Louisiana executed Antoinette Renee Frank tonight, ending the life of the former New Orleans police officer who became the only woman on the state’s death row for the brutal 1995 triple murder of a fellow officer and two siblings at a Vietnamese restaurant. The lethal injection was carried out at the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women in St. Gabriel, closing a case that has haunted the city for three decades.
Frank, 54, was pronounced dead shortly after the procedure began. She had spent more than 28 years on death row, maintaining her innocence even as evidence mounted against her. Her execution came after a final clemency petition was denied by the state board in 2024, and a motion for a new sentencing hearing scheduled for December 2025 was overruled by the Louisiana Supreme Court earlier this week.
The crime that put Frank on death row began on the night of March 3, 1995. She and her accomplice, Rogers Lacaze, then 18, robbed Kim Anh restaurant in New Orleans East, a small Vietnamese establishment where Frank had worked off-duty security. The owners, the Vu family, trusted her completely, even giving her a key to the back door.
Inside the restaurant, Frank and Lacaze shot and killed Officer Ronald A. Williams II, a 25-year-old patrolman who was working the same off-duty security job Frank once held. Williams died instantly, never drawing his weapon.
The pair then forced the Vu siblings into a walk-in cooler and demanded money. When the victims could not produce enough cash quickly, Frank executed Ha Vu, 24, and her brother, Quang Vu, 17.
A third sibling, Chieu Vu, survived by hiding in the cooler. She later identified Frank at the scene, pointing at the uniformed officer who returned to the restaurant pretending to assist. That identification, combined with ballistics evidence and Frank’s fingerprints on the microwave where the stolen cash was hidden, secured her conviction.
Frank’s trial in October 1995 lasted less than three weeks. The jury deliberated for only 22 minutes before returning a guilty verdict on three counts of first-degree murder. After an additional 45 minutes, they recommended the death penalty.
Chieu Vu testified with raw emotion, describing how Frank hit her brother in the face with a pistol and then fired repeatedly.
The case sent shockwaves through the New Orleans Police Department, already reeling from decades of corruption and 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝓃𝒹𝒶𝓁. Frank had been hired despite failing two psychological evaluations. The psychiatrist, Dr.
Philip Scurria, warned she was emotionally unstable, indecisive under pressure, and lacking confidence. The NOPD ignored his recommendation and allowed her to reapply.
Frank’s psychological profile became even darker after her conviction. In late 1995, a neighbor’s dog unearthed human remains beneath the wooden floor of Frank’s former home in the St. Roch neighborhood.
The skeleton was identified as her father, Adam Frank, who had been reported missing two years earlier. He had been shot once in the back of the head, execution style.
Investigators concluded that Frank likely murdered her father before she ever joined the police force, burying his body beneath the house where she continued to live. Though she was never charged for that killing, the discovery painted a portrait of a woman whose violence began at home and escalated to mass murder.
Frank’s relationship with Lacaze, a teenage 𝒹𝓇𝓊𝑔 dealer she met on a routine call in the Desire housing projects, became the engine of her downfall. She called him her nephew and let him ride in her patrol car, carry her badge, and accompany her on shifts. Together, they extorted drivers and committed petty crimes, building a partnership rooted in power and control.
On the night of the murders, Lacazes wore Officer Williams’ wristwatch and used his gas card. He was arrested the same morning, grinning and saying, “You got me, but I ain’t the only one.” He was also sentenced to death but was removed from death row in 2019 through a deal with the Orleans Parish District Attorney’s Office, a decision that inflamed public anger.
Frank’s execution tonight marks the end of a long legal battle. Her appeals were repeatedly rejected, with courts citing the overwhelming evidence and the brutality of the crimes. In her final years, she became a quiet presence on death row, reading the Bible and writing letters.
Guards described her as polite but emotionally detached, rarely discussing her case.
As the execution was carried out, a small group of demonstrators gathered outside the prison, some holding signs calling for an end to capital punishment, others celebrating what they called long-overdue justice. Inside, the Vu family and the family of Officer Williams were present to witness the state’s final act.
The New Orleans Police Department issued a statement tonight, saying: “The badge Frank wore was a symbol of trust, and she shattered that trust in the most violent way imaginable. Today, justice has been served, but the memory of Officer Ronald Williams and the Vu family will never be forgotten.”
The city of New Orleans, still healing from decades of institutional failure, watched the execution closely. Frank’s case became a symbol of the NOPD’s deep-rooted problems, from its lax hiring practices to its culture of overlooking misconduct. The department has since overhauled its psychological evaluations and background checks, but the scars remain.
