March 7
TEXAS:
Death-penalty decision alarms Texas
Last week's U.S. Supreme Court verdict determining that those who were
younger than 18 when they committed their crimes cannot be executed for
murder has sent shock waves through the vast Texas penal system.
The recent 5-4 decision by the high court affects 72 juvenile murderers.
29 of them are on Texas' death row in the Pulansky Unit, a few miles
outside Huntsville -- along with 448 others there scheduled to die.
The looming problem is not that these 29 now must be integrated into the
system's main population, but that some of them actually might be
considered for parole soon.
Texas, which leads the nation -- and world -- in meting out death
sentences, is one of only 3 states without a specific criminal penalty
called "life without possibility of parole."
Under current law, one given a life sentence must be considered eligible
for parole after serving 40 years -- counting off for "good time." For
those convicted before 1993, that minimum was 15 years.
Last week's decision set off alarm in Tarrant County, where Mauro Barraza,
17 at the time, brutally murdered an elderly woman in her home in 1989 in
Haltom City. Later this year, Barraza, now 32, will have served 15 years
and must be considered for parole by the state Board of Pardons and
Paroles.
Few think Barraza will be released soon, but several others are similarly
affected. Gov. Rick Perry has asked the parole board to examine closely
each of the 29 who have been given reprieves from death by the high court
and to recommend how to move those affected into the prison system's
general population.
Reaction to the Supreme Court decision is mixed, not only to the ruling,
but as to the course of Texas jurisprudence; specifically, about whether
the state should enact a firm "life without parole" standard.
State Sen. Eddie Lucio, a Democrat from Brownsville, already had
introduced such a bill in the state Legislature. Twice defeated in his try
to make such a change in the law, Mr. Lucio says, "Maybe the time has
come."
He has asked for committee hearings on the bill within 10 days.
He is not against the death penalty, but says present law does not assure
society that dangerous killers will be kept inside the walls.
"This legislation is not for anyone soft on crime," the senator says.
Although such a new legal definition might lessen the number of
death-penalty verdicts, he says he doesn't think that's the most important
consideration.
"We should begin to listen to the people," he says. "It shouldn't be about
how many people we can put to death."
Recent polls, he says, showed that 78 % of Texans wanted "the 3rd option."
"It might sound absurd that any of them [under present law] would be
paroled," says Andy Kahan, a Houston advocate for crime victims, but "you
just don't know. This decision could be the catalyst that brings it over
the hump."
District attorneys in the state's major counties -- in which more than 75
% of the state's murderers are tried -- generally have lobbied against
such a sentencing option for juries. They argue that jurors are less
likely to decree the death penalty if there is an option for life without
parole.
All agree the key word in the phrase "eligible for parole" is "eligible."
. Eligibility does not necessarily mean parole. In fact, the Texas parole
board seldom is lenient.
"There is no mandatory release in any of these cases," says Jim Marcus,
executive director of the Texas Defender Service, which handles appeals of
capital crime offenders. He, too, thinks there's little chance of
Barraza's actually being released soon.
Charles Baird, a former justice of the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals and
presently a visiting professor at the South Texas College of Law in
Houston, says the present law amounts to "life without parole."
"Prison is a very dangerous place," he says, "and the odds of being
murdered by another inmate is very high. It's a sedentary lifestyle and
that means short life spans. Just the stressful nature of trying to exist
every day severely reduces one's life span."
(source: Washington Times)
*********************
Suspect could pay ultimate price in fatal smuggling
Tyrone Williams would rather avoid making history.
The 33-year-old Jamaican immigrant could be the 1st person ever dispatched
to death row for smuggling undocumented immigrants.
Federal prosecutors accuse Williams, a 34-year-old truck driver from
Schenectady, N.Y., of being part of an organized ring responsible for a
disastrous smuggling attempt that ended in 19 deaths in May 2003.
The operation ended when Williams uncoupled his cab and ditched the
sweltering tractor trailer at a truck stop near Victoria, leaving it for
authorities to find dead 17 of more than 70 migrants that had been packed
inside. Two others died later in a nearby hospital.
It's said to be the nation's deadliest smuggling attempt.
