[Deathpenalty] death penalty news----TEXAS, FLA., LA.

[Rick Halperin]

Feb. 28



TEXAS:

Convicted killer maintains innocence 4 decades later


Jerry Jurek's hair went gray in prison.

But he still combs it back in the Elvis Presley-esque style popular 40 years 
ago when he was arrested. Once a slender man, he now has a round face and 
swollen fingers. His hands and arms are tattooed with the faded names of loved 
ones.

Jurek has spent most of his life behind bars for murdering Wendy Adams, the 
10-year-old daughter of a Cuero police officer.

In 1974, Jurek was sentenced to death in the electric chair. He was 22 at the 
time. He's now 65.

Questions over the fairness of Jurek's confessions ultimately won him a 
retrial. The 1982 trial ended early when the victim's family asked for a plea 
deal. Jurek was sentenced to life with parole.

During the 1st trial and throughout the appeals process, Jurek's low IQ level 
was a topic of concern. Expert witnesses testified that he could not make 
change for a dollar or list the days of the week.

His dimness made it difficult to comprehend the weight of his decision to not 
have an attorney present for his confessions and the consequences of his 
admissions, according to court documents.

After the U.S. Supreme Court suspended capital punishment in 1972, the Texas 
Legislature passed a new death penalty law two months before Wendy's murder. 
And Jurek's would be the test case.

Asked whether he was scared when given the death penalty, Jurek replied:

"When they gave it to me, I just laughed in the judge's face, said how you all 
going to give me something that there ain't?"

His reaction, a mixture of blissful ignorance and far-fetched bravado, was 
consistent throughout his interview with the Advocate.

The Advocate interviewed Jurek at the Coffield Unit, a maximum security prison 
in Anderson County that houses more than 4,000 inmates. Jurek has spent most of 
his sentence there, accompanied by a handful of men who were on death row at 
the same time as him and also got reduced sentences.

In a visitation wing near the entrance of the prison, a plexiglass window 
sandwiched between 2 panels of black metal mesh made it possible to see Jurek's 
blue eyes clearly. Jurek sat with his arms resting on a small table jutting out 
below the plexiglass. His hands clasped, the words "LOVE LIL SIS" tattooed on 
his knuckles.

Jurek spoke with a twang that reflected his Louisiana birthplace. When asked a 
direct question, he often launched into wild stories about his childhood and 
perceived injustices done against him.

He got the tattoo on his knuckles "on the streets" when he was 13 in honor of 
his 1st girlfriend, he said.

"Her hair was that color," he said, pulling at the collar of his white prison 
uniform. She had pink eyes and, while she had poor eyesight in the daylight, 
she was an expert marksman at night.

"You give her a .30-30 Winchester at night time, she'd strike matches with it. 
I used to laugh at her about that," he said, chuckling.

Jurek's childhood love left him when she turned 13. But his luck turned around 
years later when a blind date's mother signed over the title for a Mustang 
Cobra to him.

"She hands me the f --- title for this Mustang Cobra. I'm thinking she's 
playing with me," Jurek said. "She says, 'It's yours. You said you like it, 
don't you?' ... I said, 'No, you ain't giving me a $119,000 car without some 
kind of deal behind it.' She said, 'You took my baby out. It's yours.'"

Unfortunately, the car was taken back by the woman's ex-husband, a Texas Ranger 
on the run for murder, he said.

Jurek's detachment from reality also was noticeable in his confusion over 
names. When asked about Wendy Adams' family, he started talking about his 
wife's family.

This was also a problem during his 2nd trial, when Jurek told the judge he did 
not want to be represented by Douglas Tinker, who was instrumental in getting 
Jurek the new trial.

Tinker - a high-profile defense attorney who would later represent Selena's 
killer, Yolanda Saldivar - was reappointed to Jurek's defense after it was 
discovered Jurek had confused Tinker with another attorney.

Jurek became less animated when talking about the day of the crime for which 
he's in prison. His blue eyes fixed straight ahead. His head tilted to the side 
in attentiveness.

Jurek pled guilty in turn for his life sentence. But he said he's innocent.

He was with Wendy Adams on Aug. 16, 1973, the day she was murdered. But when 
the truck they were driving broke down, he said, his attention was directed 
toward fixing it. During this time, Wendy disappeared with his friend, Ricky 
Phillips, he said.

"I didn't know they had disappeared 'til he came back saying, 'Oh, I killed 
her.' I said, 'You done what? And I'm thinking he's playing with me. Cause he 
always doing that to me," Jurek said. "I said, 'Go get the kid. Get her up 
here. We got to get her back to her parents.' 'No, I killed her.' Said, 'How'd 
you do it?' He said, 'I drowned her, I drowned her.' Come to find out he 
actually did do it."

Phillips, who still lives in Cuero, said he had no part in the crime. He was 
brought in for questioning when it was discovered Wendy was missing, but he was 
never formally charged.

