Florida’s Relentless March Toward the Death Chamber: Inside Ron DeSantis’s Record-Breaking Execution Spree

Florida is preparing to execute Bryan Fredrick Jennings, a 66-year-old man convicted of the 1979 kidnapping, rape, and murder of 6-year-old Rebecca Kunash, in what will mark the state’s 16th execution of 2025 — the most under any Florida governor since capital punishment was reinstated nearly half a century ago.

Governor Ron DeSantis, who signed the death warrant late last week, has made the death penalty a centerpiece of his “law and order” agenda, defying national trends as the rest of the United States gradually steps away from executions. Florida, under DeSantis, has done the opposite — accelerating them.

If the execution proceeds on November 13, Jennings will become the latest in a line of condemned inmates to die by lethal injection at Florida State Prison, as the governor cements his record as the most execution-active leader in modern Florida history.

A Crime That Shook Brevard County

The crime that placed Jennings on death row was one of the most horrifying in Florida’s modern history.

In May 1979, police in Brevard County launched a frantic search for Rebecca Kunash, a 6-year-old girl who had vanished from her bedroom during the night. Days later, her body was found in a canal near Merritt Island — a discovery that sent shockwaves through the small community.

Investigators determined that Jennings had broken into the family’s home through a window, abducted the child, sexually assaulted her, and killed her by drowning her in a nearby canal.

A week after the murder, Jennings was stopped on a traffic violation, which led police to link him to the abduction and killing. He was arrested, charged, and eventually convicted.

The case has gone through decades of appeals. Two of Jennings’s earlier death sentences were overturned, but in 1986, he was again sentenced to die — a punishment that has remained in place ever since.

A Governor’s Record Pace

Since the beginning of 2025, Governor Ron DeSantis has signed 16 execution warrants, a pace unseen since the reinstatement of the death penalty in 1976.

His decision to push forward with Jennings’s execution comes just weeks after the state executed Samuel Lee Smithers and Victory Tony Jones, both convicted of separate murders. Another inmate, Norman Mearle Grim Jr., is scheduled to die on October 28.

DeSantis’s actions have made Florida the national leader in executions this year, surpassing Texas — a state long considered the country’s capital of capital punishment.

Critics say the governor’s aggressive stance reflects political ambitions rather than justice. “This is a campaign of death,” said Laura Ramirez, a senior attorney at the Florida Innocence Project. “These executions are being used as a political talking point to show toughness, not fairness.”

Supporters, however, see it differently. “Governor DeSantis is restoring confidence in the justice system,” said Mark Chamberlain, a spokesperson for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. “He’s making sure that the most heinous criminals face the consequences they were sentenced to decades ago.”

America’s Death Penalty Divide

Florida’s aggressive execution schedule stands in stark contrast to the national picture.

As of October 2025, 35 executions have taken place across the United States — with Florida alone accounting for nearly half. States like California, Oregon, and Virginia have imposed moratoriums or abolished the death penalty altogether.

Florida, however, has doubled down. In 2023, DeSantis signed legislation lowering the jury threshold for death sentences from unanimous to an 8-4 vote, making it easier for prosecutors to secure executions — a move that alarmed legal scholars.

“It’s a dangerous precedent,” said Professor Alan Rosen, a constitutional law expert at the University of Miami. “The U.S. Supreme Court has repeatedly emphasized that death is different — it requires the highest standard of certainty. Florida’s approach lowers that bar.”

Decades on Death Row

Jennings’s nearly 46 years on death row reflect another troubling aspect of Florida’s death penalty system: delays, legal reversals, and inconsistencies that have plagued capital punishment for decades.

Since 1976, roughly one in seven death sentences in Florida has been overturned due to legal or procedural errors. Critics argue that these long delays erode the justice system’s credibility and deepen the pain for victims’ families.

Jennings’s attorneys are expected to file emergency appeals to the Florida Supreme Court and the U.S. Supreme Court, challenging the execution on constitutional grounds. They claim that evidence used in the 1980s relied on outdated forensic techniques and that Jennings’s mental health has deteriorated after decades in isolation.

