May 28
TEXAS:
No Pain, No Gain----Our solution for saving Texas's claim to capital
punishment fame
Texas death row inmates have gone out in style before -- some have used
their last words to thank the Dallas Cowboys for years of pleasure -- but
on April 20 Douglas Roberts joined the Kings of Style pantheon.
"Yes sir, warden," he said when asked if he had any final thoughts before
heading to the great beyond. "Okay -- I've been hanging around this
Popsicle stand way too long. Before I leave, I want to tell you all: When
I die, bury me deep, lay 2 speakers at my feet, put some headphones on my
head, and rock-and-roll me when I'm dead."
"Freebird," dude!
Beyond being inspiring, rockin' Roberts was a model of efficiency, getting
his exit from this Popsicle stand less than 9 years after he killed a San
Antonio man in a carjacking. In nationwide death penalty terms, that's an
express trip.
And what was the result of all this -- a warp-speed execution and a good
sound bite?
Not much. The San Antonio media gave it a brief mention, papers across the
state ran a few paragraphs, the national media yawned. Only the usual
desultory handful of forlorn protesters showed up to be heard the evening
of the execution. It was just another night in Huntsville. And if you want
to describe "uneventful," the phrase "just another night in Huntsville"
works pretty darn well.
The death penalty in Texas, it seems, clearly is not what it used to be.
What happened to the halcyon days of the 1980s, when hundreds of
protesters would flock to the Walls Unit on execution night? Or even the
energy of 2000, when George W. Bush, known among death penalty foes as
"the Texecutioner," was signing off on 40 lethal injections in a single
year? When Texas -- and especially Harris County -- was famous worldwide
as the bloodthirsty center of state-sponsored killing?
For decades now, Texas has partly defined itself by that busy needle in
Huntsville. And now the cachet is slowly wearing off, because of: a)
overfamiliarity (hey, even serial killings get boring without the whodunit
angle); b) competition from other states trying to out-macho us; and 3)
namby-pamby politically correct politicians wailing about complicated
stuff like "exonerating DNA evidence," whatever the hell that means.
Not to mention that there are potential disasters lying in wait.
California has a death row population almost 50 % larger than Texas's 444.
Florida is catching up to us. And -- most ominous of all -- the federal
government is eagerly looking to get into the game. Give those guys a
Patriot Act and conservative control of the judiciary, and pretty soon
Texas is a downtown mom-and-pop store and the feds are Wal-Mart.
Let's face it -- after 23 years, executions in Texas have lost their buzz.
We need to dedicate ourselves once again to the job of appalling the
conscience of the world. Fortunately, we have the solution: torture.
Don't get your liberal panties in a twist -- this would all be federally
approved stuff. And we'd go to a Texan for the final word: Rice
University's own Alberto Gonzales, the current U.S. attorney general and
probable future Supreme Court nominee.
Still, it's a big step, so first let's convince you it's needed.
Don't think Texas's killing ways are under attack? Your sad navet would be
charming if it weren't so harmful to the statewide self-esteem that comes
from offing people.
Texas -- and especially our dear old Harris County -- has long led the way
in the death-row assembly line. Since 1976, there have been 964 executions
in the United States, according to the Death Penalty Information Center.
Even though Texas didn't get in the business until 1982, it leads the way,
with 342 killings. The next-best state, Virginia, doesn't even break 100,
coming up with a measly 94.
We largely have Harris County to thank for the state's prominent position.
Of the 342 inmates Texas has killed, 77 were convicted by Harris County
juries. Of the people currently on death row in Texas, 145 -- about 1/3 --
came from Harris County. (If Harris County were a state, it would rank 3rd
in executions since 1976.)
So in Texas, and in Houston, we've clearly been doing our best to fulfill
the killing-machine clich.
Slowly but surely, however, judicial activists have been chiseling away at
the best weapons Texas has at its disposal. Killing the mentally retarded?
Forget about that now. Killing juveniles? Also gone, thank you very much,
liberal-socialist U.S. Supreme Court.
Even W himself has signed off on reviewing the death row sentences of some
Mexican nationals just because there might have been a paperwork foul-up.
Is that the Texecutioner we knew and loved? Reviewing cases? This from the
man who gave us hilarious imitations of Karla Faye Tucker pleading for
mercy? From the man who specialized in the 10-minute speed-reading of
death row appeals? Ah, Texecutioner -- you've changed, man.
