Jan. 9 TEXAS: A Lethal Routine, A Grim Debate----Texas Offers Lessons For Ross Execution James Scott Porter strained against the mustard-colored leather strap pinning his chest to a gurney to see who had come to watch him die. Through the window closest to his right kneecap were his mother, Deloris Roberts, 2 sisters and several friends. Through the window more at his eye level were the sister, 2 brothers and aunt of his victim, fellow inmate Rudy Delgado. The 2 families were separated by a wall. But sounds carried. Porter on Jan. 4 became the 1st man executed in Texas this year, and the 337th in the state since Dec. 7, 1982, when Texas carried out the 1st lethal injection in the United States. The procedure runs like clockwork at the "Walls" unit of the Texas State Penitentiary. Connecticut correction officials ventured here in November for guidance on how to kill serial killer Michael Ross on Jan. 26 - Connecticut's 1st execution in nearly 45 years, and 1st ever by lethal injection. 12 minutes separated the moment when Porter was taken from his holding cell adjacent to the death chamber at the Walls at 6 p.m. and the moment he was pronounced dead. Porter, 33 at the time of his death, already was serving a 45-year sentence for murder when he killed Delgado in a prison day room May 28, 2000. Porter approached Delgado from behind and hit him in the head with a rock inside a pillowcase. He then stabbed him in the face with a homemade knife and, after Delgado toppled to the floor, kicked and stomped his head to a pulp. Porter said he wanted the "rush of killing no one in particular," according to an account of the crime on the Texas attorney general's website. Porter was strapped to the gurney at 6:01; the sequence of chemical agents that would kill him began flowing into his heavily tattooed right and left arms at 6:02. The fingertips of his outstretched right arm, wrapped in brown elastic bandage, were only about a foot from the viewing glass. The death chamber is claustrophobically small, its brick walls painted a color somewhere between pea soup green and turquoise. The warden stood at Porter's head. As the prison chaplain read Scripture he kept a hand on Porter's right shin - the last human contact the condemned man would feel. These were Porter's last observations, his last minutes. He raised and turned his head to take it all in, until the muscles in his neck trembled. His head collapsed back onto the pillow. At 6:06, he gave a brief last statement. Speaking rapidly, he said, "I'd like to apologize to the family of the victim. I'm sorry for the things I caused you. I know it's a great loss. To my family, I love you and I'll see you all in heaven. "Let's do it." His mother's weeping became wails that rolled like waves over the execution. Delgado's family remained stoic and silent, watching Porter intently. The witnesses stood. There are no seats or objects in the viewing areas. The scene inside the chamber seemed wrapped in an eerie calm. Porter's chest at 1st heaved as he took deep breaths. His blinking became a slow flutter, until his eyelids closed. He appeared to swallow hard twice. Then, nothing. The flow of lethal chemicals was completed at 6:09 p.m. A man in a blue suit with a stethoscope entered the chamber and listened for a heartbeat, felt Porter's neck for a pulse. He pronounced him dead. The warden announced the time: 6:12 p.m. In the narrow compartment housing Porter's family, his mother said, "Oh my God. Oh my God. He's still alive. I know he's still alive." Then she turned to a friend and said weakly, "My son's not here anymore, is he?" One of his sisters collapsed to the floor. The witnesses walked out into the balmy night air, across a path that curved through a tidy garden of shrubs, back to the main structure of the oldest prison in Texas. Then they left the prison walls, walking across a small side street that separates the corrections administration building and the prison. A handful of silent protesters stood at the corner about 50 yards away. Each execution typically brings out 4 or 5, unless the case is an unusually high-profile one. Most aren't. There were no police cars with lights flashing. Yellow police tape cordoning off each end of the narrow street was all that advertised an execution was in progress. In minutes, it would come down. No television trucks rumbled. No television reporters covered Porter's execution. Of the 5 witness slots allocated to the media, only 3 were taken this night - one by an out-of-state journalist. "This is just so, so regular," said Kelly Prew, reporter for the Huntsville Item. "Even at our paper, very rarely does it make the front page." Porter's execution did make for a one-paragraph "tease" on the front