When Silence Becomes the Crisis

Part II: What Tennessee’s Failed Execution Can Teach Us About Leadership, Trust and the Information Vacuum

In Part I of this series, I examined what happens when an organization plans extensively for an event and then finds itself dealing with something entirely unexpected. I ended by asking what happens when an operational crisis becomes a communications crisis and, eventually, a crisis of public trust.

I believe that’s what happened in Tennessee.

On Sept. 30, the Tennessee Department of Correction attempted to carry out the execution of Christa Pike. Despite extensive preparation, the execution failed. Pike remained alive after receiving two doses of pentobarbital and was eventually transported to a hospital for emergency medical care.

The department faced an extraordinary operational situation. But in less than 24 hours, the questions had expanded beyond what happened inside the execution chamber. Reporters, attorneys, and advocacy organizations were seeking answers about the state’s execution procedures, its response, and what officials knew. Gov. Bill Lee ordered an independent review and halted Tennessee’s remaining scheduled execution for the year.

What began as an operational crisis had become a reputational crisis.

The public wasn’t simply asking what happened anymore. It was asking whether TDOC could be trusted to explain what happened, whether its procedures were reliable and whether state leadership could provide accountability.

Three days after the execution attempt, Commissioner Frank Strada announced his intention to resign later in October.

I believe the reputational crisis was an important part of the environment surrounding that decision. That doesn’t mean the communications response cost Strada his job, and I’m not suggesting it did. There were other significant factors, including a previous failed execution attempt in May, and undoubtedly conversations and considerations that haven’t been made public.

But I don’t think we should ignore how quickly the situation escalated or the role communication can play when an organization finds itself in that position.

When the information vacuum becomes a trust problem

In Part I, I wrote about the information vacuum that developed following the execution attempt. TDOC’s public media advisory was posted at 11:15 p.m., confirming that Pike had been transported to an off-site medical facility and stating that the department had followed its established execution protocol.

By then, media witnesses were describing what they had observed. Pike’s attorneys were speaking publicly and pursuing legal action. Advocacy organizations were offering their perspectives, and reporters were trying to piece together what had happened.

That’s what happens when information is limited. People look for answers wherever they can find them.

I don’t fault reporters for reporting or attorneys for advocating for their clients. They have responsibilities, just as TDOC does.

The challenge for an agency is that the public doesn’t stop forming opinions while the organization gathers facts. If the agency isn’t providing information, other sources begin shaping how people understand the incident.

Eventually, the questions can change from “What happened?” to “Why aren’t they telling us what happened?” and then to “Can we trust them?”

I think that progression is one of the most important lessons from Tennessee.

When I talk about reputation, I’m not talking about protecting an agency’s image or making a bad situation look better. I’m talking about whether people have confidence in the organization responsible for managing an incident and explaining what happened.

In corrections, that trust matters. Employees need confidence in leadership. Families need accurate information. Elected officials need confidence in the agencies they oversee. And the public needs to believe that an organization exercising extraordinary government authority is acting responsibly.

Communication cannot manufacture that trust, particularly when serious operational questions remain unanswered. But the absence of communication can make maintaining it considerably more difficult.

You don’t need every answer to communicate

I’ve been involved in enough high-consequence incidents to understand why organizations sometimes hesitate before making a public statement.

Operations is gathering information. Leadership needs to be briefed. Legal counsel may need to review what can be released. There may be medical information, security considerations, litigation, or an active investigation.

Those are legitimate concerns, particularly in corrections.

I also understand that the communications team may not have much information itself. Sometimes the people responsible for communicating are learning what happened only moments before everyone else.

But there’s a difference between not having all the answers and having nothing to say.

An agency can acknowledge that something unexpected has happened, explain what it can confirm, recognize that questions remain, and commit to providing additional information.

It can also establish a schedule for updates.

I’ve found that telling reporters when they’ll hear from you again can be incredibly useful. If you commit to an update at 10 p.m., provide one at 10 p.m., even if there’s little new information.

That gives reporters a reason to return to the agency for information instead of continually seeking updates elsewhere. It also gives the communications team time to gather and verify additional facts.

You’re not promising answers you don’t have. You’re committing to communicate.

And during a crisis, that consistency matters.

Some crises require visible leadership

This is where I think the discussion needs to move beyond the public information officer.

PIOs can gather information, prepare statements, coordinate messaging, answer media inquiries, and help leadership understand what’s happening in the information environment.

But there are moments when the public needs to hear from the person responsible for leading the organization.

That doesn’t mean a commissioner or agency head needs every answer before speaking. In fact, during the early stages of a significant incident, they probably won’t have them.

