Trial and Errors

The experience of my capital murder (death penalty) trial starts off a little differently than most because I’d already been incarcerated for eighteen years at the time of my crime and twenty years at the time of my trial. I was serving aggravated life plus multiple other stacked sentences that I’d picked up while in Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) that ensured I would never get out of prison no matter how long I live.

I had long ago understood my reality would be dying while incarcerated and realized the truth of my situation, which is that I was on Death Row already. I’d already dealt with the feelings of facing this fate, and my attitude towards the state, my captors, and my environment had long since been established.

My expectations were low as I headed into trial.  I anticipated corruption from the state, ineffective court appointed lawyers, a rigged system, and a dog and pony show where a “fair” trial was an illusion that only the gullible bought. My emotions didn’t center on that fact that I was facing death in prison, as I had already dealt with that eventuality. What was emotionally draining was knowing what my circumstances were causing my wife, Yolanda, and others that love and care about me, to endure. Knowing I was the cause of suffering was, by far, the worst part of the ordeal.

Being in the courtroom with the family of the TDCJ guard I killed and sitting there day after day while they looked at me with hate was also excruciating. I wanted to tell them I was sorry, that I didn’t intend for things to go that far. But I knew my words would not offer any comfort at all, so I sat in silence and misery.

I listened to current and former TDCJ employees take the stand and lie about things they claim I did or said so they could be a part of my execution and live up to the infamous TDCJ slogan that is proudly worn on the back of their hats, “Taking Care of Our Own.” Remaining silent in those moments was beyond exhausting.

One of the worst moments emotionally was learning that Mr. Davison, the guard I killed, had lived with his elderly mother until a gas leak caused the home to explode, killing his mother and blasting him, unharmed, out of the house. The explosion left him homeless and without possessions, so he’d moved to Texas from Illinois, leaving his two daughters behind. He stayed with his brother while he struggled to get back on his feet and sent most of his paychecks back home. This was why he was so desperate for money and took the chance he did. I finally understood why he had been willing to accept cash from me and then refused to return it or bring me the cell phone we agreed upon. It made the tragic situation worse. It would have been easier to bear the responsibility of his death had he just been a lowlife guard who lost his life because he stole from an inmate. But he stole my money for a reason I could easily understand and knowing he died for it makes it even harder.

My trial deviated from the norm from the beginning, as I was not housed at a county jail the way most in the same position are. TDCJ would not release me to county jail and the judge would not order TDCJ to do so. Instead, during voir dire (jury selection) and the trial, I was housed back at on Telford unit, where the incident had taken place. I stayed there from Sunday afternoons through Fridays, and then was taken back to my unit of assignment, Coffield for the weekends. At Telford, they removed all the inmates from an eighty-four cell pod and then customized three cells on one section to house me by adding a table, stool, electric socket, reinforcing the door and putting a camera outside the cells pointing into the cells. I was rotated in and out of two of the three cells. Six guards were assigned to that wing to watch me, one in the control picket and the other five on the section with me.

As you can imagine, my return to that unit created tension and aggression. Malice loomed restlessly just under the surface from the moment I arrived. Fear and anger oozed from all of the guards. My first night there, the retaliation and harassment began. The five guards on the section with me were stationed in a half circle two feet in front of my cell door. As soon as I turned my cell light off and laid down to go to sleep they began flashing a very bright strobe light into my face every couple minutes and going in and out of the section slamming the big two hundred pound metal gate as hard as they could, which sounds like a pistol shot. In one hour, I counted that gate slamming forty times. If they suspected I’d fallen asleep, they would start banging on my door and screaming at me. I did not sleep at all. They used this sleep deprivation tactic in an effort to impair my ability to concentrate in court and to provoke a violent reaction which could then be used against me. I knew Telford staff would try something, so I was prepared mentally and ignored them. At one point, I cut my light on, faced them and did naked jumping jacks. They got away from my door.

The next day in court I told my attorneys what was happening to me at night and asked them to let the judge know that I was not allowed to sleep enough to be able to be alert in court. My attorneys did not address it correctly, so I had to speak with the judge myself.  Initially he tried to blow me off, saying prison is a noisy place. Then I explained in detail what was going on, that I was the only inmate on the entire eighty-four cell pod which is covered with surveillance cameras and he could easily verify my claims by viewing the footage of that section. I also let him know sleep deprivation is illegal. The judge took Telford’s head warden into his chambers and they had a discussion. After that, I only had minimal issues with Telford guards.

