Blood Rush
by
Patricia Springer

PINNACLE BOOKS

WINDSOR PUBLISHING CORP.

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by Windsor Publishing Corp.  475 Park
Avenue South New York, NY 10016

Copyright C 1994 by Patricia Springer

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means without the prior written consent of the
Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

The P logo Reg.  U.S.  Pat & TM off.  Pinnacle is a trademark of
Windsor Publishing Corp.

Printed in the United States of America

To Drew and Mark, children who were nurtured with love and grew to be
loving adults.

Acknowledgments

I am deeply appreciative to many people who have contributed to the
telling of the life story of Ricky Lee Green.  My thanks to Green
family members Leatha Andrews, Annette Hunter, Ann O'Shields, Teresa
Green Baker, Perry Green, and Debbie Green.

Special thanks to the Weatherford Police Department, including Chief
of Police Jerry Blaisdell, Deputy - Chief Raymond Pritchard,
Detective Marc Gray, and Betty Martin; to Wise County Sheriff and
retired Texas Ranger, Phil Ryan; Keith McGee of the Wise County
Messenger; David Nunlee of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice;
and the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals.

Sincere appreciation is given to Pamela Renner and Rita
Breedlove-Wolf.

I am most grateful to Drew Springer for his unconditional support and
to my agent, Elizabeth Cavanaugh, and my editor, Tracy Bernstein, for
their hard work and patience.

Patricia Springer


Foreword

In the morning hours of August 21, 1991, my forty-fifth birthday, I
traveled south from Fort Worth on Interstate 45 to the Texas Death
Row in Huntsville.  The sky was clear and the air as hot as a Texas
tamale, even at five A.M.

The two-hundred mile journey was the beginning of a long and
sometimes heart-wrenching look into the mind and soul of convicted
serial killer, Ricky Lee Green.  The turns and twists I would
experience were not on the paved roadway I navigated but in the
complex mind of my subject.

Ricky Lee Green was an enigma.  Who was he?  How could he have killed
four people in the North Texas area in what had been widely
considered the most heinous of Texas murders?  What drove a
reportedly mild mannered young man to sexually mutilate his victims?

Had he killed numerous others, as was widely believed inlaw
enforcement circles?  According to Dr. Naftali Berrill, serial
killers are human predators, killing for the sake of killing.  There
is often some critical event in their lives that develops the rage
that swells within them.  What prompted Ricky Green's fury?

But another question propelled me toward Huntsville: Did Ricky Lee
Green kill Wendy Kae Robinson?

Wendy was a pretty, nineteen-year-old freshman at Weatherford
College.  Her long brown hair and large brown eyes enhanced a warm
smile and pleasing personality.

When news of Wendy's abduction in July 1987 reached me I could not
speak.  I could not pick up the phone and call the frantic parents of
the young woman I had watched grow to maturity.  I painfully composed
a note, and prayed.

Wendy's decomposing body was found three days after her disappearance
in rural Parker County, less than thirty miles west of Fort Worth.
Jim and Linda Robinson's worst nightmare had been realized...their
daughter had been murdered.

The slaying staggered the small community of Weatherford, Texas.  I,
along with hundreds of mourners, slowly filed into the Couts United
Methodist Church for the funeral.

Dozens of teenagers stood silently at the rear of the church, tears
flowing down their freshly scrubbed faces.

Fear darkened their eyes.  Who might be next?  Was the murderer among
them?

The minister spoke in a monotone, referring vaguely to death but
mentioning no specific characteristics of the child that lay in the
coffin before him.

The long processional to Memory Gardens Cemetery, just a few miles
west of Weatherford, ended at the site of raw unearthed ground.  The
graveside service with its usual "ashes to ashes and dust to dust"
rhetoric ended, and I reluctantly made my way forward to greet an old
friend.

Linda Robinson and I had shared moments of triumph and defeat on the
courts of the local tennis league, laughing over our squatty bodies
adorned in tennis togs designed for younger, leaner players.  This
day there was no laughter, only pain.  We embraced.  We cried.

Months later when Linda and I once again began to play tennis, we
lingered at the courts long after opponents left, and she let go of
her tears.  She cried for lost moments with her daughter; for the
wedding she would not plan; for the grandchild she would not hold.

As I drove down Interstate 45 toward Huntsville that morning, I
thought of Linda and Jim.  The question that had plagued me since I
first received news of their daughter's senseless murder remained;
who killed Wendy?  My thoughts focused on Ricky Green, a prime
suspect.

Although I had not personally covered Wendy's murder or the trial of
Ricky Green, I had written follow-up stories for my newspaper
concerning both.  I was anxious to meet the man behind the headlines.

Only one week earlier I had written a letter to Ricky, asking
permission to interview him for a proposed series of newspaper
articles.  His reply sparked increased curiosity.

"I will be glad to meet you to see what you have to say.  I'll be
waiting for you cause I sure ain't going nowhere."

The letter was signed, "Ricky Green.  P.S.  I'll leave you with a
thought: Life is like an onion, you peel it off one layer at a time
and sometimes you weep."

My stomach fluttered as I passed through the entrance to the Ellis
maximum security prison.  The high metal fences with barbed wire
coiled around the top gave me an eerie sense that I was leaving my
freedom behind.  I parked my car in the dirt parking area reserved
for visitors and made my way to the guard tower.

"Put your identification in the bucket," the guard instructed as he
lowered a white plastic pail tied with a rope from his perch twenty
feet above my head.

The Newsweek reporter standing beside me looked disbelievingly into
the bucket.  "Is he kidding?"  the reporter said.

"I don't think so," I answered, smiling.

"How antiquated," he muttered before we entered the first of two
gates leading to the Death Row visitation room.

The longest walk of my life was the thirty feet from the front of the
visitor's area to where Ricky Green sat securely in a wire cage
inside the enclosed visitation area.

What am I doing here?  Why do I want to talk to a brutal serial
killer?  Then I remembered Wendy.

"Hi, Ricky, I'm Pat Springer," I said, pulling out the wooden chair
at my assigned post.

"Hello.  I'm glad you're a woman.  I didn't know if you were a man or
a woman since you just signed your letter Pat.  But I'm glad you're a
woman," Ricky said softly.

The clean-shaven, somewhat handsome young man appeared awkward and
vulnerable.  He is as nervous as I am, I thought.

"Would you like a snack?"  I asked.

"If you want to get me something.  A root beer and some Doritos would
be good," Ricky said shyly.

Ricky talked defensively for the two hours allotted by the Texas
Department of Criminal Justice, refusing to discuss in any detail the
four murders for which he was convicted.

"There are others, Ricky, aren't there?"  I asked, with smoke blowing
in my face from the fan outside the wire cage where he sat.

"I don't know.  I know there is, but I don't know-I can't tell you
nothin' about them," Ricky stammered.

"You can't tell me that one of the other victims was the girl at Lake
Weatherford?"  I said, broaching the subject of Wendy's murder.

"No.  I can't tell you that," Ricky said.

"You don't remember or you can't tell me?"  I encouraged him.

"I can't tell you.  How can I tell you if I don't remember her?  You
know how it is.  You want to talk but you don't want to.  I mean, if
I knew something I would tell you.  Sharon knows a lot," Ricky said,
mentioning his ex-wife as he danced around the issue.

That short exchange strengthened my interest in Ricky Lee Green as a
suspect in the Wendy Robinson murder.  His ambivalence was confusing.
Was he trying to confess to the murder or deny any involvement?

Could he have killed Wendy in a drunken state and not remember the
senseless slaughter?  Or did he remember the slaying and refuse to
set the Robinsons free of their desperate search for peace?

On and on Ricky rambled about his former wife, Sharon Dollar Green,
and about his childhood filled with physical, sexual, and
psychological abuse.

Horrified by what I heard, I agreed with Ricky: When you peel an
onion, sometimes you cry.  The layers of his life were painfully
revealing.

Prisons are filled with criminals who suffered the horrors of child
abuse, and Ricky Green's experiences were worse than most.

"I'll agree to helping you publish my story if it will help kids.
People got to stop treatin' kids like they do," Ricky resolved.

This is Ricky Lee Green's story.  Some scenes have been dramatically
recreated in order to portray more effectively the personalities
involved in Ricky's life.  Some names have been changed.  Dialogue
was taken from conversations with Ricky, major individuals, and
directly from court transcripts.  Ricky Green's rendition of the
events greatly differs from accounts by Sharon Green and Bill
Green.  The real truth may lie somewhere in between.

I made a promise to serial killer Ricky Lee Green to write the story
of his life, filled with abuse, manipulation, and mayhem - to be
dedicated to the children of our society, children, unlike himself,
who can be saved.


Thirst for Blood

On a sunny April morning in 1985, twenty-four-year old Ricky Green
pulled Sharon Dollar's 1981 Ford into the parking area of Casino
Beach.  Once the home of one of Texas's best-known, wooden roller
coasters, the run down amusement park area was now a meeting spot for
gays and lesbians.  Casino Beach, on the outskirts of Fort Worth, was
where Ricky most often searched for some one to pay him for sex.
Frustration and anger with his father, Bill Green, had again left him
jobless and broke.

A connection at Casino Beach should be good for some quick cash.

Prior to stopping at the familiar Casino Beach Ricky had been driving
aimlessly for hours, drinking beer and longing for Sharon, his
live-in girlfriend.

She had departed a few days earlier to take Sarah, her three-year-old
daughter, to visit the child's father in Connecticut.  Although
mother and daughter had been gone for only a few days, Ricky hungered
for their return.

He depended on Sharon for strength and comfort.

She calmed him, providing solace when Bill Green verbally stripped
Ricky of every shred of dignity in front of their radiator repair
shop customers.  After these confrontations, Ricky often wet the bed
during the night.

Then quietly, without condemnation, Sharon would change the
urine-stained bed sheets.

Ricky feared that Sharon might renew an old romantic relationship
while in Connecticut.  The thought made him reach for yet another
cold beer from the chest on the passenger's seat beside him.  She had
often reminisced about her high school days in Connecticut, and tales
of skipping school and heading for the neighbor hood liquor store
filled Ricky's mind.

She laughed about how easy it was to get the forbidden spirits as an
underaged teen.  "I would go down on the storekeeper and give him
head for a bottle of booze," Ricky recalled her saying.  "Then he and
I would sit in the back room and get smashed together."  Sharon
boasted that the sexual pleasures she experienced were greater than
her fear of the wrath of God or of her father, the Reverend James
Dollar.  She had learned long ago that her fundamentalist parents'
unfaltering trust in her to do the right thing allowed her the
freedom to experiment in many sins of the flesh.

Ricky wanted Sharon home with him today.  He lifted the cool aluminum
can of Budweiser to his lips as he watched a male couple copulate in
the entrance of the public bathrooms.  His own unquenchable desire
for sex was equaled only by Sharon's.  He longed to hold her close,
to smell her hair, her perfumed body.  His mind wandered through the
catalogue of stories Sharon had related about her teenage years in
Connecticut.  Fear, near panic, came over him.

Ricky sat up in the seat, shaking his sandy blond hair as if to dust
away the mental picture.  Taking a long swallow of the cold beer, he
leaned against the steering wheel, staring out the window.  He
disliked imagining Sharon's boyfriend climbing into the window of the
Dollar home, having forbidden sex with Sharon, and retreating
undetected.  The images could not be washed away with booze.  He
reached for the handle of the two door sedan.

The yellow Ford, trashed with dozens of beer cans and paper food
wrappers, smelled of stale beer and onion rings.  Two empty aluminum
cans clanked to the ground when Ricky opened the driver's door.  He
swung his left leg to the paved surface of the beach parking area.
It was time to clean up the car.  Time to fill his mind with thoughts
other than his loneliness and frustration.

He failed to notice the arrival of a young man who stood silently at
the front fender, watching him work.

When Ricky turned to empty some litter into the nearest trash can, he
saw the youth.  Walking back to the car, a strange feeling of
familiarity crept across him.  He realized he knew this kid.  Jeffery
Davis had been in his home only a month earlier.

Jeffery Davis and Ricky Green met one evening when Ricky was driving
aimlessly about the countryside slowly getting drunk.  He had ended
up on the familiar grounds of Casino Beach that night also.  The
small framed Davis boy looked much younger than his sixteen years,
and the girl who accompanied him was tiny, no more than five feet
tall.  Her foul mouth was more memorable than her physical
appearance.  Neither youth sexually interested Ricky.

"Hey, man, we're runaways and need a place to crash for the night,"
Jeffery had announced.  So Ricky put them in his car and headed
toward Boyd.  At the trailer house he shared with Sharon and her
daughter, Sharon insisted on calling the youths' parents to let them
know the couple was all right.  Then she made a pallet for the pair
on the living room floor.  The following morning, Sharon accompanied
Ricky as they returned the couple to Fort Worth, dropping them in the
vicinity of Casino Beach.

Ricky had not thought about Jeffery Davis since he deposited him and
his girlfriend at Lake Worth, not until Sharon was preparing to leave
for Connecticut

Ricky sat on the bed watching Sharon at the closet door as she
decided what to pack for her trip.  She chatted casually about plans
for Sarah's visit to her father, Sharon's abusive ex-husband.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"  Sharon suddenly asked.

"I don't think..."  Ricky's mind wandered to the retaliatory beating
he had given an abusive homosexual in Shreveport when he was just
fifteen.

"You should always remain calm if you ever kill any one."  Sharon
smiled, continuing to select her wardrobe for the journey ahead.

"Remember that boy that stayed with us overnight not very long ago?"
she asked.  "The runaway with the girl?"

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you get his blood for me?"

"What?  You want that boy's blood?"  Ricky was baffled by Sharon's
suggestion.

"Yeah.  While I'm in Connecticut you can do it.  I want you to bring
me his blood."

"Sharon, why would you want his blood?"

"To drink."  Sharon smiled a sinister smile.  "If you are a real man,
you will do it for me."

The subject of Jeffery Davis was not mentioned again.

Ricky had not given Sharon's request serious thought during the week
she was out of town.  And as the boy approached, Ricky's desire for
Sharon was on his mind, not Jeffery Davis.

"Hey, man, what are you doing?"  Ricky asked as he continued to clean
up the chaos he had made in Sharon's car.

"Just messin' around," replied Jeffery.  "I decided to skip school,
catch some rays, and have some fun."

Jeffery pitched in to clear the debris from the front seat of the
Ford, helping himself to a cold Bud for his efforts.  The duo then
perched themselves on the front fender of the car and enjoyed the
beer, drinking in the spring sunshine.  They talked about women in
general, and Sharon in particular.

Casino Beach was not providing the liaison Ricky was looking for.  He
decided to just hang out.  Ricky stood and stretched.  "I'm gonna
drive out to Benbrook Lake, you want to come along?"  Before Davis
could respond with a drawled "Yeah," Ricky was behind the wheel,
turning the ignition key.  They were on the prowl, hoping to connect
with a couple of party girls for a quick score.

Located in southwestern Tarrant County, the seventy-mile shoreline of
the Benbrook man-made lake was a popular attraction.  Ricky often
spent hours circling the brim of the thirty-year-old waterway, one of
several lakes constructed by the U.  S.  Army Corps of Engineers in
the headwater area of the Trinity River watershed.  The lake had been
constructed for the purposes of flood control, water supply, and
recreation.  Ricky's interpretation of recreation differed greatly,
however, from that intended by the city of Benbrook.

Cruising past Dutch Branch Park, then on to Holiday Park, his eyes
roamed from the road ahead to the natural grass landscape dotted with
blooming Yuccas and the trees beyond.  Images of him and Sharon
sprawled on a blanket spread upon the dry, brown grass filled his
head.

This mental picture increased his longings.  He whispered aloud,
"Come home, darling."

Shoreline Road twisted and turned to a point just north of Tiger
Trail.  The young men continued around the point to a sandy beach
where Ricky spotted a youthful group partying along the banks of the
lake.  Just as Ricky pulled the last beer from the chest, he parked
the car and smiled at Davis.  "Let's join the party," he suggested.

The college students greeted the additional party goers warmly.  "You
guys want a shot of vodka or Crown Royal?"  a buxom blonde asked.

Ricky took a hit of each, instantly feeling the effects.

The booze, paired with a couple of marijuana joints, dulled his
senses and blurred his mind.

"We're on spring break from the University of Texas at Arlington," a
muscular fellow wearing a tank top said.  "What are you guys doing?"

"Just hanging out."

Ricky was restless.  He had never been allowed to have friends and
his social skills were lacking.  After a couple of hours he grew
bored with the college students, with whom he had little in common.
Though he tried, he had been unable to make a connection with any of
the scantily clad young women.  Frustrated, he told Davis, "I'm ready
to go."

Back behind the wheel, Ricky wearily drove the roads that encircled
the lake for another hour, seldom speaking to Davis.

"Let's go rob a house, man," Davis said.  "I know one nearby."  He
sounded anxious for excitement.

Acutely intoxicated and growing more and more irritable, Ricky began
to argue vehemently with Davis.

"No, man, I don't like robbing houses."  Ricky had been drinking for
more than twenty-four hours, had only napped the previous evening,
and had not eaten since dinner the night before.  He had no patience
for this punk.

"You're nothin' but a stupid, pussy mother fucker," Davis lashed out.
"Why are you being such an asshole?"

Ricky's anger increased.  "You're the one being an ass hole.  You
better watch your mouth.  Don't be calling me names."

But Davis refused to let up, "I'm not an asshole, you stupid
son-of-a-bitch."

"Shut up now!"  Ricky pulled the car off the main road, stopping near
a man and woman flying a Frisbee.

Ricky's tension increased as he moved the vehicle a few hundred feet
past the couple, near the water's edge.

"I gotta take a piss."  Ricky reached for the handle of the car door.
He stood at the water's edge to relieve him self, his legs unsteady
from the excessive alcohol.  He staggered back to the car and stared
at Jeffery Davis.

"Jeff, what are you doing?"

During Ricky's short absence, Davis had slipped his pants to his
knees and was fondling himself openly.  As Ricky eased back under the
steering wheel, Jeffery reached over and massaged the inner part of
Ricky's thigh.  "I want you to play with me."

Ricky was confused, his mind dulled by lack of sleep and too much
booze.  Who is this kid?  What is he trying to do?  As jeffery
continued his advances, Ricky's confusion turned to outrage.  He
raised his arm and swiftly back handed Jeffery.  Blood spurted from
the boy's mouth, splattering the windshield and coating the dash.

Ricky flung open his door and dragged the shaken Davis onto the
grass.  He beat the stunned young man until his face swelled.  Blood
rushed down Davis's jaw line.  He fought back, but Green was bigger.

Suddenly the attack stopped.  Ricky stood back, staring at Davis in
disbelief.  if I keep hitting him, I'll kill him, Ricky thought.  He
helped Davis into the passenger's side of the car and closed the door
firmly.  Ricky climbed into the car and resumed cruising the blacktop
roads of Benbrook Lake.  "Keep your head down," he ordered Davis.

The blood-coated boy refused to obey.  "You mother fuckin'
son-of-a-bitch," Davis shouted.

Ricky answered his back talk with another swift blow to the head.

"Stop, you stupid asshole!"  Davis screamed.

Each time Jeffery Davis raised his bloody head to survey his
whereabouts, Ricky crushed his fist firmly into the young boy's face.
The repeated poundings did not discourage Davis, who continued to
rise up in protest.

Wheeling the yellow Ford around, Ricky returned to the same location,
just south of the Benbrook Marina, where their confrontation began.
"I'm gonna teach you, you fuckin' homo," Ricky exclaimed as he jerked
open the passenger's door.  He hauled a combative Davis from the
front seat.  Davis fell to the ground with his pants still down
around his knees.  Ricky could smell the liquor on Davis's breath as
he begged for the beating to stop.

Ricky continued pounding Davis's head, then added a few swift kicks.
As Davis fell unconscious, Ricky quickly opened the glove box of the
car and took out a large pocketknife.  Opening the six-inch blade, he
wiped the steel edge across his shorts.  Then he swiftly jerked
Davis's head backward and sliced his throat from the bottom of his
left ear to his right shoulder.  Laboriously -Ricky attempted to
decapitate his victim, sawing through the boy's esophagus, carotid
artery, and jugular vein.  Blood gushed from the open throat.
Davis's blood pressure dropped rapidly, his pulse weakened, and his
pale face transfixed into a frozen stare.

Ricky could not sever the head completely.  Panting and frustrated,
the smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils.

"You fuckin' homo," he repeated to the lifeless Davis.

Suddenly, Ricky grabbed Jeffery's dangling penis, sliced it off at
the base and tossed it nonchalantly into the lake.  Then he began to
stab the body.  Thirteen.  Fourteen.  Fifteen times.  The body was
crisscrossed with perforations.

His energies spent, Ricky sat exhausted by the motionless Benbrook
lagoon.  The strong aroma of blood brought him back to reality.  He
stared at the mangled body in disbelief, quickly glancing around the
surrounding area for possible observers.

An empty Gerber baby food jar by the water's edge reminded Ricky of
Sharon's words.  "I want you to bring me his blood."

Ricky released Davis's body into the still backwater, and seized the
jar.  He unscrewed the top and rinsed Out the remaining food stuffs.
Positioning the jar under Davis's profusely bleeding neck, Ricky
filled it with the slain teenager's lifeblood, and tightly screwed on
the lid.

Picking up the youth's slender arms, Ricky dragged the inanimate body
closer to the edge of the stagnant waters.

I better check whether anyone can see the body, Ricky thought to
himself.  He peeled out onto the gravel road and headed to the
opposite bank.  As he drove onto the dirt path past the picnic tables
and across the tall Johnson grass, he peered toward the body's drop
site.  The natural underbrush and low-hanging mesquite trees
concealed the corpse.  Relief calmed his tense nerves.

Ricky was pulling back onto the paved park roadway when he thought,
Someone might remember seeing me with him around here.  I better take
him closer to his home.

Ricky parked the car and transferred Jeffery's light body from the
hiding place beside the murky water to the back floorboard of the
Ford.

Ricky was wet with sweat from the interminable man slaughter.  His
mouth was dry and he had an enormous thirst.  With Jeffery Davis's
bloody body lying uncovered behind him, Ricky stopped at a Benbrook
convenience store for a quart bottle of Budweiser.  He chuckled
quietly as he pulled away from the shop, brightly illuminated by the
lights of the gas island.  The store owner hadn't noticed his
bloodstained clothes, nor had patrons noticed the cargo stashed on
the floorboard.

The smell of blood filled the interior of the car.  Ricky rolled down
the front windows, allowing the fresh air to diminish the foul odor.
He headed toward Lake Worth and one of his favorite hangouts.

The Fort Worth Nature Center and Refuge was home to Caddo and Kiowa
Indians more than four thousand years ago.  Ricky often stopped at
the park to watch the small herd of buffalo that roamed a portion of
the thirty -five-hundred-acre sanctuary.  The miles of refuge shore
-line bordering Lake Worth and the west fork of the Trinity River
would surely provide the perfect hiding place for the body.

Turning from Texas State Highway 199 northwest from Fort Worth, Ricky
entered the nature center and headed toward Greer Island.  The marsh
areas surrounding the forested isle would perfectly mask the corpse.
Several hundred yards from the Greer Island trail entrance, a crooked
bend in the road offered the ideal hiding place.  Ricky left the auto
and walked to a natural rock culvert at the water's edge.

Yes, this was it, the perfect place.  The park appeared deserted,
assuring his mission would go unobserved.  He flipped the driver's
seat forward and dragged the limp body of his victim through the
underbrush toward the edge of the water.

With great difficulty Ricky jammed the body of jeffery Davis into its
natural, airy tomb.  The surrounding cattails and small trees
effectively covered his secret.

Exhaustion enveloped him like a heavy woolen over coat.  He was hot,
tired, and thirsty.  Darkness had fallen by the time he left the
nature center and headed west toward home.  He wanted a drink.  He
wanted sleep.  He desperately wanted to talk to Sharon.

Later that evening when Sharon answered the phone in Connecticut,
Ricky said anxiously, "I did something bad and I need you to come
home.  Sharon, I need you to come home immediately."  He was certain
Sharon knew what he had done.

He collapsed on the sofa, reliving in his mind the gruesome ordeal.
He felt shame, guilt, and an odd sense of accomplishment.  This was
one of the few feats he had achieved all by himself, without the
direction of Bill Green.  This would show his father he was no sissy.
But he knew he could never tell his father about Jeffery Davis.
He'd kill me, Ricky thought.


No Place to Hide

"One...two...three...four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten," the
menacing, dark-haired man cackled gleefully.  POP!  The crisp
discharge of the BB gun rang in the ears of two young boys.  They ran
to escape the sting of the small metal ball.  The only other sound
heard in the open North Texas countryside was the sinister laughter
of the adult, who was holding a gun pointed at the two small children.

"Come on back, boys," Bill Green jeered.  Ricky Green, age six, and
his eight-year-old brother, Perry, eyed the gun and reluctantly
walked back toward their father who stood on the porch of their
Newark, Texas, home.  Ricky rubbed his buttocks, where the BB had
found its mark.

The wound stung like the bite of a sharp needle driven deep in the
skin.  He stared at his father's threatening smile.  I wish I were
older, faster, and stronger, young Ricky thought.  if I were older,
I'd stand up to Daddy.  I wouldn't be afraid.  I'd tell him he
couldn't use us as human targets in a game only he likes.

If I were faster, I could get away from the sting of the BB, or at
least get farther away so it wouldn't hurt so much.  if I were
stronger, I'd take that gun away from Daddy and kill him.  Ricky
glared at his father as he walked back toward the house.

"Let's see how far you can get this time," their father dared.  The
boys looked helplessly at one another and grimaced.  How much longer
before their father tired of the game?  How many more times would
they run across the dirt yard with dust flying?  Ricky's shoulders
slumped as he gazed into his father's narrow deep-set eyes, wishing
for love but finding hostility.  His older sister, Teresa, once said
the devil himself lived behind the evil eyes of Bill Green.  Ricky
knew Teresa was right.

Bill Green smirked, then bent down toward his young son, patting him
mockingly on the shoulder.  "Maybe you'll be faster this time,
Ricky," he teased.  "Take off!"

Ricky and Perry flew off the porch, propelled by fear.

But this time before Bill Green began his usual count, he fired.
Ricky fell to his knees, his small back arched in pain, and his
handsome young face contorted from the burn of the small metal ball
lodged in his flesh.  He rolled in the dirt, his father's laughter
drowning his whimpers.

Hatred consumed him.

Ricky rolled on his stomach and stared squint-eyed at his brutal
father.  His older brother Perry kept a watchful eye on Bill Green,
in case he prepared for another shot.

But the game was apparently over.  Bill Green opened the screen door
and entered the house, leaving Ricky lying in the dirt.

"Get over to your grandpa's and get to work," Bill demanded over his
shoulder.

Ricky's tear-filled eyes closed tightly.  I'll kill him when I grow
up and get big and strong he vowed.

Grateful that their father had left, the boys raced across the
adjoining five acres toward their grandparents' farm.

There they joined their sister, ten-year-old Teresa, and their
five-year-old brother, Tony, for an afternoon of childlike pleasures.
On the farm, they were safe and free from their father's meanness.

Ricky wrapped his tiny hands around the milk sow's udder.  Slowly
stroking downward, he gently squeezed the teat, releasing the liquid
into the aluminum bucket.  He laughed as milk splattered against the
metal container and splashed his face, oblivious to the smell of
fresh cow manure and the rhythmic swish of the animal's tail whipping
past his right ear.

When the bucket was full, the boy placed the worn wooden stool back
in the barn stall, patted the cow lovingly on the rump, and walked to
the old frame farm house.  One hand firmly clutched the milk-laden
bucket, and the other tugged at the bottom of his tan overalls that
had crept into the crack of his tiny buttocks.  He beamed proudly for
his own job well-done.

Ricky Green loved being on his grandparents' farm where he could
escape into menial chores and take refuge in a life of abuse.

The children often visited the farm of their grandparents, William
and Donna Green.  On this meager five acres of dirt, the children
found an abundance of pleasure with the animals and crops.  To Ricky,
the farm was an amusement park created just for him.

Chickens pecked in cadence in the parched Texas dirt, searching for
the corn Teresa scattered wildly about the yard.  Tony mimicked their
gestures, prancing and recoiling his outstretched neck in measured
movements.  Soon Ricky was by his side, imitating the movements of
his younger brother.  Separated in age by little more than a year,
Ricky and Tony were best friends.  The boys found comfort in a
brotherhood characterized by friendship rather than traditional
sibling rivalry.  Ricky and Tony did not share the same bond with
their older brother and sister.  The children were often pitted
against one another by their antagonistic father.

Soon Teresa and Perry joined the march of the chickens parading
around the barnyard.  The quartet added a cackle to the cadenced
strut, which prompted their grandmother to smile and the chickens to
stare.

Bored with the barnyard antics, Ricky soon vanished.

Donna Green instinctively searched for him where she often found the
boy.  She rounded the corner to the backside of the weather-beaten
homestead and spotted Ricky in the middle of the strawberry patch.
Ricky's small, dirt encrusted hands popped the berries between his
red stained lips as fast as he could pick them.

At the sight of her prized berries being casually tossed like M & M's
into her grandson's mouth, Grandmother Green screamed.  Grabbing her
husband's leather belt from the hook inside the screened-in back
porch, Grandma Green chased Ricky around the yard, the belt whirling
around her head.  The Cherokee Indian woman was seriously angry, her
coal black hair streaming behind her.  She continued to chase Ricky
around the strawberry patch until she was nearly exhausted.  Finally
seizing him by the straps of his faded overalls, she forced his
slender arms around her knees and furiously spanked his small bottom.
It was like a scene from a favorite movie that was played time and
time again.  He loved the taste of fresh strawberries, and delighted
in the irritation his appetite for them caused his grandmother.  A
spanking was a small price to pay for the joy of the succulent fruit.

Grandfather Green laughed at the sight of his wife of more than forty
years in hot pursuit of their rowdy grand child.  He waited until
Donna tired of spanking the berry band it before he issued his own
brand of punishment, an order to slop the hogs.

Begrudgingly Ricky dragged heavy pans of food scraps from the house
to the pigpens several hundred yards away.  By the time he reached
the grunting animals who waited impatiently for their dinner, his
small back ached from the hefty load.

Perry and Tony joined their brother at the pigpen and began tossing
sticks and stones at the rotund animals, who were attempting to
devour their meal.  The hogs squealed as the projectiles found their
marks on their broad hindquarters.  The squeals became an open
invitation to torment further the helpless hogs, just as their own
cries summoned further harassment from their father.

Not amused by the young boys' badgering of his hogs, Grandfather
Green demanded, "Get in that goose pen.  You'll see what pickin' at
helpless animals feels like."  The boys dared not disobey and
shrieked helplessly as the geese pecked at their small bodies.
Grandfather Green laughed at their discomfort.

The children's chores, the games, the wonderful berry pies their
grandmother baked were joyful experiences in an otherwise unhappy
life.  But the laughter faded and the smiles disappeared as the burnt
orange, West Texas sun set slowly behind the figure of their father
as he trod the unlevel tract of land to his parents' home.  When Bill
Green arrived, the children's fun was always over.

The children scurried to find work before their father's arrival.
Bill Green would not tolerate such behavior as the dance of the
chickens or the strawberry feast.  He sent them to the farm to work,
not play.  Whenever their efforts at appearing busy failed, Bill
Green began his customary tirade.  The children's warm feelings
vanished when they heard their father first laugh and ridicule
Ricky's red stained lips, then proceed to criticize their work.
Although Ricky bore the brunt of his father's attacks, all of the
Green children suffered from his sudden and often violent outbursts.

Donna Green's feeble attempts to intervene by admonishing, "Junior,
lay off them boys," merely postponed the rage swelling within her son
until he and his children had crossed the pasture to the seclusion of
their own land.

Lou Green nervously watched from her kitchen window as her husband
pushed and kicked Teresa, Perry, Ricky, and Tony across the freshly
plowed ground that divided the two Green homesteads.  She watched in
horror as Bill forced her children to place their little hands around
the wires of an electric fence, sending currents through their
immature bodies.  The hair stood up on their arms from the biting
voltage as their voices rose in pain from the jolts intended to
restrain cattle, not discipline children.

Lou turned from the kitchen window, unable to watch their terror any
longer.  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

She was speechless, her tongue tied by fear.  She flung her rough red
hands up over her ears to drown out the children's screams that
penetrated the walls of the modest, wood-framed house.  She vowed to
save her children, to escape the inhuman treatment of Bill Green, and
to provide a happier life away from Newark.

Teresa, Perry, Ricky, and Tony were pushed through the doorway of the
house and ordered to the closet by their father.  In the darkness of
the narrow storeroom, the four children huddled together, softly
crying.  They dare not let Bill Green hear them whine.  Ricky was
petrified of the darkness.  Each creak of the wooden floor outside
the locked door sent shivers through him, just as the electric
current had.  He feared his father had come to extend more punishment.

Their father retired to his throne of power in his favorite easy
chair in the living room.  The children were allowed to retreat to
their rooms where they cried quietly.

Their mother wept with them, the only comfort she felt safe bestowing
on her tortured children.

When the abuse first began, Lou Green tried desperately to intervene,
only to have her husband turn his explosive anger on her, beating her
severely.  She now sat in fearful silence, unable to shield the
children from the terror of their own father.

Only when Bill Green tired of the punishment did he give Lou the
opportunity to help her children.  "I'm tired of these kids, you whip
'em, Lou," Bill Green sometimes howled.  Quickly she would gather the
children and sweep them into her bedroom before her spouse had time
to change his mind.

In the sanctuary of her room, Lou Green huddled with them, pressed
them to her lean body and whispered, "When you hear the pop of the
belt, holler loud."  One by one she called their names, then popped
the belt against the mattress, while each child cried out as if in
pain.  Then Lou and her four children sat silently on the bed,
clinging lovingly to one another, crying tears of sadness.

Opportunities to shield the children from their abusive father seldom
came.  Lou's concern for their safety increased with the severity of
the incidents.  Finally she decided she must take the children and
flee their North Texas home.

One morning Lou rose early, as was her custom, and prepared breakfast
for her husband.  She let the kids sleep until Bill left for work at
seven A.M.  Once he had pulled out of the driveway, and his car had
disappeared from view down the county farm-to-market road, she
hurriedly roused the three boys and Teresa from their beds.

Ricky's bed was Wet, a regular occurrence since the abusiveness began
when he was four.  Normally Lou would jerk the sheets from the bed
and wash and dry them before Bill returned for lunch.  Today she knew
Bill would not see the sheets.  He would not make Ricky lie for hours
with his nose pressed in the wet secretion or threaten Ricky with
castration.  Today when Bill Green returned for lunch, she and the
children would have escaped.

Jessie Lou Pardue had been in love with Bill Green since she was
fourteen years old.  Many of Lou's young friends chased after the
handsome sixteen-year-old, but timid, naive Lou was the one who
captured his heart.

They married a short time after they met in the Fort -Worth store
where Bill Green sacked groceries.

The young lovers eloped to Louisiana but found they were too young to
obtain a license.  They returned to Fort Worth and an anxious Mabel
Pardue, who was unhappy that her daughter insisted on marrying the
young Green boy.  She claimed he frightened her in some way, but
reluctantly agreed to sign the license after realizing Lou had
already shared William Green's bed.  On April 27, 1956, Jessie Lou
Pardue and William Jefferson Green, Jr., were married in the stately
Parker County court house by Justice of the Peace Eddleman Pickard.
Mrs. Pardue stood in silence along with three of the five Pardue
sisters, Dorothy, Annette, and Leatha, as the portly official
pronounced the teens married.  Lou beamed a broad smile.  The
ceremony proved to be one of the last happy events of Lou Green's
life.

Lou had looked forward to her new life with Bill Green with childlike
excitement.  For a few weeks Bill loved Lou as she had always dreamed
of being loved, with tenderness and compassion.  He showed none of
the abusiveness of her alcoholic father.  Lou was relieved to learn
that Bill Green seldom drank, a discovery that made her feel secure
and protected from the violence she had experienced in her youth.
Lou's horrors of living with her carping father quickly returned when
Bill changed from a loving suitor to a tumultuous husband.  Intense
and unfounded jealousy consumed him, just as alcohol had consumed her
father.  Bill accused his new bride of sleeping with other men and
forbade her from exchanging even simple pleasantries with neighbors
and friends.  Bill Green was so paranoid that he often scanned the
ground around their modest home for unfamiliar footprints.  He
questioned her relentlessly about any male callers who may have
approached the house.  If she unintentionally forgot to mention one,
such as the Fuller Brush man, he would beat her for lying.  Lou began
to feel responsible for her husband's violence, believing in some way
she provoked him.  She blamed herself, instead of her husband.  She
vowed to be a better wife.

As Lou turned off the narrow country road leading from Newark to
Springtown, then on to Highway 199 East, the children nestled
together in the front seat of the family automobile, unaware of where
they were headed but knowing they would not be returning home.  Ricky
snuggled closer to his mother.  Although confused by what was
happening to his family, he had a sense of calm that comforted him
like a familiar old blanket.  He lifted his hazel eyes to meet his
mother's, and they both smiled.

Lou silently prayed for a fresh start for her and her young children.

Ricky enjoyed riding beside his mother.  Seldom did he take pleasure
in family outings in the car.  Bill Green did not allow the children
to play games like I Spy or License -Plate Bingo.  They had to sit
quietly and view the passing scenery.  Bored as children often get
during long family drives, Ricky would frequently fall asleep to the
rhythmic movement, only to be startled awake by the burning sting of
his father's hand across his small face.

"Sit up and look at the scenery, Ricky," Bill Green would demand.
All four children sat up rigidly on the cloth-covered seats, hoping
to avoid their father's sharp slap.

The Green family car pulled into the driveway of an unfamiliar White
Settlement apartment house.  "We're home, children," Lou Green
announced.  Without assistance from friends or family, Lou Green had
located an unassuming apartment in a small suburb on Fort Worth's
west side.  The children carried their meager belongings, which had
been tossed into brown bags, into their new home.  A sense of
adventure engulfed them along with freedom from fear and pain.

This time Lou Green had not told her mother and father of her
decision to take her children and flee the abusiveness of Bill Green.
Many times she'd sought her family's support and shelter from Bill's
beatings.  Each time her mother admonished her and told her her place
was with her husband.  Feeling guilty, Lou would always return to
Bill and the beatings that had be come routine.

Pregnant with Teresa in 1957, allowed Bill's repeated firashings and
constant abusive insinuations that the child she carried was not his,
running to the protection of her mother and father.  Surprisingly,
Bill did not follow her, begging her to return to him.  Instead he
stayed away, -- choosing not to be present for the birth of their
first child.

Only after Lou and Teresa were resting at the Pardue home did Bill
appear, profess his love, and persuade her once again to give him yet
another chance.

Lou Green no longer believed Bill's promises to reform.  She
recognized that life with Bill Green always would be hell, not only
for herself, but for her children.

The apartment in White Settlement meant a chance at a new life for
all of them.  Telling no one about her plans prevented Bill from
coming around to sweet-talk her into going home again.

Sixty miles north of White Settlement, Bill arrived home later that
day to the stillness and quiet that wounded him like a bullet ripping
through flesh.  He knew instinctively that Lou and the children were
gone.

As he walked through the empty house, his rage grew.  He slammed his
fist on the cluttered kitchen cabinet, bellowing Lou's name.  His
face grew garnet while deep blue veins protruded on his neck, his
anger was beyond his control.  Lou would be sorry for taking his
children and leaving him alone.

Annette Pardue sat at the kitchen table in her parents' sparse
Magnolia, Arkansas, home, talking with her mother.  Abruptly, the
phone rang, interrupting their conversation.

"Hello?  No, Lou isn't here" Mabel's brow lined with concern.  "I
don't know where Lou and the kids are, Bill."

Her voice reflected her uneasiness.

Mabel slowly replaced the receiver into the phone cradle.  "Your
sister took the kids and left Bill.  I'm glad she didn't come here,
we don't need no trouble.  Bill is really mad."

Nervously Mabel wiped the kitchen table repeatedly with a damp towel.
"You know your daddy thinks Bill is connected with the Mafia.  He'll
find Lou.  I hope there ain't no trouble."

Meanwhile life in the tiny apartment was peaceful for the Green
children and their mother.  The days accumulated into a month of
gaiety and laughter.  Lou smiled as she watched Teresa, Perry, Ricky,
and Tony behave like other children who played in the grassy knoll
outside their furnished apartment.

One afternoon Bill Green sat in the parking lot of the complex
watching his children waste time in idle play.  He got out of his
automobile and walked slowly, but with determination, toward the
apartment entrance.  His anger at Lou, the inability to locate her
without the aid of people Ezra Pardue believed to have underworld
connections, and the sight of his children with happy faces built to
an emotional explosion that was reflected in his stern, red face.

Ricky was the first to spot his father.  Terror filled his eyes and
sealed his lips.  One by one the children observed their father
drawing near.  The laughter ceased.  "Stay out here!"  Green
demanded, and the children silently obeyed.  They walked to the curb
and remained pressed close together, afraid to look at their father.
Only Ricky turned to stare at his father's back as he disappeared
through the door.  Inside Bill Green calmly put a revolver to the
head of his childhood sweetheart.  Lou quivered in fear, gasping for
air, as Bill held her tightly and whispered close to her ear, "If you
ever leave me again, I'll kill you."

Lou Green never again attempted to escape the brutality of her
husband.  She had learned that without a doubt there was no place to
hide.

Ricky was four years old and Tony three as they galloped on stick
horses outside the Green home.  The boys played cowboys and Indians
with pieces of rope flung over their shoulders as lariats.  While the
older children, Teresa and Perry, escaped to school and the company
of their classmates, Ricky and Tony only had each other.  The boys
labored together to perform the many chores dictated by their father.
They played together.  They were the best of friends.

A portion of barbed wire lay in the path of the cowboys.

Tony reached down and grabbed the wire.  His face reflected surprise
as he felt the hot metal, which had been lying in the sweltering
Texas sun.  Instantly Tony tossed the wire away.  A jagged barb
struck Ricky in his left eye, ripping his pupil.

Ricky covered the throbbing eye with his hand.  Blood dripped from
the socket, ran between his fingers, and dripped onto his pale blue
shirt.

Lou quickly rushed him to the emergency room for treatment.  Ricky's
tears of pain turned to tears of fear and dismay when the doctor
announced that he would be for ever blind in the injured eye.

Later Bill Green admonished Ricky for entering into frivolous play,
not Tony for haphazardly flinging the wire.

Eye throbbing, Ricky endured even more pain from his father's
scolding.  "That should teach you not to throw stuff at each other,"
Bill Green snarled in conclusion.

No matter what the circumstances, Ricky was always blamed for the
accidents that happened at the Green house.

When Ricky was five the Greens moved to Springtown, a small rural
community twenty miles northwest of Fort Worth.  The Old Tabernacle,
a community building constructed in the center of the borough by the
WPA in the 1930s, was the hub of public activities from religious
revivals to county fairs.  But the Greens remained isolated in their
rented country home.  The children invented imaginative games to
entertain themselves.

Ricky and Tony knelt, busily plowing make-believe roads through the
parched dirt with cars fashioned out of Spam cans.

"Look out, here I come.  Smash.  Bang" Five-year-old Ricky smashed
his car into the side of Tony's.  Ricky was lost in a fantasy world
of play, a world that brought laughter to his voice and a smile to
his lips.

"I'll get you," Tony yelled back as he pushed the sharp-edged
can along the invisible racetrack.

Their inventive imaginations allowed them to play for hours with
makeshift toys while their Tonka trucks sat idle on the outer perimeters of the raceway.  Perhaps this world of
make-believe allowed them an escape - an escape from the real world
the store-bought trucks represented.

"You better move over, I'm coming' round on the outside," Ricky
commanded.

The dirt-smudged faces of the two youngest Green children glowed as
they played undisturbed in the hot Texas sun.  The Green Brothers
Racing Team was on a grand cross-country adventure, far away from
Springtown and far away from Bill Green.

The cheerful laughter of the two preschool boys was abruptly
interrupted by Tony's high-pitched scream.  Lou Green, who had just
stepped inside after checking on the children, dropped the dish she
was drying.  A look of alarm crossed her face.

