost detached from the reality of the day.
But Hoy had not come only to share in her happiness. He carried devastating news. Taking her hand as they sat down, he shared it immediately.
Velma, I just heard your last appeal was turned down. She looked away briefly, then returned her gaze, unshaken. Well, that is what I figured, she said softly.
Is there anything, anything at all, that is left unconfessed, Hoy asked. No, brother, I am ready to go.
It was lunchtime, and Barfield ate pea soup with crackers and a cup of fruit punch. She ate quietly, flipping through a fresh stack of mail and telegrams. Do not worry about me, she told the chaplains who were present, urging them to focus on the 39 other men on death row.
She understood their pain, the weight they carried.
The hours slipped away, and Barfield received many visitors that afternoon. Her brothers Jimmy and John came to see her, along with her cousin. The final hours of visiting time had arrived, set aside specifically for Barfield’s children, Ronnie and Pam.
While others were limited to brief 30-minute goodbyes, those two hours were reserved entirely for them. As soon as Pam entered the visiting room, she clung to her mother, sobbing uncontrollably. Ronnie stood nearby, struggling to find the right words.
Barfield, calm despite the looming reality, was not focused on her death. Instead, she gave her final instructions to her son: take care of Pam, handle the funeral arrangements, and hold on to memories of happier times. These moments, though bittersweet, offered a fleeting sense of comfort.
When the visit ended, the goodbye was excruciating. Pam refused to let go, clinging tightly to her mother. It was Ronnie, his grief tempered by resolve, who gently pulled her away.
As they left, Ronnie urged Pam not to look back, but the image of Velma in her final hours was etched into their memories forever.
Back in her cell, Barfield’s composure finally cracked. Alone, she allowed herself a moment to grieve. The goodbyes were over, but the weight of them lingered.
At 6:13 p. m. , Barfield ordered cheese doodles and a Coke.
When the items arrived nearly 30 minutes late, she also added a pen and two small white Bibles from her stash to the tab. She set the snack and drink aside and picked up the pen, her fingers soon dusted orange as she wrote heartfelt messages in the Bibles.
At 7:15 p. m. , guards escorted Barfield out of her cell, her wrists bound in handcuffs.
Her two lawyers stood waiting to meet her one last time, each holding a rose. Their smiles were strained, an attempt to bring comfort in a moment where words would fall short. The three spent over an hour together in an intensely emotional farewell.
Barfield had agreed to the final appeals not for her own sake, but because she understood how much it meant to them. That made the court’s repeated rejections even more painful, especially for one of them, Richard Burr. For Richard, Velma was not just a client; she was the first case he would see through to the end.
Years later, he would reflect on the moment with disarming honesty. I had a terrible sense of failure. I was crying, telling her how sorry I was.
In that room, it was not about legal arguments or courtroom battles; it was about connection, shared humanity, and the unspoken weight of knowing this was goodbye.
Just as Barfield set down her pen and carefully stacked her letters and postcards, ready for the mail room, a guard appeared at her cell door. Are you ready to see the chaplain, he asked. Anytime, she replied, her voice calm.
Chaplain Phil Carter entered the cell at 11:30 p. m. , unusually nervous, afraid he might fail to offer the comfort Barfield needed.
But almost immediately, his unease dissolved. Her concern was not for herself. She spoke only of others: her children, her family, her lawyers, the warden, the chaplain himself, even the people preparing to take her life.
That is all she talked about, he would later recall.
At 1:45 a. m. on November 2, 1984, the final moments had arrived.
Barfield, dressed in her pink pajamas, had her final request honored. A diaper was added as a grim practicality. A stethoscope and heart monitor were taped to her chest.
As the wheeled gurney arrived outside her cell, guards secured her body and legs with thick straps and inserted catheters into her arms. The saline drip began to flow as she was prepared for the last journey. A few minutes before 2 a.
m. , death row granny was wheeled into the execution chamber. Onlookers peered through the glass, silent witnesses to what some saw as justice and others as vengeance.
Three syringes were attached to the IV lines, each operated by a different volunteer. One line was a dummy, ensuring none of them would know if they had delivered the fatal dose.
When asked if she had any final words, Barfield spoke calmly. I want to say that I am sorry for all the hurt that I have caused. I know that everybody has gone through a lot of pain, all the families connected, and I am sorry.
I want to thank everybody who has been supporting me all these six years. Shortly after the warden gave the signal, at precisely 2:15 a. m.
, Velma Barfield was pronounced dead. The process was smooth, clinical, and unyielding in its finality. Ten minutes later, her body was taken away in a waiting ambulance, passing crowds of demonstrators on both sides of the capital punishment debate.
Barfield’s life once seemed ordinary. A farm girl from South Carolina born in 1932, she raised children, became a grandmother, and lived what many call a quiet life. But beneath that calm facade lay a sinister truth, a pattern of deadly choices that would lead her to death row.
It was the murder of her fiance, Stuart Taylor, that unraveled her dark secrets. His death, caused by arsenic laced beer, revealed a horrifying history she had managed to keep hidden. Her trial 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓭 a 𝓈𝒽𝓸𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 truth: Taylor was not her first victim.
Investigators began connecting the dots, uncovering a chilling pattern. Two of her husbands had met suspicious ends, one in a house fire, the other poisoned. Even her own mother was not spared, poisoned twice, the second time fatally in 1974.
Her work as a caregiver was no less sinister. Three patients lost their lives under her watch, their fates concealed behind her disarming smile.
If your mother was convicted of crimes like these, would you still visit her on her final day? The question lingers, a haunting reminder of the complexity of human relationships and the unyielding finality of justice. Velma Barfield walked her last walk with a calm that defied explanation, a peace that perhaps came from the faith she had found or the acceptance of a fate she could not change.
The execution chamber fell silent, the syringes did their work, and a life that had begun in rural South Carolina ended in a sterile room in Raleigh, leaving behind a legacy of tragedy, redemption, and the unanswerable questions of justice.