Their role may simply be to acknowledge what happened, recognize the people affected, explain what the organization is doing, and make a commitment to provide additional information when it becomes available.

I’ve worked with leaders who wanted every fact verified and every possible question anticipated before they spoke. I understand that instinct. But sometimes waiting for that level of certainty creates a different problem.

People begin wondering why they haven’t heard from the person in charge.

Employees are watching, too. They’re reading the same stories, getting questions from family members, and trying to understand what’s happening inside their own organization. Some may have been directly involved in the incident and may be dealing with its emotional impact.

That’s why crisis communication can’t be treated solely as a PIO responsibility. Executive leadership needs to understand when its visibility matters and how to communicate with employees while the public response is unfolding.

Communication has to work inside the organization, too

The Oct. 12 release of 911 recordings related to the failed execution introduced another troubling dimension to what happened that night.

According to reporting on the recordings, a request for emergency medical assistance was made from Riverbend Maximum Security Institution at approximately 8:40 p.m. Confusion followed as emergency dispatchers attempted to verify whether the call was legitimate. The caller reportedly did not have the required verification code, and subsequent communications between dispatchers and prison personnel created additional uncertainty.

The emergency was reportedly confirmed at approximately 9:11 p.m., more than 30 minutes after the initial request.

I don’t know why those breakdowns occurred or what the independent review will ultimately determine. I also don’t know whether different actions would have changed Pike’s medical outcome, and I’m not suggesting they would have.

But the recordings raise questions that extend beyond public information.

How does information move between operational personnel, emergency dispatchers, and agency leadership? Who is authorized to request assistance? Are emergency verification procedures understood by everyone who may need to use them? What happens when the person making the call isn’t the person normally responsible for that task?

Those are operational questions, but they’re also communications questions.

We spend considerable time discussing how agencies communicate externally during a crisis. We need to pay just as much attention to how information moves inside the organization and between responding agencies when something unexpected happens.

A PIO cannot communicate effectively without reliable information from the people managing the incident. And operational personnel cannot afford uncertainty about how to request assistance when time matters.

The recordings reinforce why organizations need to exercise scenarios where normal procedures break down, including situations that involve multiple agencies and unfamiliar personnel.

The crisis doesn’t end when the incident ends

Another reason I wanted to revisit this article before publishing it is that the story has continued developing.

On Oct. 7, a Tennessee judge ordered the preservation of evidence related to the execution attempt. On Oct. 12, the 911 recordings became public, introducing additional questions about emergency communications and coordination. Pike was also discharged from the hospital and returned to a correctional facility, where she reportedly continued receiving medical care.

These developments demonstrate something important for communicators: The operational incident may be over, but the reputational crisis can continue for weeks, months, or even years.

Think about a death in custody. The immediate incident may conclude within hours, but the investigation, autopsy findings, potential litigation, and public scrutiny can continue long afterward. The same is true of a significant use-of-force incident, escape, or allegation of employee misconduct.

Each new development creates another opportunity, and sometimes another obligation, for the agency to communicate.

That means the communications plan cannot end with the initial news release or news conference. It needs to account for what happens during the investigation, when findings are released and when corrective actions are identified.

Sometimes those findings will be uncomfortable for the organization. That doesn’t make communicating them any less important.

The resignation belongs in this discussion

On Oct. 3, Strada announced that he intended to step down as commissioner later in the month.

In his public statement, Strada said he continued to believe TDOC had carried out its responsibilities in accordance with the established execution protocol. He also supported the independent review and said stepping aside was in the best interest of Tennesseans as that review moved forward.

Lee, in announcing the resignation, said Strada had served Tennessee with integrity.

I think those details matter, particularly because it’s easy to look at a resignation following a major incident and assume we understand exactly why it happened.

We don’t.

Tennessee had already experienced another failed execution attempt in May, when officials were unable to establish the required IV access for the execution of Tony Carruthers. That incident, along with the events of Sept. 30, raises questions that go well beyond the department’s communications response.

We don’t know what conversations took place between Strada and the governor, what legal or operational considerations influenced his decision or what other factors may have been involved. I don’t know what the independent review will ultimately determine, and I don’t think anyone outside those discussions should pretend to know.

But I also don’t think we should separate the resignation entirely from the reputational crisis that developed.

Within three days, Tennessee had moved from an unsuccessful execution attempt to an independent review ordered by the governor, the suspension of further executions for the year, and the announced departure of its corrections commissioner.

By then, the issue was no longer simply whether TDOC had followed its established execution protocol. The organization was confronting much broader questions about credibility, accountability, and public confidence.

I believe that reputational crisis was an important part of the environment surrounding Strada’s resignation.