page of the Item, as being the 1st of the new year. It will not be the last. Three more executions are scheduled in Huntsville this month alone, including one the day before Ross is scheduled to die and one the day after. This small town is the execution capital of the country - responsible for nearly 1/2 the 777 lethal injections that have been conducted in the United States since December 1982. Despite its prolific use, lethal injection continues to be controversial on many fronts. The American Civil Liberties Union of Connecticut argued Friday that despite the sterile and sedate appearance of the procedure, Ross could suffer excruciating pain and not be able to convey that because the second agent administered - pancuronium bromide - would freeze all movement. Once it is administered, the killer cannot flinch or wince, blink, cry out or breathe, even if the caustic potassium chloride designed to stop his heart is searing his veins. Many capital punishment proponents, on the other hand, take issue with the clinical nature of the proceeding and the apparent lack of pain and suffering. Rudy Delgado's sister, Anna Acevedo, remained expressionless as she watched Porter die. "I believe he was taken out too easily," she said. Oklahoma, 1977 Lethal injection was 1st considered, and rejected, as a means of execution in New York in 1888. A 4-year study by the British Royal Commission on Capital Punishment in 1953 rejected lethal injection as an unacceptable, undignified way of executing a criminal, one fraught with the potential for error. Fast-forward to Oklahoma in 1977. The U.S. Supreme Court a year earlier had allowed states to resume executions if they had brought their death penalty laws into compliance with constitutional guarantees of due process and equal protection. Oklahoma, a death penalty state, was now grappling with its method of execution. The concerns were largely cost-driven. Then-Oklahoma state Sen. Bill Dawson knew it would cost $62,000 to repair the state's electric chair and at least $300,000 to build a gas chamber. So he reached out to Dr. Stanley Deutsch, head of the Department of Anesthesiology at the University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center, for advice. Deutsch responded in a letter dated Feb. 28, 1977. In it he states that using an ultra-short-acting barbiturate, or sedative, in combination with a neuromuscular-blocking - or paralyzing - agent such as pancuronium "would produce death in a predictable way, and with certainty." He noted the barbiturate alone, in a high enough dose, would produce death by asphyxia. "I can assure this is a rapid, pleasant way of producing unconsciousness," Deutsch wrote. Oklahoma that year became the first state to adopt lethal injection as a means of execution; Texas later that same year became the second. Deutsch today downplays his role. "I responded to [Dawson's] letter; that was about it," Deutsch said Saturday, from his home in Arlington, Va. "I didn't start the IVs. I just made a suggestion. And I don't believe that's against the Hippocratic oath. "If you read the descriptions of lethal gas or electrocution, this is a far more humane way of executing people," Deutsch said. "I don't think there's any doubt that it's effective and humane." Fordham University Law School Professor Deborah W. Denno has doubts, plenty of them. Denno has done exhaustive research on lethal injection and is viewed as one of the country's leading authorities. In 2002 she filled a volume of the Ohio State Law Journal with a 200-page report on lethal injection, in which she detailed the history leading up to the acceptance of lethal injection and its growth in popularity. "Every time they execute someone it's a massive experiment," she said. Only 9 of the 37 states that sanction lethal injection would provide Denno with detailed protocols that included volume and weight of the drugs used. Connecticut was among the 9; Texas was not. "Ironically, they provide more information on what an inmate eats before execution than on the procedure used," Denno said. Texas does make public the list of drugs it uses - the standard mix of sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride - all in lethal doses. Total cost of the drugs per execution, the Texas Department of Criminal Justice reports, is $86.06. Unanswered Questions But even knowing the specifics of the lethal injection protocols, Denno said, does not guarantee the drugs are administered in the prescribed amounts or order. Doctors and nurses are prohibited by medical ethics from participating in executions. The training of those who do participate is often questionable, or unknown, she said. Connecticut correction officials to date have denied The Courant's