Testimony is scheduled to begin Tuesday.
Two men were convicted in December, accused of being part of a ring that
prosecutors said had more than a dozen members. 5 have pleaded guilty.
Another trial is on hold, while others arrested in Mexico have been sent
to Houston and their charges are pending. One person remains a fugitive.
Neither prosecutors nor defenders in the Williams case returned calls
seeking comment. U.S. District Judge Vanessa Gilmore, who's overseeing the
case, has issued a gag order.
But in the weeks leading up to jury selection, Williams' lawyers have
questioned the government's decision to seek the death penalty.
They said the ultimate punishment wasn't sought against the other
smugglers - in fact, they said Williams was singled out because he's
black.
Prosecutors have maintained that Williams was the only person who could
have attempted to save the migrants' lives, but instead chose to flee,
facts that fit their authority to seek the death penalty in smuggling
cases in which migrants are willfully left do die.
The unprecedented move comes as part of a judicial crackdown by the
government against smugglers of humans.
2 decades ago, prosecutors didn't have nearly as many resources or power
to go after smugglers.
Tony Canales, a lawyer with a private practice in Corpus Christi, ran the
U.S. attorney's office for the Southern District of Texas in Houston - the
same one now handling the Williams case - from 1977 to 1980.
"No way," Canales replied when asked if he ever tried to put smugglers to
death. "The statutory authority wasn't there. Today, it's different.
They've got much more authority, and they're using it."
Though the laws Canales mentioned have been on the books for a decade, the
turning point seems to have occurred 2 years before the Victoria deaths.
Fourteen migrants died after walking for days across the unforgiving
Arizona desert near Yuma in May 2001.
It was the deadliest smuggling effort prior to the Victoria case, one that
thrust the immigration issue back into the national spotlight.
Then-U.S. Attorney General John Aschcroft - who also made the call to seek
the death penalty against Williams - made a national announcement in
Tucson: Smugglers had become a national security threat.
The lead smuggler in the "Yuma 14" case was given a record 16-year prison
sentence.
Since then, prosecutors across the country, mainly in border states, have
clamped down on smugglers. Not only have prosecutions increased, but so
have sentences.
And now, for the 1st time, one may be put to death.
"There's a recognition of the problem now," said Johnny Sutton, U.S.
attorney for the San Antonio-based Western District of Texas.
"Before, it was mostly immigrants crossing on their own. Now you have
money-making enterprises based on the commodity of human cargo, but with
no care for human life," Sutton said.
Yet despite the governmental pressure, smuggling operations have managed
to thrive, immigration and border analysts said.
In fact, some experts noted, the illegal migration flow may be altered but
won't be halted - even if Williams is put to death.
Talk of the Victoria case and its aftermath died down a long time ago,
said Arturo Sols, who directs the nonprofit Center for Border and Human
Rights Studies in Reynosa, Mexico, across from McAllen.
"It's business as usual down here," he said.
Smuggling networks are too well structured to be dismantled, he noted.
Plus, the demand for crossing assistance from migrants hasn't slowed -
neither has the enthusiasm of U.S. employers looking for low-wage migrant
labor.
Back in Houston, where nearly 2 weeks of jury selection ended Thursday,
Nestor Rodrguez concurred with Sols' conclusion.
Rodrguez, co-director of the Center for Immigration Research at the
University of Houston, knew as much from experience.
He personally knew of two smugglers who were killed on the job, he said.
2 others quickly showed up to handle their loads.
**********************************
For Texas murderers, 'life' can end at 40
Underneath Texas' hang 'em high reputation is a capital punishment system
with a soft spot few states have.
While 47 states lock up their worst criminals with no chance of parole,
Texas offers its capital murderers a chance to go free when their life
sentences end after 40 years.
This quirk came into sudden focus last week when the U.S. Supreme Court
banned the execution of juvenile offenders, including 28 inmates on Texas'
death row.
With so many condemned inmates suddenly looking forward to distant but
possible release, reaction was swift in some corners of the state Capitol.
Hours after the ruling, several lawmakers called on their colleagues to
create a sentence of life in prison without parole as insurance against
future court decisions that might further erode capital punishment.