Tony and Ricky scrambled toward the house.  "A copperhead, Mama!  A
copperhead bit Tony's hand," Ricky yelled.

Lou Green stared at Tony's adorable face, his delicate features
twisted in pain.  Tears streaming, Tony hollered and screamed between
gasps for breath.  He flung his hand erratically in the air; and Lou
grabbed it.  She pressed his miniature body against hers, and
whispered, "It's okay, Tony."

Knocking the phone to the floor in her haste, Lou snatched it up and
breathlessly spoke, "Come quick Era Mae, Tony's been bit by a
copperhead."

Without answering, Bill's sister, Era Mae Carroll, grabbed her
handbag and jumped into her Dodge coupe.

In the interim, Tony's hand swelled and his forearm began to
discolor.  Lou swept him up in her arms and ran to the idling car.

"Wait up," Ricky shouted frantically from behind his mother.

Sitting quietly in the backseat, Ricky was too afraid to speak.  He
had been taught that the strike of a copperhead could be deadly.
Tony kept whimpering, and Ricky covered his ears with his tiny hands.

Aunt Era Mae pushed the accelerator to the floor and headed toward
the closest medical clinic.

At the Community Hospital, where Tony was transferred for further
treatment, Lou Green stood in the emergency room as the nurse swiftly
secured restraining straps across Tony to immobilize him for
treatment.  "Does he have any allergies, Mrs. Green?  Does he have a
history of heart problems?"

"Do something for him, please," Lou impatiently begged, the smell of
disinfectant making her sick to her stomach.

The nurse took Tony's blood pressure, then his pulse.

She quickly measured and marked areas on his hand and arm.  "Now,
Tony, you are going to feel a little stick."  The nurse inserted the
IV needle into the wrist of his other arm.

"Mama!"  Tony jerked, but the restraints held him and the needle slid
securely in place.  He frowned at the nurse.

His mother bent down and kissed him on the cheek.  In moments the
saline solution mixed with a mild sedative began to take effect, and
Tony slowly closed his eyes and began to relax his taut body.  The
nurse washed the wound with a clear, cool liquid.

Yet another woman in white entered and took his hand in hers.  "Just
another little stick, Tony.  This won't take long."  He opened his
eyes but before he had time to object, the sharp end of a razor-like
object pierced his finger and the woman squeezed blood through a
small glass straw.

"I'll get the lab work rushed through," the medical technician said
to Lou.  "See if you can get him to urinate for you."

A doctor strode into the room and adjusted the drip on the
saline-sedative solution.  "Tony, you should be feeling sleepy, just
relax," he instructed in a kind voice.

The doctor carefully wrapped a tourniquet near the bite, twisting the
constricting band tightly to prevent the poisonous venom from
traveling through Tony's blood system.  "Be sure to take his pulse
every fifteen minutes until I remove the band," he instructed the
nurse.

"The digestive enzymes that penetrate a human are only about half as
destructive from a copperhead as from a diamondback rattler," The
doctor turned to face a worried Lou.  "A loss of limb or a finger or
toe would be more likely than the loss of life.  However, considering
Tony's size, this strike could be life-threatening."

"How long before the danger's passed?"

"I am going to give him an anti-venom.  We will need to keep him
under observation for several hours to make certain he does not show
signs of anaphylactic shock," the doctor stated as he grasped Lou's
arm, easing her toward the door.  "Why don't you go down and check
him in while I begin the anti-venom serum?"

Later Bill Green entered the hospital examination room, his eyes
filled with concern and compassion as he stared at his son's
motionless body.  They narrowed to a steely stare when he turned to
Lou.  "What happened to my boy, Lou?"  Bill demanded.

"A copperhead bit him.  Tony and Ricky were playing outside with some
Spam cans."  Lou quickly added, "It was an accident, Bill."

"Is he gonna be all right?"  Bill asked gruffly.

Ricky heard the anger in his father's voice.  How many times had his
father forbidden them to play with those cans?

Lou shrugged.  "The doctor gave him anti-venom.  We'll have to wait
and see."

Ricky sat slumped on the wooden bench outside the emergency room
door.  He swung his feet in the air as he nervously rocked back and
forth, awaiting word about Tony -- his best friend, his only friend.
He thought of how lonely he was without him.  He tried to pray but he
didn't know how.

Bill Green did not believe in religious teachings.  The family never
attended church.  Ricky struggled to remember prayers his Grandma
Pardue had taught him on rare visits to her house.  His daddy seldom
allowed visits to the Pardues, just as he restricted their
association with anyone outside the immediate family.

Teresa and Perry interacted with their peers during the seven hours
of school mandated by the Texas State Board of Education, but school
friends were never allowed in the Green home.  Likewise, the Green
children were forbidden to visit the homes of classmates.  When on
rare occasions, young cousins visited on weekends, the children
enjoyed group games such as Red Rover, Hide and Seek, or Dodge Ball.
Relatives were the Green children's only play mates, until eventually
Bill Green prohibited even their visits.  The exception was Lou's
youngest brother, Tommy, who was seven years older than Ricky.

Bill discouraged most of the Pardues' visits.  But Bill seemed to
like Tommy and he was welcomed at the Green house.  Even then, Bill
made it clear that he was not a guest, making him pay room and board
during his brief stays, even as a youngster.

Tommy spent nearly every summer at the Greens' Texas home.  Although
Bill and Lou were not wealthy, their home was comfortable and a far
cry from his meager life style in the woods of Magnolia, Arkansas.
However, most of his time was spent working for Bill, leaving little
time to play with his younger cousins.

Bill Green walked into the outer hall where Ricky sat quietly beside
his Aunt Era Mae.

"Ricky!"  Bill Greens voice echoed.  "How many times have I told you
not to play with them Spam cans?  Now look what you went and did!
You got your brother hurt because you didn't listen to me."

Grabbing the wrist of his son, Bill Green pinched the tender flesh
between Ricky's second and third fingers of his right hand.
Frightened, Ricky dreaded what his father would do next.

Green, a handsome man meticulous in his appearance, kept his
fingernails well-trimmed, with the exception of one long thumbnail.
That nail was strategically reserved to inflict pain on his offspring
when he deemed their behavior unacceptable.

Green dug the long thumbnail of his powerful hand into the boy's
flesh, then twisted.  All the while, he smiled.  Tears tumbled down
Ricky's cheeks.  As Green released the vise like grip, Ricky watched
the skin between his small fingers turn purple and pucker.

Ricky's slight body trembled as he moved closer to his aunt, afraid
of what his father might do next.

Was his father right?  Had he indeed been responsible for the
snakebite of his best buddy?  As tears flowed, he apologized.  "I'm
sorry, Daddy.  I'm sorry the snake got Tony."

"Take him home, Era Mae.  Get him out of here," Green growled.

On the twenty-mile ride back home, Ricky wondered why his father
always blamed him when something bad happened.  Why was he always
punished for what others did?  Ricky was confused and hurt and angry
all at once.

Within thirty minutes of the administration of the copperhead
anti-venom, Tony Green began vomiting.  Hurriedly doctors and nurses
injected Tony with an antidote to Counteract his reaction to the
effects of the initial treatment.

Tony Green remained in the Community Hospital for nearly a week.
Ricky moped around the house, lost without his playmate.  He asked
his mother every day, "when's Tony gonna get well and come home?"
Tony recovered, only to face a greater physical danger two years
later.

When Ricky was seven, the family moved for the fourth time to an
older white, wood-framed farmhouse just out side Newark, Texas.  The
frequent moves, whenever the rent was past due or Bill Green had a
problem with the landlord, allowed the Green children little time or
opportunity to make friends.

"Come on, Tony, let's go out and play."  Ricky tugged his brother's
sleeve.

"No, I don't feel like it.  Stop," Tony objected.

Ricky didn't understand why Tony never felt like playing much
anymore.  Ricky grew increasingly impatient with his favorite
playmate.  He walked over to the sofa where Tony lay watching
television and gave him a friendly punch on the arm.  "Come on, Tony."

"Okay, I want to play, Ricky."  Tony attempted to stand but
immediately fell to his knees.

"Ricky, sit down," Lou yelled.  "Tony has a cold."  She helped Tony
back onto the sofa.

Ricky began to understand that Tony was really sick.

Tony appeared pale and listless.  The older brother sat quietly at
the foot of the sofa.  Why did Tony always feel bad?

Lou had agonized over her son's sudden illness.  She had asked Bill,
"What can be wrong with Tony?  Why does he always have a cold, and
why can't he stand up?"  His expressionless face told her that Bill
did not have any answers to her questions.  She continued, "He hasn't
been this sick since he had asthma when he was two."

Lou remembered a summer four years earlier when Tony visited her
mother's home in Arkansas.  Tony had been a very sick little boy.
Mabel Pardue prayed over him every night, asking God to take away the
asthma.  Two weeks later; when Lou and Bill Green picked up Tony at
the Pardue residence, Tony was outside running with his cousins.  No
sign of the debilitating asthma was evident.

Lou called it a miracle.  Bill mumbled words of disbelief as he
whisked the boy into the car, heading back to Texas.

Tony was never allowed to visit the Pardue home again.

"Bill, since your schedule is more flexible, can you take Tony to the
doctor?"  Lou asked.  "I've already taken so many days off to stay
home with him."

Lou Green knew that something was terribly wrong as soon as she
returned from work.  Bill sat on the sofa next to Tony, gently
stroking the boy's fine, blond hair.  "What is it, Bill?"  Lou was
afraid to ask, but had to know.

She was startled by her husband's eyes as she drew back.

His eyes did not reflect anger or rage, as they did so often, but
instead were filled with tears.  "What is it?"  she force fully
repeated.

"Leukemia," Bill replied.

Lou softly echoed, "Leukemia."

Bill explained that he had barely been able to listen when the doctor
told him that leukemia is a form of cancer.

"The doctor said it destroys the white blood cells and platelets,"
Bill told Lou.  "Tony will have to have regular transfusions.

'œToo few red blood cells,' Bill repeated the doctor's words, "were
making Tony tired and weak; too few normal white blood cells allowed
infections to take over and produced the fever he has had for days."

"How bad is it?"  Lou asked trembling.

"He only has about six months, Lou."

Lou and Bill Green cried together in the privacy of their room as
they discussed their son's condition.  The unbearable reality of
Tony's failing health consumed Bill Green.

He remained subdued for weeks following the initial shock.  The
whippings and the shouting ceased.  For the first time in three
years, Ricky's fear subsided.

But as the cool spring mornings turned to hot summer days, Bill
Green's sullen depression ultimately changed to unrestrainable fury.
He once again lashed out at his children.  Unable to control his
despondency, he even whipped Tony, sometimes kicking the boy's tiny,
aching legs.

As Tony's condition deteriorated, he received regular blood
transfusions from the Carter Blood Center in Fort Worth.  The Wise
County Unit of the American Cancer Society coordinated the $320
weekly assistance.  But Tony soon grew tired of the treatments, as
evidenced in an August 15, 1968, article from the Fort Worth Star
Telegram.

Leukemia Victim Has Good Reason to Dislike "Old Needles"

Tony Allen Green has the needles back in him again.

He doesn't like it.  No six-year-old would.

Tony tried Sunday to hide hemorrhaging caused from leukemia.

"Daddy, I don't want to go back to the hospital," the tyke told his
parents, Mr. and Mrs. WJ.  Green, Jr., of Newark.  "They stick me
with too many of those old needles."

Needles have been a common fare for the boy for about two months now.

One day, Tony turned kind of pale, said his father.  The next day
when he tried to walk, he fell on his face.

The parents took him to Carter Blood Center.

Tony was diagnosed as having aplastic anemia, a form of leukemia that
destroys the white blood cells and platelets.

This means that Tony had to have regular transfusions.

Other forms of leukemia can sometimes be temporarily stopped with
drugs.

"Tony's kind means he faces a crisis at any time," said a doctor.

While Tony is battling pain, his parents are struggling to find ways
of paying their son's medical bills.

Mrs.  Green quit her job at Delanair Engineering so she could stay
with the boy.

Her husband, a carpenter's helper; turned down a job that would have
required him to go to Sherman.  He wants to find work closer to home.

"I want to be able to come immediately, if Tony needs me," he said.

That's what happened Sunday when Tony began hemorrhaging.

"By the time he got here (Carter Blood Center), he was bleeding from
the portlets of his kidneys, nose, gums," said a doctor.

Transfusions were given with blood from another leukemia patient,
whose blood had too many white blood cells, it worked.

"He's still in a lot of pain," said Green.  "He keeps asking us to
get a cold, wet rag and place it on his stomach."

A drive for blood has been started.  Donations can be made by calling
the blood center.

Contributions are also being accepted to help pay medical bills.
They can be mailed to Tony.

The Rev.  Wallace Clark, pastor of Newark First Baptist Church, said
his church has also started a fund for the boy.

Meanwhile, Tony is in his bed at the blood center.  Beside him is a
large stuffed dog.

Tony hopes that he and the animal can make a trip together on Sept.
7.  If he is in good enough shape by that date, he will be flown by
helicopter to Ft.  Walters in Mineral Wells.

Persons there have volunteered to donate blood to him.

Tony would like to meet the donors.

He'd also like to get away from the needles for awhile.

(Courtesy of Fort Worth Star Telegram)

Tony Green missed that helicopter ride and those blood donors he
wished to thank.  He finally escaped the needles.

Tony died on September 7, 1968, the day he was scheduled to fly away,
three months after his initial diagnosis.

Ricky, Perry, and Teresa Green had stayed at their grandparents'
house while their parents tended to Tony at the Carter Blood Center.

"Tony got sick from some kind of bug spray," Bill Green told his
children.  "He's real sick."  The Green kids believed the bleeding
sores that covered Tony's small-framed body had been caused by the
dangerous insecticide used to fumigate around the foundation of the
Greens' country home.

Ricky remembered hearing the phone ring on that hot September day.
Grandmother Green called them all together.  Tony had died.

Ricky could hardly believe it.  He knew it was going to happen.  His
parents had told him that his brother's death was inevitable.  But
knowing that he would never see his best friend's smiling face was
too painful for the seven year-old to accept.  Who would he play
with?  Who would be his best friend?  Thinking of his father, he
wondered, with whom would he share his fears?

Ricky sat expressionless on the wooden pew of Christian 's Chapel in
Newark.  Willie Clark stood before the small gathering of relatives
and talked about the little boy who lay lifeless in the tiny blue box
at the front of the altar.

His words did not register in Ricky's mind.  I wonder why he's
talking about Tony Ricky thought.

Dressed in a crisp white shirt, dark suit with matching bow tie, and
glossy black shoes, the tiny figure in the casket mirrored that of
his older brother and best friend, Ricky.

The snifiles of mourners grew louder.

"Tony is dead,' Ricky repeated to himself, unable to grasp the
finality of his brother's fate.  No, he's just sleeping Ricky
thought, any moment he will get up and we will go out and play with
our make-believe race track or go down by the stream and make boats
out of twigs.  Tony will wake up soon.

The pallbearers shuffled to the front of the unpretentious chapel and
carried the miniature casket to the hearse.

Built in 1861, the Aurora Cemetery was the resting -place of a number
of other children.  Inscribed on the gravestone of the infant Nellie
Burris (1891 - 1893) was the often-quoted epitaph, "As I was so soon
done, I don't know whyl was begun"

Ricky stood beside his mother and clung to her dress.

As the warm September breeze blew, he watched his father cry yet
again.  The man he feared in times of madness was grief-stricken
today for the youngster whose body was lowered slowly into the
freshly turned ground.

"I love you, Daddy,' Ricky said, his father studying him intently.
Once again Ricky found himself the youngest, the most vulnerable,
child in the Green family.


Violation of Trust

Eleven-year-old Ricky sat Indian-style, staring at the photo of
snaggle-toothed Tony embedded into the gray granite headstone.  "Why
did you have to leave me, Tony?  How can I escape?"  He actually
envied his deceased brother.  "You're the lucky one, you got away."

Ricky talked to his absent brother often when he visited the tiny
grave.  Surrounded by unoccupied grave sites, Tony's had the only
tree in the isolated cemetery's newest section.  Ricky and his father
had planted it just after Tony's burial.

In the four years since Tony's death, life with Bill Green had become
unbearable for Ricky.  His mother's attempts to intervene resulted in
her own beatings.  Ricky and Perry lay in their beds at night, forced
to listen to their mother's cries.  Without the comfort of his best
friend, Ricky could no longer endure the disdain of his father.  He
leaned forward, slipped off his Western boots and socks, and ran his
toes between the blades of the cool, green grass.  His feet still
ached from the previous night's beating.

Ricky was unsure of what had set his father off this time, but before
he knew what had happened, he and Perry had assumed their familiar
positions, while Teresa was sent to her room.  Stripped of their
clothing, the boys stood on their tiptoes, their noses pressed firmly
against the living room wall.

"Stand on your toes until I tell you you can stop," Bill Green always
instructed, as he watched in silence from his overstuffed chair,
prominently positioned in front of the family television.  The boys
dared not disobey.

Thirty minutes passed and their legs began to cramp, the arches of
their feet burned.

Slowly the heels of four small feet lowered to the hardwood floor.

Ricky flinched when he heard the floor creak behind him, and he knew
instinctively that his father stood inches away.  The boy's eyes
widened and his body tensed as he prepared for what he knew was about
to happen.

Bill Green beat his sons' feet repeatedly with a metal mesh
flyswatter.  Each swat generated intense pain.  The boys cried out in
anguish.

Bill Green returned to his throne of power, his favorite easy chair,
and orchestrated the scene again and again.

The scenario varied only when he chose a length of rubber hose or a
strip of fiberglass, rather than the wire swatter.

Ricky dreaded the fiberglass paddle most of all.  His father had
drilled a dozen holes in the surface of the board.  Each hole
increased the severity of the sting, each one resulting in a welt on
his skin.

Ricky stretched out his legs, leaning back on his hands.

The freshness of the newly cut cemetery grass beneath his feet eased
his painful memories.  He stared up into the tree, a protective
canopy for Tony's final resting place and a cooling shelter for his
visit.  He couldn't join Tony, but he could escape the degradation of
Bill Green.  He decided to leave home and strike out on his own.

Forty miles southeast of the Wise county seat of Decatur, where Ricky
now lived with his parents, Teresa, Perry, and new baby brother
Timmy, the tall buildings of the bustling city of Fort Worth rose to
meet the broad Texas sky.  That morning the city seemed like a
continent away to Ricky as he happily embarked on his journey to
freedom.

Carrying his most prized possessions in a sack tucked tightly under
his thin, tanned arm, Ricky began walking east down busy State
Highway 114.  As traffic approached he turned to face the oncoming
cars and extended his thumb.  In a short time a driver pulled onto
the roadway's paved shoulder and swung open the door for the boy.

Ricky paid little attention to the driver, his thoughts focused on
running away from Bill Green.  He knew he would be discovered missing
when he failed to return from a normal school day.  Bill Green would
be furious.  His mother would be worried.  But by then he would be
safely in the big city.

The benevolent stranger dropped the boy off at Casino Beach on the
shores of Lake Worth.  Ricky walked the shoreline and gazed at the
nearby skyscrapers of down town Fort Worth.  He was wondering how to
get there when an unfamiliar middle-aged male approached.

The unkempt man smiled kindly.  "You want a ride into Cowtown, kid?"

Ricky smelled the unmistakable aroma of alcohol as he entered the
automobile filled with crumpled papers and empty liquor bottles.
Suddenly the man pushed Ricky's chest flat against the front seat,
which lowered to a reclining position.  Ricky's face was pressed
firmly against the ragged upholstery, marred by cigarette-burn holes.
The odor of stale beer mixed with mustiness permeated his nostrils.

"What are you doing?"  Ricky shouted.

"Shut up, kid," the stranger demanded.

Ricky felt the man's hand reach under his slim body and release the
closure of his jeans.

"What are you doing?"  the frightened boy repeated.

The man silently jerked the jeans, along with the white underwear,
down around the boy's ankles.  Ricky's small, pale buttocks and
pinned legs twisted and turned in an effort to free himself from the
grasp of the much stronger, older man.  His boyish face still pinned
against the torn seat cover, Ricky grew frantic to free himself from
the man's viselike grip.  "Why are you doing this?"

Ricky heard the sound of a zipper run along its metal - track, and
then the 150-pound man straddled him.  Ricky's buttock muscles
tightened as he let out a shrill, high pitched screech.  Acute pain
penetrated his being; he thought he was being ripped apart by a firm
tubular object that was forced up his rectum.  Ricky's screams ceased
as the article was removed, but returned with each of the many
insertions.  Ricky's fingers clutched the ragged threads of the torn
cushion.  I'm gonna die, Ricky thought.  This man is gonna kill me.

The assault suddenly stopped as the stranger moaned an exhausted,
"Oh," his breath reeking of cigarette smoke.

Ricky felt the tubular object lose its firmness, become limp and
soft.  A thick liquid oozed from his rectum.  God damn, I must be
bleeding he speculated to himself.

Tears flowed down Ricky's cheeks as the stranger rolled him on his
back.  Now he is going to kill me, Ricky thought.

He stared into the face of the perpetrator.  The man's malicious
smile spanned his gray, whisker-stubbled face and reminded Ricky of
his father's sadistic grin.  The man's eyes held the same wicked
gaze.  "Why?"  Ricky croaked.

"My name's John, kid," were the only words spoken by the violator as
he rose to zip up his pants.  He lit a cigarette.

Ricky lay motionless on the seat, staring at the torn headliner and
faded dashboard.  The confused child wondered why everyone hated him,
hurt him.

For the next several days Ricky dwelled on escaping as John drove
Ricky from trash can to trash can.  They searched for food scraps and
reusable discards.  John casually tossed liquor bottles and beer
cans, purchased on routine trips to the liquor store, in the car,
littering the backseat and floorboard.

Ricky wondered how badly John would hurt him if he tried to run away
and was caught by John.  If he stayed, he would continue to be
violated and perhaps he would die.

Ricky lived in constant fear.

When John was not sodomizing the young boy, he would often ramble on
about his homeless life.  He spoke enthusiastically of the freedom he
enjoyed and the escapades he had experienced.  Ricky shared the
homeless life with John for what seemed like never-ending days.

The underbrush bordering the roadways served as their bathroom, the
lake as their bathtub.  The dirty white automobile parked by the
shores of Eagle Mountain Lake in a secluded park was their bed at
night.  Ricky was preoccupied with dreams of going home.

Ricky never thought he would be happy to see his father; but after a
week passed he was elated to recognize Bill Green coming toward him.
He didn't know how his father had found him; he didn't care.  No
whipping from Bill Green had been as bad as the torture he endured
while living with John.  He hated John with even greater vengeance
than he hated his father.  He wanted to go back home.

"Get in the car, Ricky," Bill Green commanded.

Ricky sprinted to the waiting automobile as fast as his aching body
allowed.  He did not look back until he had safely slammed the car
door, shutting out John.  As he peered over the cloth-covered door
panel through the window at John and his father, he strained to hear
their conversation.  Bill Green's eyes blazed with anger as his arms
flailed.  Occasionally an index finger shook at John.

As his father slid behind the wheel, Ricky sank down in the seat and
hovered in the corner.  "You are going to your grandfather's cabin at
Possum Kingdom Lake for awhile.  I don't want you around."  Bill
Green smirked at the boy.

Ricky was astonished.  He was merely being sent to his Grandpa
Green's!  He'd anticipated the worst whipping of his life.  To be
exiled from the wrath of his father seemed too good to be true.

His mind wandered back to the times when Bill Green took him with his
brother and sister to Possum Kingdom to fish.  "Jump in the water and
cool off, kids," he'd tell them.

Ricky, Perry, and Teresa would plunge from the small fishing boat
captained by their father into the cool waters of the Corps of
Engineers' man-made lake.  Dog-paddling close beside the fiberglass
craft was more fun than sitting quietly watching a cork bob.  Ricky
and Perry would fill their mouths with water, then floating on their
backs, spout water in whalelike fashion.

Abruptly their bobbing heads were forced beneath the water by their
father.  Bill Green, leaning over the edge of the small skiff,
forcibly shoved their heads down as they frantically attempted to
reach the surface.  Air.  I must get air, Ricky thought as he
splashed furiously.  He soon became disoriented and felt his body
become limp.  Just before he lost consciousness he was quickly pulled
above the water.

Spurting water as he gasped for air, Ricky blinked and looked into
his father's mocking eyes.  His terror seemed to amuse his father.

Everything will be fine, Ricky thought as they rode toward Possum
Kingdom, as long as Daddy doesn't stay at the lake cabin with us.

However, William Green, Sr., enjoyed playing his own "jokes" on his
grandchildren.  Grandpa often slipped a lighted cigarette into their
shirt pockets, which the children would scurry to put out before the
garment ignited.  Sometimes he would extinguish his smokes on their
backs and laugh as they arched in pain.  Ricky never felt in danger
from Grandpa, he simply thought his grand father was just trying to
have fun.  He loved his Grandpa and was happy that his father's
contempt allowed him to spend time with the elder Green.  Although he
was puzzled that his attempt to run away was going unpunished, he
looked forward to two weeks of fishing with Grandpa Green.

The next day Ricky sat with Grandpa on the dock that stretched over
the shallow waters of Possum Kingdom Lake.  They watched the
red-and-white bobbers attached to their fishing poles float on the
calm, cloudy water.

The sun warmed the weather-beaten wooden dock.  The still, hot air
made Ricky think of jumping in the water to cool down.  He turned to
invite his grandfather to join him.

His grandfather sat straddlelegged, his penis peeping Out of the leg
of his short shorts.

"Damn!  Big thing won't stay in my shorts," laughed William Green, Sr.

While Ricky looked at the exposed penis, the elder Green began to
play with himself.  Ricky quickly turned his attention back to the
fishing pole and the bobber.  Each time he glanced in his
grandfather's direction, the peeping penis would appear and his
grandfather would stroke him self with obvious satisfaction.

Ricky had masturbated on occasion, a practice he knew many of his
young friends indulged in.  However, he had never masturbated in
front of anyone and was shocked and uncomfortable at his
grandfather's behavior.  After the week he had spent with the man
known only as John, Ricky was eager to ignore any gestures of overt
sexuality.

As darkness cloaked the small lakeside cabin and Ricky prepared for
bed, his grandfather said, "Ricky, I want you to sleep without any
clothes on tonight.  That way you won't mess your shorts when you wet
the bed."

His grandfather slipped out of his own shorts and T shirt.  He left
Ricky alone in the two-room cabin for a few minutes before returning
with a four-foot length of rubber hose.  He stood at the side of the
bed, his penis erect, and slapped the hose against his palm.
Suddenly he yanked the blanket off Ricky.  His diminutive body
exposed, Ricky jerked rigid with fear.

"What did you and John do?"

Ricky said nothing.

"Yeah, I know all about what you two did."

Ricky was confused; how did his grandfather know about John?

"If your dad finds out he will give you a damn good whipping."

Ricky's breath quickened.  Afraid that his grandfather would whip him
with the rubber hose, he watched as the old man continued to beat the
tubing against his palm.

Before the boy could move, his beloved grandfather grabbed the
youngster's penis, and began fondling it enthusiastically.  His
callused hands ran the length and breadth of the boy's immaturely
developed body.  His mouth engulfed Ricky's lifeless penis.  The old
man laboriously breathed as he sucked the genitals into his mouth.

The oral copulation subsided only when Green took a breath and
murmured, "Boy, you got a big one."

Ricky did not fight as he had against the advances of John.  This was
his grandfather.  Why would he want to hurt him?  Besides, if he did
not cooperate, his grandfather would tell his father, and Bill Green
would surely beat him worse than he had ever been beaten.  He lay
confused and motionless as his grandfather continued the sexual
assault throughout the night.

Later his grandfather placed his erect penis into Ricky's mouth and
forced him to masturbate him orally.  This event lasted only seconds
before his grandfather slid his large-framed body over Ricky's, then
ejaculated.

"Look what you did!"  the older man commanded.

Tearfully, Ricky looked at the man he had always adored, then at the
milky white, sticky liquid covering both their bodies.  He recognized
the fluid from the days he had spent with John.

The remainder of the restless night Ricky lay awake, frightened and
confused by his grandfather's actions.  The happiest times of his
childhood had been spent with his grandfather.  Why then had this man
he loved forced him to perform virtually the same disgusting acts
John had?

How did he know about John and what they did in that filthy car
parked by the bank of Eagle Mountain Lake?

The old man lay snoring beside Ricky, who, exhausted from his
soundless weeping, finally fell asleep.

Startled by the searing pain of Grandpa's cigarette crushed into the
arch of his small foot, Ricky sprang out of bed.

"Let's catch us some fish, Ricky," was Grandpa's only comment as the
boy rubbed his scorched flesh.

Struggling to carry the fishing poles and aluminum minnow bucket
thrust at him by his grandfather, Ricky hoped fishing would take his
mind off the assault of the night before.  As they boarded the small
skiff tied to the dock, Grandpa appeared anxious to resume normal
activities.  Ricky welcomed the familiarity of loading the small bass
boat for a day's angling.

"Where are we going?"  Ricky asked.

"I've got a new spot, a great fishing hole," Grandpa's smile sent a
shiver down Ricky's spine.

The small motor hummed as they crossed the lake.

Ricky was apprehensive about being alone with his grandfather, but
hopeful fishing was the only thing on his mind.

Grandpa Green cut the motor and the boat drifted in the still water.
Ricky quickly tossed his line next to the boat; Grandpa cast his line
out some ten yards off the stern.

"Want a cigarette?"  the elder Green asked.

Ricky enthusiastically accepted his offer.  Smoking was an indulgence
Bill and Lou Green had not allowed their children.

The boat drifted toward an isolated portion of the lake.

Green glanced around in all directions for any boats on the horizon
then hastily instructed, "Take off your clothes."

Ricky gasped.  Even though he sensed the heinous events of the
previous night were about to be repeated, he reluctantly obeyed.
Slowly his grandfather moved care fully to the bow of the boat where
Ricky sat waiting...nude.

Grandpa Green crushed out his cigarette in the palm of his grandson's
hand.  "Life's tough, you gotta learn to be tougher," he told the
lad.  Simultaneously Grandpa placed his head between Ricky's legs and
licked his penis until it was erect.  He continued his molestation
until the entire scenario of the night before had been repeated.

"Let's go get some candy.  Hell, I'll even get you your own pack of
cigarettes," his grandfather announced.  "That should keep you plenty
happy," he added as he pulled his shorts in position, "and keep you
quiet about our private times together."

Grandpa zipped his pants, moved to the stern of the boat, and yanked
the cord on the outboard motor.  The roar of the engine dulled the
sobs of the young boy in the bow, his back turned to his assailant.
Silently they rode to the marina where his grandfather kept his
promise to buy candy and cigarettes.

The sexual encounters became routine.  At night they lay nude in the
double bed; during the day they engaged in mutual masturbation in the
boat or on the bank of some secluded island.

One evening Green arrived at the cabin with a cylinder shaped
instrument he told his grandson was a dildo.

"What's a dildo?"  Ricky asked innocently.

"Something that is going to give me a great deal of pleasure," Green
responded.  And indeed the object seemed to give his grandfather much
pleasure as he forced Ricky to slide the instrument in and out of his
anal cavity while he orally copulated his grandson.

Two weeks after Bill Green had deposited his son, he returned to
retrieve Ricky.  As the boy sat in the car beside his father, he
talked of fishing and skipping rocks.  Not a word was uttered about
the sex games his grandfather had taught him.  He realized that the
candy and cigarettes were his reward for keeping quiet.  But his real
motivation for remaining silent was to avoid his father's retribution.

Grandpa had threatened to tell his father about Ricky's encounter
with John.  That knowledge, coupled with the escapades that occurred
with Grandpa, would surely lead to a beating Ricky would not survive.
The sexual encounters with his grandfather were not nearly as
unpleasant as the brutality of his father.  Ricky gazed out the
window, tears rolling down his cheeks.  He would keep his promise to
remain silent, just as he had kept the promise he made to Teresa
three years earlier.

The children were alone in their house just outside Rhome, Texas.
The small community of approximately three hundred, nestled between
Decatur to the north and Fort Worth to the south, was populated
mostly by ranchers and farmers.

At that time Ricky observed Teresa had become quiet, withdrawn, and
frequently cried for no reason that he could ascertain.  He noticed
Bill Green beat her less than before.  She now was allowed to wear
dresses in place of the long pants that for years had hidden the
telltale bruises of her father's rage.

One day in the boy's shared bedroom, Teresa abruptly announced to her
baby brother, "Ricky, I want to see who is better at sex, you or
Perry."  Eight-year-old Ricky didn't know what she meant by "sex."  A
new game he supposed.

"How do we play?"  Ricky asked in an anxious tone of voice.

"You and Perry take down your pants."

Perry stared at his little brother and chuckled.

The boys "dropped their drawers" as Teresa slipped her dress above
her head.

Teresa's hand ran smoothly down his penis to the small testicles that
hung at the base of the shaft.  Tingling sensations ran through
Ricky's body as his penis began to rise.

"Ouch," Ricky exclaimed when Teresa not-so-gently squeezed the sack.
"That hurts."

Too young to ejaculate, too young to grasp the emotional meaning of
sex, Ricky only understood that the experience excited him.  The
insertion of his penis into the slit of his sister made his body
quake and his heart race.  Ricky Lee Green liked his first sexual
encounter.

Teresa moved from Ricky to Perry and repeated the stimulation
procedures.  When she had finished with the brothers she teased, "You
win, Ricky.  You're the best."

Ricky and Perry sat on the floor gaping at one another.

"Where did she learn that?"  Ricky asked.  Perry merely shrugged in
mute response.

The boys were unaware of the sexual abuse Teresa had begun suffering
at the hands of their father until Teresa informed local authorities.
The frequent beatings had stopped, replaced by oft-repeated sexual
violations, an abuse that left no obvious physical markings.

Characteristically, Bill Green threatened his daughter with severe
beatings if she exposed their "private times" together to her mother
or to outsiders.  Teresa lived in fear of nightfall, knowing her
restless slumber would be interrupted by her unwelcome father
crawling into her bed.

She endured the sexual violations for three years.  Un able to
tolerate them any longer, fifteen-year-old Teresa Green began making
plans to run away.

Early one morning Teresa rose from the bed her father had once again
invaded, packed a few of her belongings, then set out on the Green
children's shared minibike to a vacant house several miles away.
Teresa's heavyset body lapped over the small seat on the motorized
bike.  Five brown grocery sacks filled with her clothing hung from
the cracked leather seat like saddlebags over the rear wheel.

Mr.  Haghn, who owned the house the Greens had rented while living in
Rhome, had befriended Teresa.

Older and more understanding than her father; Haghn became Teresa's
confidant.  Ricky and Perry had observed them kissing on several
occasions.  The boys had laughed hysterically when they caught the
oddly matched couple smooching.

Hesitantly Teresa had confided her father's behavior toward her to
her older, wiser friend, then confessed her desire to flee Bill
Green's domination.  With Haghn's permission she fled to his recently
vacated home.

Teresa's solitude and contentment ended in only a few days, when Bill
Green appeared on the front porch of the Haghn home.  Dragging her
from the house, he struck her body with his hand over and over.  He
knocked her to the ground, then kicked her.  She rolled into a fetal
ball, her hands covering her head, her forearms protecting her ears.

Bill Green then dragged his crying daughter to his car, shoved her
badly beaten body onto the front seat, and drove her home.
Determined to teach his daughter never again to try to escape his
advances, Bill Green chained her to the bed that night.

But amazingly the chains on her hands only strengthened her
determination to rid herself of her father's vile sexual desires.  A
week after running away to Mr. Haghn's, Teresa Green, a guttsy
teenager, walked into the Wise County Sheriffs Office after school.
Courageously, she re ported her father's inappropriate behavior.
Sheriffs deputies took photographs of her badly beaten body, and
Teresa was immediately sent to live in a foster home for her
protection.  No one investigated her claims about William Jefferson
Green, Jr.

"Teresa ran away again," is all Bill Green told Ricky and Perry.  He
made no effort to bring her back into the Green household as he had
the week before.  He gave no further explanation for Teresa's
mysterious departure.

Ricky never considered going to local authorities for help.  He
viewed his father as a businessman of influence in the small
community.  Ricky was certain that the cops would believe Bill Green,
not his troubled son.

On the ride from the Possum Kingdom Lake with his father, Ricky
silently contemplated the physical gratification he experienced while
playing the game with Teresa and the sensations of arousal brought on
by his grand father.  Both experiences were simultaneously disturbing
yet stimulating.  Masturbation had not given him a degree of
excitement equal to either of these acts.  Sex was a form of
self-indulgence that needed further exploration, Ricky decided.

He smiled innocently as he sucked on the sweetness of the peanut M&Ms
that rested on his tongue.  "Want some of my candy, Daddy?"


Louisiana Lessons

"Ricky!"  Bill Green yelled angrily.  "Did you fuck Timmy in the ass?"

Ricky was startled by his father's accusation.  He had been home less
than a week from his Grandpa Green's lake cabin and the ordeal of his
sexual violation.  Why would his father think he had done the same
horrible thing to his one-year-old brother?

"No, Daddy.  I didn't do it," Ricky said quaking.

"You fucked him in the ass!"  Green repeated the charge.  "I know you
did.  There is blood in his diaper."

"No, I didn't," Ricky insisted.

"You are gonna tell me you did it," Green said, drawing back his hand
to strike his son.

"Okay, I did it," Ricky said wincing.  I'd tell him anything to keep
him from hitting me.

Bill Green didn't beat Ricky.  Instead, he returned to the house to
help Lou get Timmy ready to take to the doctor.

He always blames me for everything Ricky thought.  One day he'll be
sorry.

Bright red fluid dripped from the stick tightly clutched in Ricky's
right hand.  The eleven-year-old boy stared at the blood oozing from
the skull of his victim.  He was sickened by the odor of the fresh
liquid filling his nostrils and breathed heavily from exertion.  He
felt sorry for the lifeless quarry.  He also felt a rush of
excitement.

"Come on, Ricky.  There goes another one," Perry shouted.  And before
the blood had dried on the wood rods, the brothers rushed off to
bludgeon another harmless Texas armadillo.

Cousins to the anteaters, the armadillos were approximately the size
of a large opossum.  Ricky and Perry were careful not to get too
close to the powerful jaws, used to dig burrows.  They delighted in
stepping on the long snakelike tails, then beating the curious
animals until the outer ridged shell was breached.

"Listen to the sound of the crack," Ricky laughed, breaking through
the animal's natural armor.

The boys had killed nearly fifty of the creatures, who instinctively
rolled into tightly compact balls to escape their tormentors.

"I need a rest, Perry."  Ricky invited his older brother to join him
in the habit he had recently developed.

"No, Ricky, I don't like to smoke."

The addictive nicotine had caused problems for young Ricky, who was
twice expelled from his elementary classes for indulging on school
grounds.  Bill Green was angry, but fear of his father's punishment
could not overcome the need for cigarettes.

Resting beside his younger brother, Perry said, "Tomorrow we'll get
our pellet guns after those darn cats.  Daddy said to get rid of
them."

Then Ricky expelled smoke from his nostrils.  "Daddy hates cats."

Bill Green had been encouraging his boys to kill cats, as well as
armadillos, for years.  The boys used whatever methods were
available, most frequently shooting the domesticated animals with
pellet, BB, or twenty-two caliber guns.

They didn't understand why their father hated the creatures so much,
except for the old wives' tale of cats smothering babies in acts of
jealousy.  "Cats will suck the breath out of babies," Green told
them.  "When Teresa was a baby, a cat tried to suck out her breath.
Kill any cat you see," their father instructed.

Green's disrespect for cats resulted in great fun for the boys.
Ricky enjoyed the hunt and was thrilled with the kill.

Clubbing armadillos, shooting cats, and working for their father
occupied the Green boys' weekends, while school and chores occupied
their weekdays in rural Wise County, Texas.

Ricky and Perry were walking home from the three hundred-student
Decatur Elementary School one after noon, following dismissal of
their fifth and sixth grade classes.  The weather was warm, creating
a powerful thirst.

"Let's get us a Coke," Perry said.

"But we don't got no money," Ricky answered.

Perry smiled as he pointed to a Coke machine just inside the small
town's only laundromat.  "Don't matter, Ricky."

The boys quickly moved to the machine, beating the lock until it
released.  The door popped open.  Each of the boys grabbed as many of
the cool pop cans as they could carry.  Then they noticed the candy
machine adjacent to the refrigerated pop box.  They smashed the glass
encasing the candy, snatching as many of the plastic-wrapped goodies
as they could stuff into their blue jeans.

"Run, Ricky," Perry commanded.

Just as Ricky turned to make his escape, he noticed a young classmate
watching their retreat.  Oh no!  Ricky thought.  She's a tattletale.
Ducking his head without acknowledging her, he sped home, where he
and Perry devoured their stolen treats.

Sickened by their overindulgence, Ricky and Perry lay on their beds
rubbing their bloated bellies.  A knock at the front door interrupted
their reminiscences of the crime Ricky hoped had gone undetected.
The boys got up and went to the living room.

Opening the door of their Decatur home, the small boys stared upward
at the khaki-clad deputy sheriff towering over them.

Peering over the top of his shades, he asked, "What you boys been up
to?"

Damn that girl, Ricky thought.  Now we're in trouble.

Perry and Ricky glanced at one another; in unison re plying, "Nothin'"

"You boys been breakin' into Coke machines?"

"No, sir," Ricky crammed his hands deep into the pockets of his
jeans, lowering his head.

"You sure about that?  Seems some little girl says she saw the two of
you runnin' off with pop and candy from the ol' laundromat."

"No, sir," Perry answered with cool composure.

"Well, would you boys be willin' to take a lie detector test?"

"Yes, sir," the boys chimed.

"Oh, is that right?  Well I'll just arrange for you to do that.  I'll
be back in touch with you boys," the deputy threatened as he left the
Green house.

Perry and Ricky breathed a sigh of relief.  Ricky was not afraid of
the law.  He was afraid of what his father might do if he discovered
their afternoon mischief.  Ricky nervously avoided his father,
whenever possible, for several days.

They never heard from the law officer again, and they never broke
into any more snack machines.

This incident was only the first of Ricky's troubles with his
classmates.  By the time he entered junior high school in Boyd,
Texas, the friendly, fun-loving youth was the object of ridicule and
intimidation by older, larger students.  The bullies took pleasure in
picking on the youngster, who refused to fight back.  But the
beatings Ricky endured at school were more tolerable than his
father's reaction when he was told of Ricky's refusal to enter into
fistfights.

"Get in there and put on your mama's dress and wig," Bill Green
ordered as he pointed to the room across the hall.

Dejected, Ricky slowly walked to his parents' bedroom, pretending his
father's words did not hurt.  Tears rolled down his slender cheeks.
He slipped the dress over his head.  Humiliation engulfed him like
the dark wig that covered his head.

"Get out here, you pussy," Bill Green ordered.  "If you're gonna act
like a pussy you're gonna dress like a pussy."

Ricky gradually moved into the living room, ignoring his father's
steely eyes.

"You better learn to fight, boy, or you'll be a sissy all your life.
I ain't raisin no sissies.  You hear me, boy?"

Fourteen-year-old Ricky stared at the floor, speechless.  I hate him,
the boy thought.  Pictures of a gun in his hand appeared in his mind.
As his eyes met his father's, the image of his hand rising to fire
the gun point-blank at Bill Green was so real he could almost smell
the gunpowder.

"Lou, we got two boys and two girls now," Green exclaimed to his
wife.  Timmy, born four years earlier, and Perry gawked at their
brother dressed in their mother's clothing.  "Yeah.  We got us
another pussy in the family."

Embarrassment and shame swallowed Ricky, and he fired the imaginary
gun at his humiliator.  But Bill Green's laughter did not stop, his
mocking did not cease, and he didnot die.

Ricky slowly turned and exited the room, leaving his father bellowing
obscenities.  The image of the gun firing at his father was blurred
by the tears that filled his eyes.  There would be no use in shooting
him.  He would never die, Ricky thought.  He is too strong to ever
die.

The mortified boy carefully laid his mother's dress across the double
bed, tossing the wig alongside the purple garment.  His mother
watched from a corner of the room.

Purple was Lou Green's favorite color.  Seeing the brightly colored
dress on the bed, Lou was reminded of another purple dress she owned
years before.