requests, made under the Freedom of Information Act, for information about the training of those who will participate in the Ross execution, whether an injection device will be used or whether the department has contracted a professional executioner. Denno cites cutting-edge research by doctors such as Mark Heath, assistant professor of clinical anesthesiology at Columbia University in New York. Heath has studied the autopsy results of executed inmates and concluded that in many, there were insufficient levels of barbiturates to keep them anesthetized throughout the execution. In an affidavit attached to the ACLU of Connecticut lawsuit filed on behalf of Ross' father, Dan Ross, as "next friend," Heath notes that the dosage of the barbiturate sodium thiopental called for in Connecticut's protocols is low relative to that used by other states and the federal government. Sources close to the Ross case have said Connecticut is considering revising that dosage level before the scheduled execution. Heath also questions the training and proficiency of those who will oversee and carry out the execution. U.S. District Judge Christopher F. Droney is expected to rule early this week on whether the ACLU lawsuit can proceed, in light of Ross' opposition to it and recent findings that Ross, a Cornell University graduate, is mentally competent to act on his own behalf. The New Jersey Appellate Division last February stopped lethal injections in that state until more medical research could be done, particularly on whether the lethal injection process could be reversed in the event a reprieve is granted after the flow of chemicals had begun. The ruling also opened the door to media cameras being present at executions. Presiding Judge Sylvia Pressler stated, "It is one thing for proponents and opponents to talk about capital punishment as an abstract proposition. It is quite another to see it carried out." Attorney Kevin Walsh, who secured the moratorium on behalf of anti-death-penalty groups, said it's just one step "in a bigger effort to expose all the problems with the death penalty. After all, we're the ones doing it," he said of the citizens in death penalty states. "This whole thing is a game of pretend that this punishment, this process, this ritual relates to any legitimate end," Walsh said. The Ease Of Execution Some critics say there isn't enough pain involved in lethal injections to justify their purpose. U.S. Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, in a concurring opinion to a 1994 case affirming the death penalty for a man who had raped and murdered an 11-year-old girl, wrote, "How enviable a quiet death by lethal injection compared to that." New York Law School Professor Robert Blecker says execution should be meaningful, not medically induced. "Our punitive way of taking life and our medical way of saving life should not resemble one another so nearly, but they do," Blecker said. "Our ultimate punishment shouldn't resemble our ultimate treatment. "There is something fundamentally inappropriate when someone who is, himself, a sadistic torturer goes out in an opiate haze," Blecker added. "Contrast their deaths to the deaths of their victims. Should Michael Ross die painlessly? No. "We should hate Michael Ross," Blecker said. "We should see videotapes of his victims' last birthday parties before his execution, so we remember the people he killed and the people he left alive who were closest to them. We should reconnect, we should be angry and then we should kill him." Blecker said he prefers electrocution to lethal injection, and noted that it is quicker and does not cross the "lingering pain" boundary the Supreme Court has set for torture. "It was a clear-cut, unique way of killing, and it didn't resemble medicine." The last execution in Connecticut was the electrocution of Joseph "Mad Dog" Taborsky in May 1960, killed by 3 30-second bursts of 2,000 volts of electricity. Connecticut in 1995 switched to lethal injection as its sole means of execution. The controversy over lethal injection hasn't abated, nor has the number of executions. Associated Press reporter Michael Graczyk, based in Houston, witnessed James Porter's execution. He has witnessed more than 250 since 1984, giving him a unique niche in the world of journalism. "I don't revel in the fact people are dying, and I may be the last person to interview them," Graczyk said last week. "It does give you a sense of satisfaction that you can tell compelling stories. It's just unfortunate the reason for writing the stories is that someone had to die." And if Texas has executed 337 people, at least another 337 people are dead as well - their victims. "That's a lot of carnage," Graczyk said. In weeks when