"What if we have a ruling that eliminates the death penalty across the
nation?" Brownsville's Democratic state Sen. Eddie Lucio Jr. asked.
Whether the court decision will give new urgency to a proposal that
repeatedly has languished in previous years is far from certain.
Similar proposals have drowned in debate about the true nature of life
without parole. Is it a way to toughen the system? Or would it undermine
the death penalty?
Because both seem likely, the proposal divides Texas' traditional
supporters of capital punishment.
Prosecutors disagree about whether the state should have the option of
life without parole. So do families of murder victims. Meanwhile, the
policy has spread without fanfare across the rest of the nation.
Eight states adopted the sentence in the past 5 years, according to
Lucio's tally, bringing the total to 47.
Only Texas, Alaska and New Mexico can't impose sentences of life without
parole. And that roster could soon shrink.
Last week, a bill to repeal the death penalty and replace it with life
without parole passed the New Mexico House of Representatives for the 1st
time.
Should the bill became law, the Lone Star State truly would stand alone.
It would be the only state to have a death penalty but not life without
parole.
Life vs. death
As a self-proclaimed supporter of capital punishment, Lucio sees the
Senate Bill 60 he has authored alongside two other Democratic senators as
a way of closing a loophole so big an inmate could escape through it.
The proposal would add life without parole as a third alternative to the
existing sentences for capital murder - death and life with the
possibility of parole after 40 years.
Four related bills are pending in the House. At least one simply would
give juries 2 choices - death or life without the possibility of parole.
None has been scheduled yet for a hearing.
Two years ago when the Senate Criminal Justice Committee considered life
without parole, district attorneys from Hidalgo and Wichita counties
endorsed the proposal, saying it would offer juries flexibility.
Prosecutors from Houston, Fort Worth and Huntsville opposed it.
The Tarrant County District Attorney's Office feared that giving jurors
three choices - 2 of which offered some form of life imprisonment - would
stack the deck in favor of life.
"If we decide to ask for a death penalty," Tarrant County Assistant
District Attorney Jim Gibson told the Senate panel, "we want the jury to
reach that decision."
The argument echoes today. The idea that jurors might have last-minute
qualms and opt for life without parole over death is one of the most
frequently cited arguments - both for and against the proposal.
Statistical studies have yet to settle the debate.
The number of death penalties held steady initially in Georgia and North
Carolina even after those states started imposing life without parole in
1993 and 1995, respectively.
The consistency, some say, shows that life without parole is no obstacle
to prosecutors seeking death sentences.
However, death sentences in both states started dropping after 2000, just
as they did in many states around the nation.
Some experts say jurors grew cautious and started increasingly to choose
life without parole after advances in DNA evidence exposed many wrongful
convictions around the country.
As proof, observers point to Texas. They suggest the number of death
penalties held relatively steady here partly because Texas juries couldn't
impose life without parole.
"As the death penalty decreases, life without parole is what's taking its
place," said Richard Dieter, executive director of the Death Penalty
Information Center.
Seeking certainty
Mary Jane Peterson wishes Texas had adopted life without parole a decade
ago when it could have closed the door on the 17-year-old who stabbed and
killed her son.
Charged with capital murder and sentenced to life, the murderer eventually
will come up for parole. Meanwhile, Peterson, a leader of the local
chapter of Parents of Murdered Children, has watched others cope with the
turmoil that comes with the state's uncertain sentences.
"You feel good when the guy gets caught. You feel good when he's
sentenced," she said. Then, "a few years later you start worrying and
reliving everything because he's coming up for parole."
But others point out that life without parole offers only an illusion of
finality.
Court rulings and clemency still could open the cell door, said Dianne
Clements of the Houston-based victims' advocacy group Justice For All.
By contrast, not even the recent Supreme Court ruling abolishing the
juvenile death penalty can resurrect Toronto Patterson, who in 2002 was
the last juvenile offender executed in Texas.
"There's no finality in all of this unless there's an execution," Clements
said.
Hard cases
Life without parole would pile up a new breed of inmates in Texas
penitentiaries.
With little to lose and less to look forward to, these convicts could
wreak havoc, according to opponents of life without parole, such as Harris
County District Attorney Chuck Rosenthal.