I was afraid to eat any food they tried to serve me. I know better. I ate nothing at all while there except for ramen soups I brought with me or with my appointed legal team during court hours. I dealt with the same transportation team every day that transported me to and from court to either Telford or Coffield. They were responsible for securing me at court and wore suits each day instead of TDCJ uniforms. I was taken in one van with three “chase” vehicles following. In court, I was surrounded by state employees in suits. There were up to twenty at times, counting the officers from the Office of Inspector General (prison cops). Of all the TDCJ guards around me daily, only three had no rank. The rest ranged from sergeants, lieutenants, captains, assistant wardens, head wardens, and directors from TDCJ.

When I arrived at the courthouse each morning around 7:45am, a 50,000-volt electric stun cuff would be strapped onto the calf of each of my legs for a combined 100,000 volts and then my pants legs were pulled down to hide them from view. Initially the transportation team refused to put them on my calves correctly and were cinching them on with plastic straps that are very painful and left bruises for days.  It was another attempt to provoke me into reacting with violence that could be used against me. Eventually, after displaying the damage done to my legs to the judge, the transportation team was forced to strap the stun cuffs to my legs correctly. When I was transported into the courtroom, I wore shackles, handcuffs connected by a chain to the shackles, and stun cuffs. My shackle chain was locked into a metal box bolted to the floor under the defense table, padlocked closed and then the hand cuffs were removed.

The transportation officer assigned to strip search me, escort me by holding my arm, and put all restraints on me was the same guard every day, Wendall Warren. It was common in the 80’s and 90’s for some guards to act like typical schoolyard bullies with regard to their treatment of inmates.  Officer Warren, who has worked for TDCJ for over thirty years, and whose son ended up going to prison himself, fell into that category. He and I did not get along but I maintained my cool with Yolanda’s encouragement. She stood by me through everything and I could not pay her back by succumbing to stress when my life was on the line. It would be like spitting on her love for me and mine for her. 

During the punishment phase my team had experts testify, and when this occurred there was some serious trepidation that the jury might not vote for death. Warren tried to swing the momentum back towards the state by attempting an ancient trick. While escorting me in open court, surrounded by district attorneys and the judge, among others, he began squeezing onto my arm he was holding extremely hard and exerting a lot of pressure in the opposite direction in which I needed to walk. This can all be done without anyone being able to tell what was happening. What this will normally cause the outraged inmate being abused to do is to yank his arm away from the guard, which is the desired reaction. This will then allow the guard to slam you onto the ground and in my case, electrocute me as well and would then be all the judge needed to conduct the rest of the trial without me in the courtroom. Had this occurred, any chance I had would be ruined. I knew eventually he would try that trick and I didn’t allow myself to fall for it, but the stress it caused me felt overwhelming.

The district attorney’s case in the guilt or innocence phase of the trial revolved around the video of the actual crime, which had been captured by the Telford Unit’s surveillance cameras. This video was shown multiple times to the jury and made it easy for them to find me guilty. Watching that video was hard. I remember the start of the fight vividly, removing my handcuffs and hitting him, him falling, the sound of the bean bar hitting the concrete and without my glasses on, not being able to see if he was trying to use it as a weapon and then he and I wrestling for it.  From there, it is a total blur. Until I watched the video, I thought he had fallen down the stairs. He didn’t. I threw him down the stairs and watching that occur was surreal. I know it was me, but it was like watching a stranger. Knowing Mr. Davison’s family was present and watching as well was heart wrenching. I wanted to turn and look at them and tell them…something…anything…to ease their pain. But I knew there was nothing I could say to help and that looking at them at that time might appear as though I was somehow gloating. I did not want to risk making them feel worse.

The only defense I offered during this phase of the trial was testifying to try to explain my side. The district attorney was Kelly Crisp, and during her cross examination of me, she did all she could do to provoke an   eruption. She screamed at me and called me names. I did not react, although I wanted to badly. But I had sworn to myself and others I wouldn’t.  I expected her to come at me this way and I had prepared myself for it. It still wasn’t a pleasant experience, but it was worth it to be allowed to give my perspective, even if not many were listening or cared. One of the most frustrating aspects of the trial was keeping calm while dealing with people who hoped to provoke a violent response from me, and the awareness that the very act of staying in control was vital. However, whether I maintained control or lost my temper, my reaction could be used against me. I felt damned either way.

My defense, which was heard during the punishment phase of the trial, centered on significant organic brain damage, clearly evidenced on the MRI slides. I have a large arachnoid cyst that caused about a third of my temporal lobe to die. My hippocampus and amygdala are atrophied by about a third. My pituitary gland is caved in, which is referred to as an empty sella, and the majority of my brain does not function properly. The organic and hypo metabolic damage is the most extensive to the limbic region, which is the emotional center, the area that maintains self-control. I cannot always control myself, specifically in unexpected situations where I have no time to prepare myself. I overreact badly every time. My defense was “I meant to kick his ass but not to kill him.”  But due to brain damage, in certain situations it is hard for me to control my actions. 

