THE VIEW FROM DEATH ROW

IN THE EARLY morning hours of April 11, 1975, two college students were abducted at gunpoint from a local Dallas nightspot. The gunmen took them to the Trinity River bottoms and brutally beat them before shooting them both. One died from the blows. One survived.

Within three days of the murder the police had arrested five black males. Of the five, two were released, two were sent to the penitentiary. A jury found one defendant guilty of capital murder and sentenced him to die largely upon the testimony of the surviving victim. The sentence was swift and certain, but the punishment was never inflicted. After more than ten years of litigation, the case continues to wind its way through the criminal justice system.

For the victims and their families, seeing the defendant dead means more than seeing that justice is done. It’s a crusade, a mission fraught with legal hazards. Their grieving process won’t end until the saga is over.

For the defendant, his family, and his attorneys, the death penalty is a pointless punishment, vengeful and decidedly racist, carried out by an all-white jury that believed every word of the pretty white victim who testified.

This story is about the exacting toll the death penalty takes on the lives of everyone it touches, an anatomy of one case: the State of Texas vs. Ronald “Buffalo” Chambers.



THEY CALLED HIM Buffalo. That was his street name. In school he was Ronald Curtis Chambers, but things are different on the streets of the West Dallas projects. Most everyone has a nickname-an alias. The kids who grow up together rename each other, The names add an extra layer of anonymity from the police, from anyone trying to get too close. “No, officer, I didn’t know his real name. I just knew him as the Bear.” Or Ray Jr. Or Buffalo.

Each came by his street name honestly enough. Maybe it was the way he looked or moved. Something he did, Something that was done to him. The day Buffalo became Buffalo he was playing sandlot football. Applegrove Street was playing Fish Trap Road in a long-standing and bitter rivalry; fights ended every game. Buffalo played fullback for Applegrove. At thirteen he was playing with sixteen-year-olds-tackle football with no pads. He was big, strong, and slow. He didn’t have much speed; he was just hard to bring down. Someone said he ran like a buffalo. The name stuck.

Years later, after he was convicted of capital murder and sentenced to die, people would still say he was hard to bring down. Ten years on Death Row; case reversed on appeal. Convicted and sentenced to die again; case pending appeal-again.



DEIA SUTTON HAD little need for a street name. In 1971, no one at W.T. White High School had street names. No one hung out in the streets. They preferred to congregate in cars or cruise Forest Lane, Malibus challenging Camaros, eager passengers inciting their drivers to drag. “Come on-you can beat this guy off the line.” But one driver was reluctant. Her father would kill her if she wrecked the car. For Deia Sutton, trouble meant a car full of boys talking with a car full of girls while driving forty-five miles per hour; loitering away the day at some distant space in the Fed Mart parking lot, talking to your best girlfriend while angry housewives hungered for a place to park.

Deia’s life often paralleled scenes in “Father Knows Best.” She was her Daddy’s darling. He protected her, though she had nothing to fear from a life on the pep squad, football games, dancing at the Studio Club, and pizzas at Shotgun Sam’s. Deia was a homebody. She listened to her lather, did as she was told. She trusted her parents and believed the world was a safe place to live. She was sweet, sensitive, and naive.

The first blacks were bused to W.T. White in 1971, when Deia was a senior. She recalls just a “trickle of blacks” who were outnumbered and over-whelmed. There were no serious problems. There was some fighting and some stealing. Once Deia saw a black girl bullying a white girl at a pep rally. “I want your sweater. Give it to me,” the black girl kept insisting. Nothing really happened, but Deia couldn’t understand people acting like that. She’d known black kids in other schools, made friends with them in Young Life, an off-campus bible study group. But the black kids bused to W.T. White were different. They mostly kept to themselves. Deia didn’t know any of them-didn’t know that among the first trickle of bused students was a young man who one day would savagely alter the course of her life. Buffalo Chambers.