"They know they can do anything they want and not receive a greater
sentence," he said. "Why obey or do anything the guards tell them?"
The question has an inviting logic but, prison workers say, the reality is
more complex.
Illustrating some of the complexity, a recent study comparing inmates in
Missouri's Potosi Correctional Center gave ammunition to both sides.
Inmates with no hope of being released tended to commit more serious
assaults - if they lashed out at all. But, overall, they were half as
likely to act violently as convicts serving limited sentences.
Lucio's previous attempt to win support for life without parole sputtered
on April 22, 2003, when the bill failed by a single vote to reach the
Senate floor for debate.
2 years earlier, the Senate endorsed the bill 20-8, only to watch the
House vote 77-68 against it.
'Snake bit'
So far, this session shows no signs of a sea change.
Gov. Rick Perry is noncommittal and there's no surge of support elsewhere
for life without parole, said Shannon Edmunds, director of governmental
relations for the Texas District and County Attorneys Association.
"It just seems kind of snake bit," he said.
Supporters, however, find encouragement in incremental advances.
A Scripps Howard Texas Poll in November suggested statewide support for
life without parole had grown six points since the previous year to 78 %.
The proposal has a new supporter in Dallas' State Rep. Tony Goolsby, who's
sponsoring one of the 4 bills in the House that would create life without
parole.
A Republican, Goolsby voted with the rest of his party against the
proposal in the last session, but says he was later converted while
working on other projects with Lucio.
While Goolsby said he hasn't solicited any support for the bill yet in the
House, Lucio claims to have found at least 3 new votes in the Senate,
although he wouldn't reveal any names.
The additional votes, he said, give SB 60 the support necessary to bring
it to the floor for a vote by the full Senate.
The view seems the same from Huntsville, home of the state's execution
chamber.
James Marquart, a death penalty expert at Huntsville's Sam Houston State
University, doesn't think life without parole is a good idea but he
expects lawmakers to rebuke the Supreme Court justices for tying the hands
of Texas jurors.
"It sounds tough," he said. "You can take it back to your constituents and
say, 'By God, they took execution off the table, but I fixed that - we're
going to lock them up the rest of their lives!'"
Close observers like Edmunds note that life-without-parole's supporters
voiced similar arguments without success 3 years ago when the Supreme
Court whittled away another piece of capital punishment by ruling that
mentally retarded murderers couldn't be executed.
There is, however, a difference between last week's decision and the 2002
ruling.
Back then, the Legislature wasn't in session.
(source for both: San Antonio Express-News)
************************
Thomas deliberations begin Monday
The capital murder trial known as the State vs Andre Thomas has been
complicated and tense from the beginning, and Friday's closing arguments
were no different.
The jury will begin to deliberate Monday morning. If jurors find Thomas
knew what he was doing when he killed Laura Boren Thomas, Andre Boren and
Leyha Marie Hughes last year, they could convict him of capital murder.
The trial would then move into a second phase with the jury deciding if he
should spend the rest of his life in prison or die for his crime.
If, however, jurors find Thomas was controlled by a delusion at the time
he killed his estranged wife and her children, they could send him to a
mental hospital for the immediate future.
Attorneys had up to 60 minutes each to address a jury that has heard from
a handful of expert psychiatrists and dozens of other witnesses in the
case.
Grayson County District Attorney Joe Brown started the marathon session by
reminding the jury where the whole thing began - with a mother and her two
small children.
Brown said the jury has heard a great deal about Andre Thomas and the
problems going on in his life. But, the trial isn't about Thomas, Brown
said. It's about getting justice for Laura, little Andre and Leyha.
(source: The Herald Democrat)
********************
Letters to the editor:
Outraged over lack of help for Thomas
As everyone else in Grayson County, I am horrified by the atrocities
committed in the Andre Thomas case. But, more than that I am outraged by
the lack of help this man received when he was obviously seeking help.
He went to Mental Health/Mental Retardation a full month prior to the
crime. He went to the hospital 24 hours before the crime. All who failed
this man share in this nightmare.