Texas executes 3 or 4 killers, he admits, "They do all run together. ... It's very difficult by week's end to make sure your stories are correct. You lose track of names. You just get confused." Like Ross, Porter waived further appeals and "volunteered" for execution. There the similarities end. Porter's obscurity is in sharp contrast to Ross' notoriety. Ross has written prolifically about death row and the death penalty, and is as well-versed on death penalty case law as most defense lawyers. The media ranks covering him swell with each court hearing prompted by former public defenders and organizations seeking to halt his execution. This week promises to be another heady week, with pivotal decisions expected from the U.S. Supreme Court, state Supreme Court and U.S. District Court. By 7 p.m. Tuesday, the street outside the Huntsville "Walls" unit was deserted. The protesters had gone home and the yellow crime scene tape was down. The execution of James Scott Porter had registered nary a ripple on the radar screen of American life. (source: Hartford Courant) ******************************* Murder cases tough to solve in past year----50 % clearance rate unusually low for LPD As police detectives attempt to close the books on another year, an anomaly has wedged its way between the pages: half of Lubbock murder cases in 2004 remain unsolved. Sgt. John Gomez with the Lubbock Police Department's crimes against persons division is now looking back on a year of cases unmatched by any of his 10 years as a homicide detective. "It's an unusual occurrence," he said from behind his desk Friday. "I can't remember it ever happening since I've been in this division." In 2004, police reported 18 homicides. The total represents 16 murder investigations and 2 cases ruled as justifiable homicides for reasons of self-defense. At the end of the year, police investigators had cleared 8 of those murders either through arrest or indictment, or they have presented the case to the Criminal District Attorney's Office. The 50 percent clearance rate in 2004 represents a departure from the previous % years. Based on crime statistics provided to The Avalanche-Journal by the department, police reported 61 murders from 1999 to 2003. Of those reported murders, detectives cleared about 85 percent, or 52 of the cases. While Gomez wishes those numbers were higher, Lubbock's clearance rate during that time stands 15 percentage points higher than the state average. According to the Texas Department of Public Safety State Crime Reports, the average 5-year state clearance rate for murders is 70 %. "We have a very good record in this department," Gomez said. "I'm frustrated that we have so many cases open." Detectives, however, remain confident they will clear each of these very different murders. Mary Elizabeth Davis, a 78-year-old widow who sold candy through her front door to children, was the first unsolved murder of the year. Police discovered her body Jan. 8, 2004, at her home in the 2600 block of Globe Avenue. She had been stabbed to death. Cpl. Bill Carter, the lead investigator in the case, is in the process of re-evaluating it for any information that may lead to the killer, even if it means starting the investigation over. "When you're looking for a needle in a haystack," he said, "you do whatever you can to look for leads." Shirley White, an East Lubbock resident, who also sells candy from her home, reported the final unsolved murder of the year to police. Martreon Sherrod Moore, 20, collapsed on her front porch about 2:30 a.m. Dec. 21 after he was shot in the thigh and chest. He later died at University Medical Center. Through the bars of her front door, White heard the young man's final words: "They shot me. They shot me." Police have not identified any suspects in the shooting. But a witness told officers of seeing a blue sedan, similar to a Cadillac, with chrome along the sides. In between the dates of these murders were 6 others. 7-Eleven clerk Patricia Garcia, 47, died Aug. 3 from a shotgun blast to the chest. She was killed by a pair of masked robbers during the second of three convenience store robberies that morning. Garcia, a single mother of 4 children, was found dead by a delivery truck driver about 4 a.m., although police believe the murder occurred sometime after 2:50 a.m. A day earlier, police responded to what appeared to be a traffic-related death. Russell James Baldree, 28, thought to be the victim of a fatal motorcycle crash, was found near Monterey High School. He had stopped breathing. An autopsy later revealed that he died of a gunshot wound. On Oct. 25, police responded to the East Lubbock apartment of 45-year-old Tammy Cooper. Inside they found the bodies of Cooper and her 3 