Excerpts from Warrior Within

     After placing the stun belt on me, they would then put a belly chain around my waist, and through a ring on this chain they would handcuff me. In this way they would effectively tie my hands in front of me. Then they would place shackles on my ankles, forcing me to shuffle my feet when I walked.  My walking stride was cut in half due to the short chain on the shackles. . . .

    When I was at last dressed and these restraints on me, I would then shuffle the half mile trek that would take me to the court house. . . .
              

    I sat on the far end of the defense table, with my two attorneys at one side, wishing I could wake up from this nightmare. I was forced to sit with my back bowed at all times because of the stun belt box being affixed to the small of my back. This was very painful, and I endured it everyday. The guard in control of the remote hand held transmitter, sat directly behind me. He was an ever-present reminder that if I made any sudden movements he would shock me. He’d tell me several times a day, “you’re making me nervous, and when I get nervous I am going to end up shocking you.”

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    “What’s going on, loco? You’re the new guy, from Dallas, right? I heard them talking about you last night. My name is Mingo. I’m from Oak Cliff, loco. I’m from D-Town too!” He was Mexican. I could tell as soon as he walked through the door. . . .  I began to think that this recreation period would be ok if I had someone I could talk to personally. “Yeah man,” I replied. “I’m Flores. I’m new here. You’re from Dallas too? Cool man.?” He replied, “Check it out ese, I’m your hometown. If you need anything you just holler at me and I’ll do whatever I can for you. You know, we’re from the same city and we’ve got to look out for each other. If we don’t then who will? You know what I mean loco?”

      When Mingo talked, he had a Spanish accent. Listening to him speak, I knew he talked a lot of Spanish. I began to feel better about this situation.  I began to feel better about my own identity. A famous prisoner has explained this.  “Prison not only robs you of your freedom, it attempts to take away your identity.  Everyone wears the same clothes, eats the same food, follows the same schedule. It’s by definition a purely authoritarian state that tolerates no independence or individuality. As a freedom fighter, (a warrior) one must fight against the prison’s attempt to rob one of these qualities.” These are true words of Nelson Mandela. . .

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    I’d talk to the other guys about how the prosecutors in my case had railroaded me to the death house. To my surprise EVERYRBODY I talked to had experienced some part of my life and trial. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe that the state of Texas’ normal practice was to lie, steal, and cheat in order to send men and women to death row. It horrified me to learn that our supposed legal rights and the presumption of innocence come only to those who were from affluent families. If a person can afford to hire attorneys to insure the whole due process of law, only then will his legal rights be protected.

    To this day I’ve never met a “rich” man on death row. I’ve never heard of someone coming from an affluent family being sent to death row. That fact causes me nightmares.  That means that capital punishment exists only for the poor in the United State of America. I’ve yet to see a rich man die in the death chamber in Huntsville.

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  “Hey Red, what’s the difference between the OLD law and the NEW law?” I’d gotten to know Red pretty well and saw that he was a solid dude, someone I could talk with and ask questions. Red replied. “There’s a lot of difference, man. When you’re under the old law your appeals run separately. You know, you have a direct appeal in the state level. Then you have another appeal in the same court called your Writ of Habeas Corpus. I’m under the old law man, my direct appeal took five years for it to be turned down by the appeal court. Then my Writ of Habeas Corpus was filed, and it took another five years for it to be turned down. Under the new law, the one you’re under, both the direct appeal and the Writ of Habeas Corpus are filed together. The law was changed about five years ago that made the old law different from the new law.

       I could almost grasp the meaning of it all, yet it still hovered above me, just out of my reach.  So I asked Red, “Ok, I’m with you so far, but tell me exactly how this affects me personally.  How’s it going to come into play in my case?” He told me, “Flores, what it means is that in five years you’ll have gone through your appeals and you’ll be getting an execution date. If you sit around and fool yourself, acting like everything is ok, and that your shitty-ass court appointed appeal attorney is going to look out for you, then that’s exactly what’s gonna happen to you.  I see so many new guys come in and they can’t deal with reality. They can’t deal with the fact that they’re here, facing impossible odds. They choose to ignore the most important thing in their lives, their appeals.”

     I started to comprehend what it meant to be on death row. I was beginning to understand it was a race against the clock, the most important race, I’d ever run. That understanding came at a terrible price, a price I pay daily. It’s paid in the form of the anxiety attacks that come from nowhere that I have today. It’s paid in nightmares that wake me up in a cold sweat, shaking my head trying to knock the haunting images out of it, nightmares of living my last day on death row, being taken to Huntsville and being put in the holding cell next to the death chamber, drowning on fear, choking on terror, as I wait for them to execute me.

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    The only time you touch another person during an argument is when you’re wanting violence, and Gator got what he was wanting. As soon as KC was shoved, he reached back with amazing quickness and punched Gator in the face, and the fight was on! KC was bigger than Gator and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds.  Though Gator was thin and of muscular build, he was no match for KC’s strength. KC overwhelmed him with punches. Gator landed a few of his own but they had no effect on KC, like a bee stinging a bull! The two combatants flew together several times, much like fighting roosters, punching each other furiously, then separating. Then one last time they met in the middle or the recreation yard and KC rocked Gator . . .                                                                                                            

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    On death row they were the law. There was one notorious clique, the “blue bandana clique.” Every member wore a light blue bandana folded neatly and tucked in the back pocket of their pants. If you were unfortunate enough to have a problem with one of these pigs, you had a problem with all of them. They were known for assaulting prisoners while they were restrained, and for kicking prisoners on death row down the flights of stairs with handcuffs on. They would tell the supervisor that the prisoner had “tripped.” One was named Jerry. He was at least 6’4” tall and a muscular 240 pounds. Jerry was redneck from head to toe. He had that East Texas drawl when he talked, chewed tobacco, and walked around the wing like be owned it. He was looking for trouble.

   One afternoon Jerry decided he would shake down Perez. . . . Perez never said a word to anyone about it until after the fact. He calmly went about straightening out his cell. When he’d done that he asked the porter for the broom that they kept on the wing to sweep the runs with. . . . Perez took the broom and broke off the handle down at the end by the bristles. He then took a foot-long piece of round steel, sharpened to a wicked point, and secured it to the end of the broomstick with a strong rope-like twine he had made, wrapping this thick strong twine around the stick and steel over and over again. He then cut a square out of the wire mesh welded over the bars of his cell with a piece of hacksaw blade he had stashed. He then sat back and waited. Like a hunter waiting on his prey to fall into the trap he had set, Perez waited with infinite patience.

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    The prison was awakened to the rapid gunfire of assault rifles. Six men were recaptured on the prison grounds. Only one made it over the fence. The Basque was over and running.

  Martin Gurule was the lone man to scale the fence and make a run to freedom. The Ellis Unit death row is some twelve miles outside of Huntsville, Texas. It is surrounded by wooded areas. Martin Gurule would not be denied escape. Under a hail of gunfire he made it over the fence and ran into the wooded area. Over 500 TDCJ guards and surrounding law enforcement deputies searched in vain for the inspired runner.  Even though they created an extensive net, they did not catch Martin Gurule in the immediate area of the prison or in Huntsville.  He was too determined, his will to escape certain death too strong for them to catch him.

  After several days of fruitless search, a stolen car from that area was found in the Dallas area. The TDCJ and law enforcement agencies believed that their worst nightmare had come true, a death row prisoner had escaped!