IN THE EARLY Seventies, good people and bad people lived in the projects. Buffalo’s parents were two of the good. His father worked as a truckdriver for a beer company. His mother was a seamstress for a pillow company. They called their son Ron; sometimes Ronnie. They hated the name Buffalo. They believed their Ronnie was a likable boy and said he was “always joking and lively,” always smiling. He never gave his parents any real trouble. If he had been in and out of jail all the time, maybe they would have seen it coming.

At thirteen, Buffalo was old enough to know what was happening. At sixteen, he was old enough to make it happen. He could get girls if he wanted, guns and drugs if he wanted; marijuana, reds, codeine, coke, smack. But Buffalo didn’t want drugs. He’d smoke a little pot. But he didn’t like to lose control.

That’s why he hated being at school so much. At W.T. White, Buffalo felt out of control. Mandatory busing forced him to be at the wrong school. He hated it. He avoided the confrontation, cutting class. His grades tumbled. He managed to get a diploma but not an education. That he got on the streets.

At age twenty Buffalo lived in the projects with no real job and no intention of finding one. Between odd jobs painting houses or working flea markets, he’d sell a little weed to keep him in smoke. Sometimes he stayed with his parents, sometimes with his girlfriend, but most of the time he lived with Nannie Jones over on Fish Trap Road. Nannie was older but opened up her house to the young. At Nannie’s, there was music and dancing, drugs and dominoes. Clarence Williams (Ray Jr.), Larry Bickems (the Bear), and Doyce Wayne Rogers all hung out at Nannie’s. They were all friends of Buffalo’s.

On April 10, 1975, Buffalo and friends decided to go to a jazz festival at L.G. Pinkston High School. They went to meet some ladies there. But the festival was sold out. They couldn’t get in. Ray Jr. started hassling a saxophone player from Pinkston. He took the horn and threw it in Doyce’s car. Ray Jr. had taken some Valiurns-“Roche 10s.” So had the Bear. Buffalo, always in control, took none.

Buffalo wanted to go clubbing. Ray Jr. mentioned Wellington’s, off Northwest Highway near Bachman Lake; he said he’d drive. Doyce could sit in the back with the Bear. During the ride over someone mentioned “having some fun, maybe jacking with some people.” There were guns in the trunk. No one objected. They drove into the Wellington’s parking lot. Nothing was really planned or premeditated. They were making it up as they went along.

The first couple they saw at Wellington’s had parked too far away. The boys weren’t ready; the guns were still in the trunk. Too late. Buffalo went to the trunk and pulled out a pistol. Ray Jr. grabbed a shotgun.

A second couple came out of Wellington’s. The guy had his Camaro parked right next to Doyce’s Mustang. He opened the door for his girlfriend, walked around, opened his own door, and sat down. As he fumbled for his keys, Ray Jr. and Buffalo angled their way into the back seat. The dome light was on. Buffalo shouted, in a gruff, angry voice, “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.” He leveled his pistol at point-blank range-six inches from the face of a disbelieving Deia Sutton.



WHEN DEIA SUTTON was a freshman at Texas Tech, she bought herself a dog. It was the spring of 1973. It was against dorm rules, but the dog was so small she could put it in her pocket and take it to class. It slept through class just like the other students. Except for government. There, she could be certain that the boy who sat behind her would poke fun at the dog, trying to make him yelp. But she liked Mike McMahan. In spite of his antics, they became good friends.

On April 10, 1975, Deia had already transferred from Tech to UTA. She worked for her father and lived at home. Michael McMahan called that day. He was in Dallas for an engineering students convention. Could she go out tonight? Some friends were getting together at Wellington’s. Deia had a piano lesson, she said, but yes, afterwards, that would be nice.

Mike picked up Deia at 10 p.m. Deia loved going to Wellington’s, loved to dance. Mike was nice, a real gentleman. His friends seemed nice, easy to talk to. They drank some; they danced a lot. Suddenly it was 12:45 and time to go.

Out in the parking lot, Mike and Deia got into Mike’s Camaro. So did two black men; one held a gun to Deia’s face. He sounded angry. The other man was more soft-spoken. But Deia could only get a good look at the angry one.