children: Kadiece, Kasheim and Mahogany Allen. They had been beaten to death. While police found what they described as a violent and brutal scene, a nearby neighbor reported no sounds of a struggle from the apartment. Cooper had moved to Lubbock from Dallas about 4 months prior to the murder. Police are currently conducting investigations in both cities. Investigators are encouraging anyone with information regarding these murders to call detectives at 775-2410 or Crime Line at 741-1000. "I believe there is someone out there with information about these cases, and we're asking for that information," Gomez said. Until someone steps forward, police will continue to investigate these murders. "The victim and the victim's family is never forgotten by us," Gomez said. (source: Lubbock Avalanche-Journal) *********************** Murder suspects arrested in N.M.----Bay City couple accused in death of parents found after police traced credit card use Capital murder suspect Justin Wayne Smith and his wife, Elizabeth, were arrested Sunday at a ski resort in Ruidoso, N.M. Smith had evaded arrest since being charged in connection with the Dec. 21 shooting deaths of his parents, Thomas Henry Smith, 48, and Toni K. Smith, 45. Their bodies were found wrapped in plastic in the kitchen of their Bay City home. They had been shot and the thermostat in the mobile home had been turned down. Smith's wife also was charged with capital murder in connection with the shooting deaths, Ruidoso Detective Doug Babcock said. The 2 were captured with their 9-month-old daughter, Shelbie. Bay City police, the Matagorda County Sheriff's office and the Texas Rangers have been searching for Smith since he fled Bay City with his wife and daughter, using his father's credit card to buy gasoline. Bay City Police Capt. Jim Jumonville credited Ruidoso police with doing "a fantastic job" in finding the 3. "Everything went off without incident," Jumonville said. Ruidoso officers spotted the family's sport utility vehicle and pop-up camper at 9:23 a.m. Saturday outside their small cabin - 2 hours after officers were informed that Texas law enforcement officials believed they were in the area. "Apparently they were tracing their credit card and debit card usage," Babcock said. Babcock said the department's Special Response Team lobbed a "flash bang" entry device, "which is sort of like a big firecracker," to distract the couple while police moved in on their cabin. The Smiths' infant daughter is in the custody of the New Mexico Division of Youth and Families, the state agency similar to Child Protective Services, Babcock said. The infant "appeared to be in good health," Babcock said. The Smiths are being held in the Lincoln County Detention Center, pending their extradition to Texas, Babcock said. (source: Houston Chronicle) INDIANA: Murderer removed from death row----Indiana governor makes decision on eve of term's end With just 3 days left in his term, Indiana Gov. Joe Kernan removed a convicted murderer from death row Friday and called for a review of how fairly the state administers the death penalty. Kernan granted clemency to Michael Daniels, an Indianapolis man convicted of killing an Army chaplain in 1978 in a $1 robbery as the minister shoveled snow from his driveway with his 15-year-old son. The son now also is a minister who opposes the death penalty. He said he has forgiven Daniels, and was happy with the governor's decision. Daniels -- incarcerated on Indiana's death row longer than anyone else -- will now stay in prison for the rest of his life without the possibility of parole, the governor's office said. Kernan said that evidence casting doubt on Daniels was never presented in court, and that Daniels' IQ has been measured at 77, just above the level to be considered mentally retarded. He also said Daniels was psychotic for some time and unable to assist in his defense, and that he was the only one of 3 co-defendants to get the death penalty. Kernan commuted the death sentence of Darnell Williams in July, less than a week before he was to die by injection for the 1986 murders of a Gary couple. No prisoner has been executed during Kernan's nearly 16 months as governor. Kernan said his reviews of the two cases have "revealed weaknesses" in Indiana's death penalty system. He said he hopes state government in the coming months can examine whether the sentencing system is fair in death-penalty cases. "I have now encountered two cases where doubt about an offender's personal responsibility and the quality of the legal process leading to the capital sentence has led me to grant clemency," Kernan said. "These instances should cause us to take a hard look at how Indiana administers and reviews capital