In a poignant culmination of decades-long anguish, Irene Fisher, daughter of slain Miami couple Jacob and Matilda Nestor, watched as their killer, Victor Tony Jones, met his end by lethal injection on September 30, 2025. The execution, carried out at Florida State Prison, marked the state’s record 13th death penalty implementation this year and brought a measure of closure to a family shattered by a brutal 1990 robbery-murder.
Fisher, 57, attended the proceeding alongside her two adult daughters and three other relatives, offering a raw account of the event that contrasted sharply with the violence that claimed her parents’ lives 35 years prior. “After seeing what I saw tonight, I wish my parents had that opportunity to die so gracefully, close your eyes and just go,” Fisher told reporters outside the prison. Her words underscore the complex emotions of justice served amid enduring grief, as Florida continues its aggressive pace of capital punishments in 2025.
The execution proceeded smoothly, beginning at 6:00 p.m. Eastern Time. Jones, 64, declined to deliver final words when prompted by the warden, simply stating, “No, sir.” His last meal consisted of fried chicken, collard greens, and sweet tea. Witnesses observed his chest heaving for several minutes after the administration of the lethal cocktail—a sedative, paralytic, and heart-stopping agent—before it slowed and ceased. The warden checked for signs of life, receiving no response, and a medic pronounced Jones dead at 6:13 p.m. No complications arose, distinguishing it from past Florida executions marred by botched procedures.
This event elevates Florida’s 2025 tally above any prior year, surpassing the previous high of 12 in 1999 and 2000, with two more warrants signed by Governor Ron DeSantis for October. Fisher’s presence in the witness chamber highlighted the personal stakes, as she became one of the few family members of victims to observe such an end firsthand. Her testimony not only closes a chapter on a notorious case but also reflects broader debates on capital punishment’s role in healing or prolonging trauma. As the nation tallies 34 executions this year—the most since 2014—Jones’s death prompts reflection on a system that, for this family, delivered finality after prolonged delay.
Irene Fisher’s Journey Through Grief and Justice
The nightmare began on December 19, 1990, less than a week before Christmas, in a quiet Miami neighborhood where Jacob “Jack” Nestor and Matilda “Dolly” Nestor ran a small shop blending invention with artistry. Jack, 67, a Brooklyn native and self-taught sculptor, held over two dozen patents for medical devices, including innovative tools for leg artery transplants and hair restoration procedures. One of his bronze sculptures even graced the lobby of Miami’s federal building, a testament to his creative ingenuity.
Dolly, 66, served as his devoted secretary and high school sweetheart, managing the business with a warmth that endeared her to the community. The couple, married for decades, had relocated to Florida to escape New York’s harsh winters, raising two children—Irene and son Michael—while nurturing dreams of Broadway success for both. They embodied generosity, often hiring locals in need and fostering tight-knit holiday traditions centered on Dolly’s signature pasta sauce. That fateful afternoon, Victor Tony Jones, then 29, arrived at the shop for a day-labor gig Jack had offered out of kindness. Jones, struggling with drug addiction, demanded payment for incomplete work.
When Dolly refused, citing unfinished tasks, tensions escalated. In a drug-fueled rage, Jones grabbed a knife and slashed her throat, leaving her to bleed out on the cold bathroom floor. Hearing the commotion, Jack confronted the intruder. Jones stabbed him in the chest, piercing his heart. Defiant to the end, Jack retreated to his office, retrieved a .22-caliber pistol, and fired five shots, striking Jones once in the forehead. The inventor collapsed, fighting for 20 agonizing minutes before succumbing to his wounds.
A UPS delivery driver discovered the horrific scene around 4:30 p.m., alerting authorities. Police arrived to find Jones slumped nearby, wounded but alive, clutching the Nestors’ wallets, keys, and other valuables. At the hospital, under questioning, Jones confessed to a nurse: “I killed them because they owed me money.” Toxicology reports later confirmed cocaine in his system, fueling the impulsive violence. Irene, then 22 and working nearby, rushed to the scene upon hearing the news. The shockwave rippled through the family; young granddaughter Shaina Nestor later recalled the household as “shellshocked,” holidays forever altered by absence.