(source: Letter to the Editor, The Herald Democrat)
****************************
Mental health unit may be lost
A program that supporters said eases some of the burdens facing the
criminal justice system and has begun to save taxpayers money faces an
uncertain future against the county's ongoing budget constraints.
"It makes me just sick," lawyer Jamye Boone Ward said of the potential
loss of the public defender's office's mental health unit. "This is going
to have a real, very negative and profound effect on homeless people. It
is not cost effective not to fund that."
But the nearly yearlong effort the public defender's office has put into
creating a process to handle mentally ill and mentally retarded defendants
- many of whom are homeless - could come to a halt next month when the
unit's $175,000 start-up grant expires, public defender Clara Hernandez
said.
The funding was designed to get a system going that could be emulated
throughout Texas. Now, the public defender is just trying to keep the
effort alive through foundation or other grants.
"We're looking everywhere we can to find funding," Hernandez said, adding
that she will also seek an extension from the Texas Court of Criminal
Appeals, which provided the initial grant.
Lawyer Darron L. Powell, who has served as an attorney for the mental
health unit, agreed. He said that 10 months ago he found a criminal
justice system that just shuffled mentally ill and mentally retarded
defendants through the system or left them in prison. Powell handles
defendants with schizophrenia, paranoia, bipolar disorder and other
problems.
"We try to get them out, try to do things with them," said Powell, who is
supported by 2 social workers in the 3-person unit. "But the fact is, once
they get arrested, we don't have a real diversion system for them."
Powell said every defendant who can be released to a treatment center or
who can be released and then find space in a shelter saves the county
money.
Getting a person out in 10 days instead of 100 would mean a savings of
$4,500 or more, he said, based on the cost of $50 a day to jail somebody.
There are also attorney, court and medication costs, Powell said.
Saving money is one of the mental health unit's goals. The public
defender's office has estimated indigents cost about $5.4 million annually
overall.
The public defender's office hoped to cut costs related to mentally ill
and mentally retarded defendants by expediting cases, seeking diversion
opportunities, and helping them meet their release requirements and
staying free of criminal behavior.
Boone Ward, who helps the homeless from 23 shelters and the streets of El
Paso through her office based at the Opportunity House, said the mental
health unit can keep the mentally ill from being "poured through the
cracks" of the county's criminal justice system.
Still, she added, some progress has been made, citing Assistant County
Attorney Donna Snyder's work in handling cases involving the mentally ill.
Powell said that despite the crowded conditions, he has had support
diverting some defendants to El Paso Mental Health Mental Retardation when
an agreement can be worked out with the district attorney's office and the
court.
Social workers Bill Jones and Bridget Silva, who make up two-thirds of the
mental health unit, have provided the paperwork - including mental
screenings - needed to speed the processing of a number of cases, Powell
said. The unit's goal was to help 600 people during the 12 months of the
grant.
For Arnold Whisenant of Jacksonville, Fla., the mental health unit was the
difference between his son being held in El Paso County jail and being
home in Florida.
"It went better than I expected," Whisenant said by phone from his Florida
office. "I would not have known he was in the predicament he'd developed
himself into had it not been for the grant and Bill Jones."
Whisenant said his son has an impulsive behavior, perhaps related to a
bipolar disorder, which causes him to bounce between times of work and
episodes of irrational behavior. Whisenant said his son was arrested in
the midst of a cross-country trip with a car the 24-year-old was supposed
to return to a Florida dealership.
Whisenant said the case may have a long way to go, but at least his son is
not sitting in jail.
The bottom line for the community, supporters of the program said, is that
the defendants can be diverted toward functional living and that taxpayers
can save money.
"Social services can keep them from being more sick, help them be
productive people in society," Boone Ward said.
Powell concurred.
"It's been a huge learning curve," he said, with a stack of cases crammed
into a manila folder. "It's definitely a good deal. To me it's a big deal,
it costs (taxpayers) less."
(source: El Paso Times)
****************************
'CSI' changing how business of administering justice is done; Local
officials say juries want high-tech fireworks
State Judge Jack Hunter looked out from his bench in 94th district court
at a group of 60 potential jurors for a recent murder trial and began his
standard tutorial on the workings of the judicial system.
