To Free the Truth

December 17, 1999 seemed to embody Murphy’s Law–if something could go wrong, it did. I’d been working in the fields for the past 6 months. They usually called us out for work around 5:30 a.m. My cellmate worked the night shift sweeping the hall, but they rarely called him out so he stayed up most nights reading and drinking coffee. He could use my coffee pot as long as he had hot water ready when they called me out to work. He fell asleep early the night before and forgot to plug the coffee pot in, so when I poured water into my jar when I headed out the door, I realized it was cold then yelled at him. He rolled over, looked at me with one eye open, and rolled back under his sheet.

No coffee that morning meant more than feeling drowsy. A caffeine headache hit me hard around 10 a.m as the blistering south Texas sun scorched me. Monotonously pounding dirt with my hoe in time with the lead row’s (leader of the field squad) song didn’t help much. When the sole of my boot broke off, I dropped to my knees in frustration. If there is a god, I thought, he surely hates me.

At noon, the field lieutenant raised his cowboy hat and pointed his horse towards the back gate. “Hat time” meant time to turn in and go eat lunch. That day, for me and another guy with old boots, it meant a trip to the boot room with our field boss.

After the typical 5 minute wait in a line filled with naked men holding their clothes in their hands to be searched, our boss took us to the boot room. An hour later he led us to the chow hall in our new boots. Fried chicken, potatoes with gravy, and chocolate cake! We were hungry, that’s for sure. But, just as we approached the chow hall door, Lt. Wallace slammed it shut. “Chow’s over!”

“WTF?!?” I was in disbelief. I pointed towards our field boss and quickly told the lieutenant that we were field squad and had been taken to boot up. He told the lieutenant this was true. Yet, Wallace was indifferent. He told our boss to take us to the ODR (officer dining room) and give us a johnny sack, which is a sack lunch with a peanut butter sandwich and raisins.

My coworker and I were infuriated. The entire walk to the ODR I complained, telling our boss that we didn’t bust our asses in the hot sun for him for peanut butter and raisins. It was fried chicken day for crying out loud! He didn’t seem to care all that much.

Walking down the hall with my shoulders slumped and my head down, I took a bite of my sandwich and headed towards my building. I must have passed 5 ranking officers and 20 guards, not one of which said a word about me eating in the hall. Yet, when I entered 3 building, the desk officer, Daniel Nagle, barked at me, “OFFENDER! DO NOT EAT IN MY HALLWAY!” I didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him crazy. I rounded the desk area and dropped my ID card in a box designated for inmates going to the outside rec yard, then walked towards the outside door. Nagle screamed, “Hey! I told you not to eat in my hallway! That’s a case! Throw that sandwich away NOW!”

I was pissed. I’d worked hard for 6 hours for a stinking peanut butter sandwich, passed all that rank eating it, and this guy wanted me to throw it away? Sure, everyone knew Nagle was a stickler for the rules, but where was his humanity? Did I have to be treated like scum for eating my lunch? We had a heated exchange for about a minute before I told him in a not so kind way why I had a sandwich and was eating it in the hallway. He told me he’d call Lt. Wallace to verify my story, but I was a getting a case until he heard from him. I shrugged my shoulders and went outside. While I was outside, I spoke with Sgt. Martinez and Sgt. Ortiz through the fence separating the outside rec yard and the main hallway. I explained to them what transpired between Nagle and me and all about the chow hall closing. They listened to me, but only had smart comments. They headed to the front desk where Nagle was.

I’m not sure if was before or after I talked to the sergeants but while on the rec yard, I worked out on the universal weight machine. While adjusting the pin on the bench press for another guy, I cut my thumb. The machine was old and out of line, so in order to adjust the weights, someone had to press the bar up while another person placed the pin between the weights. As I was doing that, the guy on the bench press jerked the bar and the metal pin cut me badly. Blood poured out of my hand, so I used my shirt and pants to stop the bleeding. It wasn’t the first time that pin bit someone.

After rec, I went back to my cell block to get my dirty clothes for exchange. I then left the block and stopped at the desk to speak with Nagle. I told him I was sorry for getting mad, but I wasn’t in the wrong for eating my lunch. He told me it was okay, that he called and found out I was allowed to have it, but he didn’t want me eating in “his hallway” again.

I left the building to exchange my clothes. After getting clean clothes, I lounged around the commissary and 3 gym–a good 150 yards from 3 building where Nagle worked. It was my routine to hang out in this area with a group of others waiting for last chow around 4:30 p.m. My thumb was still bleeding so I used torn up pockets on a shirt to stop the bleeding.

While I waited for the chow hall to open, I noticed several Hispanic inmates who lived on 7 building. They rushed down the hallway and slipped through the gates leading to 7 building. They looked nervous. A couple of guys around me said someone just beat the shit out of Nagle. They said he was knocked out on 3 building. Everyone talked but no one walked toward the building to investigate.

Maybe 10 minutes passed before a bunch of rank came running towards 3 building screaming, “Clear the hall!!!!!!” We were all ushered into the gym and the doors were locked. Shortly thereafter, the rank came rushing back down the hallway with someone on a stretcher, presumably Nagle. Cheers rang throughout the gym. No one like Nagle. He was hard on everyone, inmates and guards alike.

About 2 hours, Sgt. Ortiz came into the gym and did an inmate head count. He left. About 30 minutes later, he returned with a group of officers. They handcuffed me and led me to 11 building which is the lockup building. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.

In 11 building, Sgt. Martinez stripped me naked and took pictures of me. I was then placed in a legal visit cage. These are metal cages approximately 2 square feet around and 10 feet high. I sat inside for 7 hours in only boxers without food or water while a cold front chilled south Texas.

In the middle of the night, I was taken to the administration building and interviewed by two investigators. “Nagle is dead,” they told me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Huh?? Well, he was a tough officer. I’m not surprised someone killed him.”

“Do you know who or why?,” they asked.

“No, I’m not a snitch, but I don’t know anything anyway. I was by the gym and commissary.”

I did express to them about how the inmate population felt about Nagle. He treated us like dirt, subhumans. No less than 10 times a day, he had arguments with inmates about rules. I had one with him myself that very day. I’d heard countless officers in shouting matches with him. At this point, I had no idea they were focused on me as a suspect, but it became clear in another interview the following day when they accused me of murdering Nagle, and immediately transferred me off the McConnell Unit to the Michaels Unit over 500 miles away.