Read : Japan Passes Landmark Law Allowing Joint Custody for Divorced Parents for the 1st time
The murders not only robbed the Nestors of life but exposed vulnerabilities in a community where acts of charity turned deadly. Jack’s habit of employing those down on their luck—rooted in his own immigrant grit—proved fatal. For Irene, the loss compounded when her brother Michael, a first responder during the 9/11 attacks, developed brain cancer linked to Ground Zero toxins and died in 2020 at age 55. Michael’s unfulfilled wish to see justice haunted the family, as Shaina noted: “It is justice at the end of the day, but it won’t bring them back.” The case file, thick with evidence from the bloody shop—now repurposed as a community center—symbolized lost potential, a space where the Nestors once helped others now serving as a quiet memorial to their legacy.
The Long Road to Justice and Final Appeals
Jones’s arrest led swiftly to trial, but the path to the death chamber spanned over three decades, marked by exhaustive legal battles and evolving standards in capital law. Charged with two counts of first-degree murder and armed robbery, Jones pleaded not guilty, claiming diminished capacity due to substance abuse and low intellect. Prosecutors painted a clear picture of premeditated greed: the stab wounds were deliberate, the theft opportunistic. In 1993, a Miami-Dade jury convicted him after just hours of deliberation, recommending death by a 9-3 vote. Circuit Judge Thomas B. Murphy imposed the sentence, citing the heinous nature of the double homicide.
Appeals flooded the courts almost immediately. Jones’s defense team argued ineffective counsel, racial bias in jury selection, and intellectual disability under emerging Atkins v. Virginia standards, which bar executing those with IQs below 70. A 2014 motion claimed Jones’s score of 68 rendered him ineligible, but the Florida Supreme Court rejected it in 2018, deeming the issue previously litigated. Further claims surfaced in September 2025, alleging childhood abuse at the notorious Arthur G. Dozier School for Boys—a state-run reformatory infamous for beatings and unmarked graves. ‘
Jones’s attorneys petitioned for clemency, asserting trauma explained his actions. Yet, the court dismissed these as untimely, never raised at trial. Governor Ron DeSantis signed Jones’s death warrant on September 3, 2025, accelerating Florida’s execution surge amid a conservative push to clear death row backlog. The U.S. Supreme Court denied a stay hours before the lethal injection, upholding the state’s protocol revised in 2021 to address past failures.
Critics decried the pace—13 executions in nine months—as rushed, potentially overlooking mercy claims. Supporters, including victims’ advocates, viewed it as overdue accountability. For the Nestor family, the wait tested resilience; Irene forgave Jones publicly in pre-execution interviews, stating, “I do forgive him because it’s important for me to forgive him. I won’t forget it.” Yet, the delays amplified pain, as Shaina reflected on lost milestones: “My dad wanted to see this more than anyone.”
This marathon of justice mirrored national trends, with Florida leading 2025’s 34 executions. It highlighted tensions between retribution and rehabilitation, especially for defendants like Jones, whose addiction and low IQ fueled debate on moral culpability without derailing the verdict.
Closure in the Execution Chamber: Mixed Emotions and Lasting Legacy
As the green curtain parted in the witness room, Irene Fisher confronted the man who upended her world, strapped to the gurney under stark fluorescent lights. The air thick with finality, she watched the drugs flow, Jones’s body responding with mechanical stillness. His passing, unceremonious yet serene, clashed with the savagery of 1990. Fisher’s post-execution remarks captured the duality: relief laced with sorrow. “They were violently killed,” she reiterated, voice steady but eyes distant. “My father fought for 20 minutes… my mother died instantly on a cold floor.” The contrast—Jones slipping away peacefully—evoked unintended empathy, a humanizing end denied her parents.
Family unity framed the vigil; Irene’s daughters, now adults raising their own, absorbed the gravity, perpetuating a chain of witness and healing. Shaina, absent but supportive, echoed pre-execution sentiments: the Nestors’ spirit endures in community acts, like the shop’s transformation into a resource hub. “My parents would have loved that,” Irene affirmed, “because they were always helping people.” This optimism tempers the bitterness, transforming tragedy into quiet advocacy.
Jones’s death closes the file on a case that tested Florida’s justice machinery, affirming capital punishment’s role for some while questioning its solace for others. For Fisher, it’s an endpoint to vigilance, freeing energy for legacy-building—perhaps a foundation honoring Jack’s inventions or Dolly’s nurturing. As October dawns with two more executions looming, her story resonates: justice arrives, but peace is forged in remembrance, not retribution alone.