At the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women, Frank’s death row cell now stands empty. The only woman ever to be executed in Louisiana in the modern era left behind a legacy of betrayal and tragedy. Her father’s bones, buried beneath the house where she grew up, will forever be a symbol of the violence she kept hidden.
For the families of her victims, tonight offers a measure of closure. Chieu Vu, the survivor who identified Frank, has rarely spoken publicly since the trial. In a victim impact statement read at the clemency hearing, she said: “I still see her face every night.
I still hear the shots. I hope she finds no peace, because we never will.”
Officer Ronald Williams’ mother, who attended the execution, told reporters: “My son was taken by someone he trusted. He wore the same uniform. He thought he was safe.
That is the worst betrayal a mother can imagine.”
Frank’s execution was carried out under tight security. The prison had been on high alert for weeks, with extra patrols and restricted access. Reporters were kept at a distance, but the official death warrant was signed by the governor, who upheld the sentence after a final review.
The execution itself was swift and uneventful, with no last-minute stays or dramatic pleas. Frank declined to give a final statement. Her attorneys said she remained defiant, maintaining her innocence to the end.
They cited her history of childhood 𝓪𝓫𝓾𝓼𝓮 and trauma, arguing that her psychological instability should have spared her the death penalty.
But the state disagreed. District Attorney Harry Connick Sr. , who prosecuted the case in 1995, described Frank as a “cold-blooded killer” who used her badge as a weapon.
He died in 2019, but his legacy in this case remains. The trial was one of the most high-profile in New Orleans history, drawing national attention to police corruption.
As the execution was confirmed, social media erupted with reactions. Some called the process barbaric, others a necessary reckoning. The case has been taught in law schools and criminal justice programs as a cautionary tale about the dangers of unchecked authority and systemic failure.
The Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women now faces a future without its most infamous inmate. Frank’s cell, where she spent more than 28 years, will be cleared and reassigned. The state has three other women on death row, but none with a story as chilling as Frank’s.
In the years since her conviction, Frank’s name became synonymous with the darkest side of law enforcement. Documentaries, books, and podcasts have examined her life, her crimes, and the systemic failures that allowed a psychologically unfit recruit to carry a badge and a gun.
Tonight, that story ends. The woman who once smiled for community photos and accepted awards from the Kiwanis Club has been put to death. The image of her in uniform, holding a weapon she turned against those she was sworn to protect, will forever haunt the city of New Orleans.
Outside the prison, the night air is still. A light rain began to fall as the execution was completed. The families of the victims embraced, some weeping, others standing in silence.
They have waited 30 years for this moment. Now they must live with the aftermath.
The state released a brief statement: “The sentence of death was carried out at 6:14 p. m. Central Time.
The inmate was pronounced dead at 6:24 p. m. We extend our condolences to the families of Officer Ronald Williams, Ha Vu, and Quang Vu.”
Frank’s attorneys plan to continue their fight posthumously, arguing that her case raises systemic issues about mental health, race, and the death penalty. They have filed a request for an independent review of the execution process, but legal experts say such challenges rarely succeed.
For now, the city breathes a collective sigh of relief. The name Antoinette Frank will no longer appear on death row rosters. The chapter is closed, but the questions she raised about trust, power, and corruption will persist.
At the Kim Anh restaurant site, now a vacant lot, a small memorial of flowers and photos remains. Passersby occasionally stop to pay their respects. The memory of that night, when a trusted officer turned executioner, refuses to fade.
As the news of her execution spreads, one fact remains unshaken: Antoinette Frank was a killer who wore a badge, and the system that put that badge on her chest now bears its own share of the blame. The execution tonight may be final, but the conversation it sparks about justice, redemption, and institutional failure will continue for years to come.
Louisiana has executed only a handful of women in its history. Frank joins that grim list, a footnote in a state that has long struggled with the morality of capital punishment. Her attorneys noted that she never had a fair chance, failed by a department that hired her despite clear red flags.
But for the families of her victims, that argument falls flat. “She made a choice,” said a spokesman for the Williams family. “She chose to 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁.
She chose to betray. And now she has paid the price.”
The execution tonight was the second in Louisiana in 2025, following a nationwide slowdown in capital punishment during the pandemic. The state has faced legal battles over its lethal injection protocols, but Frank’s case proceeded without major interruption.
As the lights go out on death row at the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women, the silence is heavy. The woman who once represented both hope and horror is gone. The city she terrorized moves forward, but it will never forget what happens when evil wears a badge.