The beatings and verbal abuse had begun shortly after their marriage.
She tried to please Bill in every way, believing that her actions
directly affected his.  One evening she was beaming as she emerged
from the tiny bedroom of their Fort Worth apartment wearing the newly
purchased purple dress.  The garment flared around her legs as she
twirled.

"Where did you get that dress?"  Bill angrily asked.

Lou stopped her spinning, her smile turning to fear.  "I thought you
would like it, Bill."

"You look like a whore!"

Lou flinched as she saw Bill's hand raised toward her, But he did not
strike her.  Instead he ripped the dress from her body, leaving her
crying uncontrollably, dressed only in her bra and panties.

"Ricky, it's almost dinnertime," his mother said, retreating to the
kitchen.

Along with the usual meat and potatoes, boiled okra was on the menu.
Ricky hated the slimy green vegetable that was always sliding across
his plate.  Fried okra was okay, lightly breaded in corn meal and
cooked to a golden brown, but the sight of the rounded seeds erupting
from the oozy green pods made him gag.

He pushed the unwanted vegetable to the side of his plate and
consumed the rest of his dinner.  Fortunately, Lou Green was a good
cook.  Bill Green forced the children to clean their plates at each
meal, and only after all the food had been eaten could they drink the
iced tea placed at the head of their plates.  Ricky gulped his iced
tea, hoping his father would not notice that he had not eaten the
disgusting vegetable.

Just as he was ready to ask permission to be excused and take his
plate to the kitchen sink, Bill Green issued an order.  "Eat your
okra, Ricky!"

"But I don't like it, Daddy."

"I don't give a damn if you like it or not, eat it!"  Bill Green
commanded, reaching across the table and holding his fork over his
son's bony right hand like a dagger.  "Eat it!"

Ricky tensed with fear.  He hated okra but he knew he had to eat it
or suffer the consequences.  As Ricky grasped his fork in his hand,
his father stabbed his face with the points of the utensil.

Gingerly Ricky pierced a piece of the vegetable and reluctantly
raised it to his lips.  As it entered his mouth he choked.
attempting to swallow.  Pressing his lips firmly together, he tried
to force his stomach to accept the food he ardently disliked.  But
his body refused and the okra erupted from his mouth, along with the
remainder of his dinner.

Bill Green leaped to his feet, drew the belt from his trousers, and
cursed loudly as he slapped the boy's head repeatedly with the
leather strap.  "Eat it!  Eat that puke!"  his father screeched in a
frenzy.

"Stop, Bill," Lou pleaded, rising from her chair.  "Don't make him
eat that."

But Green ignored Lou's begging.  He shoved Ricky's face into the
plate of vomit and forced him to consume the discharge before
banishing him to his room.

Ricky plotted his final escape.  Unlike the episode of his early
youth, Ricky was now old enough to take care of himself.  He would
not fall prey to the likes of John again.

This time he would ask for help in executing his plan, and this time
the plot would be financed by Bill Green himself.

Ricky smiled at the thought of his father, the one he planned to
flee, paying for the trip ahead.

Christmas was close, and he would wait until after New Year's to get
away.  I'll spend one more Christmas with Mama, he thought.

That Christmas, Bill Green proudly arrived with a small motorcycle
for his children.  After driving around the Green property and down
the road a bit, the boys turned to other interests.  Green was angry
at Ricky's inattention to the prized gift.

"Get on that bike and ride until I tell you to get off," Green
angrily instructed.  Ricky straddled the seat and cranked the engine.
The Texas sun was beginning to lower in the western sky, and the
pleasant crisp afternoon air was turning cooler.

Ricky rode around the yard until the sunlight dimmed and darkness was
finally upon him.  The lightweight jacket he wore during the pleasant
December afternoon was too thin to shelter him from the coldness of
the dark evening.

He shivered, but he continued to ride as he fantasized of riding off,
never to return.

Hours after he had first mounted the leather seat of the cycle, Ricky
finally cut the motor, seeking the warmth of his home.  His hands
tingled from the bitterness of the cold night air.  He clutched the
mug of hot chocolate his mother offered, while listening to his
father laugh at his quivering body.

I'll be fifteen in two days, Ricky thought.  I won't spend another
Christmas or birthday with Bill Green.  Ricky no longer referred to
his father as "Daddy."  That title was reserved for some one who
loved and nurtured his children, not someone like Bill Green.

Two months later the plot to run away from home was complete.  Ricky
was ready to rid himself of his sadistic father for good.  Had he
considered an alternative plan perhaps he would not have left Boyd on
the bitterly cold February morning.  He would have waited for warmer
weather.  Once arrangements were made, though, there was no turning
back.

Ricky had asked his friend, Dan, to pick him up at Green's Gulf
station just two-and-a-half miles west of Boyd.  Bill Green
established the station, along with the adjacent marine and radiator
shops, in the early 1970s after years of planning and saving for his
own businesses.  Ricky was scheduled to open the gas station for his
father and run the operation for the day.  Snow flakes dusted his
hair as he fumbled with the key to the Green enterprise.  As he flung
open the door of the station, the bag of clothes he had tucked neatly
under his arm fell to the floor.  He didn't bother to pick them up,
but went straight to the secret location where his father stashed the
bank bag.  The money Bill Green left for the daily operation of his
business would finance his fifteen-year-old son's flight to freedom.

Startled by the hum of a car motor outside the open door, Ricky
breathed a heavy sigh of relief to see that it was Dan.  Quickly
grabbing the money from the bank bag, he swooped up the fallen
clothes and abandoned the station.  He closed and locked the door
behind him.

"I'll take you to Fort Worth," said Dan.  "Pete will meet you there
and take you on to Shreveport."

The tall pines of East Texas greeted Ricky as he awoke from a short
slumber.  The tree-lined stretch of Interstate Highway 20 East,
unlike the cluttered trailer house land scape of Boyd, reminded Ricky
of his mission.

"I can't wait to get to work in Shreveport," Ricky said.  He didn't
care if his friend was listening or not.

Shreveport appeared to offer many job possibilities, with the oil and
gas industry, coupled with a large lumber producing center.  The
heavily industrialized city loomed as an employment heaven to the
naive teenager.

"Just drop me right downtown," Ricky instructed.  "From there I can
get wherever I decide to go."

The teenaged driver pulled into Shreve's Square.  Rows of run-down
storefronts faced the town quadrangle, where the riverfront rose to
meet the streets of the Bayou City.

"Thanks.  I'll get out here," Ricky said as he slammed the car door.
"Be careful going back to Texas.  See you in Dallas some weekend."

Lugging the tattered sack that held his clothing, Ricky headed down
the street to investigate the city.  In the distance he spotted a
swinging bridge spanning railroad tracks that for years brought
visitors and commerce to the river inlet.  Ricky ambled closer to the
framework, unaware of the dangers that lurked beneath the bridge.

Out of the dark shadows cast by the suspended structure, a tall, thin
man appeared.  "What you doing' here, kid?"  His shaggy mustache
masked his lips as he spoke.

"Nothin', just looking' around," Ricky answered.

"What you got in the sack?"

"just clothes."

"Sure," the man smirked, grabbing the bag from the young man's hands.

"Give 'em back," yelled Ricky.

The man's curly blond hair framed his rugged features.

Swiftly he slapped Ricky, knocking him to the ground.

The stranger continued to strike him with his open hand, kicking
Ricky as he rolled on the bare ground to protect himself from the
attack.

The man dropped to his knees, socking the teen with his closed fist
in the center of his back and the side of his head.

"Stop, you son-of-a-bitch," Ricky screamed.

The beating only intensified.  The larger, older man rolled Ricky on
his back, yanking at his jeans.

"Stop!  Goddamn it, stop!"  Ricky pulled at his pants while trying to
protect his face from the bruising blows.

"Leave me alone!"

Ricky's right eye swelled, obscuring his vision.  His arms ached from
the repeated blows.

How can I get him off of me?  Ricky continued to fight.  Why doesn't
someone help me?  His screams went Out into the night unheard.

The man laughed at the youth, forcibly rolling him on his stomach.
Dirt filled Ricky's open mouth.  His saliva puddled in the soil
encircling his face.  The assailant yanked Ricky's jeans down to his
knees.  Pinning him to the barren ground beneath the railroad bridge,
the man thrust his penis into the boy's rectum.

Oh God, not again, Ricky thought.  Don't let this happen to me again.

"Awecee," Ricky's scream pierced the darkness.  "You bastard!"

The strained breathing of the man ceased as he drew in one long, deep
breath, holding it until the moment of ejaculation.  His limp body
slumped over his victim's.  Ricky turned his face away, nauseated by
the pungent alcohol drenched breath of his attacker.

Tears swelled in Ricky's eyes as he buried his face into the dirt,
his fingers digging into the hard, cold ground.

Another John, he thought.  This man is just like John.  He remained,
seething, on the ground, his bare bottom exposed to the cold night
air.  The unidentified man stood to walk away.

Ricky shook with anger, listening to the faint laughter of his
assailant.  The boy sprang to his feet, quickly fastened his jeans,
and seizing a large, wooden stick within his grasp, his anger turned
to rage.  Wielding the stick over his head with both hands, Ricky
frantically ran toward the departing figure.

The man turned just in time to see the blurred wooden staff crashing
down toward him.  He dropped to the ground, rolling into a tightly
compact ball, just like the -armadillos Ricky once pounded for
pleasure.

The storm of anger inside the boy swelled with the man's frantic
cries for mercy.  Ricky's rage intensified with each stroke of the
slat against his victim's flesh.  The retaliation was out of control.

The battered rapist lay motionless at Ricky's feet, blood rushing
around his head.  The bloody instrument of retribution lay beside him.

Ricky gathered his clothing and walked back toward Shreve's Square,
not knowing if the man was dead or alive, not caring.  Beaten and
bruised, he stumbled into a restaurant/bar.

"What happened to you, kid?"  asked the man behind the bar.  "Let's
get you cleaned up."  He helped Ricky to the bathroom where Ricky
washed before accepting the man's offer of a cold beer.

The place appeared to be like any other bar in any run-down section
of any large town.  Ricky failed to notice that the clientele was all
male, or that many of them seemed more than just friends.  The man
behind the bar was kind.

That was all Ricky needed right now, just someone to be friend him.

"Where you stayin', boy?"  asked the bartender; who later explained
that he owned the Little Cafe.

"I don't have no place yet."

"Well, you can stay here and work for me.  You can bus tables and
wash some dishes.  How about it?"

Ricky had no other options at the moment.  "Sure, sounds good."

Ricky Lee Green moved in with the homosexual owner of the bar in
Shreve's Square.  Unlike his initial encounters with John or the man
under the bridge, this gay man was both kind and gentle.  The
kindness of this man and his violent experiences muddled Ricky's
judgment of homosexuals.

"I hate homos," Ricky told his boss.  "They are always looking at me
funny."

"They just like what they see," his new friend smirked.  "Use it,
kid."

Soon Ricky was turning tricks with the bar's gay patrons.  He'd
hustle for a buck here and a buck there, using his young developing
body for the pleasure of the homosexuals.  Alcohol became his escape
from reality, and Ricky quickly became addicted, just as he had to
the cigarettes he chain-smoked.

Ricky ardently denied accusations of homosexuality.  Turning tricks
was strictly business.  He had certain rules of conduct he followed
during the course of that business.

He allowed his patrons to go down on him and give him head, but he
never returned the gesture unless forced into a situation beyond his
control.  Likewise, he entered the gay men rectally, but never
permitted them to enter him.

In Ricky's young mind these rules separated him from the homosexuals
he serviced.  He earned good money turning tricks.  It allowed him
the freedom to return to Dallas often, where he secured a fake
identification card, admitting him into adult clubs.  It also
permitted him to buy his favorite Budweiser.

A waitress named Mary Ann, was among the many friends he made.  The
black Nova hot rod she drove made her even more desirable to
fifteen-year-old Ricky.

"I'm gonna leave my car here for the weekend," Mary Ann said, parking
the Nova behind the restaurant one Friday evening.  Casually tossing
the keys under the floor mat of the front seat, Mary Ann kissed Ricky
on the cheek.  She headed off with her friends.  "See you Monday."

Ricky drank most of the day.  Intoxicated and bored, he slipped
behind the wheel of the black Nova, backing the car out of the
parking lot.  He pushed the accelerator to the floor; joyriding up
and down the streets of Shreveport like a kid playing bumper cars at
a carnival.  Ricky leaned into a city block curve a bit too fast,
losing control.  The stolen car crashed through a cyclone fence,
smashing into a tree.

Disoriented, Ricky climbed out of the car.  Staggering from the scene
of the accident, he rapidly gained composure and began to run.  He
didn't stop running until he returned to the safety of his apartment
and closed the door securely behind him.  Ricky fell exhausted across
his bed and slept the remainder of the night.

"Ricky!"  The voice of one of Ricky's friends sounded from behind the
locked door of his apartment.  "Ricky, are you all right?"  The
pounding on the wooden door beat in his head like a torn-torn.

Ricky slowly opened the door.  "What's the matter?"

"Man, somebody stole Mary Ann's car last night, and they think it was
you."

"I didn't do it."

"Are you hurt anywhere?"

"No," Ricky lied.  His head throbbed.

"Come with us.  We'll put you some place the police won't find you."

Ricky hastily snatched clothes from the bureau drawer, then followed
his friends to a motel where he hid Out for the next three weeks.
His friends told investigating police officers Ricky had left for
Houston the night before the incident, but the cops were persistent,
returning three times to question them concerning when he would
return to the Bayou City.

"Hello, Officer, my name is Ricky Green.  I understand you want to
talk to me?"

"Yeah, kid.  Where you been?"

"I'm still in Houston," Ricky said over the Shreveport motel phone.
"I've been here for more than two weeks.  My friends said you were
looking' for me.  What's up?"

The investigator on the other end of the line explained the stolen
car, the accident, and Mary Ann's accusations.

"That girl is a liar and a whore.  I was screwin' her all the time
when I was in Shreveport."

"That's kinda what I thought was going' on."

"Well, I didn't steal her car."

Ricky Green never heard from the Shreveport police concerning the
incident again.  He freely roamed the streets of the city,
frequenting the bars and porno houses in the seedier part of town.
His alcohol consumption increased, along with the number of tricks he
scored.

Ricky charmed young girls to his apartment, or met them in their
motel rooms -- all of them were one-night stands.

Then he met Cindy.

Cindy was hitchhiking cross-country, hustling for money, often
inducing male companions to share her adventures.  She easily
convinced Ricky to join her on the road.  The duo made their way from
Louisiana to Mississippi, then on into Georgia where the driver of an
eighteen-wheel rig picked them up.  Cindy slept with the potbellied
driver in the cramped quarters of his sleeper-cab in exchange for two
airline tickets to Florida.

After landing in Tampa, Ricky and Cindy caught a ride across the
peninsula to Daytona Beach.  They frolicked along the beaches, the
waves lapping over the bottoms of their rolled up blue jeans.  Ricky
fell exhausted on the wet sand beside Cindy.  She passed him a joint.
Inhaling deeply, Ricky stared at the moon sparkling upon the waters
of the Atlantic Ocean.

This is pcp, Ricky thought.  It is so peaceful here.  Bill Green cant
do this for me.  Ricky and Cindy enjoyed sex on the sand to the
rhythm of the waves rolling on the shore.

"Ricky, its two A.M."  Cindy nudged Ricky, who had fallen asleep.
"Let's get going."

The duo was off again, back to Georgia, on to Nashville, and finally
making their way to Wakennie, Kansas.

Ricky liked Wakennie and the old friend of Cindy's whom they stayed
with there, but Cindy nagged him to head West to the bright lights
and sandy beaches of sunny California.  Ricky was content to spend
his spring in the sprawling wheat fields of Kansas.

"Ricky, why don't you go on wheat harvest with us?  You can work on
the combine," one of Cindy's friends asked.

"I've never been on a wheat harvest.  I don't know nothin' about
combines."

"Nothin' to it, Rick.  I'll teach you all you need to know."

Soon Ricky Green was off to North Dakota with his new Kansas friends
to harvest wheat.  He was the happiest he had ever been, working
shoulder to shoulder with the best people he had ever known.  But two
months later, the harvest completed, he was back in Wakennie, bored
with his new job of stringing wire on utility poles.

He had been desperate for alcohol during the wheat harvest and once
back in Kansas, Ricky revived his drinking.  He was bored with the
wholesome atmosphere of the small town.  He needed excitement.

"Damn!  Start, you son-of-a-bitch," Ricky screamed.  The truck he
picked to take for a joyride died as he had pulled the standard shift
in reverse.  "Come on!"

Ricky frantically turned the ignition key repeatedly, with no success.

The slam of a screen door rang in Ricky's ears.  Jerking his head in
the direction of the house adjoining the car port, he saw the blur of
a man jumping from the porch with a shotgun clutched tightly in his
hands.

Ricky bolted from the truck.  The owner took aim, firing in his
direction.  Ricky dove over a large dirt mound to escape the flying
buckshot.  He lay still on the cool earth, panting.  The only other
sound breaching the stillness of the early morning was chirping
crickets.

Slowly Ricky raised his head to peer over the mound of dirt.  He
searched for his would-be assailant.  Nowhere in sight.  Rising to
make his way to the adjoining barn, Ricky breathed a sigh of relief.

The teenager cautiously peeked around the corner of the wooden
structure.  His eyes widened as he gasped for air; uttering a
muffled, "Shit."  Only a few feet in front of him was the old man,
shotgun in hand.  Ricky turned, darting quickly toward the street.

Boom!  The sound of the shotgun rang in his ear.  The man continued
the chase.  The relentless pursuer was quick, quicker than the
intoxicated youth.  Crouching be hind a row of shrubbery six blocks
from the scene of the attempted auto theft, Ricky laboriously sucked
air into his nicotine-filled lungs.

Ricky watched the man stop in front of the shrubs, scanning the area
for him.  Quickly the man reached through the bushes, grabbing Ricky
by the shirt.  He pulled him through the foliage.  Ricky kicked his
intended victim in the crotch.  The gun crashed to the ground as the
man clutched his aching genitals.  Ricky sprinted between the houses
that lined the quiet street, with the man continuing his pursuit.

Falling to the ground, Ricky rolled beneath the porch of a
neighboring house.  He lowered his head, exhausted from the chase.
This old man is killing me, he thought to him self.

Silently the man moved to the edge of the porch where Ricky sought
protection.  The man jerked Ricky from beneath the porch, pulling the
kicking, screaming youth to his feet.  The aroma of stale beer on the
breath of the young thief overpowered him.  He shook his head as he
turned his frowning face away.

Ricky unexpectedly snatched the gun from the angry victim, striking
him with the barrel.  He sprinted for safety.

"I'm gonna die.  I can't keep on," Ricky muttered as he sought refuge
behind a single, large, sprawling bush.

This time the would-be victim would not be denied.  He seized Ricky
firmly, shouting, "Police!  Police!"

As Ricky's luck would have it, a local patrol car was rolling past
just as the man summoned help.  Uniformed officers promptly arrested
the teen, taking him to jail.  They locked him up for three days.

"Come on kid, it's time to go," announced the jailer.

Ricky walked out of the holding cell toward his mother and father,
who were signing papers at the front desk.

Oh shit!  Ricky thought.  Jail was better than going home with his
father.  Solemnly he followed his parents to the car.

Bill Green did not make an issue of his son's incarceration, just as
he had not mentioned Ricky's abrupt departure nine months earlier.
Ricky's dad sat silently behind the wheel of his car, jaw rigid and
eyes fixed on the highway ahead.  Neither Lou nor Ricky spoke during
the six hundred-mile ride home.

Back in Texas Ricky reentered high school, repeating the ninth grade
and failing again.  Ricky liked school, enjoying the few hours of
freedom from his father.  Spelling was his favorite subject, but he
had difficulty concentrating.  He often gazed out of the open wood
framed windows to the grassy fields beyond, dreaming of being
somebody.  Maybe A fireman.  A policeman.  No, I'll be president.

"Hey, Ricky, let's cut class," Perry said.

Bored with school, Ricky, Perry, and two friends slipped out the door
of the schoolhouse.  The foursome drank a couple of cases of beer and
smoked a lot of weed before someone suggested they rob some houses.
An hour later the youths had broken into four Boyd residences,
stealing guns at each location.

Perry Green drove his 1966 yellow Chevy Impala down the back roads of
Wise County with Ricky, Mike, and Harrison firing the stolen guns at
passing trees.  Slowly Perry turned the car onto the driveway of a
classmate.

Parking the car at the end of the drive, Perry cautiously approached
the front door.

Perry banged on the door.

"No one's home.  Come on, guys," Perry yelled.

Inside the two-story house, Ricky was captivated by a squawking
parrot.  Smiling as he approached the cage, Ricky began to talk to
the vocal bird.

"My name's Ricky.  My name's Ricky," he repeated to the captive
parrot.  "What's your name?"

He was having fun talking to the chanting bird.

"Ricky did it.  Ricky did it," the bird spoke clearly.

"What the hell?  You damn bird!"  Ricky screamed.

"Ricky did it.  Ricky did it."  the bird repeated.

Ricky yanked open the parrot's metal cage door.  He thrust his hand
around the neck of the bird that continued to croak, "Ricky did it.
Ricky did it."

He squeezed the bird until there was no life remaining in the
feathered informant.  Then he walked out the front door to the
chain-link fence separating the well-kept yard from the natural
pasture beyond, and repeatedly slammed the parrot against the fence
until its head lay mangled on the ground beside it.  He ran to the
car where Perry, Mike, and Harrison waited.  They sped away.

Fearful that the gunfire had drawn attention to their crimes, the
boys hid the stolen pistols under the Trinity River Bridge on Highway
730 near Decatur.

Perry dropped Mike and Harrison off in front of the high school just
as the final bell rang.  He and Ricky headed home.

Ricky sat alone at home with his mother while Perry accompanied their
father to make an estimate on a fiberglass job.

"Ricky!  Ricky Green!  Come on out here, boy," A voice came from the
front gate of the Green home.

"Go let Sheriff Ramsey in, Ricky.  Seems he wants to talk to you,"
Lou said.

My God, what does he want?  Ricky nervously swung open the fence
gate.  The sheriff stepped inside.

"Son, those the shoes you wore today?"  Ramsey asked.

He stared at the tennis shoes on Ricky's feet.

"No," Ricky lied.  "Why?"

"Your mom home?  Your daddy home?"

"Daddy's in Dallas.  Mom's inside."

"I gotta talk to her," Ramsey said as he walked toward the house.

Ricky sat quietly while Sheriff Rook Ramsey told his mother about the
Boyd burglaries.  Ricky was ashamed.

His mother's face showed the pain of humiliation caused «	by her sons.

"Ricky, were you in school today?"  his mother asked.

"Yes, ma'am."  Ricky could not hurt his mother any more.  He could
not tell her the truth.

"Let's just call the principal and find out," said Ramsey.

"No.  I wasn't in school today."  Ricky's eyes avoided his mother's
painful gaze.

"Did you break into houses today, Ricky?"  The twinge in his mother's
voice shot through him like the bullets he riddled into the trees
along Highway 730.

"Harrison spilled the beans.  He told us you were with him when the
houses were hit," Ramsey said.

Goddamn that Harrison!  Now I'm in a fix!

The four boys received six months' probation for their first-time
offense.  Ricky and Perry's fears of their father's retaliation over
the incident were unfounded.  All he did was curse the boys for their
stupidity -- not for committing the offense, but for being caught.

Once Ricky reached his sixteenth birthday, school officials could no
longer force him to attend classes.  He determined he would not
return for a third attempt at the ninth grade.  Instead, he decided
he would work for his father, cruise the back roads near Boyd, and
just hang out.  Ricky had learned in Shreveport how to make extra
cash, and he knew Calhoun Street in Fort Worth would offer many
opportunities to turn a trick or two.

The undereducated teen rationalized that he could take whatever Bill
Green dished Out.  As long as he had money to buy liquor and a few
joints, and could pick up a woman now and then, he would be fine.


Love Lost

Twenty-year-old Ricky Green sat silently across the room in Green's
Steak House, intently watching each move of the waitress's tall,
slender body as she wiped the sticky Formica tables.  Food crumbs
floated to the floor like pollen blown by the fresh spring breeze
outside.

The restaurant was adjacent to Green's Radiator Shop, where Ricky
worked.  Bill Green first built a small radiator shop and fiberglass
repair building in 1977.  As business prospered, Green expanded his
radiator operation and added a restaurant and gas station.

The compound of buildings, located two-and-a-half miles west of Boyd
on State Highway 114, earned Green the reputation as a successful,
although tyrannical, businessman.

Mary Francis Irene Collett Clifton Smith had lived a hard life.  In
Texas terms, she would have been described as "havin' been rode hard
and put up wet."  Ricky found the five-foot eight-inch, 110 pound
waitress extremely attractive.  Mary was five years Ricky's senior.
The age difference and her obvious experience excited him.  He smiled
as she wiped her brow, tossing her sandy-blond locks away from her
prematurely lined face.

Mary was working in Boyd to escape the smoky bar rooms of Fort Worth.
The White Elephant and Filthy McNasty's of Cowtown were filled with
groping, obnoxious cowboys who pawed at her breasts and grabbed her
ass.  They refused to take no for an answer.  She had escaped to the
peaceful serenity of small-town life in Boyd, Texas.

Shyly, Ricky avoided asking Mary for a date during his daily visits
with her at Green's restaurant.  Mary had been living with her
common-law husband David Smith for the past five years and Ricky
feared rejection.

For two months Ricky fantasized about Mary's long, lean legs wrapped
around him.  All the females he had been with were young girls
agreeing to a quick one night stand.

"David drinks too much," Mary complained to Ricky, "and when he does
he treats me bad.  I'm really scared to be around him," she confided.

The more she complained of her abusive relationship, the more Ricky
was drawn to the attractive, unhappy waitress.  "You want to go out
sometime?"  he asked.

"Sure."

Their first date began with dinner and drinks and ended in the
bedroom of Ricky's rented trailer.  Mary gently twirled his silken
tufts of chest and pubic hair as she sighed with satisfaction.  He
lovingly stroked the butterfly tattoo on her left breast with his
tongue.  Mary moaned contentedly.  They made love all night.  Mary
loved sex as much as Ricky.

"Why don't you move in with me?"  Ricky asked.  He was ready to
settle down, have a regular sex life with a permanent housemate.  He
wanted to share his life with Mary and her seven-year-old son James.

Mary's older daughter, Teresa, lived with her ex mother-in-law.  A
baby fathered by David Smith had been given up for adoption.

"I've got David's truck and all my stuff is at his place," she said.
"Someone can come get his truck."

"Ask Daddy if you can get off work and let's take David's pickup back
to his house in Balsora."  Ricky preferred to drive Mary to the tiny
town twenty miles west of Boyd, rather than depend on one of David's
friends to pick up the vehicle.  Perhaps they would warn Smith of
Mary's departure.

Within minutes Mary appeared at the front door of Ricky's trailer.
"I'm ready.  Let's go get my stuff," she said.

Mary steered David's pickup down the long narrow driveway of the
house in Balsora.  Ricky drove his truck past the residence,
squealing his tires in a U-turn a few hundred yards away.  He parked
at the end of the inlet and waited.  Before long, Mary walked down
the paved pathway toward the waiting pickup.  Struggling with her
belongings, she plopped onto the seat beside him and smiled, "Let's
go home."

David Smith began to show up at Green's Steak House soon after Mary
moved out.  Sitting in a booth near the kitchen, he taunted Mary each
time she emerged through the swinging doors.  Bill Green was not a
man to turn away paying customers, and he ignored Smith's harassment
of his employee.  After six weeks, Smith's persistence paid off.
Mary agreed to go back to David.

Ricky was angry that Mary had chosen David.  If she was so scared of
David Smith, why did she go back to him?  Ricky asked himself.  He
enjoyed her steady companion ship, the warmth she brought to his bed
each night.  The thought of losing that passionate sense of belonging
to someone frightened him.  He tossed a six-pack of Bud onto the seat
of his pickup and started toward Fort Worth.  He needed time to
think.  Driving and drinking usually helped him forget his problems.

But his anger increased with every beer he drank and every mile he
drove east on Jacksboro Highway.  Suddenly he recognized Smith's
truck parked in the lot of Garcia's Restaurant.  Ricky drove on,
stopping at Casino Beach.  From the secure vantage point across from
Garcia's, he drank beer and watched the vacant truck.

Minutes later David emerged from the Mexican restaurant alone.  He
had spotted Ricky from his window seat inside the building.  Slowly
David drove his truck to the back of the cafe.  Mary quickly leaped
into the cab huddling close beside him.

Ricky was enraged, his face red from the fury that boiled within him.
How could she leave me and go back to that jerk?  Ricky asked
himself.  He started his engine, slammed the truck into drive, and
sped toward Garcia's parking area.

As David and Mary were turning onto Jacksboro Highway, Ricky pulled
into the parking lot beside them

His long middle finger was extended in the air.  The chase was on,
with Ricky in hot pursuit of David and Mary down the narrow streets
of Fort Worth's northside.

"I'll run them off the fuckin' road," he said aloud.  Soon he tired
of the chase.  To hell with them.  I'd rather get drunk.

Ricky stopped at a convenience store to buy another six pack of Bud,
then retired to the solitude of Casino Beach to get smashed.

Only days later Mary was back at Ricky's trailer, ready to resume the
relationship she had abandoned.

"Make up your mind who you want," Ricky demanded.

"I want to be with you."

Ricky, Mary, and James shared the cramped living quarters of the
small trailer house across the street from Bill Green's business
compound.  It was a family affair, with Mary waitressing at the
restaurant and occasionally helping out in the marine fiberglass
shop, while Ricky operated Green's Radiator Shop #2 in nearby
Bridgeport.  Perry also worked in the fiberglass division of his
father's operation where the Greens repaired boats, as well as built
new ones.  Green had worked hard to obtain contracts for installing
gas tanks in new cars for a major car maker, also part of the
fiberglass division.  The boys' uncle, Charles Pardue, was an honest
hard-working employee in all of Green's dealings, and Lou kept books
on each of Bill's businesses.  But Bill Green was the undisputed
owner and boss of all the Green enterprises.

Bill Green ran it all with an iron hand that was levied with
intimidation, humiliation, and threats.  Those employees who could
ignore his verbal assaults remained in his employment.  Those who
could not abruptly left.

"I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing," Green yelled at
an employee who had not performed to is satisfaction.  "You stupid
mother fucker!"

Following Green's departure from the shop, the man stared after him.
"I ain't gonna work for that man anymore."  He put away his tools.

Ricky chuckled.  "I don't blame you, man.  He is crazy."

The steady turnover of employees was not only a result of verbal
assaults; physical abuse was common place.

Bill Green walked past Mary as she tediously worked in the fiberglass
shop one afternoon.  Bending over the table with outstretched arms,
she was a vulnerable target.  Quietly Bill Green moved in closely
behind the shapely young woman.  He liked Mary for the very reasons
his wife Lou disliked her.  Both of Ricky's parents considered Mary a
slut, and Mary's flirting with customers irritated Lou.

"She should work harder and talk less," Lou commented.  But it was
the tight-fitting jeans and the way Bill gawked at the shapely
twenty-five-year-old that disturbed Lou the most.

Striking with the speed of a rattlesnake, Bill Green thrust his index
finger forward into her crotch, raking it along the mid-seam of her
jeans.

His laughter filled the interior of the building as Mary jumped,
startled by the surprise invasion.  She spun around to face the
chuckling Green.  Her stern gaze told him she was furious.  But Bill
Green only laughed.  He enjoyed his "pranks."  She had not been the
first employee to be violated in this manner.  It was a regular
occurrence with all female workers, as well as a few of the men.
Employees who objected to Green's childish "pranks" quit their jobs.
Mary was among those who retreated.

For four years the relationship between Mary and Ricky was the
closest he had to a normal family.  But Mary became disgruntled.  She
wanted a husband.

Ricky didn't care much one way or the other because he was happy with
the relationship.  He felt that Mary's only reason for wanting to
make it legal was to gain access to his credit cards, a small price
for the pleasures she provided.  Mary was a good cook, kept a clean
house and was a loving mother to James.  If she wanted to be married,
he would marry her.

Ricky and Mary Francis stood in the immaculate living room of
Elizabeth Carpenter, Boyd's Justice of the Peace on February 18,
1984.  Both dressed in jeans, Western shirts, and boots, the couple
was married in a brief marriage ceremony void of music, flowers, or
family.  Their only witness was Carpenter's thirteen-year-old
daughter.  Immediately following the formality, the newlyweds
retreated to the bedroom of the tiny trailer for the marriage's
consummation.  They made love the remainder of the day and throughout
the night.

Mary's sexual appetite led Ricky to brag to his friends, "She's just
got to have it."

Ricky enjoyed the pleasures of Mary's overactive sex drive, but
jealousy devoured him.  "I don't want you to screw around without me
knowing it," Ricky told Mary.

"If you tell me what you are going to do, it won't make me jealous.
Maybe I can join in," he smiled.  But Ricky suspected that Mary
sought sexual satisfaction from others.

Ricky was unhappy.  His alcohol consumption increased.  He thought
marriage would be the answer to his search for happiness, but he was
wrong.  He spent hours each night riding along the back roads of Wise
and Tarrant counties, stopping along lake shorelines or deserted
country roads lined with clumps of Texas live oak trees.  He felt
free when he was alone.  Free of Bill Green.  For the first time in
his life he was free to do whatever he wanted to do.

The roadways also offered the companionship Ricky was seeking.  He
met a variety of people wandering the roads, some looking for
solitary refuge, others looking for friendly fellowship.  Ricky
easily made friends, many becoming sexual conquests.  But two months
after his marriage of convenience to Mary, he was bored.

Ricky sat idly in the radiator/muffler shop he managed in Bridgeport.
He yearned for excitement.  Ricky picked up the phone, making random
calls to Bridgeport residents.  Most of the recipients of his calls
hung up immediately: Then he happened to connect with Connie McKeever.

"Hello," seventeen-year-old Connie said.

"Who is this?"  Ricky asked.

"This is Connie.  Who is this?"

This girl is friendly.  I think she wants to talk, thought Ricky.
"Hi, Connie.  Do you want to screw?  I want some pussy.  I'll be
right there."  Ricky felt a wave of excitement flood his body as he
spoke the words.

Connie McKeever slammed the phone down in the cradle.

Damn.  I scared her.  I shouldn't be doing this.  Ricky resisted the
urge to make more phone calls until the itch for excitement again
overpowered him.

After Connie McKeever returned home from school late one afternoon a
week later, Ricky Green telephoned the McKeever residence again.

"I've been watching you.  I know you are wearing a blue dress today.
You sure look pretty.  I want some pussy.  It won't be long before
we're together, and I want you to suck my dick."

Ricky had not been watching Connie as he professed.  He had
visualized in his mind Connie wearing his favorite color, fantasized
about them being together.  Her voice was so sweet, and each time she
answered the phone her tone seemed to beckon him to come to her.

The excitement he felt while talking to Connie was worth the guilt he
felt each time he hung up from their conversations.

In the meantime, Connie McKeever began to change her life-style.  She
asked friends to drive her to school and back home again in the
afternoons.  She declined invitations to eat lunch at local teen
hangouts and opted instead to eat in the high school's snack bar.
The calls continued, three to five per day.  Connie's voice became
anxious.  Each time Ricky nervously hung up the phone from talking to
Connie he thought, I've got to stop doing this before I get caught.

The McKeevers, concerned for their daughter's well being, agreed to
let police put a tap on their phone.  They hoped the caller would
make contact, and the call would be traceable.

Ricky Green knew that the phone calls he was making to Connie
McKeever were wrong.  He knew from the fear in her voice that the
calls were upsetting Connie, and he was sure they were probably
upsetting her family as well.  But he continued calling her from the
Green company telephone.  He was bored.  The calls were exciting,
sexually stimulating.  Talking to Connie provided a natural high.

I better stop before they put a tap on the phone, Ricky thought, but
he needed to make one more call.  I have three minutes to talk to
Connie before they can trace the call.  I'll tell her I'm sorry, then
get off the line.  Ricky's knowledge of phone taps had been acquired
from the numerous cop shows he watched on television.  He really
didn't know how they worked or how long he could talk to Connie
before the call could be traceable.

"Connie, I'm the guy who has been calling you.  I wanted to
apologize, and I hope you will forgive me."

Ricky immediately knew something was wrong.  A buzzing noise could be
heard on the line.  Damn, they've set the tap.  He hung up the shop
phone, then lifted the receiver.  No dial tone.  This is it.  The
cops will be here in a few minutes.  He sat and waited.

Within five minutes, the Bridgeport police were at Green's Bridgeport
shop.  "Hi, Ricky.  You been making any phone calls?"

"No.  Some guy in a van was in just a little while ago.  He used the
phone," Ricky lied.

One of the cops walked to the phone, lifted the receiver, and said,
"Okay, clear it."

Nervously Ricky paced the shop floor.

"What did the man in the van look like, Ricky?"

"I don't remember him much, just some guy."

"I don't think there was anybody in here using that phone.  I think
you been making calls to some little girl."

Ricky was frightened.  What'll happen if I keep on lyin'?

Ricky confessed to the harassing calls.  He claimed that he said
nothing out of line, that he had made many calls to many different
numbers.  "I was just bored," he told the officers.  but things could
be worse.  Maybe if I fess up they'll be friendly.

Bridgeport police left the radiator shop, "We'll be in touch."

Ricky was scared, not of the police, but of what Bill might do to him
when he found out about the calls.  He felt like a small boy again,
awaiting punishment from his father.  Would he use the fiberglass
paddle with holes drilled in it, the rubber hose, or the electric
cord?  Would he slap him around while calling him unspeakable names?
Ricky remained silent, not confiding even in Mary.  He hoped the
entire episode would just disappear, that his father would not hear
about his offense.  After a month he thought perhaps the incident had
been forgotten.  Until officers again dropped by the radiator shop.

Ricky's body tensed at the sight of the uniformed cops.  He wiped
grease from his hands with a red rag, then fanned the air of solder
smoke as he greeted the familiar policemen.  "Hi, guys.  What's up?"
he said, hoping that they were there to inquire about the patrol car
he was working on and not the Connie McKeever affair.

"Ricky, you'll have to come down and turn yourself in for making
those harassing phone calls."

"Okay.  I'll be in tomorrow morning."  Ricky hung his head and
resumed work on the Bridgeport police car parked in the garage bay.

How was he going to tell Mary?  How on earth was he going to tell
Bill Green that he would be arrested the following morning?  Ricky
knew that his father would be mad that the calls were made from the
shop during working hours.  Bill Green would not be concerned about
him, only worried about bad publicity for the business.

Ricky got drunk that night, in an attempt to drown out the reality of
his mistake.  He didn't want to go home, he didn't want to tell Mary
the story behind his trouble with the law.  He parked on the hill
overlooking his trailer house, listened to the truck radio, and
continued to get drunk.  How am I going to get out of this without
telling Bill Green?  Maybe I should just kill myself he thought.

Yeah, that's the only way to get out of this.  Bill Green is really
going to be pissed off If I don't kill myself.  Bill Green
will probably do it for me.

Ricky was hours late getting home from work.  Mary walked out the
front door, hoping to see Ricky's truck heading toward the trailer,
but there were no headlights visible in the darkness of the early
morning.  The sounds of country music drifted from the hill above the
trailer.

The fragrance of Texas wildflowers filled the air as she climbed the
soft, grass-covered incline to find Ricky crying in the cab of his
pickup.

"What's happened?"  she asked.

Ricky confided the whole story of the phone calls and his visit from
the Bridgeport Police.  Mary seemed surprised, but said nothing.

"What am I going to tell Bill Green?"  Ricky cried.

Fear and frustration overcame him, and he sobbed uncontrollably.

Mary took her young husband in her arms, stroking his hair,
reassuring him.  "It will be all right.  Don't worry.  Don't worry,
Ricky," she said calmly.

Mary convinced him they had to tell Bill the truth as soon as they
got back to the trailer.  Ricky was scheduled to open the shop the
next morning, and Bill would have to make other arrangements.

Reluctantly, Ricky phoned his father.  As predicted, Bill Green was
furious with his son.

"Why did you wait so long to tell me?"  Bill Green demanded.  "Why
did you do it?  What the hell for, Ricky?  Did you threaten that
girl?"  The anger in Green's voice made Ricky glad he had telephoned
his father, and was not face-to-face with him.

The following morning Mary drove Ricky to the Bridgeport Police
Department.  He was booked on telephone harassment charges, then
transferred to the Wise County Jail.

The small county jail held twenty-five prisoners.

Ricky entered the tiny, dingy booking area, was fingerprinted,
photographed, and placed in the lone holding cell.

"Aren't you one of the Green boys?"  Sheriff Ramsey asked.

"Yes, sir."

"What's he charged with?"  Ramsey inquired of one of his deputies.

"Telephone harassment," the deputy answered.

"Oh, release him on his own recognizance," the sheriff instructed,
leaving the room.

Within a few minutes the sheriff returned.  "Who'd he harass?"

"A seventeen-year-old girl."

Glaring at Ricky, the sheriff changed his instructions, "Set a five
hundred dollar bond."

Ricky waited in the Wise County Jail overnight until Mary borrowed
the five hundred dollars from Bill Green, promising to repay the debt
as soon as possible.  The following morning Mary paid Ricky's bond.
He was sentenced to six months' probation.

"Why did you do it, Ricky?"  Mary asked after arriving at their
trailer.  She was confused.  Their sex life seemed mutually
satisfying.  Why would her husband call a teenager and talk dirty?

"Bored, just bored."

Ricky didn't know why he had telephoned Connie McKeever.  It just
seemed like a fun thing to do at the time.

Everything in Ricky Green's life was deceptively quiet.  There was a
restlessness inside him.  His alcohol consumption increased, and his
hours spent driving the roads of Wise County extended.

Ricky's problems with alcohol began when he was a young boy.

"Let's get these boys drunk and see what they'll do," Bill Green said
to his brother, handing the liquor bottle to Ricky.  Once Perry and
Ricky had consumed enough liquor to affect their equilibrium, Bill
Green would make them fight.  Perry, the oldest and largest of the
boys, always won.

Ricky hated the fistfights his father forced him to participate in,
but he liked the liquor.

"I don't see why you're doing' that," Lou screamed at Bill.

"It ain't hurting' nothin'."

"You're gonna make them just like my daddy!"

By the time Ricky reached his fourteenth birthday, he was very much
like his alcoholic grandfather.  Sneaking beer from Bill Green's
refrigerator, he and his best friend would drink the brews behind the
junior high school building in Springtown, Texas.  Ricky craved the
taste of beer.

Six months after Ricky's arrest for telephone harassment, something
inside him snapped.

Mary Francis Green arrived at the modest trailer house, exhausted
from a hard day's work.  "Hi, Ricky," she greeted her husband.  Ricky
was alone.  Her son, James, was at his father's house for the night.

"Come here and sit on my lap.  I have something to tell you."
Ricky's speech was slurred.  His breath reeked of alcohol.

Cautiously Mary moved toward her husband of eight months.  She gently
sat on his lap, resting her hands on her knees.

Ricky wrapped one strong arm around Mary.  Reaching under the cushion
of the sofa with the opposite hand, he drew out a large knife.

"Get undressed!"  he commanded.

Mary shuddered as she stepped out of her snugjeans.

Her blouse dropped to the floor, followed by her bra and panties.
She anxiously stood naked before her husband, trembling.

"Get on the floor."

Mary lay on the carpeted floor, Ricky sitting on top of her.  He
moved the cold, steel-edged blade along her inner thigh, up to her
vagina.  The blade rested there momentarily.  Mary's dark brown eyes
widened with fear.

Running the knife along the curves of her lean body, Ricky whispered
in her ear, "I don't know why you stay with me."  The knife was cold
against her breast.  She drew a deep breath as Ricky flipped the end
of her nipples with the sharp tip of the blade.

"You're too good for me, Mary," he moaned.  His booze-tainted breath
turned her stomach.  She moved her face away from his.

Ricky continued to run the knife across her pale skin, constantly
apologizing.  His speech became incoherent.

Ricky passed out, his weight pinning Mary to the floor.