There was some talk about who was going to drive. Buffalo told Ray Jr. to drive. He told Deia to get in the back seat. She wanted to stay with Mike, but Buffalo insisted.

Mike told her to do exactly as Buffalo said.

Deia thought that if she just did as she was told they would go away. She didn’t run. She got in the back seat. They didn’t go away.

Ray Jr. started driving around. He talked about Oak Cliff, South Dallas, but for some reason he headed toward Irving.

Buffalo seemed nervous, edgy, but always in control. He told Mike to take off his pants; Mike did. Buffalo took out Mike’s billfold. Then he gave him his pants back. He told Deia he liked her purse, So he kept it. He also liked her watch and coat. He kept telling Deia not to took at him, raising his gun to make the point.

Buffalo asked Mike if he kept a gun in the car. Mike didn’t hear him. He asked Mike again. No response. Buffalo grabbed Mike, telling him to answer when he was spoken to. “When I ask you something-you say ’yes, sir’ You got that?”

Mike said “Yes, sir.”

Ray Jr. played the part of the nice guy, asking Mike questions, showing some concern. “Where do you live?… What are you doing here?… Where is she from?. . .When are you going back to Lubbock?”

Ray Jr. stopped the car. They were at the Trinity River bottoms off Carpenter Freeway and Grauwyler. He parked the car on top of the river levee and told Deia and Mike to follow Buffalo down the side of the levee. They walked about 150 feet. Then Buffalo ran back up the hill. Deia thought they were going to leave them there; then they could get help. Mike yelled, “What do you want us to do?” Deia reached for Mike’s hand. Mike took hers.

She heard a gunshot. Mike fell screaming down the levee. There were four more shots. A shot hit Deia in the neck. She thought she’d been hit by a rock. She was knocked off her feet, face down in the dirt. She heard footsteps running away, car doors shutting. Crickets. She waited for the sound of an engine. Instead, she heard Mike: “Deia, are you all right?” Deia didn’t say anything. If she just didn’t move, they would all go away. She had to be still. Mike shouted this time, “Deia! Are you okay? Can you move?”

Deia heard the car door open. She heard Ray Jr.: “Hey man, they’re not dead.” Then Buffalo: “They gotta be dead, I shot them in the head.” Deia heard footsteps. Then she saw Buffalo striking Mike with the shotgun, as if he were hammering a spike into a rail. Mike was screaming, pleading. Meanwhile Ray Jr. attacked Deia. First he kicked her, then he hit her. Then he tried to drown her. Deia fought back, pushing herself out of the water. Ray Jr. raised her up and sat her down on her knees. Then he started choking her from behind. Somehow she managed to look at Mike. He’d stopped screaming. Buffalo had stopped swinging. Now he was coming after her. Buffalo raised the shotgun. She cried out. “Oh God, please don’t kill me.” His blow knocked her to the ground. She didn’t move after the next two. They left her for the second time, thinking she was dead.

Deia wondered whether she was dead or alive. She could still think. But she didn’t feel any pain. She convinced herself that she was alive, just numb from the cold. She decided to count to sixty; when she got to sixty, they would be gone. The first time she could only count to twelve. The second time she got to thirteen, then her body started to shake uncontrollably. What if they saw her? She had to move now. She lifted herself off the ground and crawled over to Mike. She shook him and called out his name. He didn’t move.

Deia had to go for help. Getting to her feet, she climbed up the side of the levee, fighting off fainting, trying to remain conscious. She started quoting scriptures: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” She found some dirt steps leading up to the road. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Off the road she saw some railroad tracks-tracks that brought her to the LeBaron Hotel just off the freeway. She walked into the hotel lobby, covered with mud, blood, obviously beaten. A hotel guest laughed at her. Deia made her way to the front desk. She shouted, “Call an ambulance. Call the police. Call my father.” Then she lay down on the hotel floor.