Even death penalty advocates feel the ominous chill in the air. The number
of capital-murder sentences given out across the nation is at an all-time
low in the modern era, according to the DPIC. Only 125 people were
sentenced to death in 2004, down from a high of 320 in 1996. (Sure, Texas
led the way last year with 23 sentences, but that was just barely twice as
much as the next-biggest sentencer, California.)
"Things go in cycles in the history of the death penalty, and all this is
just a natural course of action," says Andy Kahan, Mayor Bill White's
victims' rights advocate.
Things like moratoriums, or eliminating some categories of people eligible
for death, are, he says, "always driven by a case or a glitch in the
system, and there have certainly been those when it comes to the death
penalty."
There are still some head-in-the-sand optimists like Dudley Sharp, the
former head of Houston's Justice For All and now a freelance death-penalty
advocate and expert.
To be sure, Sharp admits, "there's definitely a more organized
anti-death-penalty movement these days." He allows that some fellow
advocates see the Supreme Court's ruling barring juveniles from being
tried for capital murder as "a major change, a parting of the seas, where
you have the majority of the court relying on or calling to European
opinion" (with "European opinion" being pronounced as if it were "Michael
Moore").
Even with all that, Sharp resolutely stands determined to look at the
bright side of life. "There hasn't been an execution in New England in 45
years, and they've got one scheduled for May," he chirps.
He blames the media for highlighting so many stories of death row
prisoners being exonerated, saying many of those cases are just being sent
back to the courts. No more than "30 or 40 are innocent," he says, "and I
think that's probably a high figure."
(In case you're wondering, 30 or 40 innocent people put to death would
come under the category of You Can't Make an Omelette Without Breaking
Some Eggs. "No one," Sharp says, "wants to see an innocent person
sentenced...but if you're going to have no death sentences because there
may be some innocent people sentenced, would there be any sentences at all
for any crimes?")
At any rate, Sharp is not too worried about the status of the death
penalty. "The overwhelming reason for the drop in death penalty cases is
due to the overwhelming reduction in murders," he says.
Not everyone is so sanguine. Harris County District Attorney Chuck
Rosenthal complained earlier this year that a bill allowing juries to
sentence capital murder defendants to life without parole would reduce the
number of death penalties. That bill has passed the state Senate and is
pending in the House; Governor Rick Perry has said he'd sign it, another
indication of the death penalty apocalypse.
It's not surprising that Rosenthal doesn't want anything cutting into his
office's death penalty convictions; in recent years Harris County juries
have actually thrown away the rubber stamp they previously used to dole
out death.
"The days of the D.A.'s office getting the death penalty in every case
where the D.A. seeks it are as dead as Miles Davis," says Houston lawyer
Brian Wice, a specialist in criminal appellate law.
That's partly due to better representation, he says. The state that became
famous for having a defense lawyer sleep through the capital murder
conviction of his client has, through mandatory legal education courses,
improved itself. (Yet another death-penalty-apocalypse sign, for those
keeping score.) Pay for court-appointed lawyers has even improved
slightly. and the attorneys are focusing more resources on the punishment
phase of trials rather than the guilt/innocence portion, says death
penalty expert and University of Houston professor David Dow.
"That's the reason you're seeing more life sentences" instead of death
verdicts, Dow says.
(For what it's worth, the Harris County D.A.'s office says that -- despite
some recent high-profile death rejections like that of Andrea Yates --
their killing average is as good as ever. The office seeks anywhere from
12 to 18 death penalties each year, First Assistant D.A. Bert Graham says,
"and it seems like it's always been that in about 80 % of them we do get a
death penalty verdict...Maybe it's a little lower now, but I'm not so
sure.")
What this all means is that you can forget the assembly-line years like
2000. Texas has managed to kill more than 30 inmates a year only once
since then, and so far this year only 6 inmates have been killed. It's
like a death row version of major-league home-run statistics after they
cracked down on steroids.
Even Californians are taunting us. "You're not even in first place in the
world -- China kills 3,000 people a year," says anti-death-penalty
advocate Jeff Gillenkirk of San Francisco.
Gillenkirk's group, Death Penalty Focus, is where Stefanie Faucher guides
a statewide coalition of organizations pushing for a moratorium on capital
punishment.
She, too, sees Texas's premier position as "the Killing State" to be in
jeopardy. "California is certainly in a position of gearing up for a
Texas-style run of executions, sadly," she says, sadly. "A lot of cases
that have been held up in the courts for 15 to 20 years are starting to
come through this fall."