Several hours after the intimidation began, about 2:30 A.M., Mary
scooted her body from beneath her husband.  She hurriedly packed her
things and fled in Ricky's car.

Ricky awoke hours later, dazed from the alcohol he had ingested.  "My
God," he said aloud, looking at his naked body leaning against the
sofa and the knife resting on the floor beside him.  "What have I
done?"

He had no recollection of the events that had transpired the night
before.  He held his head tightly in his hands, wishing that his
splitting headache would go away.  Ricky stood on unsteady legs,
staggering to the bed room.  All Mary's belongings were gone.  Bare
wire hangers loomed where her clothes once hung in their closet.
Perfume bottles, cans of hair spray, and bottles of lotion were
missing from the bureau.  Ricky slumped on the end of the bed, asking
himself, where could she have gone?  What did I do?

Ricky was baffled.  He knew he had been drinking all day, thinking
about the mess he had made of his marriage.  Mary had not made a big
deal of the obscene phone calls, but Ricky knew that she was upset.
Their relationship had cooled.

I've got to get to Fort Worth, Ricky thought, pulling a T-shirt over
his pounding head.  His truck was in need of repair, and Fort Worth
was where he would find the parts.  I'll find Mary later.

Merle Kelly casually walked along the Azle Highway on her way home
from work.  She had met Ricky Green two nights before when she had
accompanied friends to Cowboy City, a Country and Western nightclub
in the Fort Worth bedroom-city of Azle.  Ricky found her attractive,
and she agreed to meet him at the bar on Saturday.  This was the
night she was going to see handsome young Ricky again.

On his return from the Fort Worth auto supply company, Ricky spotted
Merle walking along the highway.

She was as pretty as he had remembered.  He turned his truck into the
parking lot of a 7-Eleven store.  "Hi, Merle," he said as she
strolled by.  Merle leaned into the open driver's window to chat.

When they heard the sound of wheels squealing and rubber burning on
the hot asphalt driveway, their heads snapped sharply toward the
Sonic Drive-in.  Ricky recognized the speeding vehicle as his own
car, with Mary behind the wheel.  Damn, Mary probably thought I was
trying to get rid of her for Merle, Ricky thought.  His attention
immediately turned from his angry wife to the pretty young girl
beside him.

"You still want to go out tonight?"

"Sure," Merle smiled.

"I'll see you at Cowboy City."  Ricky fled the parking lot, heading
toward Boyd.  He had hoped to catch up with Mary, but she seemed to
have disappeared.

After repairing his pickup, Ricky showered, changed into fresh
clothes, and headed for the honky-tonk cow boy bar where Merle waited.

Ricky and his newest conquest danced and drank until closing time.
Merle accompanied Ricky to his trailer, where she stayed for two
nights.  No one knew where she was; her family reported her as a
missing person to local police.  "I'm moving in with Ricky Green in
Boyd," she told her family when she returned to gather her belongings.

Alcohol and sex kept the couple together for about a month.  But just
as Mary had fled in the middle of the night with Ricky lying in a
drunken stupor, Merle left abruptly.

Again Ricky did not remember what had happened.

When he awoke in the morning, Merle was gone in the same car Mary had
departed in a month earlier.

She must have been in a real hurry, thought Ricky, all her stuff is
still here.  He packed the clothing, along with Merle's stuffed
animals, all of little value, and stored them for Merle's return.  He
never heard from her again.  Merle called Bill Green a few days after
her sudden exit, telling him Ricky's car was parked in a shopping
center parking lot.  "He can pick it up there," she said.

Had the alcoholic demon that possessed him shown its ugly face to
Merle?  He just didn't know.  He felt confused and lonely.

Merle had been a mere diversion.  Ricky missed Mary and wanted her to
come back.  He drove to the small trailer parked by the liquor store
in Briar, Texas, where she worked.  He beat on the window.  "Mary,
please let me in.  Mary, I need someone to talk to."  He appeared
helpless and sad, but Mary's fear was stronger than her sympathy for
her young husband.  She refused to open the door.

Alone, anxious, and drunk, Ricky drove to Fort Worth in search of
companionship.  Stopping by the Greyhound bus station, he happened on
a medium built man in his mid-twenties.

"Hey, you need someplace to stay?"  Ricky asked the stranger.

"Yeah," the young man answered, running his fingers through his curly
brown hair.  He made his way toward Ricky's metallic blue Chevrolet
pickup.

Once back in his trailer, Ricky offered, "You want a beer?"

"Sure."

Taking a long swig from the cold beer bottle, the young man asked,
"You want to have some fun?"  Walking to the door of the bedroom, he
turned and smiled broadly at Ricky.

By the time Ricky entered the bedroom, the man had taken off his
shirt and dropped his pants to the floor.  His thick bifocal glasses
rested on the center of the bed.

"Come on in."  He grinned and bent over the bed.

"You ain't gonna take a shower, man?"

"No, I don't need no shower.  I want you to screw me."

"No, I don't think so," Ricky declined.  The filthy, foul smelling
man disgusted him.

Ricky stared at the shining buttocks bent over the bed.  He turned,
walked directly to the kitchen, and picked up a six-inch butcher
knife from the counter.

Moving swiftly through the open door of the bed room, Ricky lifted
the knife over his head.  With the un suspecting man still bent over
the end of the bed, Ricky plunged the sharp blade into the upper
right of his victim's back.  The two-and-a-half inch perforation,
just below the shoulder blade, barely made the man flinch.

Ricky ran back to the kitchen, tossing the bloody knife in the sink.
He leaned over the porcelain fixture, certain that he was going to
vomit.  What in the hell have I done, he asked himself.

He quickly returned to the bedroom where his victim had just begun to
yell out in pain.  "Oh, man, I have a sharp pain in my back."  The
man was reaching toward the puncture site with his right hand.

Stunned that he did not know what had happened to him, Ricky said,
"Man, you're bleeding.  I've got to get you to the doctor."

Ricky sprinted to his pickup, holding open the door for the injured
man.  Frantically Ricky drove east to John Peter Smith Hospital in
downtown Fort Worth.

"Yol be okay, man," Ricky reassured him, showing genuine concern.

The emergency entrance was unoccupied as Ricky pulled to the curb.
He swiftly threw open the passenger's door and shoved the man to the
ground.  Hurriedly Ricky sped away, circling the block.  Then he
casually cruised by the emergency entrance, and he saw a police
officer and a nurse assisting the stabbing victim into a wheelchair.

Exhausted, Ricky parked his pickup in the hospital's parking lot.
They'd never think to look for me here, he thought.  He slept the
remainder of the night, waking the next morning to the bustling noise
of first-shift hospital employees.  Ricky left the lot, ashamed of
the events of the previous night.  He didn't want to go home.  He
didn't want to face the grim reminders of his violent act that
remained at the trailer.

Lou and Bill Green were concerned about Ricky.  He had not come home
to his trailer all night.  Lou knew that Ricky was still upset at
Mary's unexpected exodus, and she knew that he had been drinking
excessively for several months.

As the Greens entered Ricky's trailer, they were immersed in a sense
of doom.  Lou was the first to spot the bloody knife resting in the
sink.  She shot a look of concern at Bill, and they entered the
bedroom.  Bloody sheets lay rumpled in a pile.

"Bill, I'll get this mess cleaned up.  You go find Ricky," Lou said
with motherly concern.

As Lou watched Bill drive away, she reflected on Ricky's childhood
and the abuse of his father.  Is this the beginning?  Will Ricky be
as abusive as Bill?  She hurriedly busied herself in the cleanup
operation, choosing not to dwell on her fears.

Bill Green was familiar with most of the places his son frequented.
Green's first hunch was right, and he found Ricky's pickup parked by
the shores of Lake Worth.

Ricky sat in the front seat, crying.

"What's happened, Ricky?"  Bill asked.

With tear-filled eyes, Ricky related the story of picking up the man
at the Fort Worth bus station, the sexual proposition, the stabbing,
and dumping the victim at the hospital entry.

"Everything's gonna be okay, Ricky.  Your mama done cleaned up the
mess.  Go on home and get some sleep."  Bill Green acted fatherly,
something that Ricky had never experienced.  He laid his head in Bill
Green's lap and cried.  In a rare moment of comfort, Ricky loved his
father.

"Go on now, get some sleep."

Following his father's instructions, Ricky drove back to Boyd and
climbed into bed.  He played the scene over and over again in his
mind, burying his head farther and farther into his pillow each time
he visualized the knife penetrating the back of his victim.

A week later, depressed and drunk, Ricky again appeared at the small
travel trailer where Mary lived.  He beat on the window and called
her name.  "Mary!  Mary!"  He pounded on the pane.  "Mary, I have
something to tell you.  Please let me in."  He struck the window
glass until it shattered, his hand crashing through the jagged edges.
Blood dripped from his palm.

Mary's eyes filled with both fear and sorrow as she opened the door
to let him in.

"You better do something with that hand," Mary said, seeing blood
dribble from the open cuts.

"What?"  Ricky said, oblivious to the pain.

"I'll take care of it for you."

Tenderly Mary wiped blood from Ricky's hand and placed Band-Aids on
the three small cuts.

"Thank you.  I miss you," Ricky said sweetly.

"I miss you, too."  Mary kissed him gently on his cheek.

Ricky embraced his wife, kissing her warmly.  They made love for an
hour and a half.  Gently.  Tenderly touching.  Kissing.  Ricky was
happy to be back in Mary's arms.

"What did you want to tell me, Ricky?"

With tears swelling in his eyes, Ricky recounted the story of the
stabbing of the young man from the bus station.  Mary listened
intently.  She slowly began to move away from Ricky.  He knew by the
tenseness of her body that she was frightened by the story.  He knew
there was no trust between them.

Driving back home, Ricky felt little satisfaction.

Something was missing in his life.  He had a need for a love that he
could trust.  He knew he would not be seeing Mary again.  He knew it
was time to search for someone new in his life.


Texas Two-step

Ricky Green buttoned the front of his crisp Western shirt and tucked
the tail into his starched Wrangler jeans.

Shining each toe of his boots on the back of his Wranglers, he
adjusted the collar of his shirt and headed for the door.

Six months had passed since his wife, Mary, had left him, and about a
month since Merle's sudden departure.  He really wanted a woman to
love.  One with whom he could spend more than just one night.  But
tonight, any woman would do.

Swaggering into his favorite Azie bar, Cowboy City, Ricky moved to
the boot-scootin' beat of the live country music of Solomon and the
Cowboy City Band.  It was Ladies' Night, and the bar was filled with
lonely females, anxious for the company of an attractive young cowboy.

Sitting alone at a table for four near the dance floor, heavy smoke
encircled his head as Ricky excitedly watched the cowgirls in
tight-fitting jeans whirl by to the tune of a Texas two-step.  He
tapped the toe of his roper boot to the time of the music as he
slowly sipped a Budweiser beer.

"You want to dance?"

Ricky glanced up from his beer to see an overweight woman grinning at
him, waiting for a response.

"Sure," Ricky said shyly.

"My name's Barbara.  What's yours?"

"Ricky."

Ricky passively guided Barbara around the floor, scanning the room
for a better-looking partner, and swaying to John Anderson's tune,
"Swingin'."

The music stopped and his dance with Barbara was over.  Before the
band struck up "I Love A Rainy Night," a second unknown girl stepped
between them and asked "Will you dance with me?"

"Yeah."  Ricky welcomed the chance to meet someone new.  Barbara
walked away mumbling.

Ricky spun his new partner around the large wooden dance floor to his
favorite Eddie Rabbit tune before re turning to his solitary table
for another swig of his warm beer.  He downed the brew in one gulp
after Barbara asked for a second turn around the floor.

"Why don't you join me and my friends at our table?"  Barbara
anxiously asked, pointing to a large table across the floor where
several young women sat.

"Okay," Ricky quickly responded.  Maybe I can connect with one of her
good-looking friends, he thought.

Barbara made the introductions to the six females and the lone male
sitting together at a long table near the bar.

Ricky was immediately attracted to a sandy-haired blonde introduced
as Sharon Dollar.  Her sensual hazel eyes lured him closer.  Their
gazes held, smiles spanning their faces.

Yes, Ricky thought, this is the one.

Sharon felt good in his arms as he pressed her tightly against his
body, dancing to the slow sounds of "Fort Worth On My Mind."  His
hands rubbed her buttocks, packed snugly in her Western jeans.  The
pink cotton sweater she wore accentuated heavy breasts that he longed
to hold in his hands.

She's pretty but not real pretty.  A bit overweight, but that's okay.
I really like this girl.

Ricky sat quietly at the table listening to the others laugh at
stories told by Barbara.  She seemed to delight in making fun of her
coworkers at AT&T, mimicking their behavior.  She's funny, Ricky
thought, joining the others in laughing at Barbara's impressions.
She compensates for being fat by being funny.

Ricky and Marvin Idell, the other man seated among the females, snuck
sips from the drinks ordered by the girls, who not only entered the
club with no cover charge, but also drank free on Ladies' Night.
Ricky favored the margaritas on the rocks that were slowly making
Sharon drunk.

"Check out that mother fucker over there," shouted Jamie, Sharon's
younger sister.  Everyone at the table laughed at the
nineteen-year-old's infatuation with every cowboy she saw.

The faces of people encircling the table began to blur, their
laughter roaring in Ricky's head.  Hard liquor was Ricky's worst
enemy, so he usually stuck to his beer.

Whenever he drank hard liquor he became a little crazy, often not
able to remember what he had done or where he had been.  The effects
of the liquor will wear off as long as I keep moving he thought.  He
was having a good time dancing.

Barbara was persistent.  "Let's dance, Ricky."  Ricky was
unresponsive, avoiding her glances, ignoring her un wanted
invitation.  He had eyes only for Sharon.  Finally, out of
desperation, he cruelly blurted, "Hey, you're too fat and too old for
me."  Rejected and embarrassed, Barbara retreated to the bathroom in
tears.

"Why don't you leave with Jamie," said another of Sharon's friends.
"You don't want to hurt Barbara's feelings anymore."

Ricky and Jamie bolted for the front door of the club hand-in-hand.

Jamie Dollar was a pretty girl with long brown hair and an obese
body.  Ricky didn't mind attractive girls who were overweight, often
finding them more fun and less inhibited than thin, self-obsessed
girls.

"Follow me to my house," Ricky yelled, jumping into his metallic blue
Chevy pickup truck.  Gravel flew as the tires spun in the parking lot
of the Country and Western bar.

He headed west on Highway 199 toward Boyd.  Jamie followed close
behind in her rusting 1964 Ford Falcon.  The vehicles sped down the
roadway...sixty...seventy...eighty miles per hour...with both drivers
intoxicated.

The pair ran laughing into Ricky's trailer house located across from
the Green complex.  Jamie immediately kicked off her boots, pulled
off her shirt, and peeled off her jeans, stringing clothes from the
living room door to the bed room.  Plunking her wad of gum, at least
three sticks, into the ashtray beside the bed, she jumped between the
covers.

No time for foreplay or passionate kisses: Both Ricky and Jamie knew
what they were there for.

This will be a good fuck, thought Ricky.  Fat girls can really get it
on.  He hummed the first country song that came to mind as he pressed
his lean body to his partner's fatty flesh, "The Women Get Better
Looking at Closing Time."

Ricky penetrated Jamie's body with a slow, easy insertion of his
penis, withdrawing in the same less than anxious manner.  But she was
unresponsive.  He increased the speed and the strength of his
thrusts.  Jamie was finally getting into it, rotating her hips and
moaning approval.

Bam!  Bam!  Jamie's head repeatedly hit the wall of the tiny trailer
house as Ricky pumped his penis into her body.

She never asked him to stop, slow down, or change positions.  Her
head continued to hit the wall with each thrust.

She moaned as he picked up the pace.

Placing his hands firmly around her neck, Ricky continued the pumping
motion of his pelvis.  She flung her head from one side to the other,
back and forth.  The rougher the sex, the more Jamie seemed to enjoy
herself.

Ricky was more than willing to play as rough as she wanted to play.
He enjoyed the energetic lust of his partner until both lay still on
the rumpled sheets, exhausted.

"Boy, you're wild," Ricky exclaimed.  "Did you like that?"

Ricky wanted to please.  He needed approval from his sexual partners.
Appreciation was something he never received from Bill Green for a
job well-done.

"Yeah," Jamie answered, reaching toward the ashtray for the spent wad
of gum.

After several hours and multiple acts of intercourse, Jamie went home
to the house she shared with her sister, Sharon.  The following week
Jamie telephoned Ricky.

"Hello."

"Hi, Ricky, this is Jami."  Ricky had to think for an instant to
recall that Jamie had shared his bed the week be fore.  He had been
drunk and didn't remember much about the encounter; except for the
banging of her head against the bedroom wall.  He smiled.

"Do you want to get serious?"  she asked.

"No, I'm not ready to get serious," Ricky answered.  Even though this
girl loves to screw, I'm looking for more.

It was not the foulmouthed Jamie Dollar that Ricky Green was
interested in, but her older, sweeter sister, Sharon.

"Mind if Sharon and I come over later?"

Mind?  Hell no, he didn't mind.  This was a good chance to see
Sharon.  "No.  Come on over."

Ricky smiled as he opened the trailer door to Sharon and Jamie.

He was pleased that they had brought Sharon's three year-old
daughter, Sarah, with them.  Ricky loved kids and hoped to have some
of his own one day.  I'll be a better father than Bill Green was.
I'll never whip my kids, never call them names, and I'll always tell
them that I love them.

"Wait here a minute," he instructed Sarah, disappearing into the
bedroom.  Moments later he emerged with a stuffed unicorn, one of the
many furry animals Merle left behind upon her abrupt departure.  He
handed the cuddly creature to the smiling child.

Sarah played contentedly with the cloth animal while Ricky talked
with her mother and aunt.

As Sharon, Sarah, and Jamie walked to their car, Ricky leaned close
to Sharon's ear, "I'll call you."  Sharon smiled, nodding approval.

On Saturday night, less than two weeks after he first met Sharon
Dollar, Ricky tried on three shirts before settling on the blue one
for his first date with her.  He wanted to impress Sharon; He wanted
her to like him.  Excitedly, he drove the eight miles from his
trailer to her rented rock house in Aurora.  "You can't stop me now,
Bill Green," he yelled toward the Green house from the pickup's open
window.

Ricky's father had interfered with many of his dates, often hiding
the keys to his truck so that he could not leave.  Bill Green never
wanted him to have fun.  But tonight Bill Green had left him alone,
and he was on his way.

From the Aurora house, Ricky, Sharon, and Jamie drove five miles
north to Rhome, where they picked up Marvin Idell.  The foursome then
headed to Cowboy City inAzle.

Hugging Sharon close to him during slow dances, Ricky's feet barely
moved.  Sharon held him tightly around his neck.  His arms encircled
her waist, his hands rested on her rear.  They gently kissed.  He
pressed his hard penis against Sharon as he straddled her leg,
rubbing against her to the beat of a country ballad.  Ricky Green was
convinced this must be love.

The beer ran through him like water through a colander.  "I gotta go
to the john," he told Sharon as soon as the band took a break.  In
the restroom line, Sharon stood across from him waiting for the
women's room.  She kissed him, not gently as when they danced, but
hard, wet, passionate kisses.  Their tongues moved energetically
within one another's mouths.  Sharon's hand ran up his leg to the
bulge in his pants.  She gently squeezed the organ.

"You want to go to my house tonight?"  he whispered.

"You bet," Sharon smiled.  "But we have to take Marvin and Jamie home
first."

"Okay."  Ricky grinned.  He was going to get laid by the girl of his
dreams.  Sharon Dollar was the sweetest woman he had ever met.  He
liked almost everything about her.  The way she talked, the gap
between her two front teeth, and her sexy hazel eyes.  Oh, those
eyes, that seemed to look straight into his heart.  This could be a
relationship that would last, he thought.

Marvin and Jamie refused to leave Cowboy City until closing.  Ricky
was anxious to get Sharon to his bed.  Usually he ended up with the
stragglers, those girls no one else wanted by the time the bar
closed.  Those girls were easy.  They were anxious to be loved and he
was more than willing.  But tonight Sharon Dollar was going home with
him.

Ricky and Sharon staggered to his vehicle, drunk from the alcohol
consumed during the hours spent at the bar.

Sharing a marijuana joint on the way home, they were aggressively
inebriated by the time they arrived in Boyd.

Their sexual appetites aroused by the pot, they fondled one another
sitting in the car outside Ricky's trailer.

Ricky dropped his jeans the moment the front door of the trailer
closed behind them.  Sharon stared at his erect penis.  Her eyes
sparkled, and a smile spread across her lips.  "You have a great
body," Sharon said as she grabbed his dick in her hand.  "I want that
in me."

"Baby, you can have it in you anywhere you want it."

Ricky raised Sharon's sweater over her head and began fumbling with
the closure on her bra.  "Damn!  I can't get the damn thing off," He
was too drunk.  Frustrated, he jerked on the slender band.

Sharon giggled, slipping the hook from the eye.  The bra fell to the
floor.  Nothing impressive, thought Ricky.  But who cares: There mine
tonight.

As with Jamie, there was no foreplay, no tenderness, no passion, just
lustful sex.  Ten minutes later, the act was complete.  They fell
asleep in each other's arms.

Both Ricky and Sharon awoke the next morning ready for a more
pleasurable experience, preceded by tender touching, gentle caresses,
and long, impassioned kisses.

This time they didn't just have sex, they made love.

The intrusive ring of the telephone breached the enjoyment of the
moment.  "Ricky, this is Jamie, is Sharon still with you?"

Sharon spoke to Jamie a few short minutes, then she was gone.

Ricky was in love.  He wanted to be with Sharon more than he had ever
wanted to be with anyone.  His divorce from Mary was not final, but
he knew his feelings for Sharon were real because he wanted to be
with her every minute.  He called her every chance he had.  One week
after their first date, Ricky arrived at Sharon's rented house.

"I don't want to work for my daddy anymore," Ricky told Sharon.  "I
just want to stay here with you."

Sharon put her arms around the man she barely knew and comforted him.
Ricky told her about many of the abuses he had endured as a child,
as well as the humiliation he suffered as an adult from his abusive
father.  She seemed to want to protect him.  He felt safe in her arms.

Sharon carried her own emotional baggage.  On the night they met, she
told Ricky about Steve Lardi, her first husband and Sarah's father.
"Steve is a paranoid schizo phrenic," she explained.  "He would beat
me and kick me in the stomach when I was pregnant with Sarah.  I
remember a time he tied me down and stuck a shampoo bottle up my
vagina.  Once he put a broomstick up me.  I was scared he'd push it
in too far.  I stayed with him because of Sarah, but finally I
couldn't take it anymore."

Sharon's second relationship was no better.  She complained to Ricky
that the Mexican man she had shared an apartment with in Arlington
was more violent than Lardi.

The man not only beat her, but also kicked her and locked her in the
apartment, refusing to let her out for work.  He would chain her to
the bed, foiling any attempts to escape.

"I had an abortion because I didn't want his child," she said with
bowed head.

"I swear I'll never mistreat you, Sharon, if I canjust stay here with
you.  Will you call my father and ask him to bring over my things?"
Ricky didn't want to talk to his father.  He knew Bill Green would be
mad.

Three days after Ricky arrived at her house, Sharon Dollar telephoned
Bill Green at his Boyd business.  Ricky nervously lit another
cigarette from the butt of the last one as he intently listened.

"Hello, Mr. Green.  My name is Sharon Dollar.  Ricky's gonna stay
here with me at my house.  Will you bring some of his stuff to him?"
Sharon was silent for a few moments, then hung up the phone.
Grinning at Ricky she said, "It's okay."

Early the following morning Bill Green arrived at the old rock house
where Sharon had instructed him to bring Ricky's personal belongings.
Afraid of his father's reaction to his failure to appear for work
and his sudden change of residence, Ricky refused to answer the front
door when Bill Green knocked.

Green peeped through the lacy curtains of the house that was located
just yards from where his young son, Tony, was buried in the Aurora
Cemetery.

When no one answered his call, he threw the clothes into Ricky's
truck, leaving without confrontation.

As expected, the next day Bill Green telephoned.  "What are you gonna
do about work, Ricky?"  How typical of Bill Green, Ricky thought.  No
concern for me, just how my leaving affects his business.

"I'm gonna live with Sharon.  I'll get a job someplace."

Ricky listened to the hard thud of his father's receiver slamming
into the cradle.

Ricky enjoyed being with Sharon and Sarah in the small two-bedroom
house.  He shared Sharon's bed in the large master bedroom.  Sarah
shared a room withjamie in what was considered the second bedroom but
was actually a closed-in storage room piled high with boxes of
clothing.

Jamie grew tired of the living arrangements, having relinquished her
portion of the big bedroom to Ricky, and moved back home with her
parents after only one month.

A game of hide and seek was played whenever Rev.  and Mrs. Dollar
visited their daughter and granddaughter

Ricky was required to grab his clothes from the closet and run out
the back door.  Sharon feared her mother and father would not approve
of her new living arrangements, and took every precaution to cover
Ricky's existence in her home.

"Ricky left his car here.  It wouldn't work," Sharon lied.

Ricky suspected the Dollars knew he lived with Sharon, but they chose
not to confront her.

Ricky hated the lies, the deceit.  He loved Sharon and he didn't care
who knew they were living together.  Ricky felt part of a real
family.  He wanted to tell the Dollars how much he loved their
daughter; but Sharon objected.  For her sake, he remained silent.

The only friends Ricky had were those introduced to him by Sharon
Dollar.  He blissfully isolated himself in her world -- a world that
revolved around drugs, alcohol, and sex.

Although Ricky was happier with Sharon than he had ever been in his
life, his already excessive drinking steadily increased.  Marvin
Idell became his best friend.  The un employed men often spent all
day drinking beer, smoking pot, and playing spades, their favorite
card game.  They wandered the Wise County roads, sometimes hunting
for rabbits, sometimes hunting for women.  They often found trouble.

One afternoon in late December 1984, Ricky was drunk behind the wheel
of his Chevy pickup.  Attempting to take a curve at sixty miles an
hour, he lost control and slammed into the telephone pole in front of
the Rhome volunteer fire department.

"Stay here," Marvin told Ricky, heading toward the building to phone
for help.  In a matter of minutes a squad car appeared, parking
behind the damaged pickup.

"Ricky, one of these days drinking's gonna get you in trouble,"
Deputy Mark Autry said.

Ricky only laughed.

The times Ricky enjoyed most were spent with Sarah, pushing her on
the swing at the park or walking hand-in hand at the zoo.  He
relished riding in the country with Sharon beside him and Sarah
happily playing in the back seat.  He was part of a family he loved,
and they loved him.

his existence was what Ricky had been searching for all his life.  He
was finally content, for a time.

Three months after moving in with Sharon Dollar, Ricky was still
unemployed.  Finally growing tired of supporting him and his habits,
Sharon insisted he find work.

The newly formed family unit moved to Boyd and rented a seventy-foot,
two-bedroom trailer across from the Green shop.  Ricky resumed
working for Bill Green.  Ricky gradually noticed a change in Sharon.
He suspected the transition occurred because she had distanced
herself from her parents and felt more freedom to experiment in
life's wilder side.  The Dollars did not visit Sharon and Sarah as
often as they had when their daughter and granddaughter lived in
Aurora.

Looking for excitement, Sharon and Ricky frequented the porno houses
in downtown Fort Worth.  They picked up not only sexual
paraphernalia, but also many interesting people.  Often they invited
their newfound friends home to join them in a little pot smoking and
sexual depravity.  Some of these partners were male, some female.

Both Ricky and Sharon enjoyed the sexual excitement of a third party
sharing their bed.

On one such occasion Ricky brought home a strange male he had picked
up in downtown Fort Worth.  Ricky spotted the man walking aimlessly
down Calhoun Street.

"Hi, man, you need a place to spend the night?"

"I sure do.  Thanks."

Ricky and the first of many men he would take to his house trailer
were off to join Sharon.

Standing in the bedroom of the small trailer, the man fidgeted as
Ricky told him of their intentions.  "Sharon wants to have sex with
you, but she wants to tie you up first."

Nervously the stranger backed toward the closed bed room door.

"Hey, it's okay," Sharon smiled.  "It's just to have sex."

"Yeah, man, it will be fun," Ricky assured him.

The rope was snugly attached to his hands and feet, then firmly
secured to the bedpost.  Once the victim was rendered immobile,
Sharon began slapping and hitting him.

"What's the matter with you, you crazy bitch?"  Sharon only smiled as
she continued to strike her prey.

"Hey, dude, this bitch is crazy!"

Ricky laughed at the terror in the man's voice.  "I told you she was
a wild fuck."

The man's distress appeared to excite Sharon.  The more he protested,
the more punishment she inflicted.

Sharon was in a position Ricky knew she relished.  She was in
control.  The man's pain aroused Ricky as well, intensifying his own
sexual desires.

The man cried out in alarm as Sharon raised a six-inch dildo to his
face.  "Relax, it's not as bad as you think," Sharon chuckled, before
inserting the rubberized tube into the victim's rectum.  The tube
vibrated within him.

"Yeah, that feels pretty good."  The man's taut body relaxed.

Sharon responded by repeatedly shoving the remainder of the object
into the man's body as she orally copulated him.  Ricky
simultaneously had intercourse with Sharon.

Their sexual fantasy was fulfilled.

At nearly twelve dollars per hour, Sharon's job as along distance
telephone operator afforded her the means to keep Ricky in all the
beer he could drink and enough marijuana to satisfy them both.  Ricky
worked sporadically, mostly when his father demanded his labors or
Sharon insisted he contribute to the family income.  But when Ricky
was not working, he sought the freedom of the open roads of North
Texas.  He was often gone for days at a time.

Sharon was infuriated when Ricky arrived at the gold and-white
trailer after one of his frequent three-day absences.  "Where have
you been?  I thought you were dead!"  Sharon screamed.

Ricky saw the anger in her face, the fire in her eyes, narrowing into
a penetrating squint.  She's mad, but when I'm drunk it always turns
her on.  He smiled as he moved toward her.

Aggressively Ricky pressed his nicotine-stained lips against
Sharon's.  He held her so tightly she gasped for breath.  Only
moments elapsed before they were lying naked in the bed.  Ricky
grabbed Sharon's bare breasts, sucking them into his mouth, and
causing a murmur of pain.

Sharon forcefully clutched Ricky's scrotum.  He quickly re leased her
breast, rolling on his back in pain.

Sharon tied Ricky to the bed with the same one quarter-inch nylon
rope used on their numerous sexual partners.  His pain subsided.
Ricky smiled.  He was getting off on Sharon's aggression.

Sharon climbed over his immobile body, forcefully driving his erect
penis inside of her.  She was riding him hard, and he loved it.
Sharon ran her fingers into Ricky's light brown hair, pulling his
head up and down with every pelvic thrust.

God, she is wild, Ricky thought, looking into her tempestuous eyes.
She's wicked looking.

The pain of the erotically pleasing intercourse aroused Ricky to
greater heights.  He enjoyed the pain.  It don't hurt, he told
himself, just as he told himself Bill Green's abuse didn't hurt when
he was a child.  He groaned as he used the pain for pleasure.

Suddenly, without warning, Ricky felt a sharp pain run through his
pulsating penis.  "Oh shit!"  Ricky screamed, looking at blood
heading on his withering organ.  "Sharon, what the hell?"

Sharon threw back her head in laughter as blood ran from the needle
prick she had made in Ricky's flesh.

What is she doing?  Ricky asked himself, And what can I do to her
when I get loose?

Before he could launch further protests, Sharon's mouth encompassed
his penis, energetically sucking the blood.

The warmth of her mouth and soothing saliva relieved his pain.  The
pain is worth this pleasure, he thought.  He lay back, enjoying the
comfort of her caresses.

"Do you like that, Sharon?"

"Yeah, it's just blood.  That was exciting, wasn't it?"  Sharon asked.

"Yeah, and different."  Also painful, Ricky thought.  But the crimson
liquid seemed to give Sharon so much pleasure, he remained silent.

Ricky Green impatiently paced the designated smoking area of the
Dallas/Fort Worth Airport terminal, awaiting Sharon's arrival.  He
snubbed out his third cigarette in the white sand of the silver-toned
ashtray.

"Ricky!"  The sweet sound of Sarah's voice rang in his ears.  The
four-year-old bounded down the airline walk way toward him, a grin
beaming across her angelic face.

"Hi, Ricky," she shouted as he swept her into his arms.

Ricky was so happy to see Sarah, to hold her close.  He had missed
Sarah and Sharon while they were in Connecticut.  As much as he loved
this little girl, he hated her father.  Ricky asked Sharon not to
take Sarah to see Steve Lardi.  But the child's natural father had
his rights, and there was nothing Ricky could do.

Slowly putting Sarah down, Ricky stared into Sharon's questioning
eyes.  She looked puzzled by the faded, bloodstained shorts he was
wearing.  He grinned, nodding affirmatively to her unasked question.
Sharon kissed him soundly on the lips.

Walking to the car on the top level of the parking garage, Ricky told
Sharon, "I did what you wanted me to.  I wore the same clothes so
you'd know that I did it."

"Did you get it?"  she asked softly.

"Yeah."

"Where is it?"

"It's under our bed in our bedroom, in a little jar"

No more was said concerning the contents of the glass receptacle or
how it was acquired.  The threesome laughed and joked on the
hour-long trip home to Boyd.

Sarah chattered excitedly about the airplane ride and visiting her
father.  Ricky questioned Sarah about her trip, but remained quiet
when the child asked him what he had done while they were away.  He
glanced at Sharon with a sheepish grin and a wink of his eye.

Sharon had difficulty getting Sarah settled down and into bed.  Once
the child was asleep, Sharon approached Ricky in the bedroom.

"Well, where is it?"  Sharon asked.

"Under here," Ricky said, reaching beneath the bed for the baby food
jar filled with blood.

"How did you do it?"

Ricky explained how he had driven to Lake Worth not even thinking
about Jeffery Davis.  They accidentally connected at Casino Beach,
where he and Sharon originally met the young teen, then drove to Lake
Ben brook to hang out.

"I was drinking pretty heavy, just driving around,", Ricky told
Sharon.  "The kid came on to me and I went off on him.  I beat him in
the head.  Blood splattered all over your windshield.  The stupid
son-of-a-bitch just wouldn't shut up.  So I took my knife and tried
to cut his fuckin' head off.  I cut off his dick and threw it in the
lake."

"How did it feel to actually kill someone?"  Sharon seemed enthralled
with his story.

"It was pretty sickening.  Blood was everywhere.  It was a mess.  I
can still smell the blood.  But the fuckin' homo deserved to die.
You know, it felt good to do it."

Ricky was confused by his feelings.  "It felt like I had accomplished
something," Ricky said.  "For the first time I did something all by
myself.  But I also feel very, very guilty because I took someone's
life."  Ricky hung his head, inhaling deeply on the Marlboro
cigarette he squeezed tightly between his thumb and first two
fingers.  "I'm scared, Sharon.  What if somebody saw me?  What if the
police are looking for me right now?"  Ricky was becoming paranoid.

Sharon tenderly put her arms around Ricky to reassure him.  "It's
okay, nobody saw you."

Ricky wanted to believe her, but he was nervous.

"When did you do it?"  Sharon asked.

"The day I called you in Connecticut and asked you to come home."

"When?"  Sharon asked again, releasing her embrace.

"That was days ago."

Sharon went into a rage as she looked at the dark-red liquid in the
clear glass jar.  "This blood is spoiled.  It's no good, Ricky!"

Ricky couldn't believe Sharon was so angry.  He had no idea that
blood must be kept refrigerated.  "I did what you asked me to.  What
more do you want?"  Ricky snapped back.

Without answering, Sharon went to the bathroom and slammed the door.

Damn.  I kill a boy and all she's concerned about is the blood is no
good.  I'm getting outta here.  Ricky exploded through the trailer
house door, letting it bang against the aluminum siding.  He sped
away from the family he had been longing to see for nearly a week.

For hours Ricky drove the back roads of Wise County.  He drank beer
and replayed the deadly scenario with Jeffery Davis over and over
again in his reeling mind.

"They're going to find out," he cried above the sounds of KLUV's
Golden Oldies playing on the truck radio.

Tired, frightened, and drunk, he returned to the trailer, where Sarah
and Sharon soundly slept.

The following morning, Sharon was still upset and Ricky decided to
just leave her alone.  As much as he had looked forward to her
homecoming, to making love to her, he now thought it was best to stay
out of her way.  He didn't know what was going to happen next.
Sharon's bitterness about the deteriorated blood, paired with her
extreme anger, frightened him.

A couple of days after Sharon's return, she appeared to have settled
down, once again in control.  Ricky and Sharon finally made love.

"Sharon, come here!"  Ricky frantically summoned Sharon to the living
room.  "Look, look," he said, pointing to the television.

A Channel 5 news reporter was relating the story of a grim discovery.

"A couple hiking through the Fort Worth Nature Center and Refuge
discovered a decomposing body of an unidentified boy in the reeds
near Shoreline Road about 5:30 P.M.  this evening.  Homicide
detectives and medical investigators determined that the body was
that of a white male between the ages of twelve and sixteen who died
of multiple stab wounds.  The youth had been dead for at least four
days.  The victim was described as about five feet tall, weighing
eighty-five to ninety pounds with medium-length brown hair and
irregular teeth.  A cross and the initials 'JD' are tattooed on the
upper left arm.  The victim was wearing two knit shirts, one gray
with long black sleeves and the second maroon.  He was also wearing
white gym socks with red and blue stripes and a pair of terry cloth
shorts with a red vertical stripe down the side.  Fort Worth police
ask that anyone with information call..."

"I told you I did it," Ricky said.  "When they find out who he is
they might put him together with me.  Sharon, I'm scared."

"Don't worry, Ricky," Sharon said reassuringly.  "They won't find
out."

The following morning Ricky rushed to purchase a copy of the Fort
Worth Star Telegram.  Frenzied, he leafed through the pages of the
April 30, 1985, paper in search of news concerning Davis's murder.
In a small box allocated for "Area news" Ricky found the article he
hunted for.

Body found: Youth dead at least four days

The decomposed body found in shallow water Saturday at the edge of
Lake Worth was identified Monday as that of sixteen-year-old Jeffery
L.  Davis.

Davis, of 7300 Love Circle in Fort Worth, died of multiple cuts and
stab wounds, said Bill Fabian, spokesman for the Tarrant County
medical examiner's office.

"Evidently the young man had been missing for a while," Fabian said.

"That's it?"  asked Ricky.  "Nothing about suspects or the
investigation?"

"I told you it would be okay.  Nobody saw you.  Stop worrying,"
Sharon kissed him on the cheek.

Three weeks later the phone rang at Mabel Pardue's Magnolia,
Arkansas, home.  "Hi Mom, Happy Mother's Day," said Lou Green.  This
was the first time she had ever called her mother on this special
occasion.

Bill Green had never allowed the traditional pleasantry.

"What's the matter, Lou?"  Mabel's intuition told her that something
was bothering her daughter.

"Mom, can you die from shingles?"  Lou had been suffering for weeks
from the irritating skin disease that circled her body like a girdle.
Inflammation of nerve endings produced a cutaneous rash that made
wearing clothing nearly intolerable.  Lou was convinced she was going
to die.

Hanging up from the brief conversation with her mother, Lou busied
herself preparing lunch for her children and Bill.  Meat and
potatoes, along with plenty of fresh corn and green beans.  One of
Ricky's favorite meals.  A scrumptious chocolate cake as well as a
fresh baked apple pie were placed on the table for the family
gathering.

Ricky watched his mother carefully.  He was worried.

Only a week earlier she told him that the doctor had diagnosed her as
having shingles.  He wasn't sure what shingles were, but he knew his
mother was in pain.

Ricky felt his father was somehow responsible for his mother's
condition.

"How are you doing', Mama?"  he asked.

"All right," she answered unconvincingly.

Ricky loved his mother very much.  She was the only constant in his
otherwise erratic life.  His mother was never mean, never abusive
like his father.  Ricky didn't blame Lou Green for the intolerable
things his father had done to him, she was powerless to intervene.
He knew without a doubt that his mother loved him.

Lou Green had been more concerned about her health than she let Ricky
know.  Two weeks earlier Lou confided in Bill's sister, Ann, that she
was not feeling well.  "Bill makes me run at five A.M.  every morning
because I'm fat.  It's killing me.  I can't take much more," she
complained.

Lou Green peeped into the hot oven at her own Mother's Day dinner.
Sharon pitched in by setting the table and stirring the gravy.  Ricky
was happy that his mother and Sharon got along so well.  Unlike other
women he had brought home to meet his mama, Sharon instantly became
part of the family by never hesitating to help out.

Lou Green acted unusual on this Mother's Day.  She spoke to Perry,
Ricky, and Timmy with uncharacteristic public gentleness.  Passing by
Ricky's chair, his mother lovingly patted him on the back.  Under the
watchful eye of Bill, Lou seldom made physical contact with her
children.  Mama might say she's all right, but something's wrong
Ricky thought.

Sharon cleared the table and helped wash the dishes.

Once the kitchen was clean, Sharon was ready to go.  She wanted to
see her own mother.

Ricky swung open the door of the Greens' house.  "Bye, Mom."

"Ricky," his mother called.

He stopped, stepping back across the threshold.

Lou Green threw her arms around Ricky's slim neck.  "I love you,
Ricky.  Take care of that woman."

How strange.  Mama never hugs me.  She never tells me she loves me,
he thought.  Seems like she's saying goodbye.

"I love you, too, Mama."  He took Sarah's hand in his and walked to
the car.

The next week Ricky wobbled into the living-room of his small trailer
on unsteady legs, hung over from his beer binge the night before.
Sharon sat quietly at the kitchen table, staring into the cup of hot,
black coffee clenched tightly in her hands.

"Ricky, your father was here this morning," Sharon said, avoiding
Ricky's eyes.

Ricky had heard the knock at the door earlier.  Sharon had gone to
see who was there.  He had gone back to sleep.  "What did he want?"
Ricky asked angrily.

"You better sit down."

Ricky had no objection to Sharon's suggestion.  His head was pounding
and his legs were shaky.  He had gotten home sometime between two and
three o'clock in the morning from a night of sexual intercourse with
a female neighbor down the street.  He felt physically ill.

"Your mom died last night."

"What?"  Ricky was certain that he had misunderstood Sharon.  His
mother dead?  It was not possible: Lou Green was only forty-four
years old.

"How?"  Ricky choked on the lump in his throat.

"Bill said she had a heart attack early this morning.  He rushed her
to the hospital but it was too late.  Your dad was pretty upset,
Ricky.  He was crying."

Ricky was stunned.  His mother, the only person who really loved him,
was gone.  How could he live without his mother?  He put his face in
his hands and sobbed.

I should have been here.  Maybe I could have helped.  Maybe I could
have kept Mama alive, Ricky thought.  Guilt over whelmed him.  if
only I hadn't been out screwing Mama might be alive.

Noticeably quiet, Ricky walked past the half-dozen open caskets
displayed at the Decatur funeral home.  He wanted to be someplace
else.  Anyplace else.  Perry, Teresa, Timmy, and his father could
pick out a coffin for his mother.  Why did he have to be here?  He
wanted a drink.

"We'll take this one," Bill Green said softly, pointing to the
prettiest and most expensive box in the room.

Sure, she can have the best now, Ricky thought bitterly.

Family members had already begun to gather at Bill Green's trailer
house adjacent to his business complex.

Green had sold the spacious brick house he had built for Lou,
promising to build another, but never seeming to get around to it.
The overflow of chatting relatives migrated to the Green garage.

"Mama had a stomachache and went to the bathroom about two A.M.
Daddy went in to help her.  He could see she was really sick so he
put her in his car and drove her to the Azie hospital.  Mama died
right after she got there."  Ricky repeated the story that had been
told him concerning his mother's unexpected death.  That's what Daddy
told me, but Ibet he had something to do with her dyin'.  A forty
four-year-old don't die of no heart attack, Ricky speculated to
himself.

Lou Green's sisters, brother, and parents arrived from Arkansas.
Uncharacteristically, Bill Green greeted them warmly.  Minutes after
arriving, Leatha, Lou's youngest sibling, asked to go to the funeral
home to view the body of her sister.

Ricky drove his aunt and her husband, Richard, brother Tommy, and
Sharon to Decatur.