THE MCMAHAN MURDER seemed like an open and shut case. The case was broken within forty-eight hours of the murder: at 3 a.m. April 12, police arrested Ray Jr. He had been seen setting fire to a 71 Camaro near the East Texas town of Calvert. At 1:30 p.m., police arrested Doyce Rogers. Because of his known association with Doyce and Ray Jr., Buffalo Chambers became a suspect. That same afternoon, Deia Sutton picked Buffalo’s picture from among police photographs. Hours later, the police received confidential information that Buffalo was getting ready to flee. By 7:40 the police had found him hiding under some dirty laundry at a friend’s house. They charged him with capital murder.

The victims’ families pressed for a speedy trial. Mike McMahan’s family flew from their home in Kenne-wick, Washington, to attend. They couldn’t believe Mike was dead. When the police had come over that Saturday morning with the news, they thought maybe he had been in a car accident. But never murdered. They were still denying it; they hoped the trial would help them come to terms with it all.

Deia Sutton still had a bullet in her head. It had ricocheted off her spine, lodging near the base of her skull. Amazingly, she suffered no lasting damage. But the bullet would be a constant reminder that she could never separate herself from that night.

That first week, she was afraid to fall asleep, afraid that God had made a mistake and she wouldn’t wake up. She felt better after she spoke with her pastor. He told’her God didn’t make mistakes, that she had lived for a reason. That’s why her memory of the night was so clear and so graphic. Deia, he said, had a cause: to bring Buffalo Chambers to justice.

Deia found her champion in Dallas prosecutor Doug Mulder. Mulder was in charge of all death penalty prosecutions for Henry Wade’s office, and he never lost. He only tried the ones he could win-the brutal, senseless cases in which the defendant had a long record, a history of violence, and no socially redeeming value. And the victim had to be innocent of provocation. No blacks, browns, gays, or drug dealers.

Buffalo’s parents retained attorney Sam Hudson, also a state representative. Hudson, who had little experience with murder cases, wasn’t the Chambers’ first choice. One lawyer wouldn’t touch the case at all; several wouldn’t touch it for the $7,000 Buffalo’s parents had to offer, Three days before the trial, Judge John Mead decided Hudson needed some help and appointed Stephen Halsey to assist, Halsey was a more experienced trial lawyer, but he wished he had more time to prepare.

Buffalo was anxious about the trial and confused by the whole process. He knew there was a death penalty in Texas, but he’d never heard of anyone being executed. The Supreme Court had emptied every death house in the nation in 1972. But by 1974, Texas had a new death penalty law and a new determination to enforce it. This law was less arbitrary and passed the Supreme Court’s constitutional muster. It pertained only to certain crimes, like murder during the commission of a robbery.

The trial of Buffalo Chambers began on July 7, 1975. A jury, all white, was selected in a week. Doug Mulder presented the state’s case and built it solidly, convincingly. He called a pathologist to testify as to cause of death; a serologist for blood comparison; an expert for hair comparison. He called in the officers who found Mike’s body and the guns and the ones who arrested Ray Jr.

Then the Bear, Larry Bickems, took the witness stand. He was in the other car with Doyce Rogers when Buffalo did the killing. Most of the time he had dozed, drugged out. But he awoke long enough to hear gunshots; he placed Buffalo on the scene. He testified that after the murder, Buffalo had made him play dominoes at Nannie Jones’ house. Buffalo had said that Mike had a hard head. He said he should have raped Deia Sutton.

Mulder, with a good sense of drama, saved Deia for the end. Visibly frightened, she testified that Buffalo was in charge. He had the shotgun and the pistol. He delivered all the death blows. No matter about the lighting conditions or what she was going through; she saw what she saw. She was absolutely convinced. So was the jury, which deliberated for only fifteen minutes before delivering the verdict. Guilty. The evidence was overwhelming.

To give the death penalty, the jury was told, they had to answer yes to three questions. Was the murder deliberate? Was it unprovoked? Was there a probability that Ronald Chambers would commit future acts of violence, posing a continuing threat to society?

Hudson had at least a chance on the last question. Chambers had no history of violence, no criminal record. Wasn’t the past the best predictor of the future?

