Ron McAndrew sits in his Dunnellon, Florida home, located an hour’s drive south of Gainesville where the Rainbow River merges with the Withlacoochee, haunted by the memories of the eight convicted murderers whose executions he oversaw as warden at Florida State Prison.
The Ghostly Visitor at the Foot of the Bed
Every night, one of the men Ron McAndrew killed would sit at the foot of his bed and stare, blankly, into his tortured soul. He knew they were coming, often shifting over in his sheets to make room for the silent visitations. “They never said anything,” McAndrew recalls, his aged voice straining from the weight of the memory. “They just sat there and looked at me.”
Yet, the silence was heavy with unspoken words. Their eyes would ask, “How could you do such a thing?” McAndrew remembers, noting the silent accusation: “You always claimed to be a good person. And now you’re killing people.” Nearly three decades have passed since McAndrew watched the life slip from the faces of those eight inmates, but each death remains vividly present. He recalls every grim detail of the job’s routine: listening to final words, arranging last meals, and giving the silent signal to carry out the sentence.
From Ambitious Warden to Unlikely Opponent of Capital Punishment
McAndrew served as the warden at Florida State Prison—the facility where Florida executes its death row inmates—until 1998. During his tenure, he led a team that killed three prisoners by electrocution and later traveled to Texas to assist in the lethal injections of several more men. Initially, he was an ambitious state corrections official who “was so anxious to climb the ladder,” and he genuinely believed in the death penalty. Officers competed fiercely to join his execution squad, a high-profile team operating at the behest of the governor.
Over time, however, the reality of the chamber eroded his convictions. He became convinced that one of his inmates was innocent, and he witnessed another execution get botched when an inmate’s head caught fire. Looking back from the age of 88, McAndrew harbors profound regret. “I really believed in the death penalty,” he says. “I can’t believe that I did, today. I simply cannot believe it.” Now, he spends whatever time he has left trying to right eight wrongs, driven by the realization that he had to look inward and question why he committed those acts.
A Grim Routine and Banned Traditions
Back when he managed the execution chamber, McAndrew maintained strict protocols while grappling with the culture surrounding the prison’s lethal duties. The state allocated $40 to procure a final meal, a budget he frequently supplemented out of his own pocket when more was required. The night before an execution, he would act like a coach, gathering his team to buy coffee and donuts and demand transparency about how everyone was feeling.
McAndrew actively suppressed the dark humor that sometimes festered among his officers. He banned the moniker “Old Sparky” for the electric chair, insisting that “nothing about what we’re doing is a joke.” He also put an end to a tradition where team members visited a local diner after an execution, disgusted when locals high-fived members of his squad.
On the morning of an execution, McAndrew would visit the inmate’s cell, nod to the guards for privacy, and close the heavy door with a metallic clunk. Sitting on the bed beside a man whose life was now measured in minutes, he would ask a simple question: “It’s just me and you. Anything you want to say?” He soon discovered that the condemned men always had a great deal on their minds.
Florida’s Current Execution Surge
While McAndrew attempts to reconcile his past, his home state is moving in the opposite direction. Since the start of 2025, Florida has executed more people than any other state and nearly as many as the rest of the country combined. On a Tuesday, the state is slated to carry out its 16th execution of the year: that of Curtis Beasley, 77, who was convicted for the 1995 bludgeoning death of a woman.
Beasley’s lawyers argued that his deteriorating cognitive abilities made the death penalty unreasonable, but the Florida Supreme Court denied his appeal. This relentless flurry of state-sanctioned killings deeply agonizes McAndrew. Rejecting standard terminology, his soft intonation turns to pure fury as he describes the state’s actions: “I prefer to call it a premeditated ceremonial political killing. Because that’s what it is.”
Living in the Shadow of Death
Today, death surrounds McAndrew both indoors and out. Lynne, his wife, once witnessed a man drown on the nearby waters after his boat tangled with a sunken tree and capsized. Lawyers, advocacy groups, and death row inmates now compete for McAndrew’s time, seeking insights from a former warden who turned against the machinery of the state.
As he talks in his living room, the clouds outside turn gradually darker, signaling an approaching storm while the air grows heavy. McAndrew still possesses a mischievous sense of humor, but all laughter vanishes the moment his mind travels back to the cellblocks of Florida State Prison.