"Ricky, you better slow down.  You know what's gonna happen," Sharon
warned as they sped past rows of fence posts.

"Yeah," Ricky grumbled.  He wasn't thinking about police and possible
trouble.  His mind was on his dead mother.

"What's gonna happen, Ricky?"  Leatha asked her nephew.  "Sounds like
your license has been suspended."

"Ricky, slow down!  The cops are gonna stop you," Sharon yelled.

"Yeah, yeah," Ricky said.  Sharon seemed to be more on edge than he
was.  "I'm gonna straighten up.  I'm gonna go back to school.  I'm
gonna set goals," Ricky said, turning momentarily to look at his
aunt.  He was ready to turn his life around.  His mother would want
him to make something of himself.

Bill Green had selected a beautiful blue dress for Lou to be buried
in.  Ricky stood by the casket, lovingly gazing at his mother,
clothed in his favorite color.  He missed her smile.

Back at the house Ricky picked up the Wise County Messenger, which
had been delivered while he was visiting the funeral home.  Tears
filled his eyes as he read his mother's obituary.

JESSIE LOU GREEN

Funeral for Jessie Lou Green, 44, of Boyd, is Thursday at 3:30 P.M.
in the Cober Funeral Home Chapel.  Burial is in Aurora Cemetery.  The
Rev.  Wallace Clark will officiate.

Green died May 21, 1985 in an Azle hospital.  She was born January
11, 1941 in Louisiana.  She married William Jefferson Green, Jr.,
April 28, 1956 in Weatherford.

She is survived by her husband; mother, May belle Pardue of Magnolia,
Ark; three sons, Perry, Ricky and Timothy Green of Boyd; a daughter,
Teresa Baker of Decatur; two brothers, Charles Pardue of Springtown
and Tommy Pardue of Ark; five sisters, Dorothy Camp, Bonita Holly,
Leatha Andrew, Patricia Andrews and Annette Hunter, all of Ark; and
three grandchildren.

The day of Lou Green's funeral was the saddest day in Ricky's
twenty-five years.  He kept mostly to himself, talking only
occasionally to Tommy Pardue.

"It's time to go, Ricky," Sharon said.

I don't want to go see them bury my mother, he thought.  But simply
said, "Okay."

Perry drove his mother's van with his wife, Debbie, Timmy and his
girlfriend Sherry, Sharon, Ricky, and Bill Green.  The family had
declined the funeral home's offer to send a limousine for them.  They
all felt a special closeness with Lou riding in her adored van.

Sharon nervously smoked a Newport cigarette.  Tiring of reaching
across Ricky for the ashtray, she attempted to take it out of the
stationary armrest, cutting her finger on the sharp, chrome-plated
box.  Ricky pulled several Kleenex from the box his mother always
kept beside the front captain's chair, wrapping them around Sharon's
finger.  The cut was minor.

Later at the chapel, Ricky sat uncomfortably, his eyes transfixed on
the pale face of his mother.  He could not hold back the tears.  He
heard the voice of Reverend Clark, but did not listen to his words.
He was thinking of his mother's faith.  He knew she was a Christian,
who wanted to raise her children in the ways of the Lord, but as
usual Bill Green had intervened.

Ricky was about seven years old when his mother sent him and his
siblings to the Baptist church.  He remembered that they all received
Bibles for attending ten Sundays in a row.  The Sunday they received
the books was the last time they were ever allowed to go to church.
Bill Green always ruins everything Ricky thought.

Filing by the open casket where his mother rested, he felt a tear
fall from his good eye.  She sees me.  She knows I'm here.  Ricky
smiled slightly before turning away.

Suddenly Teresa clung to the side of the coffin.

"Mama!  Mama!"  she shouted.  Teresa had not seen her mother in two
or three years.  She would never see her again.

The funeral procession caravaned to the Aurora Cemetery, fifteen
miles southeast of Decatur, where little Tony was buried, as well as
Dona and William Green, Sr.

Grandpa Green died in January 1984, his wife in 1977.  Ricky missed
the old man, missed seeing him come by the shop to visit when he was
bored.  Ricky had lived with his grandfather for more than a year
before Mary and James moved in with him.  The old man had wanted to
resume the sexual relationship of Ricky's childhood, but Ricky
refused.

The family car turned at the cemetery entrance.  Local legend claimed
that a spaceship crashed near the burial ground in 1897.  According
to the fable, the pilot was killed in the crash and buried on the
spot.

The car proceeded to the rear of the eight-hundred grave cemetery,
stopping in front of the freshly dug grave.  To the north of Lou's
final resting place was Tony's plot.  Wind chimes, hanging from a
sprawling mimosa tree nearby, tinkled in the light breeze.  The aroma
of fresh pink roses clustered on a bush planted between Tony's
headstone and Lou's grave site filled the warm spring air.

Ricky glanced at his mother's grave, then at his brother's.  why?
Why do all the people I love -- Tony, Mama, and Grandpa -- all the
people who loved me die?  He was consumed with sorrow.  How was he
going to go on without his mother?

Neighbors, relatives, and business associates filled the Green
trailer to capacity.  Casseroles, fried chicken, salads, and desserts
crammed the tables and kitchen counters of his parents' home.

Perry rubbed his red eyes as he held his baby, Willie, closely in his
arms.

Teresa continually cried, telling everyone she spoke to that it had
been years since she and her mother had talked.  Now she was gone.

Tired of the crowd jammed into the small trailer, Ricky walked out
the back door.  He wanted to be alone.

He stood on the top step, fascinated with a large rose bush growing
beside the porch.  His mother loved roses and anxiously awaited the
first blooms of spring.  The fragrant aroma of the tender petals
reminded him of the flowers that adorned his mother's grave.  How
odd, he thought, that the day they buried my mother, the first bud
burst open with new lIfe.  A tear from his eye kissed the blossom.

He knew in his heart he could not live without his mother.

Ricky returned to the loneliness of his own trailer.

"I've made such a mess of my life," he cried.  Memories of his
father's brutality, images of the unspeakable slaughter of Jeffery
Davis, and the wrenching loss of his mother flooded his mind.  "I
don't want to live," Ricky blubbered.

Tears streaked his cheeks as he made his way into the small bathroom
of the two-bedroom trailer house.  He stared into the mirror.  The
image of a broken man re turned his remorseful gaze.  Slowly he
opened the medicine cabinet, withdrawing a box of Sleep-Eze, an
over-the-counter sleeping aid.  I just want to die, he thought.

But Ricky Green did not die.  He replaced the box of pills in the
cabinet and rejoined the family in mourning his mother.

Three weeks after the death of Lou Green, Ricky could no longer deal
with his sorrow.  He returned to his medicine cabinet and in one
swallow he downed the con tents of the Sleep-Eze box with a cold beer.

Quietly Ricky lay down on the bed, awaiting death.

But death would not come.  Sharon, returning home from work, found
Ricky in a sound slumber.

The empty sleeping pill box was on the floor of the bathroom.  Sharon
roused Ricky enough to assist him to her car.  Quickly she sped to
the Azle hospital, where emergency personnel attempted to pump his
stomach.

A long narrow tube was run into Ricky's nose, ex tending down into
his throat.  Damn, that hurts!  Ricky fought the nurse, frantically
pushing her hands away from his face.

"If you don't want us to pump your stomach you'll have to vomit," the
nurse angrily announced.

Ricky reluctantly agreed to drink the gritty charcoal liquid mixed
with water.  He immediately began vomiting.  The retching continued
for nearly an hour.

Damn, why didn't I die?  Ricky asked himself between heaves.  I just
wanted to die.

Weeks later Ricky sat between the graves of his little brother and
his mother.  "I miss you both.  Daddy has changed.  He is being nicer
these days, but I still don't trust him.  He'll turn on me again.  I
wish you were both here."

Ricky walked to the back of his mother's headstone and read the poem
etched in the gray granite.  She had written it just prior to her
death.


"Will the Circle be Unbroken"

Beyond the sunset that's where I'm at
Not that I could ever say I love you all
I can say today, do not be afraid, you are not alone now.
Because you "will" find the know how.
I have joined your mom and friend 
Let not your hearts be hurt 
Because here there are no ends.  
The circle is not broken nor will it ever be.  
Because "you" will always be within me.

Lou

Mom knew she was going to die, Ricky thought.  The poem proves it.  I
wouldn't be surprised if Bill Green didn't have something to do with
her death.

Anger, sadness, and loneliness overcame him.  He had to leave.  He
needed a drink.  Reaching his truck, he turned to face the grave one
last time, "I love you, Mama."


Deadly Menage A' Troi

"I, Ricky, take thee Sharon to be my lawfully wedded wife," Ricky
Green repeated.  Ricky and Sharon were married September 20, 1985, in
the unassuming home of Elizabeth Carpenter, Justice of the Peace.
Ricky and his first wife, Mary Francis, had been married in the same
drab living room in 1984.

The plump Mrs. Carpenter presided over the wedding ceremony while
Ricky twitched nervously.  This marriage would be different from his
last, he vowed silently.  Sharon Dollar was the kind of woman he had
always dreamed of marrying.  Although her physical characteristics
differed greatly from those of his mother, her personality pleasantly
reminded him of Lou.

Sharon had the same kind heart and the same desire to care for him.

"I, Sharon, take thee Ricky to be my lawfully wedded husband."  A
smile crossed Ricky's lips as he listened to Sharon.  Who would have
ever imagined that Ricky Lee Green would be married to a woman like
this?  An intelligent woman, full of love and full of life.  A woman
raised with religious beliefs in stilled by her father, Rev.  Dollar.
A kind and caring woman who still knew how to have a good time.
Ricky's shy smile turned to a broad grin.

Hand-in-hand, they left the home of the Justice of the Peace.
Without fanfare or flying rice, they hopped into Sharon's car and
headed toward the trailer they had been sharing for nearly a year.

There had been no grand wedding plans or elaborate preparations.
Ricky wasn't sure he had even proposed to Sharon.  The marriage had
simply evolved.  Ricky had grown increasingly irritated each time
Rev.  Dollar came by for a visit and he was forced to grab his
clothes and hide from view while the reverend casually strolled the
length of the sixty-foot trailer.

The Green family, on the other hand, was well aware of his
relationship.  Sharon freely came and went from the trailer she
shared with Ricky and her five-year-old daughter across from the
Green family business.  On one occasion Lou was forced to open the
door to allow Sharon in because Ricky had forgotten to leave the door
unlocked.  "You better get that girl a key if she's gonna live with
you," Lou had instructed Ricky.  He had laughed at his mother's
casual attitude toward their living arrangement.

The newlyweds toasted their marriage with a cold beer.  Ricky was
glad there would be no more deception.

He had a wonderful wife and a beautiful young daughter.  The memory
of Jeffery Davis was far from his thoughts.  He truly believed that
his life had turned around.

"Get me that wrench, you dumb son-of-a-bitch," Bill Green bellowed at
Ricky.  The customer standing in the shed of the Green Radiator Shop
stared in silence.  The stranger looked as if he felt sorry for the
young man who was ordered about the shop like a dog freshly out of
obedience school.

"Move your lazy ass, Green demanded from under the customer's
automobile.  Ricky obeyed, handing his father the wrench.  As Bill
Green jerked the tool from his hand, Ricky's thoughts drifted to his
childhood and the early days of helping his father in the shop.  He
and Perry had worked with their dad as very young boys.

During those first early days, Ricky often confused the names of the
tools, more often confusing the various sizes.

Ricky recalled his father's words.  "Go get me a nine sixteenth-inch
wrench."  The boy was too small to know the proper size, so he would
make a guess and hand his father a tool.  "You dumb son-of-a-bitch,"
Green yelled, flinging the wrench in Ricky's direction.  "Go get the
right one!"

That child, now a man, took more of the demoralizing abuse he had
been enduring for more than twenty years.  His mind wandered to his
childhood fantasy of killing his father.  He could push the car from
the support of the jack, crushing Bill Green beneath its weight.

But just as the boy believed that nothing could kill his father; that
Green was too strong to die, so also believed the man.

Bill Green rolled from under the customer's car, standing to lean
over the engine.  Ricky stared at his father's back, thinking, if
only I could kill him.  The years of humiliation flooded his mind.
Only a drink could ease the painful memories and erase the biting
words of his father.  Ricky left the radiator shop, walking straight
to his house for a cold brew.  He sat in silence, drinking until it
was time to pick up Sarah from Mrs. Dollar's.

He and Sharon had only been married a month but he felt restless.
After he picked up Sarah, they would go for a nice long ride.

"Look at that, Sarah," Ricky commanded of his five year-old
stepdaughter.  "Looks like that girl might need some help!"  Green
checked the north- and south-bound traffic before wheeling his Impala
around and heading back in the direction of Boyd.

The strawberry-blonde woman looked dazed and confused as she stood on
the overpass of Highway 287 and Interstate 35, just north of Fort
Worth.  She placed her wobbly feet a shoulder-width apart in an
effort to steady herself.  Then she extended her right arm with thumb
erect, attempting to hitch a ride.  The woman's battered appearance
hindered her efforts as cars swiftly cruised by.

A faint smile crossed her parched lips as Ricky's automobile slowly
eased its way onto the overpass.  She randomly pushed the loose
gravel beneath her feet with the toe of her scuffed boot as she
waited for the car to come closer.  Pulling to a stop on the shoulder
of the highway, Ricky Green opened the car door on the passenger's
side, then leaned out of his window to take a better look at the
hitchhiker.

Ricky was alarmed by the bruises on the stranger's dirty,
tear-stained face.  He got out of the car and approached the visibly
shaken young woman with tenderness and compassion.  Her tension eased
and her smile broadened as the handsome young stranger came closer.

He instructed a small child to stay put in the car.

"Hi, what ya doing'?"  Ricky Green asked in his slow, gentle manner.
"Where ya going'?  You need a ride?"

The woman's large green eyes sparkled.  "I'm headed for Amarillo.  I
was ridin' with a motorcycle gang when I got in an argument with my
boyfriend.  He beat me up and left me on the side of the road," she
said, reaching for her large leather tote bag on the ground beside
her.

"He took off with his biker buddies, just left me here.  I'd love a
ride, thanks!"  She headed toward the late-model car.

"Would you like to clean up and eat something?"  Ricky asked,
noticing her dirty jeans and blouse.

"I sure would," she answered, staring at Sarah who sat quietly in the
backseat.  The woman slid onto the seat next to the benevolent
stranger and slipped out of her heavy leather motorcycle jacket.  She
dropped it on the seat between them.

Ricky steered the Impala down Highway 287 toward home.  "My name is
Ricky Green, and this is Sarah.  What's your name?"

"They call me Montana," she replied.  "I'm from Montana and I love
Joe Montana of the San Francisco 49ers.  My name is Betty Jo."

Grinning at Sarah, Montana continued her chatter.

"I had a little girl once.  I nicknamed her Francisca for San
Francisco.  She died," Montana said in a nonchalant voice.

Ricky glared at the young woman beside him.  He wondered how she
could show so little sadness at the loss of her child.  Ricky turned
the car into the driveway of the trailer house and walked to the
front door.  The woman followed close behind.  "The bathroom is in
there," Ricky said, pointing to the small bath located to the rear of
the two-bedroom trailer.  Silently, Montana followed his direction
and closed the door behind her.

Ricky grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and told Sarah to go
outside and play.

Montana stood motionless under the warm water of the shower.  The
soothing liquid washed the grime from her body, but the memories of
the turbulent times with the bikers could not be so easily washed
away.  She rested her head against the cool tile of the shower.  The
odor of dirt mixed with perspiration faded away, replaced by the
fresh scent of soap.

Without warning, the shower curtain flung open, and Betty Jo Montana
jumped back in surprise.  She gasped for air with the sound of an old
man's last labored breath.  Fear changed into curiosity as she stared
mutely at the naked man who stepped into the shower beside her.
Behind him, Ricky's jeans and shirt lay on the floor.

Without speaking, he placed the palms of his callused hands over the
areola of her large, full breasts, squeezing his separated fingers
tightly around the pale flesh.

There was no objection from Montana, only a faint murmur of
satisfaction as she tilted her head back to allow the tepid water to
run through her long, reddish blond hair.  Green's right hand
traveled from her breast, across her abdomen, to the hair-masked area
between her heavy thighs.  His fingers wedged into the deep crevice
of her vagina as his tongue burst through her parted lips in a hard,
wet kiss.

Montana became a willing participant.  The rejection by her boyfriend
now seemed insignificant.  She gently stroked Green's genitals as she
moaned from the pleasures he provided.  Their kisses were laborious,
their grasps firm.  The woman began to kiss Green from one side of
his clean-shaven face to the other.  Her tongue explored the opening
of his ears and the ridges of his lobes.

"Do you want me to eat your pussy?"  Ricky asked bluntly.

"Not right now," Montana replied as her tongue traveled his flesh.
As she licked his nipple, Ricky drew a deep breath.  His body tensed
as her tongue left his breast and traveled down to his pubic area.
He inhaled deeply as she sucked his erect penis, running her tongue
down the ridge and allowing the boner to slip farther down her
throat.  As Ricky slowly released his arrested -breath, Montana
retraced the path her tongue had taken in exploring his trim
physique.  He threaded his fingers in her hair, pulling her face to
his, kissing her thin, colorless lips.

The persistent shower spray coated their bodies as they slid from one
position to another within the con fines of the narrow tub stall.
Then Ricky pressed Montana to the wall with such force that her head
banged against it with a muffled thud.  Montana's eyes widened with
surprise, mixed with fear.  While she was still pinned against the
cool fiberglass stall, he lowered his	head and grasped a nipple
between his teeth and firmly bit down.  Montana whimpered slightly.
Ricky released his grip.  Reaching for the faucet he turned the knob
and ceased the flow of the refreshing liquid.

Soon Ricky and Montana were lying in the bed he normally shared with
his wife.  Zealous kisses were ex changed as the uninhibited rough
sexual play continued.  Ricky groped and grabbed the flesh of his
newest conquest.

"Do you want to eat my pussy now?"  she asked.  With out answering,
Ricky lowered his head between her ample thighs.  Unexpectedly and
with a great deal of force, Montana crammed his face into the pubic
hair of her body and wrapped her long legs around his head.

Green's ears rang from the viselike grip.  He felt suffocated and
annoyed.  Whores!  They always play rough, he thought to himself.

Angry, Ricky thrust his penis into Montana with such force that she
gasped.  The powerful intercourse ended with Green reaching
ejaculation a few minutes later.

Ricky lay back with his head resting on the soiled pillow and reached
for the cigarette pack that rested on the night table beside him.
The insignificant sex had been physically satisfying.  As he drew a
deep drag from the Marlboro, he watched the smoke encircle his head.
Sex with this girl was blah, he thought.  She had fulfilled his
desire for an afternoon of fun, nothing more.  The act was as void of
meaning as it was with the other women he routinely brought to his
house.

Sex with Sharon was gratifying.  Ricky loved Sharon.

This free-love hitchhiker is no more than a slut, willing to go to
bed with anyone, Ricky thought.  She satisfied my desire for some
strange stuff, but she is obviously a whore.  Ricky loathed whores.
Whores were to be used and abused.  They weren't good for much more
than fucking.

A light tap on the bedroom door interrupted his thoughts.  "Ricky,
what are you doing?"  Sarah asked.

"Nothin', Sarah, I'll be out in a minute.  Go on back outside and
play for awhile."

He extinguished the cigarette, then forcibly fucked the whore one
more time before leaving the double bed	to get dressed.

Without warning a few minutes later, the door to the bedroom swung
open, and Sarah stood crying in the doorway.  Although Ricky was
fully clothed, Sarah looked at Betty Jo lying naked in her mother's
bed.

"Why are you mad at me, Ricky?"  Sarah's eyes were filled with tears.

"I'm not mad at you, Sarah.  I just want you to play outside for
awhile."  As Sarah left the room, Ricky asked his guest, "You want a
beer?"

"Sure," Montana replied as she headed for the bath room and another
shower.

With beers in hand, Ricky again slipped into the	small bathroom while
Montana stood under the water

"Why don't you stay here with us?"  asked Ricky.  "You could baby-sit
with Sarah while my wife and I are both at work."  Ricky thought he
appeared sweet in offering the woman a place to stay.  He was
thinking, That way I	can get some more pussy.

Pulling back the shower curtain, Montana reached	for a towel.  "Oh,
all you want to do is fuck me."

Ricky slapped her face, angry that she could see his real motive for
inviting her to stay.  Instantly he noticed the startled expression
and the frightened look in her eyes.  He felt sorry for her.

"You better watch what you say," Ricky instructed.  "You are going to
stay here and baby-sit."  Pressing the towel tightly to her breasts,
Betty Jo agreed to think about staying.

"Well, we're gonna pick up my wife soon, then we'll discuss it with
her," Ricky announced.

The young woman nodded in agreement.

"Where's Sarah?"  Montana asked as she sat on the sofa to pull on her
boots.

Ricky Green pointed to the front door of the trailer with the same
hand that held the beer.  "Do you want to eat something'?"  he asked
as he extended the cool can.

"I'll go see if Sarah wants something."  Montana grabbed the beer and
headed for the door.

Ricky took the lunch meat and bread from the refrigerator and set
them on the kitchen table.  He sat in a side chair, drinking vodka
with beer chasers while Betty Jo prepared a sandwich for Sarah and
herself.

Neither Montana nor Green said much.  When the girls finished eating,
they both went outside.  Ricky was left to the solitude of his
excessive drinking.

When Sarah and Betty Jo returned from play, they found Ricky in front
of the television sipping a beer.

Quietly they retired to Sarah's bedroom where Betty Jo read the
little girl a story.

"It's time to get Sharon from work," Ricky announced.  It was after
eight o'clock, and Sharon was Waiting to be picked up from her job at
the telephone company.  Betty Jo climbed in the backseat with Sarah
as Ricky headed toward Fort Worth.

Sharon appeared tired.  She rubbed her lower back as she approached
Ricky and Sarah waiting in the car.

Sharon's face registered surprise when she opened the door and
spotted a strange young woman in the back seat beside her daughter.

"Who's this?"  She glared at Ricky.

"It's a girl I picked up on the road, hitchhiking.  She's gonna
baby-sit for us.  I asked her to stay and baby-sit," Ricky replied.

"What?"  Sharon was astonished and irritated.

"She's gonna stay and baby-sit.  She can help out a lot."  Ricky was
trying to sell Sharon on the idea.

The hitchhiker began to cry.  Now Sharon was angry with Ricky.

"Don't worry, everything is going to be all right."  Sarah attempted
to comfort her new friend.

Ricky pulled into Jeter's convenience store on US 287, then
instructed Sharon to go in and buy him some beer.

Once back at home, Ricky sat in front of the television guzzling
vodka with beer chasers.  Sharon glared at Ricky as she slammed
cabinets and drawers in the kitchen.  Betty Jo read bedtime stories
to Sarah.  At ten o'clock Sharon told Sarah it was time for bed,
tucked her in, and gave her a kiss good night.

"Ricky, Sarah told me she saw that woman in my bed.  She asked me if
Bettyjo is really going to stay and be her baby-sitter," Sharon said
irritably.  Ricky could tell that Sharon was not happy that Betty Jo
Montana was in their home.

Ricky entered his stepdaughter's room, kissed her good night, then
joined his wife and guest in the living room.  Montana was telling
Sharon about herself.

"Yeah," Ricky explained.  "I found her on the side of the road after
her boyfriend dumped her.  She looked pretty bad, all beat up.  I
brought her here to clean up."

Betty Jo excused herself, and Sharon confronted Ricky about his
afternoon with the young stranger.

"Yeah, we been together.  She ain't nothin' but a slut.  Why don't
all three of us go to bed together?"  Ricky asked his wife.

Sharon contemplated the proposition for a moment, then agreed.  Ricky
left Sharon alone in the living room and went to approach Betty Jo in
the master bedroom concerning the menage a' trois.

Green smiled as he made the offer to the frightened woman.  He
persisted until Montana reluctantly agreed.

Ricky and Betty Jo removed their clothing as Sharon entered the room
naked.

Betty Jo appeared nervous.  "I don't want to do this," Montana
protested.

"I want you to eat my pussy," Sharon told Betty Jo.

"I don't want to have sex," Montana declared.

Ricky looked at Sharon in frustration.  "Let's tie her up.  Go get me
something to tie her up with."

Sharon went to the closet and brought Ricky a stretch of rope.  He
carefully tied the binding around the wrists of the squirming victim
and secured them to the head board.  Montana's large eyes bulged with
fear.

Sharon mounted her, placing her knees beside Montana's ears and
positioning her crotch over Montana's face.  Lowering her body to the
woman's lips, Sharon repeated, "Eat my pussy."

"OUCH," Sharon shrieked moments later.

"What's wrong?"  Ricky asked.

"The bitch bit me!"  Sharon screamed.

Ricky laughed out loud.

"You do that again, bitch, and I'll kill you."  She again lowered her
body to meet Montana's lips.  Montana repeated her retaliation.

Sharon is really pissed, Ricky thought.  Sharon's position of power
over Montana, her control, her anger turned him on.  He was becoming
sexually aroused.

Ricky untied the bindings that held their prey captive.  Together the
couple dragged the kicking and screaming heavyset woman to the
bathroom.  He re strained the woman's hands behind her back.
Montana's body was rigid.

"I want to watch you screw her in the ass," Sharon told her husband.

Ricky had no objection.  He and Sharon often watched one another with
other sexual partners.  It was a turn-on for him, and he knew it was
a turn-on for Sharon.  Ricky pushed Montana face first over the edge
of the tub.  He attempted to enter the woman rectally.

She squirmed frantically to avoid penetration.

Just as Green was ready to invade her body, Montana made a quick
jerking movement that foiled the attempt.

Damn whore!  You'll be sorry.  Green was incensed with rage.  "Go get
me a knife," he bellowed at Sharon.

While Sharon was in the kitchen, he lowered his voice and whispered
in Montana's ear, "I'm gonna kill you."

Sharon returned with a large butcher knife.  Again, Ricky attempted
to sodomize Montana.  She continued to fight frantically.  Ricky was
furious and confused.  Why did she have to put up a fight?  Why
couldn't she just go along with the fun?

Without warning Sharon thrust the kitchen knife into the side of the
struggling victim.

"Give me the knife," Ricky shouted.

Sharon handed it to her husband.  He quickly thrust the instrument
into the chest of Betty Jo Montana with sufficient force to break
through one of the woman's ribs.  Ricky pushed Montana backward into
the tub and saw her features freeze into a speechless trance.

Ricky was frightened and exhilarated.  He didn't like seeing Montana
in pain but he liked the power he felt over her.  He was the
intimidator, not the intimidated like he was with his father.

"Watch her," Ricky instructed his wife.  He went to the bedroom,
pulling his large pocket knife from the dresser with his
blood-covered hand.  It was the same pocket knife he had used to
mutilate the body of Jeffrey Davis six months earlier.

Montana attempted to rise from the tub as Ricky re entered the
bathroom.  Without speaking he plunged the pocket knife into the
flesh of the frantic young woman.

"Why are you doing this?"  Montana screamed.

How could he tell her the game had gotten out of hand?  How could he
tell her that he wanted to relieve her of her pain?  He had to kill
her.  They had gone too far.

"Why?"  Ricky continued to ram the sharp steel object in the body of
the victim.  Sharon lunged forward with the butcher knife, repeatedly
propelling the blade into the woman's fair white skin.

"Why do you hate me?"  Montana's voice was fading.

"Because you're a fucking bitch," Sharon yelled.

Montana's pleading eyes fixed on Ricky.  "Because you're a fucking
whore!"  Ricky screamed as he again left off the attack to secure a
ball-peen hammer from the toolbox in the adjoining bedroom.

Lifting the large hammer in the air, Green bashed the head of the
fainting victim with enough force to crack her skull.  Blood gushed
from the head wound, covering the attacker.  Montana slumped
unconscious in the tub, her head lying forward, her legs dangling
over the tub ledge.

"Listen to this."  Green repeated the hammer action to the head of
the victim.  Each blow produced a cracking sound that permeated the
tiny room and reminded him of the armadillos he and Perry bludgeoned
in their youth.  Each wound generated blood splatters that cloaked
the bathroom fixtures and clothed the nude asailants.

"Let me try that."  Sharon took the hammer from Rick and struck the
unconscious victim in the head with the blunt tool.  The cracking
noise was repeated.

Ricky continued to slice and stab the body of Betty Jo Montana.  When the attack finally ceased the victim had seventeen
stab wounds.  Six superficial cuts traversed the woman's pale flesh.
Calm began to overcome the once frenzied murder scene.

Ricky stood staring in disbelief at the disfigured corpse that lay
lifeless in the tub.  He and Sharon silently surveyed the bloody
room, the butchered corpse, and the red fluid that dripped from their
bodies.  Tenderly Ricky reached for Sharon's breast and softly rubbed
the blood around her raised nipple.

"Oh, that feels good," Sharon moaned.

The sensual response aroused Ricky.  He continued to gently smear the
blood of the dead woman over the breasts of his accomplice.  Sharon
smiled with satisfaction, lifting her hands to smudge his
bloodstained chest.

The couple knelt on the cold bathroom floor beside the remains of the
lifeless Montana.  Together Sharon and Ricky dipped their hands in
the tub, seizing more of their victim's blood to rub on their aroused
bodies.  The lubricant excited their sexual desires as they lulled
one another into sexual fantasy with each tantalizing stroke.

His hands in constant motion, Ricky used the blood to caress Sharon's
breasts, to oil her vaginal cavity.  Simultaneously, Sharon caressed
Ricky's genitals.  Ricky had never seen such eroticism in his wife.
Sharon be came an impassioned lover, desperate for the sensual
stimulation he freely offered.  The tenderness of the initial moments
disappeared, replaced by hard thrusts on the wet linoleum floor.
Ricky and Sharon reached in tense orgasm.  Their voices echoed
exclamations of total sexual satisfaction.  Husband and wife fell
silent in an exhausted embrace amid their evil destruction.


A Day at the Fair

Ricky and Sharon lay exhausted on the cold tile floor of the
bloodstained bathroom.  It had been more than three hours since they
dragged the combative Montana to the scene of her death.  Ricky was
weary; fatigued from the massacre and their impassioned lovemaking.

"Sharon, I'm dead tired."

"Me, too, Ricky."

"But we have to get this mess cleaned up," he said, rising to his
feet.  Ricky's head drooped, as he remembered that the last time
there was a bloody mess in his trailer his mother had cleaned away
the evidence.

Reluctantly Sharon went to the bedroom, returning with an old
blanket.  "We can wrap her in this."

Together the couple lifted the 140-pound woman onto the coverlet,
shrouding the severely mutilated body with newspaper.  Tugging on the
tattered cloth, they inched the corpse into the bedroom.

Ricky and Sharon washed the bright red puddles of blood from the
floor.  The sticky goo was everywhere, splattered on walls, coating
the linoleum and dotting the fixtures.

"We need to hurry," Ricky said in a hushed tone.  "We're supposed to
go to the State Fair later."  He tossed a bloody towel used to mop
the floor into a sack Sharon had brought in from the kitchen.

Sharon climbed into the bathtub.  Ricky stepped in after her.  They
scrubbed the walls of the enclosure in silence then washed the blood
from each other's tainted bodies.

The final telltale signs of Montana's demise swirled in a whirlpool
of pink-tinted water and gurgled down the tub drain.

"Where can we take the body?"  Sharon asked.

"I don't know.  We'll have to find someplace to dump it," Ricky
whispered.  "Let's just get it loaded in the car."

Sharon quickly dressed, grabbed her handbag, and headed for the door.
Backing her new 1985 Pontiac up to the front steps of the trailer,
she lightly touched the top step with the rear bumper of the car.

"Let's check on Sarah before we load the body," Ricky said in a
muffled tone, concerned about waking the child.

Sarah lay in peaceful slumber; apparently unaware of the slaughter
that had taken place only a few feet from her bed.

Ricky and Sharon strained to drag the corpse of their victim down the
hall and through the front door.  Laboriously they struggled to lift
the deadweight of Montana into the trunk of the automobile.  Ricky
stuffed the newspapers they had used to cover the gruesome sight into
a brown paper sack, along with the biker's clothing and the rags they
had used to clean the blood-smeared bathroom.

Once Ricky slammed the trunk shut, Sharon murmured, "I'll get Sarah."

Protectively, Sharon picked up her daughter, cradling the child in
her arms.  She sweetly kissed Sarah on the cheek, rocking her gently
before carrying the sleeping toddler to the car.  Gently, Sharon laid
Sarah in the backseat.  where she continued to slumber uninterrupted
by the move.

"Where to?"  Sharon asked as she slipped behind the wheel.

"Just drive," Ricky whimpered.

Sharon directed the car east, toward the center of Boyd.

"Turn down 730, toward Decatur.  Let's go down that road Marvin Idel
lives on," Ricky directed, grinning.

Sharon followed his instructions, turning off the main roadway.

"Pull up on that bridge right there," Ricky said, pointing to the
concrete span.

Sharon stopped the car on the bridge, as Ricky had instructed.

"Wouldn't it be neat to just dump her right in front of Marvin's
house?"  Ricky laughed in an attempt to ease his jitters.

"Yeah.  That's what we should do," Sharon chuckled.

Sharon steered the car farther down the road into the area known as
Flatwood.  She drove into an unfamiliar driveway.  Despite the early
hour of three A.M., several men were working on an automobile in the
garage of the house.  "Damn, Sharon, you shouldn't have turned around
here," Ricky hissed.  "These people may have gotten your license
number."  Ricky was nervous, tired, and becoming irritable.

Sharon whirled the car around and raced back to the bridge.  She sat
in the front seat of the vehicle, gently patting Sarah as Ricky got
out of the car.  It was important to Ricky that Sarah remain unaware
of what had happened to her friend, Betty Jo.  Sharon would keep her
settled while he disposed of the body.

As Ricky fumbled with the key in the lock of the trunk, nervous
tension caused his neck to ache and his head to pound.  The fear of
being caught gave Ricky the strength to hoist the overweight body
from the trunk and shove it over the railing.  Montana rested
facedown twenty feet be low in a dried creek bed.  Ricky returned to
the car, tossing the soiled blanket in the trunk.

Sharon calmly drove back toward their trailer.  Sarah slept soundly
in the backseat.  Ricky dozed beside Sharon, his head gently resting
on her shoulder.

"We might as well get ready to go to the fair," Ricky suggested
wearily.  He was tired but he and Sharon had planned to spend the day
with Sarah and Jill, Sharon's thirteen-year-old sister.

"What are you going to do with the newspapers and stuff?"  Sharon
asked.

"I'll take them over to the shop tomorrow and burn them.  Nobody will
know.  I'm always burning our trash over there.  It's just more
trash," Ricky said, smiling.

Sarah tottered into the room where her mother and Ricky were
dressing.  "Where is that girl?"  Sarah asked looking around.

"She left," Ricky said abruptly.

"I liked her.  She was nice.  I thought she was going to stay and
baby-sit me," Sarah said innocently.

"Welle, she had to go, Sarah," Sharon snapped.

Ricky and Sharon looked at one another.  I wonder if Sarah heard or
saw anything.  Ricky was worried.

The fifty-two-foot, iron-pipe drill casing and paper mache figure of
Big Tex towered over the sprawling State Fair in downtown Dallas.
The oversized cowboy flapped his giant jaw, bellowing a friendly,
"How-dee, Folks.  Welcome to the State Fair of Texas."  Sarah and
Jill ran snickering toward the smiling statue as Ricky and Sharon
strolled along hand-in-hand behind them.

The landmark cowboy sported the world's largest pair of Lee denim
jeans and size-seventy black boots.  His red Western shirt, made from
one hundred yards of cotton fabric, was accented with the world's
biggest red bandana.

Atop Big Tex's head sat a seventy-gallon cowboy hat.  The State
Fair's ambassador was as Texan as the cattle on display in the show
barns and the Lone Star flag that waved in the light autumn breeze.

"Let's go to the midway, Ricky," thirteen-year-old Jill begged.

Ricky tossed rings at Coke bottles, basketballs at hoops, and
softballs at milk bottles in unsuccessful attempts to win giant
stuffed animals for the girls.  His money was going fast.  "Who wants
to ride the roller coaster?"  he asked.

"I do!  I do!"Jill shouted.

Ricky and Jill rode the twisting, turning coaster twice.

"I want to ride again," Jill shouted.

My God, I can't do it again, Ricky thought.  My head hurts, and my
stomach is sick.  I need a nap.

"You and Sarah ride this time, Jill," Ricky said.

Ricky and Sharon sat on a park bench watching the girls scream
gleefully as the coaster cars rushed by.  They munched on
world-famous Fletcher's State Fair corny dogs and washed them down
with cold Coca-Colas.  The hot dog, corn-meal encrusted and
deep-fried to a golden brown, was Ricky's favorite State Fair snack.
He smeared yellow mustard on the coating, then devoured the dog in
three large bites.

Ricky needed a beer but he only had a few dollars left, and the
high-dollar brews would have to be passed up.

"Come on, girls, we're going to look at cars," Ricky told the
giggling children.

The new-car pavilion was one of the most popular exhibit halls on the
ninety-nine-year-old fairgrounds.  Ricky slowly walked through the
exhibition, sizing up the new car bodies and checking out the
engines.  The sleek 1986 Corvette caught his eye.  It would be pretty
in blue, he thought.  Blue was Ricky's favorite color.

Sharon, Sarah, and Jill watched performers entertain on the center
stage and took note of beautiful spokesmo dels on revolving platforms
describing the latest features of the cars they represented.

"Let's go back to the midway, Ricky," Sarah pleaded.

"Okay."  Ricky found it hard to say no to Sarah.  He loved her so
much and always wanted to make her happy.  But it didn't take long
for Ricky to go through most of his remaining money.

"No more, girls.  I ain't got no more money for games," Ricky told
them.

Stopping by the AT&T booth, Sharon visited a couple of her friends
who were passing out free materials to fair goers.  Then they were
off to the Texas Food and Fiber building, stopping momentarily to
watch the North Texas Square Dancers perform.  They were having a
great day at the fair.

While Ricky, Sharon, Sarah, and Jill sat atop the Texas Star Ferris
wheel, Texas Department of Public Safety Trooper Alan Troup was
making a grim discovery on Highway 730 just outside Decatur.

Trooper Alan Troup was on routine patrol when he stopped his patrol
car on the first bridge he came to and exited the driver's door.
Troup strolled to the south side of the bridge, looking over the
railing to the dry creek bed below.  Nothing unusual, he thought.  He
then crossed the roadway in front of his car and looked down from the
north side of the bridge.

The sun was high in the Texas sky at one-thirty P.M.  but it was a
pleasant fall afternoon, the air crisp and the weather clear.  The
leaves on the dense foliage surrounding the bridged creek were just
beginning to dry and change to the brilliant yellows and intense reds
that would appear in a few weeks.  The trooper glanced over the steel
post to the waterless run below.  His eyes narrowed in concentration
at what appeared to be the bottoms of two feet.

Making out the figure of a female lying face down among the grassy
brush, he observed that her legs were crossed at the knees and there
appeared to be wounds on her backside.  The figure was nude.

Troup immediately notified Sheriff Ray Aaron of Wise County, as well
as the Department of Public Safety dispatcher.

Within an hour Wise County Investigator Mark Autry arrived on the
scene to recover evidence.  "There are no possessions on the body.
No jewelry and no identification," Troup told Autry as both men made
their way down the grassy embankment.

Autry found little evidence at the scene, determining that the victim
had been killed elsewhere and dumped at the Flatwood location.  "It
appears that the body was set up on the railing and pushed over the
side," Autry voiced his opinion to Troup.

Ricky, Sharon, and the girls sat beneath a star-studded sky listening
to the sounds of Mel McDaniel on the Bud Lite Cotton Bowl Plaza
Stage.  The long day ended as they watched the spectacular fireworks
burst into brilliant showers of red, blue, and white light over the
fairground lagoon.  It had been a long day: It was time to go home.

"I don't want to go, Ricky," Sarah whined.

Ricky was in no mood for Sarah's predictable crying binge.  She
always pouted when she wanted her way.  Usually patient with the
child, Ricky was not putting up with whining tonight.  He had been up
for more than twenty four hours -- a period of murder and mayhem,
mixed with innocent merriments.  He was having such a good time with
Sharon and the girls that he had almost forgotten about Montana.

Now he began to worry.  What if someone has found the body?  What if
someone saw us dump it?  The cops could be looking for us right now.
Ricky agonized.

"We're going and that's it!"  Ricky told Sarah.

The next morning, Ricky arose feeling better.  He casually walked
across the street to Green's Radiator Shop carrying two sacks.
Standing at the back of the building he burned the bloody rags and
blanket, along with Montana's clothing, in a fifty-five-gallon
barrel.  All that remained to remind them of the murderous act was
Montana's black leather motorcycle jacket that Sharon had insisted on
keeping.  "We might need it for cash sometime," she told him.  They
still had the weapons, too: a hammer; butcher knife, and pocket knife.

Ricky and Sharon worked at their respective jobs that Monday as if
nothing unusual had occurred over the weekend.  Immediately following
work they drove toward AAe.

Past the row of beer stores located in Briar they noticed a vacant
field of several acres.  Ricky turned down the dirt road that
encircled the property.  He tossed the pocket knife out the open
driver's window, next to the fence-line of the acreage.

Driving farther onto the real estate Ricky threw the butcher knife
out.  It landed well within the field.  The hammer was deposited in a
drainage ditch on the way off the five-acre tract.  He had been
careful to wipe off any finger prints he and Sharon may have left on
the knives and hammer.  Even if someone happened to find the tools
there was no way to link the weapons to Ricky Green or Sharon Dollar
Green.

Leaving Sharon at the trailer later that evening, Ricky headed for
town.  Spotting Marvin Idell at the Boyd Gulf Station, Ricky pulled
in to say hello.

"Man, did you hear about that woman they found out there by my house,
dead?"  Marvin asked.

Ricky held in his laughter, his expression unchanged.  "Yeah.  Sharon
told me about it."  Ricky had to be careful about what he said.  He
couldn't say he read the story in the papers because the incident had
not been reported by the local media.  "Was that out by your house?"
Ricky asked.

"Yeah.  Right by my house.  You know that bridge in front of my
house?  Right there."

"Really?"  Ricky asked, barely able to hold back his laughter.  "Do
they know who did it?"

"No.  They thought I did it.  They talked to me and everybody who
lives around there."  Marvin seemed worried.

Ricky had to leave.  Once out of Marvin's sight, he burst into
laughter.  I bet the cops scared Marvin half to death, Ricky thought,
chuckling.

The day after the discovery of Montana's body in the leafy creek bed,
Investigator Mark Autry, Sheriff Ray Aaron and Texas Ranger Phil Ryan
met in Boyd to discuss the case.  Because there was little evidence
at the scene, all three men agreed that she had been killed elsewhere
and dumped at the location.  Autry and Aaron proceeded to Fort Worth
and the Tarrant County Medical Examiner's Office.

Dr.  Nizan Peerwani, Chief Medical Examiner, had completed his
autopsy on the unidentified female victim.

He gave the lawmen his preliminary report, placing the time of death
on Saturday, October 12, 1985, around 4P.M.

The victim's fingerprints were taken for possible future
identification.  Reports of missing persons in nearby San som Park,
Lake Worth, and the Azie area were investigated, with negative
results.  Who is she?  Ryan continued to ask himself.

The morning following the murder, and every morning thereafter, Ricky
and Sharon scanned the Fort Worth Star Telegram and the Wise County
Messenger for any news of the killing.  Finally, the first article
appeared October 15 in the morning edition of the Star telegram, two
days following the discovery of the body.

BOYD

Woman's body:

Identification sought

Wise County authorities were asking the public's help Monday night in
identifying the nude body of a woman found dumped in a creek bed near
Boyd.

The woman, who had been beaten and stabbed, is believed to be in her
late 30s, said Wise County Sheriff Ray Aaron.  She was 5-foot-7 and
135 to 140 pounds, with blue eyes and shoulder-length bleached brown
hair.

Aaron said the woman had false teeth and "some serious burns on the
back of her left leg."

Ricky hurled the newspaper to the floor.  "Sharon, I'm scared.  What
if somebody saw us dump that body?"  Ricky was becoming paranoid.
His smoking and drinking increased.