An increasingly conservative Ninth U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals is to
blame, she says. If California decides to get all death-penalty happy,
Texas could truly be looking at sucking hind teat.
Sure, there's a big moratorium movement on the West Coast. The moratorium
movement here in Texas, on the other hand, has a Web site but, perhaps in
a tacit acknowledgement that it wields all the political clout of the Flat
Earth Society, it also has a spokesperson who doesn't return media calls.
California remains the Big Threat. States like Ohio and Virginia are
killing their inmates as fast as they can, but neither reached double
figures in 2004. If they unblock the pipeline in California, media center
of the non-New York world, watch out.
Which is why we, as a state, need to call on our native son Alberto
Gonzales.
Sure, the world knows Gonzales as Mr. Torture, but that's just because of
the liberal media. There's another side to Alberto, a sensitive side.
Sensitive, that is, to the needs of making sure the courts aren't tied up
forever hearing boring death penalty appeals.
Capital murder cases are expensive. Harris County criminal district courts
cost about $12,000 a day to run, says court administrator Jack Thompson,
and death penalty cases go on at great length, what with all the extra
time spent extensively quizzing potential jurors individually instead of
in groups. The state also is required to pay for the defense's expert
witnesses in most cases, for crying out loud.
(It's not all negative, though. Death penalty advocate Sharp notes that
the prospect of death can convince a defendant to plead guilty without
trial in exchange for a life sentence. Not to mention that killing folks
means you don't have to pay when they get sick -- "Geriatric care in
prison can cost up to $69,000 a year for just one person," he says.
As chief legal counsel to Bush when he was governor, Gonzales did his best
to make sure no time was wasted on death penalty stuff. Think of it as
triage for society -- a chief legal counsel, not to mention a governor,
has a whole slew of issues to deal with, so why devote time to the doomed?
The Atlantic Monthly magazine probably thought it was eviscerating
Gonzales when it ran an exhaustive study in 2003 of his style of briefing
Bush on pending executions. "Gonzales repeatedly failed to apprise the
governor of crucial issues in the case at hand," the article said, such as
"ineffective counsel, conflict of interest, mitigating evidence, even
actual evidence of innocence." Sounds like a whole bunch of lawyer talk to
us, though. If Texas wanted effective counsel on death penalty cases, why
would it say it's okay that a lawyer slept through a trial?
The magazine trotted out the case of Terry Washington, executed in 1997.
Gonzales wrote three entire pages for Bush to review, an avalanche of
paper that somehow failed to impress The Atlantic Monthly. One of the
pages was devoted to details of Washington's grisly murder of a restaurant
manager; this unfortunately did not leave room for Gonzales to mention
such things as Washington's undisputed "limited mental condition" or that
as youths he and his 9 siblings "were regularly beaten with whips, water
hoses, extension cords, wire hangers and fan belts." Space also precluded
Gonzales from telling Bush that the jury that condemned Washington to
death never heard about his mental deficiencies or history of beatings
even though prosecutors -- and Washington's attorney -- knew about them.
But it's details like that, Gonzales knows, that gum up the works. And if
Texas is ever to keep hold of its cherished place on top of the
death-penalty hierarchy, we need to un-gum those works.
You may think it doesn't get much less un-gummed than a content-free,
three-page pre-execution memo, but you're just not thinking
Gonzales-style. There are tons of ways to move things along:
1) Pass state House Bill 268, which allows former prosecutors with no
experience as defense attorneys to represent capital murder clients. (The
bill does not specifically address whether the inexperienced defense
attorneys need to be awake during trial.) HB 268 has passed the House and
is pending in the Senate. We eagerly await the legislature's upcoming
moves to waive experience as a qualification for other specialized
life-and-death jobs. Who says a chiropractor can't perform open-heart
surgery?
2) Post-conviction writs should be filed by instant messaging. "B4 U
decide, RU going to C my evidence? No? OK. CUL8R!!"
3) Offer prosecutors the option of next-day service on all opinions. Why
take months to decide after an appeal is argued? Did Roger Ebert take
months to give Gigli a thumbs-down?
4) No more elaborate last meals. Why should the state spend tax dollars
and employee time trying to run down every last example of redneck
cooking? Slap a Slim-Fast can on the IV before you put in the lethal
injection. That oughta hold the guy long enough. (If you're going to get
in a dither about being inhumane, also offer Campbell's Soup To Go!)