There's a defendant accused of murder. There's a prosecutor who will try
to prove he is guilty. And there's a defense lawyer who will try to raise
doubts about the evidence. The jury's job, Hunter said, is to decide who's
right and whether the prosecutors have made their case.
Then, Hunter offered them this pointer:
"This is not going to be like anything you see on TV," he said. "This is
not CSI."
That might seem obvious to some people, but for prosecutors and judges,
it's a critical statement as television court dramas reshape the way
jurors examine courtroom evidence.
It's so important, that prosecutors regularly ask potential jurors in
high-profile cases if they watch shows like "CSI" and "Law & Order" and if
they can put aside the things they see in those shows. They are especially
concerned about the high-tech gadgets investigators use to collect
evidence on those shows and the role that evidence plays in the dramatized
trial.
"Can everybody agree this is not Hollywood and we need to follow the law
in Texas?" Prosecutor Danice Obregon asked Hunter's jury. "We bring you
evidence and we ask you to use your best judgment."
She continued, asking, "Anybody watch 'CSI'?"
A few people raised a hand.
"How many of you think what happens on 'CSI' happens in Nueces County?"
Nobody raised a hand
"Do any of you expect me to bring in laser shows expect me to dazzle you?
Does everyone understand TV is not necessarily reality?"
They nodded in affirmation.
But the very case Obregon was getting ready to prosecute would test the
jury's response.
George Doyle had been accused of killing Carl Alexander, a homeless man
known as "Crazy Carl." He confessed to the killing and told investigators
that he had buried the body behind the Wal-Mart in Flour Bluff. Police
never recovered Alexander's body and had no weapon. Prosecutors relied
solely upon Doyle's confession, which defense attorneys said was the
product of an alcohol-induced depression. With no physical evidence,
Obregon realized she might not be able to meet the jury's expectations.
3 days after they began deliberations, jurors announced to Hunter that
they were deadlocked, with only three of the 12 able to support a
conviction. The District Attorney's Office, not wanting a mistrial in the
case, quickly agreed to a plea bargain on a lesser charge.
Afterward, Obregon said television shows such as "CSI" create a problem
for prosecutors who might not have access to the kinds of evidence
portrayed on television.
"Jurors come into this experience feeling more educated in legal and
scientific issues than they actually are," she said. "They have higher
expectations. I think some of them expect more than we're able to give
them."
Jurors involved in the Doyle case would not comment on their
deliberations.
Gang Prosecutor James Sales has faced the same challenge. In January, Juan
Vela was acquitted in the execution-style shootings of Isaac Eli Maldonado
and his girlfriend, Jenna Kay Patek. Again, prosecutors had no physical
evidence that linked the killings to Vela. Their only witness was a man
who had been smoking pot on his porch across the street from the killing.
Sales said the case was difficult to prove because of the lack of highly
technical evidence.
"We live in the 'CSI' generation, so people want their crimes on videotape
and they want DNA," he said. "Unfortunately, the criminals don't leave
DNA, and you have to go with what you have."
Not everyone in the criminal justice system thinks television has had a
detrimental effect.
John Graham, an instructor in Del Mar College's forensic investigations
program, said "CSI" has given juries more resources for evaluating
evidence, which means prosecutors have to work harder to answer their
questions.
"Does 'CSI' have an effect?" Graham said. "Yes, thank God. It's the job of
the prosecutors to answer the questions the jury may have."
Graham told a recent class that television shows portray only a sliver of
the work that goes into an investigation and prosecutors and police
investigators have to help juries understand the process of collecting
evidence and building a case.
"This is not just what you see on TV," he told his students.
Hunter, a former Nueces County prosecutor, said many lawyers fail to
communicate with juries effectively. He said a well-planned argument can
be just as effective in the absence of scientific evidence.
When Hunter was prosecuting murder and assault cases, he would bring in a
mannequin the DA's office had bought from a local department store. The
dummy's name was Charlie, and Hunter used him to show the paths of bullets
or to show where a person had been struck.
"You have to get creative about how you are going to convince a jury of
your case," he said. "You have to make your case come alive. Frankly,
lawyers just don't do that a great deal."
(source: Corpus Christi Caller-Times)