"Nobody saw us," Sharon said confidently.  "Ricky, everything is
going to be okay.  Just stop worrying."

The biweekly Wise County Messenger ran the first of several stories
on the murder beginning October 17.  The front-page account was
complete with a nine-by-five-inch photo of local lawmen removing the
body from the thick underbrush of the dried creek bed.  The story and
photo distressed Ricky more.  I know they are going to find out, he
thought.  He feared for himself, for Sharon, and for Sarah.

Ranger Ryan began interviewing law enforcement officers in the
immediate area concerning similar unsolved murders, missing persons
reported to their departments, and possible suspects in similar
cases.  The ranger ran into nothing but dead ends.  Ryan transmitted
the victim's fingerprints to the National Crime Information Center in
Washington, D.C., hoping for a possible match.  But with out a
criminal record, the female victim's identity remained a mystery.

Ryan had expected an easy identification.  A fresh body,
fingerprints, and noticeable scars on the victim should have led to
her identity, but every avenue he pursued ended in a roadblock.  He
was stumped.  He had exhausted all normal procedures.  It was time to
take exceptional measures.

Ten days after the murder, Phil Ryan called the Tarrant County
Medical Examiner's Office.  "Comb her hair and apply some makeup to
the injuries on her face," he requested.  "Try to make her look a
little better."  Ryan knew that many physical characteristics were
lost after death.  He hoped to get as close to her natural live state
as possible for photographs.

Pictures of the victim's face were taken to be used in an artist's
composite sketch.  The ranger began to compile a flyer to be sent to
every small police department in the Dallas Houston, and Austin,
Texas, areas.  In general press releases Ryan had omitted some
information.  The near severing of Montana's left nipple was one of
the facts with held from the public.  "That will keep out the kooks,"
he said.  Ryan knew that when the real killer was found and a
confession obtained, he or she would give them the facts about the
victim's breast, confirming his or her guilt.  But law enforcement
officers needed to know all the facts, therefore the nipple wound was
included on the dispatch.

Phil Ryan, aided by his supportive wife, sat at their kitchen table,
folding, stuffing, and stamping five hundred bulletins with
information about the unidentified murder victim dubbed Mama Doe.
Ryan already had an unsolved Jane Doe murder on his hands.  This
victim's Caesarean section scar across her abdomen had inspired Ryan
to choose the Mama Doe alias.

The flyers were ready for distribution.  Ryan hoped this measure
would produce results that even a letter to Dear Abby had not
yielded.  Someone from Paradise, Texas, had written Dear Abby
concerning a missing person.  The letter was signed, "Heart Broken."
Ryan wrote to Abby, requesting information from "Heart Broken" on the
person they sought.  Maybe he'd get lucky.  Maybe he and "Heart
Broken" would have their questions answered.

There was no response.


Deadly Dance

"Where are you going?"  Sharon asked Ricky as he meticulously dressed
in his best Western duds.  Sharon's voice reflected the irritation
she felt that Ricky was going out again without her.

Ricky smiled, tucking the crisp Panhandle Slim shirt into his
starched Wrangler jeans.  "We talked about getting another person for
our fantasy, I'm gonna look for somebody," he said with glee.

Ricky Green was preparing for another night of unrestrained sex.  He
hoped to win the favor of an amiable gal willing to join in the
amusement he and Sharon enjoyed.

It had been six weeks since the unplanned death of Betty Jo Montana.
He yearned for the same excitement.  He and Sharon had enjoyed the
company and sexual pleasures of numerous partners, none reaching the
same level of thrilling climax as they experienced with Montana.
Tonight his desire for greater arousal told him this would be a
savage evening.

He turned to kiss Sharon goodbye before climbing into her Pontiac.
"I'm gonna find us another victim," he said with a glimmer in his eye.

"Be careful," Sharon encouraged.

"I'll call you and let you know what's going on," Ricky said.  He
knew Sharon would be waiting for him and their new conquest when he
returned.  We're gonna get a great high, he thought.

Driving past Cowboy City he recognized the familiar cars of his
friends.  He and Sharon normally met them there for an evening of
fun, but tonight he needed to go where his mission would be
undetected.

For more than two hours he drove around the North Texas area,
searching in darkened parking lots and along the well-traveled
roadways for a vulnerable woman to accept his invitation.  He was
frustrated.  I don't want to disappoint Sharon, but I give up.  I'm
going home.  We'll have to do this another night.  He headed back
toward Boyd.

About one-half mile from the Inez 50/50 Club on the outskirts of Fort
Worth, Ricky noticed a chubby, brown haired girl hitchhiking on the
shoulder of busy High way 199.  Finally, a prospect, Ricky thought.
A smile crossed his lips as he stopped the car, watching the woman
approach.

"Hi," Ricky said, his hazel eyes sparkling.  "Where ya going?"

"To the 50/50 Club.  I been partyin' at another club for awhile," she
said.

"My name's Ricky.  What's yours?"  he said in a slow, easy style.

"I'm Sandra Bailey," she said, grinning broadly.

For the first time, Ricky noticed the mole on the left side of the
woman's chin.

"Would you like to go to my house and smoke some weed?"  Ricky asked,
wetting his lips.

"I got somebody I gotta meet," Bailey said.

"Get in, I'll take you where you want to go," he said.

Then I'll take her where I want to go.

Sitting in the dimly lit parking lot of the nightclub, Ricky and
Sandra shared a joint and a kiss.  "Why don't you go home with me?"
he whispered in her earring studded ear.

"No, I want to party first," she giggled.

Ricky wanted to pursue the invitation, but as he watched a police car
cruise by, he decided to go inside the club with Bailey.

Ricky and Sandra sat at a small table in a darkened corner.  Ricky
ordered each of them a Budweiser as Sandra went over to the bar to
talk with the female bar tender.  When Sandra returned to the table,
Ricky asked, "You want to dance?"

"Sure."

Snuggling close to Bailey, Ricky slipped his hand between her legs,
rubbing her crotch.  She responded with a deep breath and a soft moan
of pleasure.  Sandra pressed her ample body closer to his.  She
seemed to love the attention Ricky bestowed on her.

"Why don't you come to my house?  I promise I'll bring you back
later," Ricky coaxed.

"I want to stay here and party," Bailey answered.

"I'll get some more weed for us to smoke," Ricky prodded.  I've got
to get her home, Sharon is waiting for us.  He was trying everything
he could think of to get Bailey to leave with him.

"Later.  I want to stay here now."

I've got to call Sharon and tell her what's going on, Ricky thought.

"I gotta make a phone call," Ricky told Bailey.  "I'll be back in a
minute."

Leaving Bailey in the 50/50 Club with her friends, Ricky walked to
the Texaco gas station near the club to phone Sharon.

"I found someone for us, but it isn't going too well.  I've been
tryin' for almost an hour to get her to come home with me," Ricky
told Sharon.

"Well try to hurry up," Sharon irritably encouraged.

"I'll call you back if I get her to leave with me," Ricky said before
hanging up the phone.

Sandra Lorraine Bailey laughed and joked with friends attending a
birthday party at the club when Ricky returned.  "Come join the
party," she invited.

Ricky swaggered toward a large table where the birthday celebration
was in full swing.  His body jerked as a camera flash illuminated the
darkened shadows of the barroom.  God, they're taking pictures, Ricky
thought.  I can't be in any of them pictures.

Bailey, casually dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt layered under a
red plaid blouse, posed for photos with her friends.  Ricky shunned
the flash of the camera with excuses of using the john or getting
another Bud.  He snickered to himself at his successful attempts at
avoiding the camera's telltale lens.

-Swaying to the slow sounds of a country ballad, Ricky moved his
hands over the receptive body of Bailey.  She seems starved for
attention, Ricky thought.  She's perfect for Sharon and I to have
some fun with, like...Montana.

"Are you ready to go home with me?"  Ricky asked.

"Yeah."

Forty-five minutes after he had called Sharon to tell her he would be
later than expected, he and Sandra Bailey were on their way to Boyd.
"I have to stop for a minute.  The people with the weed wanted me to
call them when I got home so they could bring it over.  I don't have
a phone at my place," Ricky said, as he pulled up to the public
telephone located across the street from the trailer house where
Sharon waited.

"I'm on my way home," he told Sharon.

"You got somebody with you?"  she asked.

"Yeah."

"I'm in bed waiting, naked."

Light from the kitchen and bathroom poured into the living room of
the trailer.  Ricky led Bailey to the sofa.  I'll get her wet and
ready for sex, he thought.  He kissed her hard on the lips as they
sank into the soft cushions.  She's willing that's for sure.
Slipping his hands under her T-shirt, Ricky firmly squeezed her
breasts as he called, "Shaaaarooooon!"

-Bailey pushed his hands away as she noticed Sharon emerge,
undressed, from the bedroom.  "What's going on?"  Bailey asked,
looking from Sharon to Ricky.  "Take me home," she demanded.

"Ricky, what's going on?"  Sharon asked with a fake look of surprise.

"We're gonna have some fun," Ricky grinned.

"Let's go in here to have fun," Sharon said, nodding to the bedroom.

"Let's go to the bedroom, Sandra," Ricky said as he stood and grasped
her hand firmly in his.

Fear flashed in Bailey's eyes as Ricky grabbed her arm to lead her to
the bedroom.

"What are you doing?"  Bailey screamed.

"We're just gonna have some fun, Sandra," Ricky said, forcing her
through the bedroom door.  He blocked the doorway as he removed his
clothing.

"Stop!  I want to go."  Bailey pulled away from his grasp

Sandra was not about to take off her clothes.  Ricky attempted to
remove them for her, but Bailey pushed him away.  "What do ya'll
want?  What are you doing?"  she screamed.

"Just take off your clothes, and everything will be all right,"
Sharon said.

Come on, girl, get with it, Ricky thought.  I get off watchin Sharon
with other women.

Bailey bolted for the door.  Ricky stood in the way of her flight to
freedom.  With Sharon's help Ricky removed Bailey's garments, tossing
them across the room.

"Sharon, get the duct tape and tie her up," Ricky told his wife.

"Noooooooo!"  Bailey howled.  She twisted and turned fighting her
aggressors.  Bailey's arms flung erratically in the air, eluding
Sharon's attempts to restrain her.  Ricky held the combative Bailey
down while Sharon wrapped the silver duct tape tightly around her
wrists and secured it to the posts over Bailey's head.

"Stop!  Why are you doing this?"  Bailey's voice pierced the small
room.

Ricky slapped her across the face, demanding, "Shut up!"  I don't
want her to wake up Sarah, he thought.

"Stuff some rags in her mouth," Ricky told Sharon.

Sharon filled Bailey's open mouth with fabric, muffling the screams.
She placed a strip of the strong tape over Bailey's face, securing
the gag.

Bailey's arms restrained, her screams silenced, she continued to
fight her attackers by kicking her legs and contorting her body.
Ricky was angry.  Montana hadn't fought like this, he thought.  This
gal isfighting us big time.

"Help me get her to the bathroom," Ricky told Sharon.

Together they dragged the battling Bailey to the adjoining room.
Within the confined walls of the lavatory the Greens began
experiencing a rush of exciting anticipation.  It was deja' vu.

Sharon watched as Ricky shoved Bailey face down over the lip of the
bathtub.  Just as with Montana, Ricky was attempting to enter the
feisty woman from the rear when she arched, bucking her body, and
averting his intrusion.

Damn bitches!  why do they have to fight it?  Don't they know it's
gonna happen anyway?  Anger surged within him.  Bailey's body rocked
as Ricky struck the side of her head with his fist.

This time Sharon did not retreat to the trailer's kitchen to secure
the bladed weapon.  The knife had been placed on the bathroom sink
before Bailey was brought to the trailer.  Swiftly Sharon passed the
long-handled knife to her husband.

Bailey put up a hell of a fight, using all the strength her 160-pound
body possessed.  The cries were hushed but her eyes screamed with
fear as she watched the sparkle of the steel blade plunge toward her
rigid body.  The gag re straining her anguish could not muffle the
agonizing pain Bailey endured as the knife was driven through her
neck, slicing a large vein.  Blood gushed from the wound.  The smell
of fresh blood flooded the tiny room.

Bailey's vigorous fight intensified.

"Sharon, get the hammer out of my toolbox," Ricky shouted as he
attempted to restrain Bailey's thrashing arms.  She jerked free,
slapping at Ricky's face.  Bailey frantically warded off her attacker
with hands scarlet from cuts sustained during her desperate defense.

While Ricky battled with Bailey, Sharon hurried to the adjoining
bedroom, returning momentarily with the hammer

Ricky grasped the tool from Sharon's outstretched hand, replacing it
with the bloody knife.  His rage em powered him.  You bitch, he
thought.  You shouldn't have fucked with me!

With the force of an ax-wielding woodsman, Ricky struck Bailey on the
head.  The blow reverberated like the split of a tree trunk.  She
fell backward into the tub.  Fury blinded him as he continued to
bludgeon the single mother of one.  "You whore!  You deserve to die,"
he screamed.

Again and again Sharon thrust the cutting edge of the slender knife
into Bailey's bloody body as Ricky continued to strike Bailey's head
with the steel mallet.  Dropping the hammer beside the defenseless
Bailey, Ricky seized the knife from his wife and continued the
massacre.

Blood rushed from each of the puncture wounds on Bailey's back, neck,
abdomen, buttocks, and legs, spilling into the porcelain tub,
puddling around the victim's body.  The most lethal stab wound
penetrated the skin and connective tissue at the base of her neck,
severing her spinal cord.

With Bailey's fight for life waning, the slaughter continued.  I'm in
control, he thought.  Not Sharon.  Not my dad.

Sandra is in pain.  I can stop her pain.  Ricky felt powerful over
his prey, like the power his father had always had over him.  Nobody
ever stopped my pain.  He plunged the knife four times into the right
breast of the victim and twice into the left breast.  Ricky's arms
felt heavy from fatigue.  The frenzied action reverted to slow-motion
movements.

The attack ceased.  The hammer and knife, coated with Bailey's blood,
lay beside the still body.

Ricky and Sharon Green breathed heavily, exhausted from the bloody
ordeal.  Passionately kissing Sharon on the lips, Ricky smeared the
victim's blood over her bare breasts.  She kissed Ricky's cheeks,
shoulders, and chest, licking Sandra's blood from her lips.  Again,
as with Montana, the blood became a sexual stimulus.  Sharon
responded excitedly, but Ricky was disappointed when the intercourse
ended.

It wasn't the same.  The sex just wasn't as good this time, Ricky
thought.  Sharon didn't moan as loudly, move as forcefully or come as
quickly.  Looking into Sharon's deep-set eyes he felt she agreed.
Her face did not reflect the same pleasure, the same satisfaction.
Why?  he asked himself.  Why wasn't it as good?

"We've got to stop killing people, Ricky," Sharon whispered.

It was well past one A.M.  The encounter with Bailey at the 50/50
Club, wooing her to the trailer, the murder, and fulfilling their
sexual fantasy had taken more than three hours.  "It's late and I'm
tired," Ricky said.

"Let's move her out of here so I can clean up the bath room," Sharon
stated.

Ricky and Sharon struggled to lift the body onto a blanket, wrapped
it in newspaper, and dragged it to their bedroom where they placed it
between the wall and bed.

Sharon busily sponged blood from the floor and walls of the bathroom,
removing the weapons to scour the tub.

Ricky did not assist in swabbing the bath as he had done after the
murder of Montana.  He was uneasy.  He paced the floor, wondering how
they were going to get rid of the body in broad daylight.

"What are we gonna do?"  Ricky asked Sharon.

He continued to pace the floor of the trailer between the kitchen,
bedroom, and bath repeating, "What are we gonna do?"

Oh God, they are going to find out we did it, Ricky worried.

He paused from pacing to down another swallow of beer and take a deep
drag on his Marlboro.  He could not sit down.  He had to think.  what
are we gonna do with the body?  Moving to the door of the lavatory,
Ricky watched Sharon methodically splash water on the tub tile.  "We
can't dump this body near here.  We've got to go far away so there's
no connection," he told Sharon.

By the time she had cleansed the entire murder scene of any
condemning evidence it was time to get ready for work.  Sharon
appeared tired, but calm.  She dressed, roused Sarah, readied her,
and took the child by her mother's house before driving to the AT&T
office in downtown Fort Worth.

Ricky prepared for work, then walked to Green's shop across the
street from the trailer.  I can watch the house and see if anyone
comes by, Ricky thought nervously.

Ricky began to relax after spending several hours at work.  He was
finishing up a routine radiator flush when he heard the faint sound
of a car door slamming, he looked up to see an unfamiliar yellow car
parked in front of his trailer.  Ricky watched intently.  A
medium-built man climbed the steps to the front door.  Oh shit, Ricky
thought.  The man knocked on the door, paused a few seconds, then
knocked again.  Well, you ain't gonna get no answer, Ricky said to
himself.  Ricky felt easier, assuming the man would leave.  Instead
the stranger walked to the side of the trailer house and peered into
the bedroom window.

Oh, shit!  Panic gripped Ricky.  Can he see the body?  No, the
curtain is closed.  But is it closed good enough?  Fright consumed
him.  Sweat beaded on his forehead and moistened his palms.  He must
know something.  Why else would he be snooping around?

Ricky took several steps toward the open overhead garage door.  He
tightly clutched an iron tool in his right hand.

Suddenly the man reappeared from the side of the trailer and got back
into his car.  Ricky sighed with relief as he watched the yellow car
disappear down the highway.  Some kind of salesman, Ricky speculated.
Probably a git insurance salesman, he chuckled.

Sharon returned home that evening to find Ricky nervously pacing the
floor and drinking beer, just as he had done while she had cleaned up
the blood early that morning.  Sharon put Sarah to bed.  Once the
child was asleep, about eleven o'clock, Sharon backed her 1985
Pontiac up to the bedroom window.

Bailey's body was cold and stiff.  The foul odor of dried blood
filled the small room, where the body remained tucked between the
wall and bed.  Ricky held his breath as he and Sharon struggled to
lift the heavy burden up to the rectangular window.  The body slid
through the opening, landing on the hard ground outside with a thud.
Ricky checked the street for traffic before they tediously put the
body of Sandra Bailey into the trunk of the car, headfirst.

With great difficulty they forced the victim's stiff legs into the
restricted space at the opposite end of the trunk.  Montana was
easier, Ricky thought.

Sharon went to her daughter's bedroom, picked up the sleeping child,
and carried her to the car.  Again, Sarah lay sleeping in the
backseat as her mother drove to yet another dump site for a murdered
victim.

"Drive out Highway 287 past Bowie," Ricky barked.

Sharon turned off a side road between Bellview and Henrietta, about
seventy miles from the Boyd murder scene.

Sharon waited in the car, patting Sarah tenderly and making certain
that she remained covered in the cold night air.  Thunder roared in
the distance.  Low clouds threatened storms in the Clay County area.

As Ricky stepped from the car, his feet sank into the muddy ground,
softened by days of drizzling rain.  He cautiously unloaded the rigid
body from the trunk of the car into a ditch adjacent to the roadway.
Ricky began dragging Bailey into the wooded area, just beyond the
road's surface, where mesquite trees and thick under brush would
effectively conceal the body.  Realizing that barbed-wire fencing
strung on post oak rails stood in his way, he chose an alternate
plan.  I'lljust shove her into this culvert, he decided.

Pushing the torso into the masonry drainage arch beneath the roadway,
Ricky realized that Bailey's legs could be seen sticking out from the
culvert.  He bent her at the waist and knees in a fetal position,
forcing the entire body into the hideaway.

He staggered to the car, weary from his mission, his clothes covered
with red clay mud, blood, and water.  He smelled like a wet animal,
perspiration dripping from his brow in the cool forty-degree morning
air.  The salty fluid ran across his parted lipS.  Ricky returned to
the car, slumping against the front seat beside Sharon.

"There was blood on the bumper.  What if somebody saw it?  What if
somebody got our license number?"  Ricky asked frantically.

"Don't worry about it," Sharon answered calmly.  "No body's gonna see
it in the dark."

Sharon's composure reassured him.  Sandra Bailey was a whore willing
to go to bed with me or anybody.  Her daughter will probably grow up
to be a better girl now, Ricky thought.  He lay his head on the back
of the seat and slept all the way home.

Charlie Brock, a Lone Star Gas Company employee, left work about
eight-fifteen A.M.  on December 2, 1985.

The cold fifteen-degree air chilled him as he waited for the heater
to warm his truck.  About six miles south of Henrietta along a dirt
road leading to the gas company plant, Brock made a morbid discovery.

Heavy rains in the far North Texas county had washed the body of
Sandra Lorraine Bailey from the hiding place where it had been
stuffed one week earlier.  The nude figure of the young woman was
snagged in the brush and barbed-wire fence next to the culvert.
Brock immediately phoned the Clay County Sheriffs Office from his
truck.

Dexter Parnell, chief deputy for Clay County, was assigned to head
the investigation of the unidentified homicide victim.  "The cold
weather is working in favor of law enforcement officials by
preserving the condition of the body," Parnell told reporters,
estimating that she had been dead less than a week.

After Justice of the Peace Jim Humphrey of Henrietta pronounced the
woman dead at the scene, Parnell had the body taken to Dallas for
autopsy by the South Rangers and the institute of Forensic Sciences.
He notified the Texas Department of Public Safety.

Three weeks after the discovery of Bailey's body, deputies continued
to comb the area surrounding Lone Star Gas Plant Road.  Time and time
again they searched the scene for anything that could lead them to
the identities of the victim and her killer or killers.  "There was
no jewelry, no clothing, nothing that would give us a clue," reported
Clay County Sheriffjake Bogard.  "There is a strong possibility that
the two murders, the one in Boyd and the one in Henrietta, are
related.  Both sheriffs departments are checking into the possibility
of a connection between the murders."

Texas Ranger Phil Ryan was convinced the murders were related.  Both
unidentified victims were stabbed repeatedly, their nude bodies
hidden in isolated areas.  The women were similar in age and build.
And there was a time span of less than two months between the
murders.  Yes, there has to be a connection, thought Ryan.

Procedures identical to those pursued in the Mama Doe case were
followed in seeking the identity of Bailey.

Fingerprints were sent to Washington, missing-person reports were
run, and a composite sketch circulated in Texas, Oklahoma, and
Louisiana.  Investigators were frustrated.  Who is this white woman
in her mid-twenties, five-feet-three-inches tall, weighing 160 pounds
with brown hair, a Caesarean section scar, and a mole on her chin?
Who is Jane Doe?  they wondered.

Finally in early January 1986, a break came.  Finger print experts
informed Clay County officials that the woman whose body was found
December 2 near Henrietta was Sandra Lorraine Bailey, twenty-seven,
of Fort Worth.  The single mother had been listed as missing from her
home since November 25.

Clay County had a positive I.D.  Original missing person reports from
Fort Worth had not listed any moles or body scars on Bailey,
initially eliminating her as a possible match with the Clay County
body.  But in late December information provided by the family gave
officials more to go on in the identification process.

Deputy Parnell was optimistic.  "We're a lot closer than we were to
finding the killer now that we know who's dead.  We don't have to
keep searching in the dark any more," Parnell said.  "Somebody,
somewhere out there, saw her with her killer before she died."

Ryan continued his investigation for the name of Mama Doe.  One down
and one to go, Ryan thought.


Sisterly Seduction

Ricky Lee Green sat at a small table in the six-foot by ten-foot Wide
County probation office.  The second floor room of the castle-like
1895 courthouse was the site of Ricky's monthly probation visits, a
requirement of his latest driving-while-intoxicated conviction in
early 1986.  He stared at a photo thumbtacked to the cluttered
bulletin board.

"Who's that, Ricky?"  Sarah asked.

"Someone the cops found dead.  They're trying to find out who she
is," Ricky said.  Does she recognize Bettyjo Montana?  Ricky
wondered.  What if she says something about Montana being at our
house?  Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Oh," Sarah shrugged, returning to the drawing she was making with
pencil and paper provided by the probation office secretary.

Ricky realized that Sarah did not know the woman in the picture was
the same person who had read her stories and played in the yard of
their home.  He began to relax.  Completing the paperwork required by
his parole officer, Ricky's gaze drifted to the lifeless stare of the
woman in the picture known as Mama Doe.  She seemed to be looking
right at him asking, "Why?"

He closed his eyes to avert her glare.  In the darkness of his
retreat, he saw the rerun of Montana's murder.  He pictured the
hammer.  The knife.  The bloody struggle.

He could smell his sweat mixed with her blood.  He re lived loading
the heavy burden into the trunk of Sharon's car.  He saw the
mutilated body tumble to the brush-covered creek bed below the
Flatwood bridge.

His probation officer interrupted his thoughts.

"Ricky, come on in."

Ricky was startled by the officer's authoritative voice.

Oh, God.  Does he know about Montana?  But realizing quickly that he
alone could see the murder visualized in his mind, a dazed Ricky
sighed with relief.

"Sit here, Sarah.  I'll be right back," Ricky said.

A few minutes later Ricky emerged from the cramped probation office
after answering tedious questions about his employment and drinking,
He grasped Sarah's hand and headed for the door.  Pausing momentarily
Ricky turned to look at the drawing of Montana once more before
leaving.  I could just walk up there and write her name down on the
paper: No one would know who did it.  They wouldn't have to call her
Mama Doe no more.  But Ricky knew that was too dangerous.  No,
everything is fine the way it is No one knows who murdered the whore.
I'll just keep it that way He smiled to himself as he led Sarah
through the arched corridors of the courthouse to the car.

Ricky hated reporting to the probation officer.  This is such a waste
of time, he thought.  Alcohol has sure caused me a lot of problems.
A lot of pleasure as well.

Ricky's alcohol addiction had led to three DWI arrests in 1985.
While released on bond for the first charge, Ricky was arrested for
the same violation.

"I will drop the second charge and issue one-year probation for the
first offense, Mr. Green," the stern-faced judge said.  "But if you
are arrested again for driving under the influence, you will face
punishment for the second offense as well," he warned.  "Report to
your probation officer in the Wise County courthouse in five days."

Ricky felt depression and relief simultaneously.  One year probation
is nothing he thought.  They are stupid to think I won't be drinking
and driving -- I'll just have to be more careful.

He immediately left the courthouse and got drunk.

He headed north, with no particular destination in mind.  Ricky was
soon watching the pumping action of Oklahoma oil wells dotted across
the open plains.

Seeing a hitchhiker on the side of the road, Ricky thought, I could
use some company.  He pulled to the shoulder, swinging open the
passenger's door.  "Want a ride?"  he offered.

The middle-aged, dirty man in crumpled clothes climbed into the car,
muttering a quick, "Thanks"

"You hungry?"  Ricky asked the slightly built man.

"Yeah, but I ain't got no money," the stranger replied.

"That's okay.  I'll get us something," Ricky said.

Ricky bought hamburgers and used the remainder of his limited funds
to stock the diminishing supply of beer.

Within a couple of hours Ricky was drunk and out of gas.

Pulling into a 7-Eleven store gasoline island, Ricky pumped
ten-dollars of gas into the empty tank.  He re placed the gas nozzle
into the pump's cradle and watched a long line of cars stopped at a
red light on the street bordering the store's parking lot.  I can
make it, he thought.  Quickly he jumped into Sharon's car, started
the engine, and jerked the transmission into drive.  Before the store
manager could note his license plate, Ricky was lost among the row of
cars leaving the corner stop.  Perfect timing Ricky laughed to
himself.  His passenger slept through the successful escape.

He raced to the next Oklahoma town, ignoring the posted speed limit
signs along the way.  Slowly he pulled into a convenience store,
parking the car at the side of the building.

"Stay here,' he instructed his passenger.

Inside, Ricky placed a cold twelve-pack of Bud on the counter along
with a carton of Marlboro Reds.

"That will be $31.90," the female clerk said.

Ricky pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans while the
clerk placed the beer and cigarettes in a brown paper sack.

"I must have left my money in the car," Ricky said innocently.  "I'll
go get it."  He picked up the sack and walked out the door.

Ricky set the package beside the stranger.  He fumbled under the seat
of the vehicle as if he were searching for cash while the clerk
watched from the store's open door.  The clerk became distracted by a
customer inside the store, looking away momentarily.  That was all
the time Ricky needed to engage the gear shift and speed away.

"We got out of there so fast that old lady probably got whiplash," he
laughed.  The hitchhiker gave no response, staring in disbelief.

It didn't take long for the two men to drink most of the twelve-pack,
and for the beer to run through Ricky's system.  He had to go to the
bathroom.  He pulled the car off the roadway and relieved himself in
the tall weeds along side the paved surface.  His companion slept
soundly in the backseat.

Ricky stared at the still, sleeping figure.  He is nasty.  I don't
want anything to do with the guy, Ricky thought.  He's not even worth
killing -- at least not now.  He grinned, climbing beneath the wheel
of the car.  Ricky continued on his journey to nowhere.

Minutes later Ricky was startled by the red and blue lights of an
Oklahoma Highway Patrol car fast approaching.  That bitch at the
store must have given the cops a description of the car, Ricky
thought.  He anxiously twisted the leather binding on the steering
wheel.  Should I run for it?  Or should I just ride it out?

Ricky's indecision allowed the patrol car to gain ground.  Rechecking
the rearview mirror he realized the cop was breathing down his neck
only inches off his bumper.  Too late now, he thought.  They got me.

But Ricky was arrested for driving while intoxicated, not theft, as
he feared.  His apprehension over spending time in jail, unable to
see the open sky, the sprawling fields, or the sparkling lakes was
erased.  The hitchhiker was booked for public intoxication.

Ricky waited several hours before being allowed to make his allotted
phone call.  Knowing Sharon would be at work, he decided to call Bill
Green.

"Daddy, I'm in Oklahoma.  I've been arrested for DWI.  Tell Sharon to
come get me."

Bill Green was mad.  Ricky had known that his father would not take
the news of his latest arrest well, but he had no one else to call.
He couldn't worry about his father now: All he could do was sit and
wait for Sharon to come and get him.

Sharon Green had borrowed Bill's truck to get to work earlier that
day.  She didn't know where Ricky was, only that he had again taken
off with her car without a word.

After speaking to her father-in-law, Sharon called Ricky's friend,
Marvin Idell, and asked him to go with her to Oklahoma.  Arriving at
the county jail, Sharon was told that local authorities would not
release Ricky until Monday morning.  She returned to Boyd.

Ricky lay faceup on his jailhouse bunk worrying about his release.  I
gotta get out of here.  I have to be in Decatur by Tuesday to check
in with the probation officer or I'll be in violation of probation.
They could send me to jail for years.  He chain-smoked the remainder
of his Marlboros.

Leaving Sarah with Jill, her thirteen-year-old sister, Sharon arrived
at the Oklahoma jail about noon on Monday.  By the time Ricky was
processed out, it was one o'clock in the afternoon.  They ate lunch
and headed toward Boyd.

"I'm worried about Jill and Sarah being alone at the house," Sharon
told Ricky.  She looked at him with those drooping, sexy eyes he
loved.  He wanted to have sex with Sharon right then.  They had been
apart for days.

He missed being with his wife.  Sharon's concern for her sister and
daughter evaporated in the heat of her desire for sex with her
husband.  "Let's stop at a motel for the night," she said, smiling.

Ricky checked into the Motel 6 in Wichita Falls Texas, seventy miles
from their Boyd home.  "Why don't you go get us some beer?"  Sharon
asked.

Always ready for a drink, Ricky went to a nearby store for a six-pack
of Bud.  He and Sharon sat in the sparsely decorated budget motel
room, slowly getting drunk.  They made love, then Sharon fell asleep.

I wonder if Sarah and Jill are okay, Ricky thought.  He tossed and
turned but could not sleep.  He was worried about the girls.  I'll
surprise Sharon.  I'll go get Sarah and Jill and be back before
Sharon wakes up.  Ricky slipped into his jeans, pulled on his
T-shirt, and grabbed his boots before heading to the car.

He arrived in Boyd about 3 A.M.  to findJill and Sarah sleeping
soundly.  Ricky gently shook Jill.  "Jill, wake up," he whispered.

"Where's Sharon?"  Jill asked.

"I left her in Wichita Falls at the motel.  She was worried about you
and Sarah so I thought I'd come get ya'll, take you back with me, and
surprise Sharon," Ricky said.

Before Ricky knew what was happening, Jill grabbed him around the
neck and pulled his head down to give him a long, sloppy kiss.  She
climbed Out of bed, grasped Ricky's hand, and placed it strategically
between her legs.  God, she doesn't have panties on under that gown,
Ricky thought, smiling.

"Let's go to the living room," Ricky suggested.

Ricky slipped out of his clothes, pulled Jill's gown over her head,
and they sank to the floor in an awkward embrace.  He ran his rough
hands over Jill's smooth, young breasts.  Lifting his muscular body
over Jill's petite frame, Ricky was about to penetrate when Jill
began to scream.  She hit Ricky, pushing him away.  Quickly Ricky
covered Jill's mouth with his hand.  My God, she's gonna wake Sarah
up, Ricky worried.

Jill wiggled from beneath his weight, jumped to her feet, and ran
outside the front door of the trailer house.

The moonlight illuminated her small nude body.  Ricky frantically ran
after her.  He was mad.  Damn prick tease!

"If you're going to get me in trouble, it's going to be for something
that you don't want," he hissed, clutching her arm tightly.  His
viselike grip restrained the circulation of blood flow and her hand
began to numb.

Unexpectedly, Sarah peered around the open front door.  "Jill, what's
the matter?  Where are you?"  wide eyed Sarah asked with fright in
her voice.

Jill and Ricky were quiet, not moving.  "It's okay, Sarah.  Go back
inside," Jill said calmly.

Ricky released Jill's arm.  She took off in a sprint to the trailer,
slamming the front door and locking it behind her.  Ricky stood in
the front yard, naked, locked out of his own house.  Peeping through
the front window he could see Jill pick up the phone and retreat to
the bedroom.

Damn!  Without thinking, Ricky plunged his hand through the window
and climbed in over the broken glass.  "Oh, shit!"  He groaned as the
VCR, set on a table beneath the casement, crashed to the floor as he
pushed his body inside.  Ricky dressed quickly then headed for the
bedroom.  He snatched the phone from Jill's hands and grabbed her
tightly by the arms.  Sarah waited in her room, as Jill had
instructed.

"You better come up with a good story to tell Sarah," Ricky demanded.
His grasp tightened, and his voice was shaking with anger.

Jill spent the next few minutes with Sarah while Ricky waited
nervously in the living room.  "Where's Mama?"  Sarah asked Ricky
when she and Jill emerged from the bedroom.

"She's in Wichita Falls waitin' for us to go get her," Ricky said,
glaring at Jill.  I wonder what she told Sarah, he thought.  "Let's
go see your mama."

By 5 A.M.  Ricky, Jill, and Sarah were on their way to the Motel 6.
First stopping to pick up a quick breakfast for Sharon, they arrived
at the motel to find her frantic.

"Where in the hell have you been?"  Sharon screamed.  "I've been
going crazy worrying about you."

"I knew how worried you were about the girls.  I wanted to surprise
you and bring them back here," Ricky explained.  He looked at Jill
sternly.  That little bitch better not tell Sharon about what
happened at the house, he thought.

Ricky had fooled around with Jill before.  He couldn't understand why
she became so hysterical this time.  He thought she wanted to screw.
Besides, she had never objected when he played with her tits.  Hell,
she had even given him head upstairs in her bedroom at the Dollars'
house.  Why did she freak out this time?  he asked himself.

Sharon threw her arms around Ricky's neck, hugging him tightly.  "You
asshole," she jokingly said, pushing him against the bureau and
knocking over the ice bucket.  Ice cubes spilled across the carpeted
floor.

Ricky bent down, picked up a cube, and tossed it at Sharon.  Sharon
retaliated by pelting Ricky with cube after cube.  Jill and Sarah
quickly joined in the fun.

They laughed uproariously as they played with the melting ice.  But
the fun was abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door.

"This is the manager," a high-pitched, female voice said from the
other side of the closed wooden door.

Ricky stood in the doorway with the manager, trying to explain the
playful events that led to the disturbance.

She looked past Ricky to the overturned furniture in the room.  "What
the hell is going on here?"  she demanded

"I'm calling the police?"  She scurried toward the office.

Ricky and Sharon grabbed their belongings from around the room they
had paid for in advance and led Jill and Sarah quickly to the car.
They were past the city limits of Wichita Falls before the police
arrived at the motel to investigate the manager's complaint.

As soon as Ricky was safely back in Boyd he showered, changed, and
reported to his probation officer in Decatur.  I sure hope he don't
find out about the DWI in Oklahoma, Ricky worried.  But there
apparently was no communication between the neighboring states.
Ricky Green continued to freely roam the roadways of North Texas, to
drink in excess, and to commit petty robberies with his accomplice,
Sharon.

In the Texas twilight a few weeks after the Oklahoma arrest, Sharon
and Ricky casually walked the sidewalks of Fort Worth's historic
stockyard district, peeping into and listening to the sweet sounds of
country tunes drift from the open-air beer garden of the White
Elephant Saloon.  Across the street stood the Stockyard's Hotel where
Butch Cassidy and the Sun dance Kid had rested in an upper-level
corner room before heading to Mexico, where they were killed by
Federales.

"Let's look in here," Ricky suggested, walking into one of the
popular Western dry-goods stores.  The aroma of red-hot Texas chili
simmering in a crock pot caused customers to drool.  On the counter
sat packages of the chili fixings tied neatly with red bandanas.

Ricky tried on Stetson and Resistol cowboy hats while Sharon slipped
into a Western fringed, leather jacket.

We're lookin' good, Ricky thought, as he gazed into the full-length
mirror reflecting their images.

"Let's go," Ricky said with a smile.  The Greens walked out of the
crowded retail establishment; Ricky with a new hat, and Sharon with a
new jacket, courtesy of the proprietor.

Always for the Greens, shoplifting clothes and snaring women's purses
were as much sport as they were lucrative.  It was the challenge of
striking undetected with the speed of a horny toad's tongue.

Sharon and Ricky mingled with the patrons of Cow boy City on another
of their frequent nights out.  Sharon nonchalantly approached a table
left unattended by a group of party goers.  While members of the
group wiggled their Wranglers on the dance floor, Sharon stooped to
snare an unsecured purse.  Meeting Ricky at the door with a broad
smile, they walked to their car undetected.

Women sitting peacefully in unlocked cars were favored targets of the
purse-snatching duo.  While cruising Lake Worth one evening, near
where Jeffery Davis's de composing body had been found, Ricky spotted
a single woman sitting in her car.  "Pull up beside her," Ricky
instructed Sharon.  With the moves of a gazelle, Ricky was out of the
car, flung open the unsuspecting victim's door, snatched the purse
from the seat, and was gone.  Sharon hastily drove away, laughing
along with Ricky at the stunned victim frozen in the front seat of
her vehicle.

Female drivers waiting at red lights were equally vulnerable targets.
The front passenger's door would have to be unlocked for the theft
to work.  If the purse was visible on the front seat, Ricky knew he
had an easy target for the snatch.

The money derived from the Greens' penny-ante crimes was used to feed
their growing alcohol and drug habits.

Ricky continued monthly visits to his Wise County probation officer,
who was unaware of Ricky's connection to the petty thefts and Ricky's
link to the woman known as Mama Doe.

Existence had become one long drunken binge for Ricky.  The anguished
images of Jeffery Davis, Betty Jo Montana, and Sandra Lorraine Bailey
perpetually ran through his mind.  He could see the blood rush from
their wounds.  The foul odor stuck in his nostrils like cotton, but
he still craved the surge of overpowering control.  He could not deal
with the guilt without the aid of liquor.  If only Mama were alive.
She would help me, Ricky cried.  He missed his mother.  She was the
only one who could have helped him regain control of his life, but
she was gone.

Ricky entered the Schick Center for alcohol and drug rehabilitation
on January 4, 1986.  I have to get sober, he thought desperately.  I
have to get control.  The Fort Worth rehab appeared to be the perfect
solution.

He was drunk and delusional the day he entered.

The first five days of his confinement were in the detox unit with
staffers administering a shot of Thorazine each time he woke from a
drunken slumber.  Ricky slept during most of the first four days, but
even in his sleep he continued to hear voices from the grave.  "You
motherfuckin' son-of-a-bitch!"  Davis shouted.  "Why are you doing
this?"  Montana yelled.  "Stop!"  Bailey screamed.  On the fifth day
an administrator entered his room to offer Ricky an option.

"You have a choice of treatment for the next ten days, Ricky," he
said.  "One day you will be in a treatment session, the next day in a
counseling session.  Five days of treatment and five days of
counseling.  Counseling will consist of Sodium Pentothal treatments
to discover events in your past that contribute to your drinking.  Or
you can go into counseling sessions to discuss your problem with a
therapist.  Those are the options.  What will it be Ricky?"

Goddamn, I can't take Sodium Pentothal, that's truth serum, Ricky
thought.  "I'll talk to my wife about it and see what she thinks,"
Ricky said.

Sharon readily agreed with Ricky that Sodium Pentothal was a bad
idea.  The last thing they wanted was for someone to find out about
their past.

During Ricky's first treatment he shuffled into a bar room-setup
within the rehab.  "Order your favorite liquor and beer, Ricky," the
male orderly instructed.

This ain't gonna be so bad, Ricky laughed to himself.  "I'll have
Jack Daniel's and Budweiser," he said.

Before the desired beverages were set before him, he was instructed
to drop his pants by an expressionless nurse.  His buttocks tightened
from the stinging prick of the sharp needle.  "Damn!"  he exclaimed.
His flesh burned from the drugs flowing through the tempered steel.

"What'll you have, Ricky?"  the attendant asked.

"Give me a JD and Coke," Ricky said.

Ricky drank the mixed drink, then was ordered to drink half a can of
the cold Bud set on the counter beside him.  "Take another shot of
JD," he was told.

Immediately Ricky started to vomit into the stainless steel tub
resting at his left.

"Finish your beer," the attendant ordered.

The beer was washed down with a glass of water in which additional
vomit-inducing drugs were mixed.

"Drink this," the nurse said, handing Ricky a warm beer.

He instantly began vomiting into the metal container.

He heaved and retched until he could no longer throw up.

Ricky's vomit was poured into a bedpan that was taken to his room.
He shuffled along behind the orderly.

"Lie here in your bed for two hours.  Don't get up to vomit in the
bathroom.  If you have to throw up, do it in the bedpan beside the
bed," he was instructed.

There was nothing left in Ricky's system to bring up, but for two
hours he suffered from dry heaves, the rank odor of the discharge
reeking beside him.  He lay back on the bed, remembering the vomit
his father made him eat as a child.  He retched again.

Later that evening Ricky phoned Sharon.  "I'm leaving this place," he
told her.  "Come get me in the morning."

Sharon Green arrived at the Schick Center the following morning,
along with her father.

"Ricky, you need to stay here.  You need to get some help," the
Reverend Dollar told his son-in-law.

But Ricky wouldn't listen.  He was tired of throwing up in a bucket
and tired of talking about his addiction

He just wanted to go home.  Looking at Sharon through dejected eyes
he said, "Take me home, Baby."  They left the center together, while
the Reverend Dollar returned to Eastland.

"I gotta get some gas," Sharon said, pulling into a quick stop.

Ricky pumped the fuel into the gas tank while Sharon went inside the
food mart to pay.  Sharon smiled as she climbed into the car behind
the steering wheel, setting a twelve-pack of Bud Light on the seat
between them.  Before they arrived at their Boyd trailer, forty miles
from the alcohol rehab, both the Greens were on their way to being
drunk.  They were back in their own addictive world, and Sharon was
back in control.

After unpacking his clothes, Ricky sat on the sofa beside his wife,
sipping a cold Bud.  Sharon handed him a packet of papers.  Ricky
glanced at them briefly but did not understand their meaning.
"What's this, Sharon?"  he asked.

Sharon explained that while he had been undergoing treatment for his
alcohol addiction, he was also under investigation for allegations
that he had sexually abused Sarah.  Some unidentified person had
contacted Child Protective Services.

"What?"  Ricky couldn't believe what he was hearing.  "I've never
touched Sarah, you know that."