sentences." The victim in Friday's case, Allan Streett, was a chaplain at Fort Benjamin Harrison and father of 3 when he was killed. Tim Streett, the victim's son, had written letters to Daniels offering to help push for his clemency. Daniels did not write back, but Streett said he has spoken to Daniels' mother expressing his forgiveness. Streett said his late mother may not have agreed with Kernan's decision, but she would have been glad the case has come to an end. "As long as he (Daniels) was on death row, every couple of years there was a story about it in the paper," Streett said. "She just wanted that to be over." Daniels' lawyer, Eric Koselke, said the inmate has a legal guardian who would tell him of the clemency. "It took a lot of courage for him (Kernan) to do it," he said. 8 other death row inmates appealed to the outgoing governor for clemency, but Kernan did not make a decision on the other cases. (source: Associated Press) FLORIDA----foreign national may face death penalty Serrano Trial To Get Started----Jury selection begins in 1997 case. In Bartow, 7 years after the worst mass murder in Polk County's history, lawyers this week will begin choosing 12 jurors to decide the fate of Nelson Ivan Serrano, the Ecuadorian immigrant who authorities are convinced pulled the trigger. There's no smoking gun, no confession, no sinister criminal history, but Assistant State Attorney John Aguero said he's equally convinced that Serrano, 66, will be on Florida's death row by spring. "This is a totally circumstantial case," said Aguero, who will prosecute the case with Assistant State Attorney Paul Wallace. "What we have here is a well-connected chain of events, and that can be better than an eyewitness. "With an eyewitness, all you have to do is discredit or cast some doubt on that witness. But when you put a well-connected set of circumstances together, the conclusion becomes inescapable. It becomes much harder to say 'That's just coincidence.'" Serrano faces 4 counts of 1st-degree murder for the Dec. 3, 1997, execution-style slayings of 4 people at the Erie Manufacturing plant in Bartow, where Serrano had been a partner in the business. Orlando lawyer J. Cheney Mason, representing Serrano, said the circumstantial nature of the case bodes well for his client, too. "We don't have an eyewitness, we don't have a confession," he said. "There is no evidence to link (Serrano) to the scene of the crime whatsoever. None. That makes it tough (for the state)." On that December evening, Diane Dosso Patisso, a 28-year-old prosecutor with the State Attorney's Office in Bartow, left her office to pick up her husband, George, 26, at Erie. Her father, Felice "Phil" Dosso, was 1 of 3 partners in the business with Serrano and George Gonsalves. 2 hours later, about 7:30 p.m., her parents drove to the plant looking for their daughter and others who were late for a family birthday celebration. Phil and Nicoletta Dosso discovered Patisso's body in a pool of blood just inside the door to the Erie offices. The couple then found the bloodied bodies of their 35-yearold son, Frank, their son-in-law, George Patisso Jr., and Gonsalves, 69, in Frank's office. A dozen shell casings from 2 guns littered the floor, but authorities never have found a murder weapon. SUSPECT FROM BEGINNING Within days of the slayings, police began piecing together a troubled business partnership riddled with vengeance, greed and power struggles. 6 months earlier, Dosso and Gonsalves had stripped Serrano of the company's presidency, suspecting that he had funneled about $250,000 of corporate funds into his personal account. A bitter legal battled ensued, led by Serrano's allegations that his partners had cheated him out of his share of the company's worth. Police suspected Serrano in the slayings from the beginning, but he cast doubt on those suspicions with receipts and witnesses that proved he was in Atlanta during that time. Serrano spoke freely with investigators upon his return to Florida the day after the killings, offering a 45-minute taped statement to police and even suggesting a motive in the case. "I don't think it will be robbery," he told former Bartow police Detective Steve Parker, according to court documents. "I think it will be mostly some resentment, or some revenge, somebody getting fired, somebody getting cheated." He told Parker that Diane Patisso likely walked into a bad situation and wasn't an intended target, and he questioned how 1 gunman could have killed 3 men in 1 room. "I have no idea what really happened, where it happened, when it happened, how it happened," he said, according to court documents. "There were many people involved. I mean, there are 4 people in there. 