Still, it's obvious that speeding up the process is going to take things
only so far. And that's where the real talent of Alberto Gonzales comes
in.
As White House counsel, Gonzales submitted memos outlining just how far
the Constitution allows an administration to go when it comes to torturing
people. You might be surprised that the answer is...pretty damn far.
It's gonna take some balls to put Texas back on the world's outrage map,
and balls Gonzales has. Any White House lawyer who argues that the Geneva
Convention is "quaint" obviously has what it takes.
In an August 2002 memo, Gonzales outlined the pros and cons of dropping
the Geneva Convention. Among the pros: Doing it "preserves flexibility."
Among the cons: "Concluding the Geneva Convention does not apply may
encourage other countries to look for technical 'loopholes' in future
conflicts to conclude that they are not bound by [the Convention] either."
Now that is the Rice-bred thinking we need -- when we do it, it's to
preserve flexibility. When they do it, they're looking for loopholes.
Not to mention Gonzales's definition of torture. Unless there's "death,
organ failure or serious impairment of bodily functions," you're just
having some good, clean fun.
So we say it's time for Alberto Gonzales to come home. Texas needs him. In
fact, the world needs him, because a world that cannot look down in horror
at Texas prisons is not a world worth living in.
Just think of all the things the Texas Department of Criminal Justice can
do that don't involve death or organ failure:
A Clockwork (Burnt) Orange
In Stanley Kubrick's classic movie A Clockwork Orange, the character of
sociopath Alex de Large is forced to rehabilitate by being strapped to a
chair with his eyes pried open so he has no choice but to watch whatever
his captors want him to see.
In Texas there are many, many awful things that would have the most
hardened criminal screaming for mercy and set solidly on the road to
recovery. You could put on KPRC news during a sweeps month -- sure, the
shouts of "Cynthia Hunt putting on a fat suit to shop with a hidden
camera? And they say I'm guilty of crimes!" might get tiresome, but no one
said ignoring the Geneva Convention was easy.
You could put on Time Warner's public access channel, to determine just
how long it takes for someone to go nuts by watching slightly
out-of-focus, stationary-camera coverage of an incompetent speaker talking
about the Trilateral Commission or Jesus. Or sometimes both.
But if revenge is what you seek on a person who has committed a heinous
crime, there is no better choice for a Texan than to put on video of every
Texas-OU game coached by Mack Brown. For really despicable offenders, you
can splice in press-conference coverage of every national signing day when
Brown has once again been declared the nation's best recruiter.
Sure, there may be some "serious impairment of bodily functions" -- your
fingers will never again be able to form the "Hook 'em Horns" sign -- but
we're not sure the Geneva Convention folks will notice. Besides, they
think "football" is soccer. (As does Brown, at least in terms of points
scored against OU.)
For at least some Texans, this procedure will have them begging for the
lethal-injection needle. Aggies, of course, would enjoy the show. Then
again, Aggies don't commit capital crimes. Except of taste.
Don't Mess with Texas
The entire Alberto Project is designed, of course, to bring Texas back to
its proper place of world scorn. Therefore it will require using all the
deep, rich history of the Lone Star State to drive the point home.
What says "Texas" more than cattle prods? Nothing, that's what. But why
keep 'em down on the farm?
All right, all right, we already hear you naysayers out there. Yeah, yeah,
we know: Applying electrical shocks is so Abu Ghraib. And we also realize
that the Houston Police Department is ahead of the curve on this with its
energetic use of Tasers on anyone without a "100 Club" sticker on their
car.
But it's not just a matter of cattle prods. It's how you use them.
We realize this is where the Alberto Project may run into some political
trouble in Austin. Implementing the proper use of cattle prods would
require state legislators to sign off on some changes to the sodomy law,
and you know how tough that might be.
And man, all the wrinkles to be considered. Say you've got a TDCJ guard
doing the implementing. Is he thus labeled a sodomite and forever banned
from marrying? (It's gotta say that in the Bible somewhere.) Is it
possible he might find himself enjoying the procedure, and therefore the
lege would have been instrumental in creating even one more sodomite? (Not
counting their support of the arts, meager as it is.)
The mind boggles, to be sure. But that's why we have lawyers. And since
these lawyers won't be busy tying up courts with capital appeals, why not
put them to work?
If there's anything that says "Texas" more than cattle prods, it's fire
ants. Strap the inmate down, pour on the honey, and let these six-legged
homeboys do their bit to reduce recidivism. If you want to push the
envelope, put on a Clint Black album.