Sharon lowered her head, muttering, "And Jill.  I know it'S not true,
but they want to talk to you."

what the hell?  Jill?  Yeah, I played around with Jill, but I
neverfucked her, Ricky thought.  His mind wandered to a day shortly
before he and Sharon were married when Jill and her female cousin
were at the house.

Thirteen-year-old Jill looked more like she was seven teen or
eighteen.  Ricky thought she was a cute girl but her age and her
relationship to Sharon had kept him at bay.

"Ricky, go get us some whiskey," Jill begged.

Ricky knew he shouldn't buy the underage girls any booze, but he gave
into Jill's pleading and went to the liquor store for a bottle.

Jill, her cousin, and Ricky sat in the trailer drinking until the
girls were totally wiped out.  Alcohol-induced flirtations turned to
bold proposals.  Both the girls stripped away their clothing, then
began undressing Ricky.

These young girls are drunk as hell, he laughed.

Jill took Ricky's hand and led him to her sister's bedroom.  "I want
you to screw me," she said.

Well, why not?  Ricky thought.  Just as he was about to take an
aggressive position with Jill, the other girl swung open the closed
bedroom door, slamming it against the interior wall.  "I want him,"
she shouted, grabbing Ricky's hand and leading him to Sarah's bedroom.

She must be a virgin.  She sure don't know much about sex, Ricky
thought as he poised his body over her thin frame.

From behind him he could hear Jill screaming obscenities.  He turned
to see her dart toward the front door, dressed in one of Sharon's
see-through nighties.

Oh shit, he thought.  It's broad daylight!  Ricky was having fun
until Jill ran outside and risked someone seeing her.  She could get
him in all kinds of trouble.

Ricky ran outside and pulled Jill back into the house.

"You girls are gonna have to leave.  Ya'll just aren't actin' right."

As soon as the girls were sober enough to go home, they left.

I didn't screw either one of them, Ricky brooded, not that I didn't
try.  I bet Marvin Idell is behind this.  He probably told them a
bunch of lies about me.  Just to get me in trouble.  I've watched him
looking at Sharon.  He wants Sharon for himself.  I've never trusted
him around her.

Ricky grinned sheepishly as his thoughts returned to Jill.  I never
screwed her but we did have some fun.  For a young thing she sure
could do a lot.  She made me feel really good.

"I don't want to talk to these people, let's go on vacation," Ricky
said, his attention returning to the papers in his hands.  Leaving
Sarah with Sharon's folks, the Greens headed for the mountains of
Arkansas.

"I don't know why Jill waited so late to say anything, if she's gonna
say anything at all," Sharon said bitterly, driving Interstate 30
toward the Ozark mountains.  She was mad at her young sister.

"That bitch, I wonder why she did it," Ricky said.

"All my sisters always do this to me," Sharon complained.  "Why is
Jill doing it?"

"You?"  Ricky shouted.  "She's doing it to me!"

"No, all my life my sisters told on me and got me in trouble," Sharon
grumbled.

Yeah, Sharon's right.  That's why I like us to live in our own little
world, he thought.

Ricky and Sharon stayed drunk in their isolated world most of the
week they were in the beautiful Ozark Mountains of Arkansas.  But his
paranoia was growing.

"Sharon, I'm afraid of getting caught," he told her.

Sharon continued to assure her husband that no one knew of his
involvement with Davis, Montana, and Bailey.

"You worry too much," she said.

Nothing more was said about the aggravated sexual assault allegations
for four months.  In May 1986 Ricky was sleeping off a drunken stupor
in a remote parking area of Lake Benbrook.  He had selected a
location outside the gates, which closed at 9 P.M., so whenever he
awoke he would be able to go home.  The minnows and crayfish he used
during his fishing trips were stored in the trunk of his car,
emitting a pungent dead fish smell.

At one A.M.  a knock on his side window roused him from a sound sleep.

"What are you doing?"  a Tarrant County sheriffs deputy asked.

"I'm too drunk to drive home.  I'm just sleepin'," Ricky replied.

"Seems there's a warrant for your arrest," the officer said.  Before
approaching the parked car the deputy apparently had checked the
license plate through the Texas Criminal Information Center for
outstanding warrants.

Oh God, did they find out about them murders?  Ricky thought,
terrified.

"What for?"  Ricky asked, sitting up straight in the seat.  He tried
hard not to show his panic.

"Aggravated sexual assault of a minor under fourteen," the deputy
answered.

"Are you sure?  Would you check that out?"  Ricky was confused.
"That incident was a long time ago.  It's been cleared up.  Would you
check on it?"  Ricky asked again.

what the hell is going on?  I was cleared of any charges against
Sarah months ago, Ricky thought.

The deputy returned to his squad car and radioed for verification of
the warrant.  He cautiously walked back to Ricky's vehicle after
speaking to the dispatcher.  "It's a good warrant.  You've been
indicted.  I've got to take you in."

Ricky was booked into the Tarrant County jail on charges of
aggravated sexual assault of a minor under fourteen years of age.
Two days later he was transferred to the Wise County jail.  While he
remained in custody in his home county, Sharon wrote him frequently.

"My Dearest Ricky," one of Sharon's letters began.  "I wrote a letter
to Jill.  I said, I will continue to give you $20 a week if you'll
please say you lied.  You are the only one that knows the truth
besides Ricky.  It's your choice to say no he didn't do it.  All you
have to do is tell Dad that you want to tell the Wise County social
worker and the District Attorney that you lied.  I promise I will pay
you $20 at a time till you've got $200.  You are a good
storyteller...you know you can do it."

That'll work, Ricky thought as he read Sharon's letter.  It will be
okay if Jill will just say she lied.  I don't want her to just drop
them charges.  I want her to admit she lied.

Six days after Ricky received the letter from his wife, Sharon, Jill,
James and Maxine Dollar signed a non-prosecution document.  A motion
to dismiss the charge was filed within two days, releasing Ricky from
his anxiety, But he was not satisfied.  Jill did not admit she lied,
as he had hoped, and she never apologized for the accusation.  He was
angry withjill.  He wanted her to tell the law and the Dollars that
she had been untruthful.  A non-prosecution agreement still cast
doubt upon him.

Yet Ricky was free.  Free to roam the roadways.  Free to resume his
addictions.  And free to kill again.

"Happy birthday," Ricky said out loud as he raised his beer bottle in
the air in an imaginary toast.  He was celebrating his twenty-seventh
birthday alone, sitting in his car at Casino Beach.  Sharon hadn't
baked a cake, she hadn't cooked a special birthday dinner.  He was
spending his birthday listening to Duran Duran on Y-95 radio.  He was
depressed, despite his good fortune.

Three nights earlier on Christmas Eve, he and Sharon had been playing
Trivial Pursuit with two friends.  They had been drinking heavily and
smoking some weed, but the drugs had not hampered his ability to be
the first caller to correctly guess the top nine Christmas songs.
Y-95 radio awarded him one hundred dollars for his efforts.

He took another swig of his cold beer, raising the window slightly to
block out the chill of the cool night air.

Ricky watched the moonlight dance on the water of Lake Worth, where
area residents had been lured to waterfront attractions since the
1920s.

From the corner of his good eye Ricky could see a fancy gray car pull
in beside him.  A medium-build white man got out of the vehicle and
approached Ricky.

I've seen him before, Ricky thought.

Steven Hefferman, a KXAS television advertising executive, frequented
Casino Beach and recognized Ricky Green from previous encounters.  He
slowly approached Ricky's gray 1985 Pontiac and leaned against the
driver's door.  "You want to go home with me," he said, grinning.
Not waiting for an answer, Hefferman walked to the passenger's side
of the car and slid in next to Ricky.

Yeah, I remember this dude.  I've been with him before, Ricky
recalled.

Twenty-eight-year-old Hefferman released the nylon string on Ricky's
blue sweatpants and pulled them to his knees while sitting inside
Ricky's car.  Without speaking, Hefferman began fondling Ricky's
genitals.

"Hey, I'll go home with you if you go get me some beer.  A
twelve-pack," Ricky said.

"Sure," Hefferman answered.  "I'll be right back."

Within minutes Hefferman was back at Casino Beach.  He climbed back
into Ricky's car.  "I've got the beer," Hefferman said.

"Let's go," Ricky responded.  "I need to leave my car at « my house.
My wife might need it.  Follow me and I'll drop it off."

Hefferman went to his car and pulled out in the Volvo beehind Ricky's
Pontiac and followed him to the duplex where Ricky and Sharon now
lived in White Settlement, the same west Fort Worth suburb where Lou
had once fled with her children.  Ricky left the car in the driveway
and got into Hefferman's Volvo.

From the far west side of Fort Worth the men traveled Interstate 30,
past downtown to Fort Worth's east side known as Meadowbrook.
Hefferman pulled into his car port at the rear of his apartment.
"We're here," he said, smiling at Ricky.

Ricky placed the Michelob Light in the refrigerator, then asked
Hefferman if he could use the phone.  "I have to call my wife, okay?"

"Sure," Hefferman said.

Ricky dialed the number of his apartment.  "Sharon, I'll be home
later," Ricky told her.

"Be careful, Ricky," she urged.

Sharon knows I'm out making money.  She's afraid I'm gonna get caught
doing this, but this trick's okay.  I know this guy.

Both Sharon and Ricky Green would occasionally turn a trick or two
for quick cash.  There was no jealousy.  They both understood that it
was strictly business.  The only time Ricky had ever felt remorse
over prostituting was when Sharon had gone to bed with three
different men in one day.  Neither Ricky nor Sharon had thought much
about it at the time -- they were both drunk.  But the following
morning they both felt guilty.  Sharon's guilt was for turning the
tricks; Ricky's for ignoring the danger she put herself in.

Ricky Green was impressed with Hefferman's deluxe housing.  He slowly
descended the steps of the sunken living room, admiring the
video/stereo entertainment center to his left.  He noted a number of
unmarked videos on the shelves.  He walked to the couch across the
room, sat down, and lit up a Marlboro Red.

Hefferman set a tequila shot on the coffee table beside the beer
Ricky had carried into the living room.  He sank into the soft sofa
cushion beside Ricky.

"Where do you work?"  Hefferman asked.

"Advance Radiator on Highway 80 in west Fort Worth," Ricky said.
"How about you?"

"I work for Channel 5 in advertising."

He works for a TV station.  I bet he has a lot of money, Ricky
thought.  This could be a big score.

Ricky and Hefferman sat talking in the townhouse living room for more
than half an hour as music played softly on the stereo.  They
discussed the latest porno graphic movies; then Hefferman told Ricky
about his sexual interest in little boys.  This guy's a real sicko,
Ricky thought.  Visions of his grandfather and John swept through his
mind.  Ricky looked at Hefferman with repulsion.

"Well, you want to have some fun?"  Hefferman asked, leaning forward
to place his eyeglasses, car keys, and gold Seiko watch on the table.
He stood up, removed his clothing, and tossed them near the couch.

"I'm going to take a shower," Hefferman said, smiling.  "I'll be
right back."

Ricky kicked back on the sofa, his legs outstretched with his feet
comfortably resting on the coffee table.  He peeled the gold foil
neck band, decorated with a green Christmas wreath, off the slender
throat of the beer bottle, casting it on the floor.  Ricky relaxed
his head on the back of the couch, his eyes closed.  He had been
drinking quite a bit that night.  He dozed off to the sounds of
Michael Jackson on Y-95.  The beer bottle he clutched in his right
hand dropped to the floor.  Hefferman emerged from the bathroom with
a towel draped from his waist to his knees.  He slowly walked to the
edge of the sofa, allowing the damp towel to fall to the carpet.
Hefferman tugged at Ricky's blue sweatpants, slipping them past his
hips, knees, and ankles.

Ricky gulped another tequila shot as Hefferman's Parted lips
encircled Ricky's penis.  The organ began to rise as Hefferman
vigorously sucked.  After Ricky had ejaculated, Hefferman said,
"Let's go to the bedroom, I want to screw."

Ricky slowly pulled up his pants before following Hefferman into the
next room.  He was uneasy.  He didn't know exactly what Hefferman
wanted to do.  I may have to get out of here quick, he feared.
Hefferman rested his drink glass on the mirrored headboard of the
large double bed.  A stationary bicycle was to the right.  Ricky
leaned against the double dresser beside the door, watching Hefferman
carefully.

"Let me tie you up," Hefferman said.

No way, Ricky thought, noticing a large butcher knife just under
Hefferman's bed.  I don't know what this mother fucker has in mind.
Ricky tried to control his anger.

"No, I don't think so," Ricky said calmly.

Hefferman's face turned bright red with rage.

"You son-of-a-bitch!  You said you wanted to play."

"Hey, let me tie you up first," Ricky said in an effort to calm him.
"We'll have some fun, then you can do it to me."

Hefferman's anger eased.  "Okay," he said, relaxing his shoulders.
He smiled at Ricky.

Ricky took a blue tie with narrow red-and-white stripes, a red club
tie, and a broad red-white-and-blue striped tie, which had been
placed on the edge of the bed earlier by Hefferman.  Ricky cinched
the ties around Hefferman's wrists, then tied the fabric strips
securely to the headboard.  Hefferman was smiling broadly.

Ricky saw a glimmer of light bounce off Hefferman's straight white
teeth.  The sissy, Ricky thought, I can play his game.  You'll die,
sucker!

"What were you gonna do with that knife under the bed, you mother
fucker?"  Ricky demanded.

Hefferman looked startled.  "I...just wanted to play with it," he
said anxiously.

"I don't trust you, you sick scum," Ricky hollered.

Terror covered Hefferman's face.  His eyes bulged with panic.
Frantically he wiggled in the rumpled sheets, attempting to free his
bound hands.

Ricky reached under the bed for the long-handled butcher knife.

-Hefferman kicked his legs in a frenzied effort to strike his
would-be attacker.  Ricky seized additional ties from the rack in the
closet, knocking it to the floor.  He bound Hefferman's feet tightly
together.

Hefferman's aggression infuriated Ricky.  You godaamn sicko!  I'll
teach you to talk about little boys!  You fuckin' homo!

His earlier conversation with Hefferman, the unexpected sight of a
hidden knife, and Hefferman's combative attitude drove Ricky into a
rage.

Hefferman watched in terror as the cold steel blade slashed his
throat and crossed over to his right shoulder.

Blood spurted like a fountain from the laceration of the trachea,
esophagus, and right jugular vein.  A fine spray covered Ricky with
bright red droplets.  The blood spilled onto the yellow necktie Ricky
had fastened around his victim's neck.

"Tell me what you were going to do?"  Ricky demanded.

The helpless victim went berserk.  "Stop!  Stop!"  he screamed.

Hefferman continued to yell out in excruciating pain.  The
catastrophic wound cut off the blood supply to the right side of his
brain, and his heart began to fail.

Ricky stuck the knife into Hefferman's throat.  "Shut up," he shouted.

Hefferman's body shuddered with a desperate burst of energy, ripping
apart the ties that bound his feet.

Again and again Ricky jabbed the knife blade into the victim's
colorless skin, the sharp metal tearing through flesh and ripping
through muscle.  The knife penetrated deep into the right shoulder
more than five times in an uneven pattern.  The odor of fresh blood
saturated the room.

Hefferman would not stop yelling.  Ricky leaped from the bed and ran
to the kitchen.  When he returned he had two additional knives
grasped in his bloody hands.

With brute strength, Ricky dug one of the knives more than an inch
deep into the right side of Hefferman's neck.  He left the black
handle protruding from the flesh as a matador leaves swords in the
hide of a bull.

"You better shut UP," Ricky shrieked.

But Hefferman would not cease his desperate cries nor stop his feeble
attempts to escape.  Although weakening, he still bucked.  Ricky
plunged the knife into Hefferman's chest, lacerating his diaphragm.
As the eight-inch blade continued to travel through the muscular
tissue, it severed the source of return blood to the heart and
lacerated the right side of the liver.  Hefferman was hemorrhaging
badly.

Ricky was startled by a swooshing sound and a spurt of air expelled
from the wound.  God, that's weird.  I must have punctured his lung,
Ricky thought.  A fine mist of dark-red blood covered his upper
torso.  I'm gonna be sick I don't like that blood on me.  Ricky wiped
the red fluid from his face with the sleeve of his right shoulder.
His nose wrinkled from the foul odor.

"You sorry mother fucker," Ricky yelled.

Although Hefferman continued to cry out for mercy, his voice was
fading.  The strain of screaming and the accumulation of blood
hoarsened his usually mellow voice.

Ricky was sick of hearing the desperate cries.  He picked up another
one of the kitchen knives and moved down Hefferman's trembling body.
Ricky grabbed the penis of the quaking man and with several sawing
motions amputated it, along with the top portion of his scrotum.  He
shoved the extremity into the open mouth of Hefferman.  That will
keep you quiet, he thought.

Hefferman lay rigid and wide-eyed, shock replacing his vehement fight
for life.  His blood pressure was dropping rapidly from the blood
quickly flowing from his body.

As he straddled the figure that was spread-eagled on the double bed,
blood seeped into the fabric of Ricky's sweatpants.  Damn, blood is
everywhere.  Ricky was nauseous.  But the blood seemed to feed his
anger.  He continued to slash Hefferman's body with the freewheeling
motions of a swordsman.

Random puncture wounds were driven deep into the front, back, and
sides of the still body.  One erratic stab wound penetrated the left
eye of the victim and blood spurted like a tiny geyser.  Filled with
anger and alcohol, Ricky went on and on and on.

Caption: Ricky Lee Green at 12 months

Caption: Ricky age 7 in a photograph later displayed to the jury

Caption: The grave of Ricky's brother, Tony.

Caption: Green at his 1989 arrest.

Caption: Lou Green around the time of her marriage.

Caption: Bill Green, serving 20 years for aggravated delivery of a
controlled substance.

Caption: Perry Green, who served two years for aggravated delivery of
a controlled substance.

Caption: Timmy Green, serving time for aggravated assault.

Caption: Sharon Dollar Green.  Only five feet tall and 90 pounds

Caption: 16 year old Jeflrey L Davis looked much younger

Davis's body was dumped in the water and found four days after his
murder

Caption: Betty Jo Monroe, also known as Betty Jo Montana.  (Wise
County Messenger.)

Monroe's body was found the day after the murder but wasn't
identified for four years.

Caption: Sandra Lorraine Bailey

The body of 27-year-old Bailey.

Caption: Green's last victim Steven Hefferman.

Hefferman's body was horribly mutilated.

Caption: Drawing of Green's family done in the course of a
court-ordered psychiatric examination.

Caption: Ricky Lee Green today on death row.


Grim Discovery

The last of the death wounds was driven into the diaphragm and the
left side of Hefferman's spleen.  Blood filled his stomach.  But the
vicious attack did not stop with the death of his victim.  Ricky
continued to drive the blade of his weapon into the lifeless corpse.

With Hefferman's dead body lying on the bloody covers Ricky crushed
the steel blade into his bony chest plate.  With forceful
determination he methodically sawed through the abdominal cavity with
irregular strokes to the soft tissue below the rib cage.  From that
point Hefferman's corpse was laid wide open from the sternum to the
scrotum, exposing his internal organs.

The process had taken an exhausting thirty minutes.

Ricky rested on the back of his heels as he surveyed the horrid
mutilation of Steven Hefferman.  I think I'm gonna be sick.  What a
mess.  He could no longer bring him self to look at the bloody
remains of his victim.  He yanked the bed covers over the body.

Moving to the bureau, Ricky jerked drawers from the chest, dumping
the contents over the disfigured body.  All that could be seen of the
ad man were his bare feet, dangling from the end of the
blood-drenched bed.

Ricky haphazardly scattered the contents of dresser drawers about the
room as he rifled through the items.

Credit cards, a check book, and bank statements tumbled to the floor
during his mad search for cash.  A drop of blood from his fingertips
splattered onto the plastic cards.

I better get rid of my prints, Ricky thought.  He began frantically
wiping everything he remembered touching inside Hefferman's
apartment.  He pulled the butcher knife from Hefferman's neck,
cleaning the handle and blade before replacing it in the same gaping
wound.

Likewise, he withdrew a smaller knife gouged into the groin of the
victim, wiped it clear of latent prints, then returned it to the body
cavity.

Quickly Ricky went into the bathroom and washed the blood from his
face.  The swirl of pinkish liquid gurgling down the drain reminded
him of the blood of Montana and Bailey.  He carefully washed the
basin and toweled off the walls, toilet, and sink for any
fingerprints that may have been left behind.

Ricky paused momentarily to recall everywhere he had been in the
apartment, but his memory was dulled by alcohol and fatigue.  The
kitchen, he thought.  I put the beer in the refrigerator.  He rushed
to swab down the refrigerator and countertop before hurrying into the
living room.  Carefully Ricky dusted the coffee tabletop.  He halted
his cleaning, staring curiously at the low-level table.  I reached
under that table and touched the bottom, he remembered.  Shit, the
cops would never think to look under there.

He snatched the keys to Hefferman's Volvo from the tabletop and
started to the garage.  I've got to get out of here.

My car's at home, Ricky thought.  I'll take Steve's.

"I need a drink," Ricky said out loud.  Before departing the murdered
man's apartment, Ricky helped him self to the remainder of the
twelve-pack of Michelob cooling in the refrigerator.

The moon still shone brightly in the dark early morning hours of
December 28.  The booze and violence left Ricky sapped: He had to get
home.  He backed Hefferman's car out of the garage and down the
driveway that was protected by a wooded area to the rear.  Ricky
steered the Volvo onto Interstate 30 West, toward White Settlement
where Sharon was waiting.  His head nodded forward from fatigue.  He
couldn't keep his eyes open.

Snapping his head backward in an attempt to stay alert, his eyes
focused on the gas tank indicator.  Damn!  I gotta stop for gas or I
won't get home, he thought.

Ricky pulled into a well-lit Texaco station facing the access road of
I-30.  He pumped five dollars of unleaded gasoline into the Volvo's
tank, paid the unquestioning attendant, and hurried on his way.  He
didn't even notice the blood all over my clothes, Ricky thought.  No
one ever notices the blood.  He shook his head in disbelief,
remembering the night of Jeffery Davis's murder.

Ricky dozed several times during the thirty-minute journey home.
Passing the Las Vegas Trail exit, he was startled by a sudden swerve
of the car and a thunderous thumping noise from the rear of the
vehicle.  He immediately pulled to the shoulder and got out to take a
look.

"Goddamn!  A fuckin' flat tire," he shouted.  Ricky started walking
toward White Settlement Road.  He needed to get home fast.

Wait a minute, he thought.  I better check the car to see if I left
anything in there.  He staggered back to the auto.  "Shit, I locked
the keys in the fuckin' car," he slurred.

Ricky had to get inside the car to make certain he had left nothing
that would tie him to Steven Hefferman.

Smashing his fist through the window, he unlocked the door and
climbed back inside the stolen vehicle.

Quickly he glanced around the interior of the car.

Nothing -- I left nothing behind but I better wipe for prints, he
thought.  Just as thoroughly as Ricky Green whisked away traces of
his existence at Hefferman's house, he wiped away all telltale signs
of his presence in the gray Volvo.  He slammed the door to the
disabled car and resumed his westwardly walk.

Bright lights illuminated Ricky's silhouette as he stumbled along the
road, his balance faltering as he turned to look into the intensity
of the light.  A darkened figure walked toward him out of the
brightness.

"Ricky?"  Sharon's voice rose above the noise of the passing cars.
"I was worried and decided to come look for you.  Are you all right,
Ricky?"

"Sharon?"  Ricky asked in surprise.  what is she doing here?  he
wondered.

Sharon stared at her husband's blood-soaked clothes, but did not ask
for an explanation.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Ricky said as he tottered to Sharon's car.

"What happened to you?"  Sharon questioned.

Ricky looked in the backseat at Sarah who was asleep.  "I'll tell you
later."  He slumped in the seat beside his wife and slept as Sharon
drove home in the predawn hours.

Steven Hefferman had worked at television stations in Chicago and
West Virginia before accepting the position with KXAS in 1982.  The
well-liked Hefferman was promoted to advertising sales manager in
1984.

Frank O'Neal, the station's general manager, felt that something was
wrong.  The always punctual and dependable Hefferman did not show up
for work on Monday morning, December 29.  And he didn't call in.

Station employees were concerned.  Something just didn't seem right.
A couple of Hefferman's coworkers drove over to the Colony Hill Road
apartment and knocked on the door.  There was no answer.  His car was
not parked in the garage.

Growing concern at Hefferman's unexplained absence prompted a close
friend to call Hefferman's landlord at 6 P.M.

Dennis McCarty had rented the apartment to Steven Hefferman five
months earlier.  The town house was one of seventeen units on a
winding cul-de-sac above the Meadowbrook Golf Course.  McCarty's
impression of Hefferman was that he was both outgoing and extremely
personable -- a quiet tenant with a friendly smile.

McCarty used his passkey to enter the front door of 5320 Colony Hill
Road at about 7 P.M.  There were no signs of forced entry, the front
door appearing to be normally secured.  Darkness masked the
apartment's interior.

The moment the landlord walked into the habitually neat apartment he
knew that something was terribly wrong.  The place literally had been
turned upside down.

There's been a struggle in here, McCarty thought to him self as he
cautiously walked through the living room, where soft music played on
the stereo unit.  The upper rooms seemed undisturbed, as was the
sophisticated stereo and video center Hefferman just bought for the
living room.

McCarty sheepishly looked into the bedroom from the hallway.  He saw
a foot extending off the end of the bed from beneath a three-foot
mound of linens.  The foot appeared off-color and swollen.  I'm
getting the hell out of Dodge, McCarty thought, turning pale and
running from the residence.  He immediately phoned the Fort Worth
Police Department.

The Greens did not discuss the events of Saturday, December 27, until
a radio news report of Hefferman's murder the following Tuesday
morning.  Sharon and Ricky were lying in bed listening to the local
news.

"Sharon, I killed him.  That's where I was on my birth day.  The
night I called you.  I was with Hefferman," Ricky said.

"I kinda thought you did something.  What did you do with those
bloody sweatpants?"  she asked.

"I put them in a sack," Ricky said.

"Well, you better go get rid of them.  Don't keep them around here,"
Sharon instructed, climbing out of bed.

Within the hour she left for work.

Ricky put the sack of bloody clothes in the trunk of the car and
drove to the Newark Bridge between Boyd and Newark.  He tossed the
bag over the rail, hearing it splash in the muddy water of the
Trinity River, twenty feet below.  Ricky watched with relief as the
paper bag disappeared below the surface of the water.  It's over, he
thought.

That evening Ricky and Sharon sat beside one another watching Channel
5 news accounts of the grisly murder of one of their favored
employees.  Ricky fumed.

"Did you hear that?  They said I beat him.  I didn't hit nobody or
nothin' like that!  They say I'm a psychopath.  They don't know what
they're talkin' about!  Did you hear that, Sharon?"  Ricky angrily
asked.

"Yeah," Sharon said blandly.

"I can't understand why they want to say that I'm a psychopath?"

"Oh, you ain't no psychopath," Sharon assured him.

Ricky was on his feet irately pacing the floor, stopping only briefly
to gulp the last half of his Bud.

"They said they're looking for a suspect.  They've figured out who
did it.  They know it's me!"  Ricky was un raveling.

"You worry too much," Sharon said, unruffled.  She held Ricky in her
arms, reassuring him that he was not suspected of the murder of the
TV advertising executive.  Ricky took another hit off the joint they
shared, opened another beer, and began to relax.

In the early morning hours of December 28, Steven Hefferman had
become the 198th murder victim in the City of Fort Worth in 1986.
Fort Worth police were baffled by the statistic.  The number of
murders climbed to two hundred by the end of the year.

Police characterized the violent crimes as "basically a social
problem, not a police problem."  They attributed the year's alarming
homicide increase to the rise in drug use, explicit publicity of
violent crimes, and television's portrayal of violence as a quick,
antiseptic way of solving short-term problems.

The city's two-hundredth victim, a female truck driver, was slain in
much the same manner as Hefferman.  And although the police did not
believe that the crimes were related, they believed that someone got
ideas from reading accounts of Hefferman's death in the papers.

FWPD officers Billy Joe Cordell and Robert Cook were the first to
arrive on the scene of a possible homicide on Colony Hill Road.  They
found small items in disarray in the front room, then saw two feet
peeping from beneath the covers in the bedroom.  The officers made a
quick walk-through of the apartment to be certain that the
perpetrator of what appeared to be a homicide was no longer in the
town house.  Without further delay they summoned special police
units, then left the apartment to await colleagues outside.

Policewoman Kathy Hopson was the first crime-scene officer to arrive.
She immediately broadcast a description of Hefferman's car on the
radio patrol channel.

Maybe they would get lucky.  Maybe the murderer would be found along
with the missing Volvo.  Hopson carefully observed every detail of
the interior of the Hefferman apartment.  Even the smallest
irregularity could provide a clue.

Entering the bedroom, Hopson immediately noted the discoloration of
the feet protruding from under the bed covers.  She didn't bother to
check the victim's pulse.  She knew instinctively that whoever lay
spread-eagled beneath the mound of linen was dead, and had been dead
for some time.

Drawing back the covers to expose the ghastly slaughter of Steven
Hefferman, Hopson's natural reflex was to recoil in revulsion at the
gory spectacle.  But her professional instincts took over as she
leaned slightly forward to make out the object lying across the neck
of the deceased.  A knife.  Whoever had done this had left the
black-handled murder weapon protruding from the victim's throat.  A
yellow tie, stained red from the victim's blood, was knotted around
the neck.

"What have we got?"  asked Stephen Griffin, a second crime-scene
officer joining Hopson.  Griffin glanced around the disordered room.
"Looks like a typical bur glary scene."

Credit cards, cigarette butts, and an ashtray were scattered randomly
around the bedroom, along with a shirt, light bulb, and wallet.
Griffin carefully checked the billfold.  No cash, only loose change
scattered about the floor.

"Seems the last place this guy went was to the cleaners," Griffin
said.  "On the twenty-sixth he wrote a check for $21.76 to Comet
Cleaners.  That was the last entry."  Griffin carefully replaced the
checkbook on the floor.

Griffin turned his attention to the mutilated body sprawled across
the double bed in the center of the room.  He moved closer.  In
addition to the knife protruding from the neck of the victim, Griffin
observed a second knife between the legs and genitals, shoved up
inside the body.  "My God," he whispered.  "What's that to the right
of his head?"  Griffin asked.

"Looks like a business card," Hopson said, taking a closer look.
"Autobahn Volvo.  I called in a description of his car and the tag
number," she said.  "A gray Volvo."

Griffin moved about the bed taking in the full impact of the carnage.
"Better get some prints from that glass," he said, pointing to an
empty drinking glass that lay inches from the victim's head.  "And
pictures.  We need lots of pictures of this one."

Burglary officers A.J.  Tiroff and T.P.  Ellis arrived to conduct
their investigation of a possible burglary.

While both homicide officers and the burglary unit combed the town
house for clues into the senseless slaying of Steven Hefferman,
Patrol Officer Gary Knoblock heard the call come over his radio
patrol channel concerning a gray Volvo, Texas license number 866 King
Charles Lincoln.

"I remember seeing a gray Volvo disabled on the west freeway,"
Knoblock said out loud.  He turned the police car around and headed
back to the location near Las Vegas Trail where he had seen the
vehicle earlier in the evening.

Knoblock sat in his squad car and radioed headquarters.  "I've got
that gray Volvo, Texas license 866 King Charles Lincoln, located on
the west freeway at Las Vegas Trail."

Instructions immediately came back from the police dispatcher.
"Nobody touch the vehicle.  It was possibly used in a homicide.  The
crime-scene unit will be there shortly.  Secure the vehicle."

Texas Ranger Phil Ryan continued his exhaustive investigation into
the murders of Mama Doe and Sandra Lorraine Bailey.  Thirty-four
witnesses and investigators had been interviewed from Texas,
Oklahoma, Florida, Utah, and Tennessee.  Every missing-person report
was given critical examination for the possibility of matching the
missing person to Wise County's Mama Doe.

Thirteen months after the death of Bailey, Ryan was no closer to
solving the murders.

Ryan made no connection between his unsolved cases and the shocking
butchering of Steven Hefferman.


Lucky Would-be Victims

"Come on Sharon, let's go to the 50/50 Club," one of Sharon Green's
coworkers urged.

"Ricky doesn't like going there 'cause his father goes to that club,"
Sharon said.  But Sharon Green knew the real reason that Ricky had
not been inside the 50/50 Club since the night of November 24, 1985:
Sandra Lorraine Bailey.  He desperately feared being recognized as
the man Bailey left the club with on the night of her death.

"I'll go with you for a drink before going home," Sharon told her
friends.  "Ricky can meet me later."

Sharon Green and her friends from the telephone company often went
for drinks after work.  She called Ricky to tell him she'd be late
again that evening.

Ricky was bored and drunk.  He had been drinking all day, waiting for
Sharon to come home.  Now Sharon was going out with her friends, and
he couldn't risk joining them at the 50/50 Club.  Sharon's call
reminded him of Bailey.  Closing his eyes he pictured Bailey's nude
body stuffed into the culvert.  Quickly he shook the memory from his
thoughts.

Think I'll go see Sandy, he thought.  He grabbed the remainder of the
twelve-pack of Bud from the refrigerator and headed toward Boyd.

Fifteen-year-old Ricky Green had been riding the school bus home from
his ninth grade classes at Boyd High School when he first met Sandy,
a second grader at Boyd Elementary.  Sandy's schoolgirl crush on
Ricky prompted her to sit next to him every day on the Blue Bird bus
during the short two-mile ride home.

Ricky felt sorry for the little girl, who was often the subject of
teasing.  Ricky protected the youngster, seeing that she exited the
bus unscathed.

Through the years Ricky's and Sandy's paths often crossed.  Each time
he saw the young girl she always smiled broadly and gave him a
friendly wave.  As the years passed, Sandy often rode her horse to
the Green's gas station.  "Ricky!"  she'd yell.

He would leave the adjoining radiator shop and meet her inside the
store next door to the station.  "How about a Coke?"  he'd ask.  They
would sit and talk, sipping sodas until it was time for him to return
to work.

Sandy was growing up before Ricky's unconscious eyes.

Late one afternoon, six years after first meeting the freckle-faced
second grader, and only a few months after marrying Sharon, the phone
rang at Green's Radiator Shop.  "Ricky, I'm a friend of Sandy's," the
caller said when Ricky answered the phone.  "Sandy wants you to call
her."

What the hell?  Sure, I guess I'll give her a call, Ricky thought.
He had watched Sandy mature from a skinny kid to a young woman.  Her
five-foot-eight-inch frame was lean; she couldn't have weighed much
more than a hundred pounds.  Ricky smiled.  I'd like for her to wrap
those long legs around me.  The following afternoon Ricky dialed
Sandy's number.

"Hi, Sandy.  This is Ricky," he said.

"Hi, Ricky.  I sure would like for us to get together," she said in
her small voice.

"You're too young for me," Ricky laughed.  Damn, she can't be more
than fourteen.  That could be big trouble.

"I'm not a virgin.  I fuck around a lot," she bragged.

Ricky tried not to snicker.  "Well, why don't you meet me down the
street, under the bridge around six o'clock after I get off work," he
said, believing that his invitation would scare her off.

"Okay," she quickly responded.

At six o'clock Ricky stood by the window of Green's Radiator Shop,
watching for Sandy.  Within minutes he saw her chestnut-colored
quarter horse, with Sandy riding bareback, heading toward the bridge.
He took off to meet her.

"Hi," Ricky said.

Sandy dismounted her horse, lovingly stroking the mane while she
watched Ricky urinate in the brush along the damp creek bed.  She
unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her small, firm breasts.  Ricky
smiled, his eyes resting on the stiff nipples of the young girl's
bosom.

"You want to fuck?"  he asked.

"Yes," Sandy said.

"Well, let's get it on 'cause I don't have much time," Ricky said.
He knew Sharon was expecting him home any minute.

Sandy pulled off her clothes and spread the horse blanket from her
mount on a large rock at the water's edge.  She lay across the
blanket, face down.  She's got a fine looking butt, Ricky thought.

Ricky entered the young girl smoothly.  Yeah, she was right.  She
ain't no virgin.  She's a whore, just like her sister.

In a matter of minutes the sexual intercourse was complete.

"We need to find a better place to do this," Ricky said, zipping his
trousers.

Each time Sandy rode to the Greens' store she and Ricky would sneak
to the back of the building for stolen kisses.  They planned their
next sexual adventure to en sure a more pleasurable encounter.

"Hello, Sandy?  This is Ricky," he said over the phone line.  "Sharon
decided she and Sarah would spend the night at her parents' tonight.
They're gonna go to church in the morning.  I'm alone, so why don't
you come over?"  Ricky asked.

Sandy told her mother that the Greens needed her to baby-sit with
Sarah overnight while they went Out.  Her mother agreed to drive her
to Ricky's trailer.

"Hi," Ricky greeted Sandy's mother as he descended the front steps.
"Sharon ran to the store.  As soon as she gets back we're leaving."

"Sandy, you stay out of things.  Call if you need me," her mother
instructed.

"She'll be all right," Ricky assured the young teen's mother.  It was
ten o'clock by the time Ricky and Sandy were alone.  They stripped
off their clothing before settling on the couch.

Ricky covered Sandy's open mouth with his own, but was disappointed
with the lack of emotion she displayed.  He petted her small breasts
in hopes of arousing more enthusiasm.  She stroked his rising penis.
He gently pressed her face between his legs, her straight brown hair
falling on his thighs.  She was unresponsive.  This ain't no fun,
Ricky thought.

He took young Sandy's hand and led her to the bath room for a quick
shower before sex on the sheets, where he and Sharon had made love
the previous night.  Ricky tried various ways to excite his partner,
with little result.

Sandy lay motionless.  So this is what an inflatable doll is like?
he thought.

Ricky continued his quest with slow rhythmic strokes, mixed with hard
forceful thrusts.  He abandoned the idea of pleasing his partner and
concentrated on his own enjoyment.  When he was satisfied, he walked
to the kitchen for a beer.  Sandy followed behind him.

"I want a beer," Sandy said.

"Okay."

Ricky and Sandy sat in the living room for about an hour, drinking
beer and getting drunk.

"I like fucking married men," Sandy said, slurping her brew.  "I've
fucked most of the married men around here.  You're the best I've
had, Ricky."

She sure could have fooled me.  I bet she tells everybody that, Ricky
thought, pushing her over the arm of the sofa.  I'll show her how
good I can be.  Ricky took her again and again throughout the night.

At nine A.M.  Sandy called her mother.  "The Greens are back.  You
can come get me."

Ricky screwed Sandy once more before her mother arrived, then it was
time for her to go.  Walking with legs slightly apart, Sandy shuffled
to her mother's car; obviously sore from the repeated sexual episodes
with Ricky.

Ricky waved goodbye from the door of the trailer, then stumbled to
bed.  He was tired, still a little drunk, and aching from the
all-night sex.

Yeah.  I need to see Sandy tonight while Sharon's at the 50/50 Club.
She'll be good for a quick screw, he thought.

Ricky was drunk by the time he arrived in Boyd.  After parking in
Sandy's front yard he approached the door.

"Hi, is Sandy home?"  he asked her mother.

"Sandy!"  her mother yelled toward the back of the house.  "Come on
in, Ricky."

He sat in the living room talking to sixteen-year-old Sandy and her
mother for more than thirty minutes be fore the older woman finally
offered them some iced tea and left the room.

"Meet me in the field next door at ten o'clock," Sandy whispered.
"I'll sneak out and meet you there.  Just park with your lights off."

Sandy smiled innocently as her mother handed her the glass of cold
beverage.

"Well, I need to get on home," Ricky said, setting his tea glass on
the end table.  "Thanks for the drink."

Ricky drove down the farm-to-market road that led to Sandy's house
and doubled back so there would be no suspicion about why he was
parked in the field next door.  Within minutes Sandy was opening the
passenger's door and giggling about her sneaky escape.  Ricky and
Sandy had sex in the front seat of his automobile.

"You really like to screw, don't you?"  Ricky asked.

"Yeah," she chuckled.

"Why don't you run away from home?  You can come with me.  We'll run
away together," he baited her.

Sandy seemed delighted with the idea of running away with Ricky
Green.  She scrawled a note to her mother on a scrap of paper,
crammed it into the aluminum mailbox by the front driveway, and
jumped into Ricky's car.

"You'll have to stay in the vacant apartment next door for the
night," Ricky told her.  "When Sharon goes to work in the morning you
can come over.  We'll have some fun," he said with a wink.

The following morning Ricky knocked on the empty apartment door as he
had promised.  "It's okay.  Come on over," he yelled from outside.

Ricky sat and watched Sandy devour a piece of toast, smiling at him
with crumb-coated lips.  He loved the smell of fresh toast topped
with cinnamon and sugar.  He licked his lips remembering his own
breakfast earlier that morning.

I think I'll kill her, Ricky thought.  She's just a whore like them
other two girls.  Nobody knows she's here.  Nobody would know it was
me.

Ricky began to formulate in his mind a plan for taking Sandy to a
remote area of North Texas and killing her.  Just as he visualized
the knife going into the petite girl's body, the phone startled him.

"Yeah," Ricky shouted into the receiver.

"Ricky, you know that girl Sandy?"  his brother Perry asked.

"Yeah," Ricky's voice had softened.

"Well, the police was up here lookin' for you cause they said you was
the last one that was with her last night."

"Yeah, I was up there for a little while.  But I don't know where
she's at," Ricky said, staring at Sandy smearing butter on another
piece of toast.

Sandy looked up and smiled, putting her finger to her lips,
requesting his silence.

"Tell them I don't know where she's at," Ricky instructed Perry
before hanging up.

"I gotta get you back home.  The police are lookin' for me to find
out where you are," Ricky said.  He picked up his car keys and headed
for the door with Sandy close behind, still munching on her breakfast.

"Just tell your mama that you wanted to run away, Ricky told Sandy as
she climbed out of his car several hundred yards from her house.

The young girl slammed the car door and began walking home.  "You
sure are lucky.  I was gonna kill you today," Ricky said softly.
Sharon was right when she said Sandy was a slut and a whore.  She
would have been happy to help me kill this one, Ricky thought.

"I hate homosexuals and whores," Ricky told Sharon.  "The world is
better off without them.  I'm doing every body a favor by gettin' rid
of them."

There were more lucky would-be victims than Sandy, probably dozens.
One was a homosexual Ricky met many times at Casino Beach.  He liked
to talk about little boys.  Ricky and the man would smoke a few
joints and talk.

"I like to find little boys and have fun with them," the man said
with a devilish grin.  "Their tight little butts are a real turn-on."

He's a sick turkey, Ricky thought, listening to the stories of how
the man lusted after young male bodies.  He's just like John, the man
who raped me when I was eleven.

Over a two-year period Ricky had heard many of the man's pedophiliac
fantasies.  I'll kill him if I ever get the chance, Ricky told
himself.  But they were never alone in a secluded spot.

By the summer of 1988 Ricky had too much time on his hands.  He had
been out of work for three or four months.  Warmer weather presented
opportunities for Ricky and Sharon to pick up some quick cash to feed
their growing drug habit and have some fun playing what they called
their "evil, sexy game."

On a pleasant afternoon in June, Ricky told Sharon, "Let's go out to
Benbrook Lake.  I'll drive my pickup and you take your mom's car.
I'll get there first and try to meet up with a rich homo."

Two hours after Ricky had parked near the shores of the lake where
Jeffery Davis met his violent death, Sharon parked her mom's car in
the same blacktopped parking area.

Ricky drove over to where Sharon waited.  "Come back in an hour," he
said.  "I haven't met anybody yet."

After Sharon disappeared, Ricky backed his truck into the striped
parking slot, an indication to homosexuals in the area that he was
available.  He sat on the tail gate and waited.

Shortly after Ricky perched on the back of the truck, an unfamiliar
man drove up, stopping next to him.  The man approached Ricky,
striking up a conversation that soon turned to sex.  Ricky's penis
rose, creating an obvious bulge in the tight shorts he had
purposefully selected for the occasion.

"Looks like you need some help with that big thing," the man said.

"Yeah, I sure would like to have a woman right about now," Ricky
replied.

Approaching Ricky with a coy grin, the stranger began to stroke
Ricky's organ.  He abruptly stopped the caressing when Sharon pulled
into the parking slot next to Ricky's truck.