Phillips said Jurek dropped him off at a pool hall before he abducted Wendy 
from the Cuero municipal swimming pool.

"Well, it wasn't me, or I'd be in prison. I ain't a damn fool to kill a little 
girl like that. ... I got more sense than that," Phillips said. "He didn't like 
her daddy a lot. Her daddy used to stop him driving a lot. Try to stop him from 
speeding and all that stuff. He used to get in trouble all the time."

Jurek has been up for parole 17 times. Each time he's been denied.

"They want you to work like a slave in here, but still set you off," he said.

Despite his frustration with the parole process, Jurek believes that someday 
he'll get out.

If he does, he wants to move back to Louisiana, where his family lived before 
his dad lost his job and they moved to Cuero.

"First thing I'm going to buy me is a Rolls-Royce. I've fell in love with 
that," he said. "I want the one they call the Rolls-Royce Drophead. That's a 
beautiful automobile."

(source: Victoria Advocate)






FLORIDA:

Death row serial killer swore he didn't murder 3 women before he was executed 
by lethal injection


Rib-eye steak, baked potato, lemon meringue pie and Coca-Cola; this was Oscar 
Ray Bolin's last meal before he was executed in January.

Oscar had spent 30 years on death row for killing 3 women in 1986. He protested 
his innocence to the very end, but a last-ditch appeal to save his life was 
rejected.

"I did not murder these women," he told local media the day before his death. 
"My conscience is clear."

While arguments raged about the ethics of using the lethal injection on the 
guilty, there was no doubt that 3 young female victims deserved to be 
remembered.

They'd suffered unimaginable fear and pain during their abductions and brutal 
murders, and while their families fought tirelessly for more than a decade for 
justice, Oscar played the legal system and even got married.

In January 1986, Natalie Holley, 25, was abducted one night after leaving a 
fried chicken restaurant in Tampa, Florida, where she worked as the manager. 
The next day, a jogger found her body dumped in woodland. She'd been brutally 
stabbed to death and the police launched a murder inquiry.

10 months later, Stephanie Collins, 17, disappeared from a shopping centre car 
park. Weeks later her battered body was found in Hillsborough County, Florida. 
She was wrapped in sheets and had blunt force head injuries.

On the very same day she was found, police discovered the body of Terri Lynn 
Matthews, 26, by a railway line in Pasco County, Florida. She'd been abducted 
the night before from a post office where her car was found with the engine 
still running. The post she'd collected was scattered on the ground. Terri had 
been beaten, raped and stabbed - and was also wrapped in sheets. With 3 women 
snatched and killed in the same way, the authorities knew there was a serial 
killer on the loose, but it took 4 years and a betrayal of trust before anyone 
was charged with the murders.

In 1990 Police received an anonymous tip on a phone line, pointing the finger 
at Oscar Ray Bolin. There was no need for a manhunt - he was already in prison 
serving a 75-year sentence for kidnapping and raping a waitress who worked at a 
truck stop cafe in 1987.

Oscar was a former carnival worker, and long distance truck driver. There was a 
record of his car being near Natalie Holley's abandoned vehicle at the time of 
her disappearance.

Another key witness came forward and testified against him in court. Oscar's 
half-brother Phillip Bolin said he'd seen him beating a woman wrapped in a 
sheet. Oscar had claimed it was a woman who had been shot in a drug deal gone 
wrong.

Phillip also said he'd watched Oscar try to drown the woman with a hose and 
beat her with a club. That woman turned out to be Terri Matthews.

Oscar's wife Cheryl, who is now deceased, also testified against her 
ex-husband.

Convicted

In July 1991, Oscar was convicted of Natalie Holley's murder. 3 months later he 
was found guilty of murdering Stephanie Collins and, in 1992, guilty of 
murdering Terri Matthews too. He was given life, and the death sentence for 
Terri's murder.

But over the next 2 decades, all 3 convictions were overturned at least twice 
due to legal errors, and it dragged out the suffering of the victims' families. 
Oscar claimed his ex-wife's testimony wasn't admissible in court because their 
conversation was his 'spousal privilege' and it had been violated.

There was also another convict who had confessed to the crimes before 
committing suicide, and a forensic officer who'd handled evidence that had been 
later disqualified. But despite Oscar facing 10 more juries, each one found him 
guilty.

By 2005 he was re-convicted of all 3 murders and the death sentence for Terri 
Matthews was upheld.

Oscar managed to remain in the spotlight for decades with his legal battles 
and, incredibly, his love life. While in prison, Oscar started dating Rosalie 
Martinez, a paralegal on his defence team.

Rosalie had been married to a prominent attorney when she met Oscar, but she 
divorced him to marry the convict on live TV in 1996 to an audience of 12 
million. They remained together until his death and Rosalie insists she never 
thought he was guilty, and campaigns for the end of the death penalty.

In January this year, Oscar filed a last-minute appeal, but it was denied. On 
January 7, he spent 3 hours with his wife then ate his last meal.