That’s different from saying poor communications cost him his job. We don’t know that, and I wouldn’t make that claim.

There were serious operational questions, a previous failed execution attempt, and undoubtedly considerations that have not been made public. Communication couldn’t have made those issues disappear, and even a well-executed communications response might not have changed the decisions that followed.

But I do believe better communication could have changed the environment in which TDOC and its leadership had to navigate those three days.

It could have established the department as an authoritative source earlier, acknowledged what was known and unknown, demonstrated that leadership recognized the seriousness of the situation and provided a predictable schedule for additional information.

Would that have prevented Strada’s resignation? I have no idea.

What I do know is that when an operational failure begins raising questions about the credibility of an organization, communication becomes one of the ways leadership demonstrates that it is confronting the problem rather than retreating from it.

That doesn’t guarantee public trust will be preserved. Some operational failures are serious enough that a reputational crisis is inevitable, regardless of how well an agency communicates.

But communication and operational accountability need to work together. If the organization communicates well but doesn’t address the underlying problem, its words eventually lose their value. If it addresses the problem but fails to communicate what it’s doing, the public may never understand the actions being taken.

Neither is enough on its own.

What would I ask tomorrow?

If I were sitting down tomorrow with a corrections commissioner and their PIO to review their crisis communications plan after what happened in Tennessee, I wouldn’t spend much time asking whether they have a news release template or social media strategy.

I’d want to know what happens when the incident they planned for doesn’t go according to plan.

Who can authorize the first public acknowledgment? Does every statement need to move through multiple layers of approval? What happens if legal counsel isn’t comfortable releasing information? Who resolves disagreements between communications, operations, legal, and executive leadership when time matters?

I’d also want to know when the commissioner is expected to become visible. Who communicates with employees? Can the agency acknowledge a significant problem before it understands the cause? Who establishes the schedule for updates, and who makes sure those updates happen?

The 911 recordings add another dimension. How does information move between operational personnel, emergency dispatchers, and agency leadership? Are emergency verification procedures understood by everyone who may need to use them? Have those procedures been exercised under circumstances where the normal process breaks down?

And I’d ask one question that I think gets overlooked in a lot of communications plans: Who has the responsibility and authority to make sure silence doesn’t become the default?

These aren’t execution-specific questions. The incident could be an escape, a death in custody, a serious assault on an employee, a disturbance, a cyberattack, or an allegation against someone in leadership.

For communicators outside corrections, substitute whatever your organization’s worst day looks like.

The circumstances will be different, but the challenge is familiar. Something happened that wasn’t supposed to happen. Information is incomplete. People want answers. Leadership is making consequential decisions, and the communications team is trying to determine what can be said while the organization is still figuring out what happened.

That’s precisely why these questions need to be answered before the crisis.

Preparing for the next crisis

In Part I, I wrote about preparing statements for the things we hope never happen. I’ve seen communications plans with pages and pages devoted to what happens when everything works, and I believe we need to spend more time preparing for the moment when it doesn’t.

After watching what happened in Tennessee, I believe that even more.

I also recognize that there are limits to what communications can accomplish. There will always be circumstances outside the PIO’s control. Legal restrictions, incomplete operational information, political considerations and decisions being made at levels above the communications team can all affect what an agency says and when it says it.

I’ve been in enough high-consequence situations to understand that reality. It’s one of the reasons I’ve tried to approach Tennessee with empathy rather than criticism.

I know some of the people involved. I’ve reached out to offer support. And I recognize that whatever lessons we take from this incident, there are correctional professionals, families, witnesses, and others who will carry the experience long after the news coverage ends.

We owe them the courtesy of not pretending we know everything that happened behind the scenes.

At the same time, I believe we owe our fellow communicators and the organizations we serve an honest examination of what we can learn.

We can have the uncomfortable conversations before an incident occurs. We can establish who has authority to communicate, build relationships with legal and operations, prepare holding statements, identify how we’ll communicate with employees and establish a process for providing regular updates.

We can exercise what happens when the plan breaks, including how information moves inside the organization and between responding agencies.

And we can make sure executive leadership understands that communication isn’t something we address after the operational problem is resolved. It’s part of managing the crisis from the beginning.

None of that guarantees a good outcome. It won’t prevent every operational failure, eliminate difficult questions, or protect every leader from the consequences of a serious incident.

But it gives the organization a better chance of maintaining trust while it works through the situation.

The failed execution was an operational crisis. What followed became a crisis of public trust, and the consequences extended far beyond the execution chamber.

We cannot communicate our way out of every operational failure. But we can decide whether our organizations will be present, transparent, and accountable while working through one.

That’s not simply the responsibility of the public information officer. It’s a responsibility of leadership.