1 guy is going to go over there and knock off 4 people?" Despite his alibi, Serrano remained a target of the police investigation. For 4 years, authorities chased leads that left them empty-handed. ALIBI UNRAVELED For months, investigators had checked aliases that Serrano may have used to travel to Florida the day of the murders. Then in February 2001, they hit paydirt. In an interview with Tommy Ray, a special agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, Phil Dosso mentioned Serrano had a son from a previous marriage who would be about 40 years old. Further investigation revealed the son's name to be Juan Agacio, though he later changed it to John Greeven. The day after the Dosso interview, Ray found Agacio's name on the passenger list of an Orlando-bound flight that left Atlanta on Dec. 3 at 1:41 p.m. Ray, a key witness in the trial, said that discovery turned the case. Through flight information and rental car records, authorities surmised that Serrano flew into Orlando on Dec. 3 using his son's name, drove to Bartow in a rental car obtained by his nephew, committed the murders, then drove to Tampa, dropped off the car and took a flight back to Atlanta using the name John White, a former business associate. All totaled, the alleged trip took less than 10 hours. Investigators then uncovered a ticket stub from the Orlando International Airport's parking garage bearing Serrano's fingerprint. The stub showed that the rental car left the airport's parking garage at 3:49 p.m., about 45 minutes after the flight from Atlanta landed. It was dated Dec. 3, 1997, the same day as the murders and the same day Serrano said he never left Atlanta. That stub, investigators said, broke Serrano's alibi, placing him in Central Florida the day the 4 people died. Serrano's nephew, Alvaro Penaherrera, said his uncle told him he was meeting his Brazilian girlfriend in Orlando and couldn't rent the car in his own name for fear his wife would find out. Armed with that information, authorities took the case to a Polk County grand jury in May 2001, and the jury handed up a sealed indictment charging Serrano with 4 counts of 1st-degree murder. By the time authorities were convinced his alibi was unraveled, Serrano had relocated to his native Ecuador, making it difficult for authorities to bring him to Florida to stand trial. Months later, authorities were able to prove that Serrano had become an American citizen in 1971. That realization caused Serrano to lose his protection as a citizen of Ecuador and allowed him to be deported. Authorities arrested Serrano in August 2002 as he was dining with his wife and another couple in Quito, where Serrano had made his home. Mason, Serrano's lawyer, acknowledged the countless hours that went into the investigation by law enforcement, but he said those officers made mistakes along the way. "I'm absolutely certain that you are going to hear a lot of testimony from law enforcement agents on things they failed to do, did not do or failed to do correctly," he said. "All of this will benefit the defense." SAME WITNESSES Mason, who's representing Serrano with Bartow lawyer Bob Norgard, said the defense plans to bring in 20 to 25 witnesses, but he wouldn't say whether Serrano will take the stand. "He wants to testify, but whether he will or not depends on how things progress during the trial," he said. In court documents, Mason said Serrano's defense will be his Atlanta alibi, and the defense team intends to present witnesses who will support that position. Prosecutor Aguero said he's listed some of those same names among his 70 witnesses. Authorities said there's no doubt Serrano was in Atlanta for three days, but they've attacked his assertion that he was in his hotel room alone with a migraine headache the night of the shootings, according to court records. Aguero said the state's case will take about 2 weeks, including several expert witnesses in firearms, fingerprint evidence and handwriting. Last summer, lawyers for Serrano sought to move the trial from Polk County, citing potential problems with jury selection because of pretrial publicity. Circuit Judge Roger Alcott decided to keep the trial in Bartow for now, but he has a backup plan to relocate the trial to Sebring if necessary. Alcott has set aside five weeks for the trial, including a penalty phase. If Serrano is convicted of 1st-degree murder, jurors then will hear testimony for and against imposing the death penalty and will make a recommendation to the judge. To be found guilty of 1st-degree murder, the jury decision has to be unanimous. In the penalty phase, the jury recommendation is based on a majority vote. Sentencing will rest with Alcott. He can accept or reject the jury's recommendation. (source: The Ledger)