In a statement released Friday, Jennings’s defense team said:

“After nearly five decades in solitary confinement, Mr. Jennings is not the same man who was convicted in 1979. Executing him now serves no legitimate purpose — it is retribution disguised as justice.”

But for the family of Rebecca Kunash, that argument rings hollow. “He took everything from us,” said Marianne Kunash, Rebecca’s surviving sister, now in her fifties. “He’s had 46 years of appeals and meals and chances. My sister never got one.”

The Politics of Execution

Observers say DeSantis’s death penalty strategy is as much about politics as it is about punishment.

After suspending his 2024 presidential campaign, DeSantis has returned to Florida with renewed focus on asserting his conservative credentials. He has highlighted executions, immigration crackdowns, and education reforms as evidence of his “uncompromising leadership.”

“Every execution signed is a signal to his base that he stands for order, discipline, and moral clarity,” said James Hartley, a political analyst at Florida Atlantic University. “It’s part of a broader narrative that positions him as the ultimate law-and-order governor.”

Yet the strategy comes with risks. National polling shows declining public support for the death penalty, especially among younger and independent voters. A 2025 Gallup survey found that 55% of Americans still support capital punishment — down from nearly 80% in the 1990s.

“Florida is moving against the national current,” Hartley added. “And while that might win applause from conservatives, it could alienate moderates who see these actions as excessive.”

Inside the Chamber

At Florida State Prison in Starke, where executions are carried out, preparations are already underway for Jennings’s final day.

If the courts do not intervene, Jennings will be served a final meal the night before — any items he requests, as long as it costs less than $40 and can be prepared locally.

On the morning of November 13, he will be led from his cell to the death chamber. The room, sterile and brightly lit, holds a single gurney surrounded by glass walls. A small crowd of witnesses — including reporters, legal representatives, and relatives of the victim — will watch from behind reinforced windows.

The execution team, wearing masks, will administer a three-drug cocktail: etomidate to sedate, rocuronium bromide to paralyze, and potassium acetate to stop the heart.

The process takes about 15 minutes. The governor’s office will then issue a formal statement confirming the time of death.

A Nation Watching

As Florida continues its accelerated pace of executions, human rights organizations are watching closely.

Groups such as Amnesty International and The Innocence Project have criticized DeSantis’s approach as “reckless and politically motivated,” warning that Florida’s system risks executing people who might not meet modern legal standards for conviction.

Since 1973, Florida has exonerated 30 death row inmates — more than any other state — due to wrongful convictions.

“That number should terrify anyone who believes in justice,” said Deborah Malik, director of the Southern Center for Human Rights. “When the state kills faster than it reviews, mistakes are inevitable.”

Yet for many Floridians, especially those in rural and conservative areas, DeSantis’s approach resonates deeply. “It’s about accountability,” said Carl Henderson, a retired sheriff from Polk County. “People are tired of seeing murderers live longer than their victims.”

The Final Days

Jennings, now frail and gray-haired, has spent most of his adult life on death row. Prison records show a man who reads the Bible daily, writes letters to two surviving relatives, and rarely speaks to other inmates.

In his most recent statement to prison chaplains, he said:

“I’ve made peace with God. I can’t change what I did, but I don’t fear what’s coming.”

Whether his words reflect remorse or resignation remains unclear.

Outside the prison gates, activists plan to hold vigils both for Rebecca Kunash and against state-sanctioned execution. “Two lives were lost in this case,” said Reverend Susan Dawes, who leads the Florida Coalition for Mercy. “One was taken by violence. The other is being taken by vengeance.”

A Legacy of Shadows

As November 13 approaches, Florida finds itself at a moral crossroads.

Governor DeSantis’s supporters hail him as a champion of justice — a leader unafraid to enforce the law. His detractors see a man willing to exploit human suffering for political gain.

But for the Kunash family, and for the aging man awaiting his fate in a cell just 60 miles from where the crime occurred, the question of justice remains hauntingly unresolved.

When the execution order is carried out, one life will end — but the debate over Florida’s death penalty, and what it says about the state’s soul, will continue long after the prison lights go dark.