Texas offers many more gloried pieces of history that can be used to great
effect -- especially for Hispanic inmates. It's time we put a real Lone
Star stamp on our efforts.
Y'all Ready for This?
It's possible, in this emasculated age of weepy liberals, that there will
be some objections to portions of the project. If the Ball-Lacking League
decides to raise a fuss, we're willing to bend on some aspects.
If, for instance, introducing the healthy alternative of Slim-Fast for a
last meal somehow draws howls, we are willing to go another way. You want
a last meal? You got one.
Good-bye, chicken-fried steak and Tater Tots. Hello, Joe's Crab Shack.
What began on Richmond Avenue 14 years ago has turned into a nationwide
phenomenon, yet another test-marketed, micromanaged "dining experience"
produced by Tilman Fertitta.
The Geneva Convention couldn't even imagine the horror involved: the long
wait, spending money on drinks while you stare at empty tables;
aggressively bland, overpriced seafood; screaming kids at the next booth.
And always, always, the looming dread of what is to come when the waiters
put down their trays, grudgingly work up a "We're so wacky!" smile, and
launch yet again into "The Macarena" or "YMCA" at the scheduled
spontaneous time.
With all the sheer enjoyment of someone attending an office birthday party
for an asshole boss, these game guys and gals plod their zany way through
yet another ear-splitting forced-march performance of "Staying Alive" as
you try to eat. Or get some more beer for your table.
If anything could increase the joy of pseudo-Cajun touffe, it's watching
waiters dutifully pull some eight-year-olds from the crowd to join in on
"The Cotton-Eyed Joe."
"Kill me now!" your inmates will scream, thereby helping to speed up the
death row process.
True, even the White House balked when Fertitta patriotically offered to
open a branch at the detention center in Guantnamo Bay ("Good Lord," Dick
Cheney reportedly said, "we are a civilized nation, are we not?").
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
"Disco Inferno," anyone?
Driven Insane
Houston leads the state in sending people to death row, so it should play
a big part in the Alberto Project. Luckily, the infrastructure is in
place.
Joseph Stalin would have shied away from it, to be sure. Idi Amin would
have accused it of lacking compassion. But sometimes you have to engage in
some ToughLove (pat. pending).
The method is simple. Get the kind of car a working-class Houstonian can
afford, with an a/c system that same working-class Houstonian can afford
to keep up. From the downtown jail, have the inmate drive the Southwest
Freeway to the West Loop to I-10 back downtown. Be sure to have the radio
on. To any local station.
We can hear some of you grumbling already -- this is where you draw the
line. Not even the brilliant legal mind of Alberto Gonzales would be able
to get this past the torture judges, you say. We might agree, if the trip
involved rain, but even the most enthusiastic advocates of the Alberto
Project would not be so cruel as to include that.
We admit it comes close, damn close, to anyone's definition of torture.
The orange cones that protect workers who are never there, the endless
waiting to move up even one foot, the sheer terror that someone might just
pull over to the shoulder with a flat and then compound the agony tenfold,
as drivers take time to intently study the crippled car.
But dammit, no one said this would be as painless as lethal injection.
(Which, according to recent studies, turns out to be not so painless
anyway.)
There are many other methods that can be devised to exact society's price.
The heart may shudder at the mere mention of such phrases as "Astros
season tickets" or "living in Dallas" or "forced to watch a primary
between Rick Perry and Kay Bailey Hutchison." But these are serious times;
they call for serious steps.
And they call for a serious man. Texas has given us this man, tutored by
the Texecutioner himself, and it would be sheer folly to ignore this
resource.
Alberto, come home. The world is waiting.
(source: Houston Press)
*****************************
Murderer is resentenced to life in prison
Eddie C. Johnson, who has spent 8 years on death row for killing a man in
1996, has been resentenced to life in prison because he was 17 when the
murder occurred.
In March, the Supreme Court ruled that executing inmates for murders they
committed before age 18 violates the Constitution's ban on cruel and
unusual punishment.
Thursday's sentencing hearing in Judge Mike Thomas' courtroom took only
minutes, attorneys said.
"It was mandated by the United State Supreme Court," said Chuck Mallin,
chief of the appellate division of the Tarrant County district attorney's
office.
"There was nothing the state could do about it."
Inmates serving life sentences become eligible for parole after 40 years.
A Tarrant County jury took two hours to condemn Johnson after convicting
him of the March 1996 shooting death of Jeff Doolittle, 42.
