UPDATE: James Duckett was set to be executed on March 31, but last week the high court issued a stay of execution for Duckett until the results from new DNA testing were received. That original testing came back inconclusive and now Duckett’s lawyers are trying to get the DNA samples sent to another lab in Texas which may have a better chance of getting results from a degraded DNA sample. 

The state then filed a request to lift the stay of execution, arguing that since the results didn’t exonerate Duckett, the stay should be lifted. 

The Florida Supreme Court declined Monday to lift the stay of execution it granted to James Duckett, ensuring that the former police officer will not be executed Tuesday March 31.

In a brief ruling, the state’s high court ordered a trial judge in Lake County, where the case originated, to provide a status report to them by the end of the day Thursday on all pending issues in the case. That means Lake County Circuit Judge Brian Welke will decide whether to further scrutinize the results of recent DNA testing. 

This story was written before his stay of execution. Here, he is writing his final words. Duckett’s execution date is March 31st and here he reflects on the moment his warrant arrived, the long years of waiting, and the quiet, final stretch where he prepares to say goodbye.

As most know, I have been on death row for almost 37 years. So it’s not as if death isn’t always at my door or in my thoughts.

Last year, 2025, came as a surprise when the state of Florida and the Governor decided to execute 19 men on death row. Fortunately, I wasn’t one of them. I have written about how I saw others near me—friends—being taken and executed.

That reality opened my eyes to the fact that my days are numbered until my turn comes.

Florida’s clemency system has become a joke. Its purpose was to ensure that, even in a system that ends in execution, there remained a possibility for mercy. Somewhere along the way, clemency lost its connection to grace.

Here in Florida, no one on death row has received clemency since 1983. It has become political. I am not speaking about freedom, but about clemency that allows a life sentence instead. No matter how a person changes—through education, faith, or simply growing older after being sent here as a young man—none of it seems to matter.

At one time, clemency meant a chance to convince those in charge who you are—not making excuses for why you were here, but showing true, honest change—by presenting testimony, evidence, witnesses, and making the argument: I am not now who I was then.

Now, it is just another step so the state can execute.

You receive a letter from the Clemency Board informing you that a lawyer of their choice will be assigned to present and file your clemency petition. That lawyer is paid by the state—five thousand, sometimes ten thousand dollars—broken into payments for each step: visiting the inmate, filing the petition, and attending the Board’s so-called interview.

My own clemency process began in 1992. It was stopped before it was finished. At the time, the government decided—smartly, I think—that clemency should not occur at the beginning, but as the final step before execution.

So I was placed on hold until late 2014, when I received another letter appointing me a lawyer for what they called a “Clemency Review of Previous Clemency Process.”

I met with that lawyer, and by late 2014 or early 2015, she filed 15 pages meant to explain who I am, who I was, what the case is, and—most importantly—why clemency should be granted.

In 1992, I had an interview. In 2014, the Board apparently decided the years in between did not matter, because no interview was ever scheduled. So I waited, never knowing if or when my time would come… until it did.

On Friday, February 27, 2026, the day started out great.

At noon, we had what we call “day room”—time out of our cells, into the hallway, with access to phones, showers, and time to talk with the other men. That day, I felt something in my heart. I told a few friends my time was probably near. I even said that if a transport van came through the back gate, it would be for me.

At about 3:30 p.m., we locked down. From my cell, I had a clear view of the back gate.

At approximately 5:10 p.m., I saw two vans pull in. A few minutes later, the door to the wing opened. Footsteps came down the hallway. The warden, with several officers, stopped at my cell.

“It’s time. The Governor has signed your warrant.”

After that, everything became choreography.
“Give me your whites—boxers, T-shirt, socks. Get naked and show your privates.”

Handcuffs. Kneeling. Shackles. Waist chain. Black box. Lock.

I was escorted down the hallway past my friends—Paul, Butch, Boo, Tony, MR, Dale, Mo, and others—each offering love, each saying, “Stay strong.” My friend Don was asleep, but that’s okay.

We left the building, got into a van, and were taken to what is called Death Watch. It is less than a mile between the two prisons.

At Florida State Prison, I was brought to the administration office, where the warden read the death warrant signed by the Governor. My execution date: March 31, 2026, at 6 p.m.

I signed four copies. They gave me one.

From there: medical for a quick check, then down the hall to Q Wing.

In the first cell was Billy Kearse, days away from execution on March 3. Next was Mike King, set for March 17. Then my cell.

The cell has plexiglass across the bars, a bunk, a locker, and a small table fixed to the wall at the foot of the bed. A toilet. A sink. Very limited personal property. A small TV sits outside the cell.

As soon as I arrived, my legal team called on the secure line. Afterward, I was allowed to call my brother Donnie and let my family know I was okay.

Then the waiting began—30 days.

No tablet, so no email. But messages from family, friends, and well-wishers still come through Securus. Each day, they are printed and brought to me.

I miss emailing. I mostly miss music. The silence is constant, broken only by the chatter of officers’ radios.

I miss seeing outside. The two windows are painted over, covered by curtains. You can only see their outline.

During the final week, the little property we have is removed. An officer is stationed in front of the cell 24/7, logging everything we do.

Being alone like this is draining. I have written more in this one week than I have since 2019, before tablets and email.

My legal team continues to fight. They have not stopped since the warrant was issued.

But this is where I say goodbye to those who have read my work. I wanted to write this last piece because, as I see it, it’s time.

Keep me in your prayers, and thank you for the support.

James A. Duckett
September 4, 1957
Death Watch, Florida
Execution date: March 31, 2026