But Mulder thought he had a better predictor: Dr. James P. Grigson, a psychiatrist who had acquired his own street name, “Dr. Death,” was the state’s first witness on punishment. Grigson testified that he gave Ronald Chambers a mental examination in jai! on June 27, 1975. Grigson found Buffalo to be a severe sociopath; he was manipulative and was without shame or remorse. It was Grigson’s medical opinion that Chambers would kill again if given the chance. Hudson’s cross-examination of Grigson was lengthy, preachy, and argumentative, like a speech on the House floor. But Grigson proved unflappable.

’The jury only had two choices in determining Buffalo’s fate, death or life imprisonment. They knew that life didn’t mean the rest of Buffalo’s natural life. What if he made parole? What if he killed in prison? What if Grigson were right?

Courtroom observers said Buffalo showed no emotion when the jury returned the verdict: death. But Buffalo’s mother did. “If they want to take his life, they’re no better than he is. They say it’s legal. But it’s still taking a life. . , it won’t bring their son back, won’t stop people from having hate in their hearts.”



THERE’S NOT much movement on Death Row. Mostly, there’s a lot of sitting and waiting. Waiting to hear something about your appeal. Waiting to live or die.

Buffalo hated it. A three-year-old has more control over his life than a death row inmate. You’re told when you can eat, sleep, bathe. When you can go outside and how long you can stay. You can’t associate with the rest of the prisoners. If you’re a bad boy, you get written up and disciplined. Maybe you get transferred to a wing for troublemakers.

Buffalo got written up a lot, usually tor talking back to guards. One guard said he had a “loud personality”; Buffalo preferred to talk out his hate rather than act it out. Other inmates tore up their cells, stabbed fellow workers, went on hunger strikes. Some attempted suicide or threw their feces on prison guards. Buffalo did his time the way he was supposed to do it. The tough part was occupying his mind.

There was TV. Each wing had twelve of them. An inmate could sit in his cell, strain through the bars, and take in hours of cable. The sets were silent only on the day of an execution. Nobody wants to watch TV then. They’ve already heard the news; they don’t need to keep hearing it.

Buffalo’s parents often sent money to Huntsville, but it was hard for them to visit their son. They felt uncomfortable about seeing Buffalo like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Chambers had saved up $10,000, they hired Dallas attorney Vincent Perini for Buffalo’s appeal. They heard he was one of the best, a lawyer’s lawyer, dignified.

Ten years of appeals followed. To the Court of Criminal Appeals, to the U.S. Supreme Court, then back to state court again. Mike McMahan’s parents grew tired of the delays. Mabry McMahan, Mike’s father, wrote Dallas District Attorney Henry Wade a letter, insisting that something be done. Within days, Judge Mead set Ronald Chambers’ first execution date for March 30,1984.

Perini’s office was frantic; they had never had to work under an execution date before. Offers of help came from the NAACP and the ACLU.

Eleven days before Ronald’s execution date, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals granted him a stay of execution and agreed to consider whether the testimony of Dr. Grigson violated Chambers’ Fifth Amendment rights against self-incrimination. Grig-’ son had not warned Buffalo that anything he said could be used against him in court. The court ruled the testimony inadmissible and ordered a new trial.



DEIA SUTTON WAS outraged by the reversal. She knew that Buffalo was as guilty as ever. Now she would have to go through it all again. She was still having dreams about the murder. She would often relive it, frame by frame. Often, when she got to the part about Ray Jr. driving the car up on the levee, she’d wake herself up, crying. Sometimes she’d dream it all the way to the end.

Deia had married Brad Roberts, an engineer, in June 1976. Even when she was with her husband, she still had a morbid fear of walking in parking lots after dark. She knew she was prejudiced against black people; she fought hard against it, but nothing worked. She became more religious and often prayed that she would lose her memory. When she was pregnant with her first child and the doctor said her due date was April 4, Deia prayed that her baby would be born on time. Ironically, she was born April 11, 1981, on the sixth anniversary of the murder. Brad and Deia named her April. Now the date would also be April’s birthday, a celebration of life, not death. Finally, four years of April’s birthdays forced Deia to work through her sadness. By the time the district attorney’s office called to tell her of the new trial, she knew she was strong enough to do it all over again.