Doolittle was killed during a robbery in his east Fort Worth driveway.
The slaying occurred during a series of driveway robberies in which police
said Johnson and friends randomly picked victims and followed them home.
Doolittle's widow, Pam Doolittle-Prysock, said it's a shame that the
Supreme Court ruling revoked the death sentence.
"It's sad that those people get to change what 12 good people of Fort
Worth already decided," she said. "All the emphasis is on the people who
commit crimes instead of the victims."
Doolittle-Prysock heard the gunshots from inside the house and found her
husband fatally wounded.
She remarried 2 years ago but said she never stopped grieving.
"Jeff's parents still grieve every day," she said. "Jeff would be 51 right
now. He should be happy and living his life."
Johnson's attorney, Ray Hall Jr., said his client was glad to get off
death row. Johnson hopes to have more contact with his 9-year-old son
after joining the general prison population, Hall said.
However, Johnson could face another murder charge.
While Johnson was in jail awaiting trial in Doolittle's murder, he was
charged with the Christmas Eve 1995 shooting of Jarrett Brown, a student
at Texas Southern University in Houston. Brown was killed outside a Fort
Worth grocery store.
Police said they believe that Johnson mistook Brown for a gang member.
During the penalty phase of the Doolittle murder trial, jurors heard
prosecutors' evidence that Johnson killed Brown, but Johnson has not been
tried in that slaying. The case is still pending.
"As a result of the Supreme Court ruling and the resentencing of Eddie
Johnson, this case is under review," prosecutor Robert Foran said Friday.
Since Texas reinstituted the death penalty in 1985, 13 people who killed
as juveniles have been executed.
After the Supreme Court ruling, Gov. Rick Perry asked the Texas Board of
Pardons and Paroles to review the cases of the 29 death row inmates,
including 2 from Tarrant County, who were minors at the time of their
crimes.
(source: Fort WEorth Star-Telegram)
*****************************
Bill plugs gaps in insanity cases----Perry is sent measure to allow closer
monitoring of those who are found not guilty
Legislation giving courts additional resources and ways to monitor people
found not guilty by reason of insanity got final approval from Texas
senators Friday and is headed to Gov. Rick Perry.
The legislation makes more resources available to judges, who previously
found little guidance from the state when it came to dealing with those
acquitted based on insanity.
"We could always use more resources," state District Judge Debbie Mantooth
Stricklin said Friday of the proposed legislation.
"The mental health population is one that is becoming more and more of an
issue for us. Unless they get the proper treatment, they are going to keep
coming right back through the system," she said.
The Pierott case
Many point to the case of Kenneth Pierott, a 29-year-old from Beaumont.
Pierott's insanity defense was rejected earlier this month by jurors, who
convicted him of murder for smothering his girlfriend's 6-year-old son
last year.
Pierott, who a court expert said has chronic paranoid schizophrenia,
placed the child's body in an oven and turned the oven on, but the pilot
light was out.
Pierott was acquitted based on insanity in the 1996 fatal beating of his
sister. He spent just four months in a mental hospital in 1998 before he
was released to outpatient treatment in Jefferson County.
"The Pierott case, it seems to me, demands that this new legislation occur
and be signed into law," said George Parnham, the attorney who represented
Andrea Yates.
Harris County jurors rejected Yates' insanity defense and convicted her of
capital murder in 2002 for drowning her children in a bathtub. The
conviction was overturned, but appeals continue.
"Andrea's case was the lightning rod for this issue," Parnham said of his
client, who drowned her five children in June 2001.
After the Yates case, a group of defense attorneys, prosecutors, mental
health experts and legal scholars began discussing possible changes to
existing law, said Dr. Steven Schnee, executive director of The Mental
Health and Mental Retardation Authority of Harris County.
The new legislation would require courts to collect information about
those acquitted based on insanity if dangerous conduct was involved. The
court would be responsible for determining the best method of care and
whether a person is likely to cause serious harm to another.
Medication and supervision
When a person acquitted based on insanity is released to outpatient
treatment, the new legislation would allow the court to require medication
and supervision for the person. Supervision would be provided either by
mental health or mental retardation services or by the Texas Correctional
Office on Offenders with Medical or Mental Impairments.
"The intent there is not to treat them like criminals," Harris County
Assistant District Attorney Kevin Keating said, adding the goal is to keep
track of those who are acquitted and make sure they stay on medication and
don't become ill again.
(source: Associated Press)