After I testified, closing arguments were made by each side and the jury deliberated for just over an hour. They found me guilty of capital murder. I couldn’t imagine the jury not finding me guilty after viewing the video evidence, so I expected and was prepared for the verdict. There really wasn’t anything emotional about being found guilty that day.  Truthfully, others finding me guilty could not possibly make me feel any more guilty than I already felt since I learned Mr. Davison died.

Now that I was a convicted murderer, it was time to begin the punishment phase of the trial to decide if I should live or die. This took a week. One TDCJ employee after another testified against me, saying I was a manipulative, violent madman who, despite my intelligence, has been telling multiple TDCJ employees for decades that, among other untruths, I was going to end up on death row for killing a guard. Not one of these guards ever reported these threats in the moment, as is required by policy. I am no saint for sure. I have done plenty of bad things. But the truth about what I have done is enough; there was never any need to make things up or sensationalize. All of that was tough but the worst was seeing my old friend Kacey on the stand while she dealt with a drug addiction. One of my original charges was for beating her up when I was drunk and high, and I hate that she was forced to relive the incident because of me.

When the state rested and I had my turn. All of my witnesses, save two, were doctors. Up to that point you could tell the jury was restless and ready for it all to be over with so they could put me on Death Row and get back to their business. But now, I believed I could see them refocusing, and understanding start to sink in as to why I was so adamant on the stand about only intending to fight Davison. It started to seem plausible and I thought maybe, just maybe I had a chance.

My jury was mostly conservatives, composed of full blown country boys and gals, or close to it. Even those with college educations were right leaning, save one. I didn’t believe they were the most open-minded group, but I did believe I had a chance now, and everyone in the courtroom felt it too. I could see the district attorney tense up. The tension in the courtroom was palpable now and everyone on the “kill the convict” side of the isle looked anxious. There weren’t any more sly knowing smiles. They were worried I would beat the row. The witnesses we called were convincing and most importantly, they were able to back up what they said. Once my witnesses were done, the district attorney called rebuttal experts to refute the testimony of my experts. The state’s first two witnnesses were psychiatric doctors but they couldn’t refute what my experts said enough to matter.

Then came the state’s third and final rebuttal expert, a neurosurgeon named Dr. Smith. He had a commanding, direct, no nonsense demeanor and went step-by-step over every aspect of my damaged brain, saying all other experts were wrong. He said that the damage really isn’t that bad and certainly not the cause of my behavior; that instead, I have an antisocial personality disorder. He even used letters I had written as examples of my intelligence, despite the fact that the organic damage appears in my emotional control center, not the areas that would affect intelligence, other than the temporal lobe damage effecting my memory. The fact that I am able to write competently was used against me. He was convincing to that jury and they ate it up. And I knew any shot I had was gone. All that jury needed was someone exactly like him to tell them my damaged brain wasn’t a big deal and they would be able to vote for death and sleep at night.

Halfway through Dr. Smith’s testimony all the tension in the courtroom drained away. Afterwards, closing arguments were made.  The district attorney demanded the jury kill me, saying that it is what I deserve. By then, it was a forgone conclusion the jury would vote death. As the jury deliberated, my legal team and I went into a small room and watched comedy skits on their phones and had a good time. It took the jury just over an hour to reach a verdict. A verdict that comes that quickly usually indicates a death sentence.

The main things going through my mind as the verdict was read, and afterwards, on the ride to Death Row, was how my wife would handle this. I was sick over the idea that when she found out, she would be alone and have to deal with it by herself. Causing those who love me and who I love to suffer cuts deeply. That was the worst part. As soon as I was sentenced, I was transported directly to the Polunsky Unit, where Death Row is housed. During the trip, one of the things I considered was TDCJ’s treatment of me now that the courts weren’t there to mitigate it. I got to Polunksy at about 5pm, just hours after being sentenced. I had been on the unit before and knew several guards that were waiting for me. The atmosphere was tense but not overly so. I was immediately taken to a legal visitation booth in the main hallway where I was strip searched and given state clothes. I was then put in shackles, two sets of handcuffs, and a chain connecting the cuffs and shackles and taken to the major’s office. I learned that after transportation Officer Warren had given my glasses to the major and he was confiscating them. I kept my cool and I had a backup pair, but it still caused me stress. I was given the Death Row orientation packet, asked to sign a form and then something interesting occurred. A psychiatric professional came into the office and tried to get me to sign a consent form that you’re only asked to sign if you’re requesting psychiatric treatment. It gives the state the right to force medication on or in you anytime they choose to by injecting you monthly with massive doses of tranquilizers which effectively turn you into a zombie. There is no way I was voluntarily signing that form. Over the next week two different people attempted to try to persuade me. As damaged as my brain is, it would be a cinch to get a psych doctor to agree I need to be force medicated.