Then he was taken to the room where more than 30 witnesses, including the 
victims' families, were waiting out of sight.

Moments before the execution, Oscar was asked if he had any last words. "No 
sir," he replied. At 10.16pm, he died after being administered a lethal 
injection.

Terri and Stephanie's mothers were there to see Oscar die. They'd stuck 
together through 10 trials - along with Natalie???s mum, who has since passed 
away. Their bond was like no other. They shared the pain of losing daughters 
and the agony of his constant denial which led to years of sitting in 
courtrooms.

The day before Oscar died he gave an interview with Fox 13 News claiming he'd 
been framed. Oscar said evidence had been tampered with and planted.

"I did not murder these women," he said. "My conscience is clear. Florida's 
just killing me, [the families] are not getting any peace by executing me 
tomorrow."

But the victims' loved ones say they have found peace. They've expressed their 
relief that their ordeal is finally over, and although the punishment of death 
legally was just for Terri???s murder, they agreed Oscar had died "for all our 
girls".

Oscar denied his 3 young victims the chance of a future so the law took away 
his.

(source: Daily Mirror)






LOUISIANA:

Can we afford the death penalty?


Last year the criminal indigent defense system was broken. Today it is 
shattered.

When the Caddo Parish indigent defense system went into emergency operation 
last year, it was one of only a handful of parishes in that situation. Now, 8 
parishes are operating under emergency circumstances, and more likely will 
follow.

Courts are responding by appointing private lawyers to represent indigent 
persons accused of crime. Those include lawyers who have never tried a civil 
case, much less a criminal case.

Imagine that you are poor. You have been accused of a robbery you did not 
commit. You can't afford a lawyer. When you appear in court, the court appoints 
a lawyer to represent you.

When you ask the lawyer about his experience, you learn he has never tried a 
case of any kind, never made an argument before a court, and has been a title 
examiner for 20 years. You also learn that the lawyer will not be paid for his 
services at all. What would you think about your chances of receiving adequate 
representation?

Suppose courts appointed doctors to render medical services to the poor. You 
need a heart transplant. The court appoints a radiologist to perform the 
transplant who has never performed an operation of any kind since medical 
school. The radiologist will not be paid for the operation, and neither will 
the nurses, hospital, and other staff. What do you think about your chances for 
survival?

Under the current system, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of indigent defendants 
will be represented by lawyers inexperienced in criminal law. Even if 
convicted, those convictions are subject to reversal due to inadequate 
lawyering. Despite lawyers??? ethical responsibility not to undertake matters 
in which they are incompetent, courts are appointing them to do just that.

Last Wednesday, Pete Adams, Louisiana District Attorneys Association executive 
director, spoke to the Shreveport Bar Association on the topic, "Funding for 
Indigent Defense - Who's Responsible." Rather than offer an effective solution, 
he repeated the mantra of prosecutors that there is plenty of money for 
indigent defense, but too much is spent defending death penalty cases. While I 
was not present, reports from members present indicate the discussion and 
questions that followed could be tactfully described as "testy."

The remarks raise a significant question, but in a different context. From the 
standpoint of effectiveness, is the death penalty a good investment?

Does the death penalty deter murders? Studies suggest that it does not. In a 
comparison by the Death Penalty Information Center of murder rates in death 
penalty states versus states without the death penalty from 1991 through 2013, 
the collective murder rate for the death penalty states was higher the 
collective rate for states without the death penalty. For example, the murder 
rate in Louisiana, a death penalty state, has been the highest in the country 
in every year from 1996 through 2014.

How much extra does the death penalty cost? There are three basic components, 
the cost of prosecution, the cost of defense (because the public normally pays 
for indigent defense), and the additional cost of housing a death penalty 
defendant on death row. In addition, consider that a capital case almost always 
goes to trial, even if the defendant would be willing to plead guilty if a 
death sentence was not available, and there would be no trial cost at all.

The prosecution of a death penalty case runs into the hundreds of thousands of 
dollars. The defense costs the same or more. Because the penalty phase of the 
trial occurs immediately after the verdict, the prosecution and the defense 
must prepare for that phase, even if the defendant ultimately is acquitted. 
Often the greatest costs of defense are to develop "mitigation" evidence, or 
facts that might cause a jury to recommend life in prison rather than the death 
penalty. Mitigation cost is zero if there is no death penalty.

Society has a right to execute murderers. If it is to do so, it should ensure 
that persons who might lose their lives receive a competent and well-funded 
defense. If the death penalty is not an effective deterrent, is the 
satisfaction of society's right worth its fiscal cost?

In 2015, Nebraska, a very "red" state, decided it was not. The Nebraska 
legislature repealed the death penalty there.

Shouldn't Louisiana be asking the same question in its current fiscal crisis? 
Would scarce public monies better fund education rather than prosecutions that 
do not reduce the murder rate?

(source: Opinion; Tom Arceneaux has been involved in master planning for 
Shreveport as well as many civic organizations----Shreveport Times)