VARNER, Ark. — They often enter in silence. They almost always leave that way, too.

The death penalty holds a crucial, conflicted place in a nation deeply divided over crime and punishment, and whether the state should ever take a life. But for such a long, very public legal process, only a small number of people see what unfolds inside the country’s death houses.

Witnesses hear a condemned prisoner’s last words and watch a person’s last breaths. Then they scatter, usually into the night. There is no uniformity when they look back on the emotions that surround the minutes when they watched someone die.

The most recent person to be executed, Ledell Lee, died at the Cummins Unit here in southeast Arkansas late Thursday. By Friday morning, the state hopes to have executed three more men.

Charles E. Coulson witnessed two executions as prosecuting attorney for Lake County, Ohio.

“In both cases, I was invited by the family to attend,’’ he said. “The victim advocates sit down the night before, and you meet with them at dinner, and they go over step by step what’s going to happen. They draw ­diagrams and show you where the death chamber is, where the defendant is going to be, where the defendant’s family is going to be.

“You’re watching through glass, and then the process starts.

“They had a chance to offer last statements, and I was disgusted because they were so self-serving, narcissistic statements for these people who had caused so much pain and suffering.

“We were just waiting for the signal; one time, it was when the warden touched his glasses,’’ Coulson said. “You’re looking at the clock, but you’re mostly watching the defendant, watching to see if he’s still breathing or not. It is very quiet and respectful.

“These were two evil people, and their executions did not bother me at all. It’s what I thought they deserved. I don’t think about it much. It was done. It should have been done. I don’t really think about it.’’

Another witness, Gayle ­Gaddis, the mother of Guy P. Gaddis, a murdered Houston police officer, said, “I wanted to be sure it was finished, and that’s why I went.’’

“Before the execution, we were in a room without a clock,’’ she said. “It’s a terrible experience. We were there, it seemed, like hours, while they were making sure he didn’t get a stay. We were all just miserable.

“Then the warden came in and said, ‘Good news: There are no stays, and he’s going to be gone,’ or something like that.

“I went in the room, and I saw him strapped on that gurney. Then I couldn’t watch it. They gave me a chair, and I just turned it the other way. One son was kind of hitting his elbow against the glass. My other son asked why he was doing that. He said, ‘I want him to look at me.

“Edgar Tamayo was his name, and he wouldn’t look or speak or anything. I was hoping he’d say, ‘I’m sorry,’ but he wouldn’t even look at us.’’

Jennifer Garcia, an assistant federal defender in Phoenix, witnessed one execution. “He was my client, she said. “His name was Richard Stokley, and he was executed in December 2012.’’

“Often for our clients, they didn’t have people they could depend on, or who fought for them. Once we get on a case, we will stay on it, usually, until the end.

“The reason why we witnessed was, he asked us to. If he needed reassurance, he’d be able to see one of us smile at him.’’

“By the time we got in there and walked into the witness room, I was just so tired, and I was so emotional, and I knew I had to hold it together for him, and I had to make sure he was OK through the process.

“The execution itself was surreal. I cannot even tell you how unbelievable it was to see people deliberately get ready to kill your client. With Mr. Stokley, they couldn’t find a vein. We just sat there for a long time while they started with his hands and worked their way around the body, trying to get a vein.’’