Anyway, upon leaving the major’s office, my tattoos were photographed, and a new ID photo was snapped, and I was taken to my cell. This is when I found out what TDCJ had prepared for me. Bear in mind that in the past nine years, the only staff assault case I have had was the fight with Officer Davison, with just a few other disciplinary cases in that span. Texas Death Row has what is known as “Death Watch,” where inmates with execution dates are housed in a fourteen-cell section. All cells have cameras inside the cells so Death Watch inmates can be monitored at all times. 

Two to three weeks before I was sentenced to die by lethal injection, the Polunsky Unit began modifying A-pod 3 cell in anticipation of housing me in it. First, they cut the metal table and shelf off of the wall. Then they cut off the storage locker that was welded underneath the metal bunk. These modifications ensured I have no place to eat, write or store my property, save from the floor. When the sewer drains backup, as they often do in prison, the overflow comes out of drains set into the concrete right next to the cells, and when this happens my property stored on the floor gets soaked in sewer water. This has occurred several times already. So, I’m forced to store what isn't destroyed on top of my bunk, leaving me no place to sit or lay and standing for hours until the drains are cleared. It is also worth remembering that while on trial and monitored by the court, the Telford Unit made sure I was in a cell that followed policy and was outfitted with a stool, table and shelf 

Next, TDCJ remade the cell door, sealing it so I could not share books, magazines or food as other inmates do. To do this they welded metal plates to the outside of the door that covered the gap at the bottom and side of the door. Each cell door has two observation slits that are filled with a wire mesh – chicken wire. This was removed and replaced with stainless steel squares and then two layers of inch thick Plexiglass placed over it. Each cell has a food slot that is opened with a key and through this slot we are given our food. A metal box was welded on the outside of my door over this slot. It has two openings to it that are pad locked shut. Only ranking officers are allowed to unlock them. To feed me, the outside lid is opened, the tray set into the box, the lid shut, the padlock locked, then the slot leading into my cell is unlocked and opened, I remove the tray and that slot is shut and padlocked. On the outside of the door a metal rod was welded to the side of the door that sinks into a hole in the concrete.  This bar would prevent the door from opening in the event that I manage to unlock it from the inside.

TDCJ also welded metal plates with small holes in them over the inflow and outflow air vents. This restricts the heat and air conditioning into my cell to such an extent that my cell is a hot box in the summer and an ice box in the winter. It’s almost always an extreme temperature inside this cell. What is worse is that the screen on the outflow vent – the vent that sucks air out – is filled up with dust. It gets so clogged with dust it looks like the filter in a dryer when it’s not cleared out for a long time. With a metal plate over the vent the only way to clear it of the caked-up dust is to put my mouth over each hole and repeatedly suck the dust into my mouth and throat and then spit it out. There are thirty holes. I dread doing this. I'm left coughing for hours afterwards. I must do it though; if I don’t, the cell becomes even more oppressive without air circulation.

Finally, TDCJ painted the bunk black, telling me it was my death bed and I would be in the cell until I was killed. It is the only black bunk in Texas, which seems symbolic to me.

I am only allowed to recreate by myself outside, in a recreation yard designed with two cages for two inmates. I am not allowed to recreate inside in the dayroom where I would be able to socialize with other inmates. When I go to recreation, a sergeant stands inside and watches me through a wall of windows. When I go to a visit – even a legal visit – a sergeant sits, or stands outside, so not even the pretense of privacy exists. When I leave my cell, I am put in shackles, two sets of handcuffs with the shackles and cuffs linked together by a four-foot-long chain. When I walk the chains clank together and off of the concrete floor so loudly you can hear me across the prison. 

TDCJ has done everything they can possibly do to isolate me and to make my life as uncomfortable as possible. 

The worst part of living this way is being housed with men who have received their upcoming dates of execution. I am living out their last few months of life with them, growing close to many of them, getting to know their friends and families through them, watching them come to terms with death, watching them walk off the section to never return, mourning without cease. Experiencing this short term would be horrible, but the long-term effects are excruciating.

My wife has handled things remarkably well, and I am proud of her and grateful for her. This has been hard on her and leaves me feel extremely guilty for causing her to suffer. She has done nothing but be supportive and believe in me. And I don’t have the words to express my gratitude for the new free world friends I have made since my arrival on Death Row. Their support makes a HUGE difference in my life.