He has no moral objection to capital punishment; his office, though not Woodall personally, has handled up to eight capital cases during his 18 years there.

Still, Woodall can scarcely eat dinner in a Chapel Hill restaurant lately without being reminded he is a politician who represents a district more deeply opposed to capital punishment than any other in the state.

On a personal level, Woodall is the father of a 21-year-old daughter at UNC-Greensboro -- a bright young woman the same age as Eve Carson, whose killing rocked the Chapel Hill community.

He knows the violent potential of criminals and for years has drilled his wife and daughter never to get in an abductor's car. His theory: Fight to the death; chances are you'll be killed anyway.

Woodall will prosecute the two young men charged with murder in Carson's case. When he met with the dead woman's family, he told them, "I don't know what you're going through." Who can imagine it? What father could bear it?

But Woodall does know something about executions most prosecutors don't.

In 1948, his great-uncle by marriage, James Creech, made good on a threat to kill Woodall's great-aunt, shooting her through a barricaded door, then finding another way into the Johnston County farmhouse and finishing her off at close range. Creech was tried and executed in short order.

Add all that up, and you might expect Woodall to be deeply conflicted about the death penalty.

But while Woodall admits to losing sleep over his decision to seek death in two recent Chatham cases, he has a simple rationale: It's a matter of the law. And it's a part of his oath of office.

That's why he was appalled to hear some candidates for Durham district attorney promise they would never seek the death penalty.

"If the state legislature says the death penalty is the law of the land, I do not ethically have the option to say I will not seek that punishment," he said.

Which is not to say Woodall wouldn't be just as happy if the legislature did away with capital punishment altogether.

"I would like them to vote it up or down, draw the line clearly," he said. "I want them on record."

Woodall would also like the legislature to reassess the state's murder laws, establishing a felony step between first-degree murder, which draws death or life in prison, and second-degree murder sentences, which can seem far too light.

"Imagine sitting down with the family of someone who has been brutally murdered and telling them a defendant without a prior record might spend just 84 months in jail," he said.

Woodall does rely heavily on the wishes of a victim's family when deciding whether to seek the ultimate punishment.

He pointed to one of the Chatham cases in which he announced he will seek the death penalty -- the case in which Bobby Lee Carson, 28, is charged in connection with the death of his mother, who was stabbed 17 times. The family was initially unwilling to meet with Woodall, though he'd heard that the woman's sisters did not want the death penalty sought.

When they finally did meet face to face, Woodall took their concerns to heart and is reconsidering. "Even when you've made a decision, you can't close the door."

The death penalty is far too serious, and multifaceted, to handle lightly. Woodall knows that better than anyone.