Michael Byck, one of Buffalo’s new lawyers, went to interview Ray Jr. to see if he was more involved in the actual murder than Deia could recall. Ray Jr. was at Huntsville’s Eastham Unit, serving two consecutive life sentences for murdering Mike and for attempting to murder Deia. Ray Jr. wanted to testify, He said Deia Sutton had it all wrong. He, Ray Jr., had started the shooting. He had aimed the shotgun at Deia, but it misfired. That’s when Buffalo opened up with the pistol. Ray Jr. said he was the one who broke the shotgun over Mike’s head. He could have dealt the death blow just as easily as Buffalo.

Byck was suspicious of Ray Jr.’s story. He seemed too eager to help. He was saying all the right things, spreading around the guilt. But would the jury blame Buffalo less or just be upset they couldn’t also give Ray Jr. the death penalty? It would be Ray Jr.’s word against Deia Sutton’s. Byck decided not to call him as a witness.

When Knox Fitzpatrick was assigned to prosecute the Chambers case, he asked investigator Willie Richardson Jr. to rebuild it for him. After two months of work, Richardson had found everybody but Larry Bickems. He needed Bickems to show Buffalo’s attitude after the murder; his lack of remorse as he played dominoes and bragged about the killing. He told his problem to Fitzpatrick, who called Deia: how would she feel about a plea bargain in which Buffalo would plead guilty in exchange for a life sentence? Deia knew that Buffalo would already be eligible for parole. She was adamant. No plea bargain, not ever.

Several days later, as Richardson was making a routine check of jail records, he saw Larry Bickems’ name come up on the computer. It was like a gift. Bickems was just sitting in the Dallas County Jail, charged with burglary. The trial would go on as scheduled with Bickems as a witness.

When she took the witness stand on December 12, 1985, Deia Sutton quickly broke down, crying uncontrollably. The judge called a recess. Byck knew Deia was an emotional time bomb. He’d have to go lightly on cross-examination, or the jury would be swept away with pity for her. Ten minutes later, Deia came back to the courtroom. Fitzpatrick asked Deia if she could identify Chambers. She stood up, pointed at Chambers and screamed: “That’s the man that killed Mike!” She described the beating, the death sounds, the “thuds” of the shotgun caving in Mike’s skull. The jurors looked uncomfortable. Mike’s mother couldn’t listen anymore. She left the room crying.

The verdict was unanimous: guilty.

The punishment phase of the trial was over before it began. To prove that Buffalo had committed another crime, the state called in a security guard who had caught Buffalo breaking into a coin machine a year before the murder. On that evidence, Fitzpatrick decided to rest his case. The state would have the last word.

Michael Byck was surprised. The state hadn’t proven anything. No testimony from a psychiatrist. They just rested. The jury looked unimpressed. What if the defense rested, too? It would mean offering no testimony, none of the prison records showing Buffalo’s years of nonviolent behavior. But they’d shut the state down and contain the damage. The other attorney, Jan Hemphill, agreed. So did Buffalo. The defense rested.

The jury retired to decide between life and death for Buffalo. On a preliminary vote to see where everybody stood, eight voted for death, no questions asked. Four people were undecided. The conversation was lively for about thirty minutes. Then another vote was taken; 12-0 in favor of death.

Inside the courtroom Buffalo was told to stand. Judge Maloney would pronounce sentence: “According to the verdict of this jury and the authority vested in me, I hereby set your punishment at death.” A burned-out Michael Byck gave the court Notice of Appeal. Buffalo turned toward Byck and thanked him for doing a good job. He said not to worry. He wasn’t dead yet. No one knew that better than Deia Sutton Roberts. It was December 19, 1985, more than ten years after that night on the levee.