"Why don't we go into the woods where it's more secluded?"  he asked.

Ricky quickly agreed, following the man to his car where he pulled a
blanket out of the trunk.  "Follow me," the man said.

Ricky was right behind his mark, with Sharon following a few yards
farther back.

Ricky and the man spread the blanket on the natural grasses of the
field in an isolated spot beneath a dump of sprawling trees.  The
fresh smell of blooming yucca plants filled the air.

Immediately the target began orally copulating Ricky until he was
abruptly interrupted.  "Look over there," Ricky said, pointing to
Sharon a few yards away.

The man was dumbfounded to see Sharon Green dressed in a short skirt
with no panties, rubbing her breasts and stroking her pubic hair.

"Don't let me stop ya'll," Sharon said grinning.  "I just wish ya'll
would take all your clothes off."

Instantly the man was on his feet, stripping down naked.  Ricky
slipped his shorts from around his knees and over his feet.  He
kicked them off the edge of the blanket.

"Come on over," Ricky invited Sharon.

Sharon approached the men, knelt beside them, and began to stroke
each of their genitals slowly.

"Why don't you let me screw you?"  Ricky said to his wife.

"No, I just want to watch ya'll," Sharon said sweetly.

"You mean you want to watch me screw this guy?"  Ricky asked in a
preplanned exchange.

"Yes."

There was momentary hesitation on the part of Ricky's male partner,
but seconds later he was on his stomach.  Ricky climbed aboard.

While distracting the intended victim, Ricky pointed to the man's
clothes neatly stacked at the edge of the cover.  Sharon swiftly
scooped up the clothing, along with Ricky's, and ran for her car.

Ricky continued the sodomy.  Once the sexual act was complete, the
man noticed the disappearance of his clothes.

"Hell, mine are gone, too," Ricky shouted.  "That bitch must have
taken them."

The two men, buck naked, seized the blanket for protection, and
gradually made their way to their parked vehicles.  A few feet before
reaching the paved lot, they spotted their clothes at the end of the
trail.  Ricky quickly shoved his hand into the pocket of his shorts.

"My wallet's gone!  That bitch stole my wallet and all my money,"
Ricky shouted.

Instantly the man pushed his hand into his own pants pocket, coming
up empty-handed.

"My wallet's gone, too, along with my keys," he said.

"I had about thirty dollars," Ricky stated.

"I had about a hundred and ten or twenty dollars," the man declared.

Slipping on his pants, the man hurried to his car.  It was unlocked,
with the keys on the floorboard.  He leaned against the steering
wheel to open the glove box.

"Goddamn!"  he yelled.  "The bitch got my pistol and about two
hundred dollars.  I also had a gold watch.  They're all gone," he
roared.  "I'm calling the cops!"

"Hey, man, leave me out of this.  I don't need my family knowing what
I was doing out here," Ricky warned.

"I'm calling them, but I won't mention you," he said.

I'm not waiting for him to bring the cops to me, Ricky thought.  He
jumped in his truck and sped home to Sharon, who was waiting at their
west side apartment.

"How much did we get?"  Ricky asked.

"Seventy-five dollars," she said.

"The guy said he lost around three hundred dollars, and a pistol and
watch," Ricky argued.

"He lied," Sharon said coldly.

Well, somebody is lying Ricky thought.  He said nothing more about
the man or the money.  It was just one of those sex games we both
enjoy.  Why make a fuss about a few dollars?

The Greens' sexual fantasies were heightened by their growing drug
dependency.  The narcotics that rushed through their veins boosted
their desires and gave them a surge of renewed energy.  Ricky
continued to search for new people to join in their threesomes.

It was on one of Ricky's trips to an adult video store on Calhoune
Street that he met a twenty-five-year-old man who readily agreed to
accompany him home.  As usual, Ricky was drunk and hungry for
excitement.

"Let's have some fun," Ricky suggested as the man entered the trailer
house bedroom.  Ricky picked up a stretch of rope that lay on the
bureau.

"Sure," the man responded.  "Why not?"

Both Ricky and his companion removed their garments.

The cooperative stranger grinned, stretching out his six-foot frame
on the bed, unaware of the two female murder victims who once
occupied the same position.  He was vulnerable and defenseless, bound
to the bed frame.

Shock veiled the face of the victim as Ricky fettered a thin strip of
rope to his genitals.  "What's going on?"  the man demanded.

Ricky responded with a firm tug on the rope.

"Oow!"  exclaimed the victim.  "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just havin' fun," Ricky said, grinning.  "I told you we were gonna
have fun."  He jerked on the rope with more force.

"Stop it, you son-of-a-bitch.  That hurts!"

Ricky laughed, continuing to pull the rope as he watched the man
attempt to free himself from the knotted bindings.

"Oow!"  the man yelled more loudly.

Ricky's laughter turned to instant anger.  "Stop that hollerin'," he
demanded.

"You stop pullin' on my dick, you son-of-a-bitch.  Let me go," the
man pleaded.

Sharon stepped into the bedroom to find her husband nude, holding on
to a thin rope tied to the testicles of a naked stranger.

"What's going on, Ricky?"  Sharon asked.

"We're gonna have some fun with this guy.  Come on Sharon," Ricky
said.

"I think you need to let him go," Sharon told her husband.

"I'm not lettin' him go," Ricky bellowed as he pulled a pistol from
the bureau drawer.

"My God, what are you going to do with that, Ricky?"  Sharon asked
with fear in her voice.

"I'm gonna kill him," Ricky slurred.  "I'm gonna kill him right here."

"Ricky, don't do it.  Sarah is in the house.  A gunshot will wake her
up.  Please put the gun away, Ricky," she begged.

But Ricky only laughed at his wife's alarm.  He pointed the gun at
the squirming victim.

"Ricky, don't do it!"  Sharon screamed.  She ran to Sarah's bedroom,
picked up the sleeping child, and drove to Bill Green's trailer.

Within a matter of minutes Bill Green burst through the bedroom door
of Ricky's house.

"What in the hell is going on here?"  Green demanded.

Ricky was aghast to see his father standing in the doorway.  He laid
the gun on the bureau and grabbed a shirt to hold in front of his
nude body.  Oh my God, Ricky thought.  I can't believe my dad saw me
here without any clothes on, and this guy in the bed naked.

His body began to tremble as he cowered before his father.  What is
he going to do?  What is he going to do?

"What is going on, Ricky?"  Green asked again.

"Nothin'," Ricky said with head bowed.  He could not look at his
father.

"Let him go," Green insisted.

Bill Green's anger turned to the bound man strapped to the bed.  "Get
out of here.  Don't ever come back.  And if you ever tell anyone what
happened here, I'll kill you myself."

Ricky cut the restraining ropes.

"Now, get the hell out of here!"  Bill Green hollered.

The man scurried to gather his clothes and fled the apartment,
hopping across the parking lot while pulling up his pants.

"Ricky, what the hell is the matter with you?"  Green asked his son.

"I don't know.  I'm drunk.  I don't know what I'm doing," Ricky
mumbled.

Green left Ricky in the apartment alone and embarrassed.  Later,
Sharon told Ricky she and Bill Green had talked for hours.  Through
her tears, she told Ricky that she confessed to his father about the
murders of Davis, Montana, Bailey, and Hefferman.

But Bill Green had no sympathy for his daughter-in law.  "He told me
to 'Go home and keep your goddamn mouth shut!'" Sharon told Ricky.

Melvin Carroll, Bill's nephew, was running drugs for his uncle,
selling the dope and returning to Green's marine shop with the money.
Carroll's cash sells were short on several occasions, and Green knew
that Melvin was stealing from him.

"Ricky, I want you to kill Melvin Carroll," his father told him only
days after the incident with the man at the apartment.

"What?  You want me to kill my cousin?"  Ricky was shocked at his
father's suggestion.

"Yeah.  He's been stealing from me, and I want you to take care of
him.  I'll give you one thousand dollars for the job," Green said,
handing Ricky a pistol.

"I can't kill him," Ricky said.

"You already killed four people, what's one more?  You're going to do
it," Green sneered.

"What do you mean, 'I've already killed four people?'" Ricky said,
knowing Sharon had told him the truth.

"Sharon told me all about them people.  The boy, the two women, the
guy in Fort Worth.  You killed them, and you are going to kill Melvin
Carroll for me," Green clamored.

Ricky took the pistol and the thousand dollars.  How can I kill my
cousin?

He drove around for several days, spent half the assassination money,
but could not bring himself to kill Melvin.  I've done a lot of bad
stuff, but I can't kill a relative, Ricky rationalized.

He could no longer avoid his father.  Ricky finally re turned the
pistol and five-hundred dollars of the bounty.

"I just can't do it," he told Bill Green.

Green unleashed a verbal attack on Ricky for failure to carry out his
orders and squandering half the money.

I have enough to worry about, Ricky thought.  The cops could come
after me any minute for them other murders.


The Beginning of the End

Red and blue lights flashed, and sirens blared in close pursuit of
Ricky Green.

"Oh shit!"  Ricky mumbled, guiding his pickup truck to the side of
the Wise County road.  Nervously he fumbled for the Texas driver's
license tucked neatly in his worn leather wallet.  They're going to
arrest me for murder, he feared.  Is this it?  Is this the end?  He
attempted to control his shaking hand as he reluctantly handed the
officer his license.

"Is there an emergency, Ricky?"  the officer asked.

"No.  No, sir," Ricky slurred his response.

"You been drinking, Ricky?"

"Not much," Ricky lied.  He had been drinking heavily during his
night shift at Sky Chef, based at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport.
Stocking tiny liquor bottles aboard aircraft afforded him the
opportunity not only to drink on the job, but to do it for free.

"Get out of the pickup," the officer commanded.

Ricky's legs betrayed him, and he stumbled against the side of the
truck.

"Yep, you've had a little too much," the officer said.

Ricky was taken to the Wise County jail and charged with driving
under the influence.  He spent the day in jail, baffled by the minor
charge.  They don't know, he thought.  Shit, they still don't know I
killed them people.  He placed his head on the sweat-stained pillow
and slept peacefully until early that evening.

Ricky's drinking and drug use were wildly out of control.  He didn't
want to lose his job.  He liked the work and the people he worked
with.  Finally, he was in a job away from his father's manipulation.
Ricky knew he had to sober up and get straight.  He discussed
checking into the CareUnit of Fort Worth with Sharon, but she
objected.  Her continual attempts to convince him his addictions were
not controlling him, that their drug and alcohol consumptions were
merely social, did not sway him.  Ricky checked into the CareUnit for
alcohol and drug intervention in February 1988.

After five days of detox, Ricky phoned Sharon from the rehab.  "Come
get me," he said.  He had been through the rehabilitation process
before: He knew what to do.  He just needed to get detoxed to get him
on the right track.

Sharon agreed to pick Ricky up, but not in front of the hospital.
From Ricky's previous experience, Sharon knew that when he decided to
leave the rehab on his own, employees and patients alike would
attempt to stop him.

"I'll meet you somewhere away from the hospital," Sharon told him.
They agreed to rendezvous at the furniture store's parking area
adjacent to the CareUnit.

Ricky slipped into his room, packed his belongings, and casually
walked toward the front door.  He stopped in his tracks as the voice
over the public address system heralded the warning, "Attention AMA
front desk" -- the staff alert that a patient was absent without
medical approval.

Shit, Ricky thought.  I gotta get out of here fast.  His pace
quickened.

Reaching the entrance of the rehab, he pushed the glass door open
wide and sprinted toward where Sharon waited.  He jumped into the
car, slamming the door behind him.

Breathing heavily from his sudden burst of speed, he yelled at
Sharon, "Let's go!"

Sharon flashed a broad smile, steering the car to the stop sign at
the corner.  Within seconds, a crowd of staff and patients from
CareUnit were hurrying toward them, blocking their way.

"Shit!"  Sharon exclaimed, slapping the gear shift into reverse,
turning the wheel, and spinning the front end of the auto around.
She floored the gas pedal.

Ricky was amazed.  Shit.  She drives like A.j.  Foyt, he thought,
laughing to himself.

Sharon grinned, motioning to the backseat where she had placed a
six-pack of beer and some marijuana for Ricky's pleasure.  He grabbed
a beer, rolle a joint, and was on his way to getting stoned.

Eventually the buzz of marijuana and alcohol no longer satisfied
Ricky and Sharon.  In July 1988 they began experimenting with
methamphetamines.

Perry Green, Ricky's older brother, worked in their father's drug
ring.  He became Ricky and Sharon's supplier.

Initially they took the drugs orally, but as time progressed along
with their growing drug dependence, both Sharon and Ricky started
shooting the liquefied drugs into their veins.  Sharon's ingestion of
crystal decreased her appetite.  She lost weight.  She looked good.
Crank heightened their already overactive sexual drives.  Sharon and
Ricky made love more passionately than ever and more often.  The high
times were great, but the down times were volatile, often violent.

Ricky and Sharon had frequent confrontations.

The more speed they shot up; the more alcohol they drank; the more
mutually combative they became.  During one of their heated
exchanges, Ricky slapped Sharon across the face with sufficient force
to drive her backward.  Stunned, Sharon pressed her hand to her
stinging cheek and stared at Ricky with hate in her eyes -- hatred
Ricky had not seen before.  Angrily, she struck back, slapping Ricky
solidly across the face.  He instantly retaliated with a thrust of
his fist.  Immediately he was sorry.  I don't mean to hurt Sharon,
Ricky thought.  The dope is making us crazy.

The day before Valentine's Day 1989, Ricky and Sharon were partying
at a friend's house when they ran out of speed.  Sharon handed Ricky
four hundred dollars.  "Go get me some dope," she instructed.  "I'll
stay here with Robert."

Sharon was selfish with her dope, not wanting to share with anyone,
not even Ricky.  Ricky, on the other hand, would share with everyone.

Ricky left the house with another man and the man's girlfriend.  They
picked up a second woman in downtown Fort Worth and made the
connection for the drug buy.  Before returning to Robert's house to
rejoin the party, Ricky and the others stopped at a North Richland
Hills motel to shoot up.  Ricky offered his new friends a little
extra dope for a good time later.  Ricky drove back to Robert's alone.

"Where's Sharon?"  Ricky asked Robert.

"She's gone home," he said.

Ricky took another hit of speed with two girls at the party, agreeing
to take them shopping at Skaggs on Jacksboro Highway before going
home to Sharon.  They shopped until 6 A.M.

Ricky spent all his money on Valentine's gifts for Sharon.  This will
make Sharon happy, he thought proudly.  We have been fighting so much
lately, I need to show Sharon how much I love her.

Setting the twenty-five-dollar box of chocolates on the kitchen
table, along with a giant card and a mug that read, "I Love You,"
Ricky began cooking breakfast for Sharon and Sarah.

Sharon awoke to the smell of sizzling bacon frying on the stove.  She
walked into the kitchen, where Ricky was breaking eggs into a
skillet, without acknowledging the gifts on the table.

"Did you get my speed?"  she asked curtly.

"Yes, I'll give it to you after we eat," Ricky said, stirring the
scrambled eggs in the frying pan.

"I want it now!"  Sharon demanded.

Ricky handed her the drugs, then popped fresh white bread into the
toaster.

"Is this all you bought?"  Sharon asked, irritated.

"No," Ricky said, explaining the course of events that had taken
place after he left Robert's house.

"You slept with those girls, didn't you?"  Sharon screamed.

Groggy from the lack of sleep and too many dope hits -- and annoyed
with his wife -- Ricky lied.  "Yeah, they were both damn good.  Much
better than you," he said bitterly.

Sharon's eyes filled with tears.  She swiftly moved toward him,
slapping at his face and chest.  Ricky knocked her back.  "Cool it,"
he shouted.

Sarah, standing in the doorway of her room, began to cry.

Sharon stomped into the bathroom to inject the remaining dope into
her vein.

Later that evening Sharon was still angry about the amount of drugs
Ricky had brought home to her.  "You're going to pay for all that
dope you gave away," she snarled.

"Fuck off, Sharon.  The only way you'll get any thing out of me is to
suck it out," Ricky snapped.

"Take all that Valentine stuff and give it to the two whores you took
shopping.  I don't want the shit," Sharon yelled.

Their only happy times seemed to be when they were high.

Sharon and Ricky both began to sell drugs regularly to feed their
habit.  Sharon told Ricky that she was pushing dope to Dee Dee, a
coworker at the telephone company, passing off the drugs at odd times
of the day and night.

"I'll go with you to deliver the stuff," Ricky would offer.

But Sharon always protested.  "Dee Dee doesn't want anyone to know
where she lives.  I'll go alone," she said.

On a snowy night in late February 1989, Perry Green delivered a
three-hundred-dollar order of drugs to his brother's apartment.

"The order is for Dee Dee," Sharon told Ricky.

"I'll deliver it and be back soon."

"Let me drive you, Sharon.  It's so icy, I don't want you to go by
yourself," Ricky objected.  The weather is too bad for Sharon to be
on the roads alone.  Any thing could happen, Ricky worried.

"No, you know Dee Dee doesn't want anyone to know where she lives.
I'll be okay," Sharon reassured him, appearing somewhat anxious.

"Well, call me when you get there," Ricky said.

With a quick "Okay," Sharon was out the door.

Sharon had been gone about an hour when the phone rang at the Greens'
apartment.  "Hi, Ricky.  Dee Dee wants me to take her to the airport.
I'll be home later," Sharon said curtly.

Ricky was peeved.  Why didn't she let me drive her?  he wondered.
"There is too much snow, Sharon, you're gonna have an accident."
Ricky was becoming more troubled by Sharon's actions.

"Oh, I'll be okay."

"Call me when you get to the airport, and be careful," Ricky
cautioned.

Ricky's concern grew.  Sharon should have called by now, he thought.
Has she had an accident?  His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by
the ringing of the phone.

"Sharon?"  Ricky shouted into the receiver.

"We can't find Dee Dee's rental car.  Well, actually they won't give
her a car because she doesn't have a credit card," Sharon rambled
nervously.

Sharon isn't making any sense, Ricky thought.

"What are you gonna do?"  Ricky was cranky.  Why did she go out on
such a bad night, leaving me by the phone to worry?

"We're gonna spend the night by the airport," Sharon said.

Ricky's concern turned to anger.  "When are you gonna get home,
Sharon?"

"I'm not sure, Ricky.  I'll be careful.  Don't worry."

She hung up before he could object further.

Four hours later, Sharon unexpectedly walked into the living room.
Her face was pale.  She looked scared, very scared.  Seeing his
wife's stark expression frightened Ricky.  "What's wrong with you?
What happened?"  he asked anxiously.

Sharon insisted nothing was wrong.  She walked from the living room
to the kitchen, to the bedroom, back to the living room.  What's
wrong with her?  Ricky was confused by Sharon's uneasiness.

"Sharon, what is wrong?"  Ricky demanded.

"Nothing!"  Sharon snapped, continuing to pace from one end of the
apartment to the other.

"Sharon, something's wrong.  Now what is it?"

Ricky's tone had changed from loving concern to harsh indignation.

"I guess I better tell you," Sharon said, sitting on the edge of the
sofa, lighting up another Newport cigarette.  "You know Dee Dee?
Well, I haven't been selling dope to her.  I've been selling it to
Timmy."

Ricky couldn't believe what he was hearing.  Sharon was selling dope
to his seventeen-year-old brother.

"You been sellin' Timmy dope?"  Ricky asked, hoping what she told him
was untrue.

"Yeah," Sharon said as she lowered her head.  "Remember the time we
bought ten needles?  That's when I got him hooked on dope and points.
He wanted to try it, so I let him."

Ricky could hardly believe Timmy was doing drugs.  He didn't want to
believe it.  "Where's Timmy now?"  he asked with concern for his
younger brother.

"He's in a motel down the street," Sharon said, her body beginning to
shake.

"What number is he in?"  Ricky asked, heading for the door.

"Wait, Ricky, there's more."  Sharon was so strung out, her voice was
quivering.  "Timmy and I stole forty thousand dollars from your
father," she said with tears in her eyes.

Ricky was stunned.  He could not speak.  Stealing money from Bill
Green was not smart.  In fact, it was downright dangerous.

A few days earlier, Perry Green had collected more than forty-four
thousand dollars in drug sales for his father.  He had been on the
road most of his waking hours, delivering dope to pushers in Dallas,
Fort Worth, and surrounding counties.

Once back in Boyd, Perry had gone directly to Bill Green's marine
shop where Perry had worked until his father recruited him to run
drugs.  Perry carefully took out a six-pack of motor oil from a full
carton, hid the money inside the box where the oil cans had once
been, and replaced the case among numerous others.  Perry thought
that only he and his father knew where the money was hidden.

The next morning Bill and Perry looked for Timmy, who had
disappeared.  They searched the shops and then the trailer, where
they found a mysterious note.  "Don't call the police or Timmy will
be dead."  At the bottom of the note was scrawled, in Timmy's
handwriting, "Dad, I had to tell them."

"Oh, shit!"  yelled Green as they rushed to the marine shop.  Perry
ran to the oil case where the drug money had been stashed.  The money
was gone.  Several dirty syringes lay beside the cardboard boxes
where someone had been shooting up.

"It can't be.  Only you and me knew where the money was," Perry said
to his father.  He was confused by the disappearance of his
hard-earned cash.

"No, I moved it.  I told Timmy where I put it," Green confessed to
his oldest son.

"You told Timmy where the money was?  I'm out risking my life for
that money, and you told Timmy?"  Perry shouted at his father.

Bill Green offered no explanation.  "He couldn't have pulled this off
alone," Green said.

"Sharon must have helped him," Perry suggested.

Perry and his wife, Debbie, often did drugs with Ricky and Sharon.
In fact, Sharon was at his house nearly every day for two hours
before she headed out for work.

Eventually Debbie had to help Sharon shoot up.

"My God, Sharon, you've blown out all the veins in your arms," Debbie
said, staring at the black and blue bruises that ran the length of
Sharon's arms.

"Turn around, I'll find a vein in the back of your leg."

Finding a good vein, Debbie injected the needle into Sharon's leg.
"Hold that," Debbie instructed, but Sharon fumbled the attempt,
allowing blood to fill the syringe.  Frustrated at her feeble attempt
to shoot up, Sharon squirted the half-drug, half-blood mixture into
the back of her throat.  She licked her lips and smiled.

Yes, it was probably Sharon who helped Timmy pull off the scheme.
Perry knew that Sharon was a serious addict, and he freely gave her
dope when he had an ample supply.  Ricky had been buying from him for
months.  He knew Sharon would do any thing for drugs.

Bill and Perry Green sped away from the shop in search of Timmy and
Sharon.

Meanwhile, Sharon accompanied Ricky to the motel where Timmy was
hiding.  Timmy confessed to Ricky that he and Sharon had already made
plans to steal another forty thousand dollars from his father, this
time from the lake house.

"Man, you'll get shot, maybe killed.  Leave it alone, Timmy," Ricky
begged.

Earlier that afternoon Sharon had driven Timmy to a used car lot in
west Fort Worth.  Timmy bought a 1988 Pontiac Grand Am with his split
of the stolen drug money.

Following Ricky's warning against heisting the additional money from
his father, Timmy jumped into his newly purchased red car, bringing
along his girlfriend.  "We're going partying," Timmy yelled as he
drove away, leaving Ricky standing dumbfounded at the motel room
door.  "I'll be back about one o'clock," Timmy called.

Timmy must have gone crazy, Ricky thought, shaking his head.  First
he steals money from Bill Green, then he runs off to party.  He has
definitely gone crazy.

Shortly after Timmy's departure, Ricky and Sharon's friend, Leslie,
arrived.  The threesome did some dope and drank a few beers.  Sharon
was finally beginning to relax.  She explained the events of the day
to Leslie, who listened intently.  Once the outlandish tale was
completed, Ricky turned to Leslie.  "Hey, come help me get Timmy's
trunk out of the backseat of Sharon's car."

The two men hoisted the heavy trunk from the seat, setting it on the
cold ground beside the car.  Timmy had packed extensively for his
expected escape, asking Sharon to keep the trunk so that his father
would not suspect.  Ricky and Leslie began looting the contents of
the case.  "Look here," Ricky said as he held up a sock stuffed with
money.  "I wonder how much is here."

Ricky quickly counted out ten thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills.

He peeled off sixty twenties, separating them into three stacks, a
bundle for each of them.  Ricky put the remainder of the money back
in the sock, re turning it to Timmy's trunk.  The two men carefully
replaced the footlocker in the backseat of Sharon's car.  They went back into the apartment and drank another beer.

Ricky couldn't get the remaining money out of his mind.  Sharon and I
can take that money and go to Hawaii, he dreamed.  We can get away
from Bill Green.

"Let's get the rest of the money and split it up.  We'll tell Timmy
the trunk got stolen," Ricky eagerly suggested.

With Leslie's help, Ricky carried the locker into the apartment.
They divided the remainder of Bill Green's cash.

"We'll take the trunk to your house," Ricky told Leslie.  "Then we'll
tell Timmy it was stolen out of the car."

With the locker safely stashed at Leslie's house, Ricky stopped by
What-A-Burger for a sandwich on his way home.  Before he could put
the truck into park, Sharon bolted from the vehicle and ran for their
apartment door.  She's really scared, Ricky thought.  I guess she
thinks my dad will figure out what happened and come after her.
Ricky grabbed the burger sack, along with a fresh twelve-pack of
beer, and followed Sharon.  He shivered from a brisk breeze of the
cold night air.

Perry Green stepped out of the shadows, along with a muscular man
Ricky didn't recognize.  "Give me the keys to Sharon's car," Perry
demanded.

In Ricky's absence, Perry and his friend had smashed the trunk of
Sharon's car in an attempt to gain entry.  Ricky slowly walked to the
back of the car and unsuccessfully attempted to insert the key into
the keyhole.

"I can't open it, you've got it so smashed in," Ricky yelled at
Perry.  "What'd you do, take a sledge hammer to it?"  Ricky turned
and walked toward his front door.

"Stop right there," the unidentified man shouted.

"Ya'll go ahead and try to get in the car.  I'm gonna eat," Ricky
said, tossing Perry the car keys.

"Stop or I'll shoot," the man threatened.  Ricky turned to stare down
the barrel of a handgun pointed at him point-blank.  His heart
pounded rapidly.  Would Perry really let him kill me?  Ricky
wondered.  Hell yes, if Daddy told him to.

"Man, I just want to eat my food," Ricky said, trying desperately to
remain calm.  The last thing he felt like doing at that moment was
eating.

"Let me check what's in your hands," the man said, moving toward
Ricky.  He took the carton of beer and hamburger sack from Ricky's
outstretched hands.  He looked inside, then thrust them at Ricky's
chest.  Thank God he didn't check my pockets, Ricky thought,
breathing a sigh of relief.

Ricky continued for the apartment door where Sharon had retreated,
with Perry following close behind.  "Where you going?"  Ricky
snapped, turning to face his brother.

"With you," Perry replied matter-of-factly.

"No, you ain't coming with me.  You let somebody pull a gun on me,
and you ain't coming in."  Ricky slammed the door behind him, leaving
Perry standing alone on the porch.

I've got to hide the money.  They can't find it on me, Ricky thought
frantically.  This money could get me killed.  He swiftly stuffed the
stolen drug money into a sack and hurriedly plunged it into the
washing machine, still filled with dirty clothes and soapy water.

The roar of car motors and squealing tires sent Ricky to the window
in time to see Perry speeding away in Sharon's car.

Goddamn...Ricky's thoughts were interrupted by a ring of the phone.

"Yeah," Ricky barked into the receiver.

"Where's my goddamn money?"  Bill Green screamed.  "Where's that
fuckin' whore of yours?  Let me talk to that fuckin' bitch!"

Ricky was scared.  He had heard Bill Green's angry voice many times,
but he had never heard him like this.  I better give him what he
wants, he thought.

"She's here, I'll get her," Ricky said before laying the phone on the
table.

"Sharon, Bill wants to talk to you," he said dryly.

"No!  I don't want to talk to him."  Sharon shook with fear.

Ricky returned to the phone and asked his father, "Where's our car?"

"Don't worry about your goddamn car.  Where's my money?  I'm gonna
kill that bitch, and if you fuck with me I'll kill you, too," Green
threatened.

Ricky was more frightened of his father than he had ever been in his
life.  "Man, I don't know nothin' about it.  Timmy will tell you, I
don't know nothin'," Ricky said quickly.  I have to get the money
back from Les.  I have to give the money back.  "I'll be there in a
little while," Ricky told his father before hanging up the phone.

Ricky and Sharon immediately rushed to Leslie's house.  "Man, I need
that money back," Ricky madly explained.  "My dad's after us!"

"I've already spent it, Ricky.  Got me some good dope," Leslie said.

Ricky was frantic.  What am I going to do?  How can I get Bill off my
back?  He searched for a quick solution.  Sharon was no help.  Strung
out on drugs, all she could do was cry uncontrollably.

"Ricky, I'm scared," Sharon sobbed.  "I can't go back to the
apartment.  Hide me someplace," she begged.

The Hyatt Hotel, within easy walking distance of the phone company
where Sharon worked, would be a safe place for his wife to hide out.
Ricky checked Sharon into the hotel, then headed back to their new
Lake Worth apartment.

Damn, someone must be in there, Ricky thought, noticing his apartment
lights beaming.  I better not go in right now, I may find more
trouble than I already have.  He drove around Lake Worth, checking
back at the apartment periodically until he believed the coast was
clear.

Ricky was mad but not surprised when he finally entered his home.
Sofa cushions were tossed around the living room, and contents of
drawers were dumped on the floor.  The place was in complete chaos --
just like his life.  What other troubles lurked around the corner?
His father frightened him.  He immediately left the apartment to call
Sharon from the corner pay phone.

"They've destroyed the house.  Everything is a mess," he told her.

"I'm gonna call the police," Sharon said.

"But Sharon, you can't.  Bill Green knows about them murders and
he'll tell the cops.  You can't call the police."  Ricky was worried
about more than just Bill Green's forty thousand dollars.  Sharon
can't panic now.  We have to keep our cool, he thought.

Sharon didn't listen to Ricky.  She angrily telephoned the police
over his objections.

By the time Ricky arrived back at the apartment from talking to
Sharon, police had already arrived.

"Who did this?"  the cop asked.

"Perry Green.  He also stole my car," Ricky said.

"Do you want to file charges?"

"Sure," Ricky answered.

A police report was filed with the officers before they departed.  By
morning Ricky had second thoughts.  He called the police department
to with draw his complaint.  "I don't want to press no charges," he
told them.

After speaking with the police, Ricky called Bill Green.  "Do you
know what Perry did to my house?  Everything is destroyed!"

"I don't give a shit.  You're lucky to be alive.  You have until six
o'clock tonight to come up with the money," Green stated coldly.

Ricky knew any effort to raise the money was useless.  He didn't even
try.  At six o'clock he drove to his father's lake house, parking far
enough from the structure so that he was able to watch every angle of
the house.  Moments later he saw Bill sneaking around the side of the
building, silently approaching his pickup.  His father clutched a gun
in his right hand.

"Where's my goddamn money?"  Green demanded, now standing about ten
feet from Ricky's truck.

"I don't know," Ricky answered.

Green moved in closer.  Ricky slid his right hand onto his own
handgun, hidden under the dash.

"Be real still and don't move," Green instructed, his gun pointed at
his son.  Slowly Green moved to the passenger's side of the truck,
slipped onto the seat beside Ricky, and lowered his weapon.

"Where's that fuckin' bitch of yours?"  Green's voice seemed more
controlled.

"She's hiding.  She's scared you're gonna kill her," Ricky said.

"Well, I'm going to if I have a chance," Green snarled.

Ricky had grown up with the fury of Bill Green's temper, but he had
never seen him this incensed.  Ricky feared the swollen veins at his
father's temples would burst at any moment.

Ricky looked at his father's stern face.  With all the sincerity he
could fake, he told him, "I don't know where the money is.  I don't
know nothin' about it, and I can't find out anything."

"You tell that whore of yours that if she don't come up with that
money, I'll blow her shit away," Green instructed.

He'll probably blow my shit away, too, Ricky thought.  No, he'd get
somebody to do it for him.  He couldn't kill Melvin.  He wanted me to
do it.

Bill Green eased out of the pickup, making his point one last time.
"I want my money!"

"I can't do anything about it," Ricky said, before driving back to
Fort Worth to be with Sharon.

"Sharon, you can't live here at sixty dollars a night," Ricky said.
His wife had been hiding from Bill Green for three days.  It was time
to go back home.  Reluctantly, Sharon agreed.

There was no escape to Hawaii, but Ricky and Sharon did successfully
avoid Bill Green.  They spent all the heisted money on dope.  Staying
stoned seemed to help them forget the danger Bill Green presented,
but with the accelerated drug use came increased paranoia.  Ricky
worried about the police discovering his murderous secrets.  He
purchased a police scanner radio to monitor the activities of local
law enforcement agencies.  if they get close, I'll know it, Ricky
rationalized.

Stoned on speed, listening to the scanner, and driving the narrow
country road leading to the Aurora Cemetery, Ricky felt unusually
uneasy late one February evening.  Cops.  Cops are everywhere, he
thought fearfully.

Pulling his truck into the cemetery, Ricky stopped in front of his
mother's grave, cut the engine and listened to the police band radio.
"Down the hill.  He's down the hill," came over the scanner.

Oh shit, Ricky thought.  The cops are up the hill over looking the
cemetery.  He stared for several seconds out the driver's window, but
the fog and drizzling rain impaired his vision.  Slowly rolling down
the window, he shivered from the cold, damp night air.

"Oh my God!"  Ricky screamed.  His eyes widened and lips parted in
fear.  Bodiless heads seemed to appear at each of the graves in the
deserted cemetery.  All eyes focused on Ricky.  As quickly as they
appeared in the drug-induced vision, the heads disappeared.

Frantically, Ricky rolled up the window and locked the doors.  His
body trembled.  Looking around the interior of his truck, Ricky
relaxed momentarily, realizing he was alone.  He breathed heavily.

More heads appeared on the gravestones.  "Oh God!"  he bellowed.  The
fog drifted around the hard granite, pillowing the skeletal heads.
Ricky rapidly started the engine and rushed out the front gates,
leaving his narcotic nightmare behind.

He drove around Fort Worth's Loop 820 at speeds of seventy to ninety
miles per hour, racing from every car he thought could possibly be
the police.

He exited the loop onto Highway 199 when he heard, "Subject exiting
1-9-9," over the scanner.

They're after me, he thought.  But they'll never catch me.

Ricky quickly turned the truck down Burnt Bridge Road, his left
shoulder slamming against the door.

His tires squealed on the asphalt as he raced for his life.  "Let's
get Air One out here," he heard over the radio, followed by, "Never
mind, I've got subject in sight."

Glancing in his rearview mirror, Ricky could see the flashing
headlights of a fast-approaching car.  "Do we have a marked patrol
out this way?"  he heard on the radio.

"Ten-four.  We have one nearby."

"Let's make him visible and see what happens."

"Ten-four."

What in the hell are they gonna do?  Ricky thought as he looked out
the rear window over his right shoulder.  They're breathing down my
neck!

Moments later a Tarrant County Sheriffs car passed Ricky, traveling
at a high rate of speed in the opposite direction.

"Did you see the subject?"

Ricky made a speedy U-turn in the middle of the busy roadway.  I'll
give him the slip by sneaking in behind him, Ricky thought.

"Ten-four.  I'm making a U-turn now."

Damn!  We're going to meet again, Ricky silently cursed.

Sure enough, within seconds the pursuer and the pursued crossed paths
again along the bumpy road.

Ricky rushed to Highway 199, hoping to get lost among the flow of
traffic.  The police band radio was silent.  The hum of car engines
and the occasional blare of a horn were the only sounds Ricky could
hear.  Where are they?

Passing by the Buddies supermarket parking lot, Ricky spied a Lake
Worth police car, then heard his transmission.  "I've got subject in
view, traveling west on 199."

"Don't stop subject, just keep him in sight," the officer was ordered.

Ricky accelerated the truck over the Lake Worth bridge at eighty
miles per hour.

"Subject is moving fast."

Ricky rapidly reduced his speed to fifty-five, then exited on Highway
730 in Azle.  To avoid the long line of cars waiting at the red
light, Ricky cut through the Tiny Tom store, squealing his tires.  He
pulled to the back of the building, watching for cops and listening
to the scanner.  The rapid beat of his heart thundered in his chest.

Two Azle police officers bolted from the 7-Eleven store across the
side road and ran to their cars.

"Fort Worth major case to Azle P.D.  We have subject under
surveillance, so just let him go."

This is big trouble, Ricky thought.  They must know about the
murders.  They wouldn't come after me with this many cops if it
wasn't something big

He headed toward Wise County.  The scanner was silent.  Nervously he
lit another cigarette before tossing the butt from his last smoke out
the window.

"Subject is about to leave the county.  Contact Wise County."

Shit.  They ain't givin' up.  Ricky was frustrated.  He had been
outrunning cops all his life, but these guys just wouldn't give up.

Static interrupted the police transmissions.  Ricky didn't know what
was going on.  I'm almost in Bd, just a couple of more miles to go.
I'm gonna make it.  Ricky felt some relief.

Just as he drove into Boyd, Ricky spotted a Wise County Sheriffs car
coming up beside him.  My God they're everywhere.  The officer
motioned for him to pull over.

They ain't getting' me that easy.  He made the sliding right turn
toward Rhome and hit the railroad tracks about sixty miles per hour.
His body bounced on the seat of the vehicle like the Mexican jumping
beans he played with as a kid.  Suddenly, flashing red lights popped
up from the roadside ditch and fell in behind the speeding Ford.

Ricky's license plate was announced over the radio.  The dispatcher
indicated that there were no outstanding warrants.

No warrants?  Ricky was baffled.  if they aren't going to arrest me,
what the hell do they want?  He maintained his speed, with the patrol
car right on his back bumper.

Ricky slowed to make a turn onto the Newark highway, but the
patrolman pushed his car, lunging his [rwarc] in the cab of the truck
and foiling his attempt.  "Get out of the vehicle with your hands
above Your head," they ordered.

Slowly, Ricky reached up and locked the doors to the cab of the
pickup.  He shook his head "no" at the insistence of the officers to
get out.  Then he checked the chamber of his gun.  It was empty.
Shit, he thought.  Can't shoot it out with an empty gun.  He tossed
his weapon on the floorboard and unlocked the doors.

Swiftly the driver's door was jerked open, and Ricky was dragged from
his vehicle.

"Ricky, why did you run from me?"  Andy Anderson the Boyd Police
Chief asked.  "All I was going to do was give you a ticket for
speeding."

Ricky looked around madly.  Gone were the bright lights illuminating
a horde of demonic cops.

"I thought Fort Worth was after me," Ricky said.

He realized the chase, the police cars, the radio transmissions were
all fragments of his drug-induced paranoia.  It seemed so real Ricky
thought.

The Greens stayed high for about a month after Ricky's confrontation
with his father.  But as soon as the stolen money and the drugs ran
out, Sharon ran out on Ricky.

Ricky had been out of work for several months.

When it came time to pick up Sarah from school one afternoon in March
1989, Ricky wanted to go with Sharon.

"No, I'll go alone.  You just stay here," Sharon insisted.

Once at the school, Sharon withdrew Sarah from her class, explaining
that she would be attending school in Eastland.

"What took you so long?"  Ricky asked Sharon when she arrived back at
the apartment.

"Oh, the teacher wanted to talk to me about something," Sharon lied.

Two days later, March 8, 1989, Ricky drove to Arlington, Texas, to
check on a job, calling a short time later to complain to Sharon that
the people he was scheduled to meet had not shown for the appointment.

"What time are you gonna be here?"  Sharon seemed anxious.

"I don't know, I'm on my way," Ricky answered.

"You gotta give me a time when you'll be back," Sharon insisted.

"I don't have to give you no time.  I said I'll be home after a
while," Ricky growled.  Ricky waited an additional fifteen minutes
for his appointment, then started driving home.

Rounding the corner to the fourpiex apartment unit, Ricky noticed a
U-Haul truck parked out front.  I guess someone's movin' in, he
thought.  Funny, they have furniture just like ours.

Ricky hadn't noticed Sharon's father until he walked to the back of
the truck to meet the new neighbors.

"What's going on?"  Ricky was surprised to see his father-in-law.

"Sharon is moving out," Reverend Dollar said coidly.

Confused by the sight of his furniture being loaded in a truck, Ricky
turned to Sharon.  "What are you doing?"  he asked.

"I'm moving out," Sharon said, unable to look Ricky in the eye.

"But what about Sarah's school?"  Ricky said with concern.

"I already checked her out.  The other day, Wednesday," Sharon said.

"Oh, yeah."  Now he understood why Sharon had not wanted him to go
with her to pick up Sarah from school that day.

"They're going to turn the water off at five o'clock Friday, and the
electricity is going to be turned off, too."  Sharon had thought of
everything.

Ricky struggled to control the rage mounting within him.  He walked
into the apartment and sat on the end of the bed.  Sharon followed.

"Sharon, why do you want to leave?"  Ricky was puzzled.  Times have
been bad lately, but that's the drugs.  if they stopped doing drugs
they would be okay.  Why did she have to leave?

"I don't think we can make it anymore," Sharon said, her voice
expressionless.

Before Ricky could ask Sharon not to leave him, her father entered
the room.  "If you want to get violent, well, I can get violent,
too," Reverend Dollar threatened.

Ricky didn't know what he meant: he had no intention of getting
abusive with Sharon.  "I ain't gonna get violent," Ricky told Dollar,
shaking his hand in a display of friendship.

Sharon continued to pack while Ricky retreated to the bathroom where
he vented his frustration by kicking a hole in the door.  What am I
going to do without Sharon?  He began to cry.

Sarah quietly slipped into the small room and gently rubbed Ricky's
head.  "You'll be all right," she said sweetly.

How am I going to be all right?  Sharon has taken everything.  She
didn't leave me a bed or a blanket.  No dishes.  Just an empty house
and a television set.  Ricky felt wiped out.  He felt like he had
nothing, like he was nothing.  My father was right, I'm a loser.  He
hung his head and cried.

Even though Sharon had deserted Ricky, she still needed him.  She
often dropped by to get drugs from her estranged husband, who had
become her chief supplier.  Ricky steered clear of Bill and Perry,
opting instead to purchase Sharon's drugs from a friend of one of
Sharon's coworkers.

Sometimes Sharon paid Ricky with money; often she paid with her body.
But Ricky was always there for her whenever she needed a fix.

Because of Sharon's willingness to see him and have sex with him,
Ricky saw no reason why he could not contact her at the Dollars'
Eastland home.

He missed Sharon.  He needed to hear her voice.

"Hi, Sharon.  How ya doing?"  Ricky asked.  Click.  The phone went
dead.  Now what's the problem?  Ricky was growing tired of Sharon's
games.

An hour later the phone rang in his near-empty apartment.  "I
couldn't talk to you at my mom's house.  I don't want her to know I
talk to you.  I'm on a pay phone down the street.  Ricky, I need some
drugs.  I need some bad."  Sharon was pleading.

Ricky could care less what Sharon needed.  He was tired of being
used.  "Can't you get some there?  Doesn't Jill know someone who can
supply you?"  Ricky snarled.

"Yeah, but I got ripped off by them," Sharon whimpered.

"How did you get ripped off?"  Ricky asked, amused.

"He took my money and gave me something other than what I wanted."

"Sounds like a personal problem," Ricky smirked.

"Ricky, I need drugs bad," Sharon's voice rose in desperation.

"How much do you need?"

"How much can you get?"

Ricky thought for a moment, then answered, "Eighty dollars' worth.
I'll pick it up later.  Meet me at the corner by the car wash."

Anxious to get the drugs, Sharon arrived at the designated location
before Ricky.  Rather than waiting, she drove on to the apartment.

"You get it?"  Sharon asked.

"Don't be so persistent.  When I want to give it to you, I will,"
Ricky teased.

But he didn't make Sharon wait long.  Soon both Ricky and Sharon were
shooting the warm liquid into their veins.  They felt the rush before
they removed the needles.  The sudden burst of energy and increased
desire for sex found them on the floor of the bare living room
engaged in forceful, lustful sex.

The sexual encounter reminded Ricky of old times before he and Sharon
got hooked on drugs, before she stole the money from Bill Green, and
before she left him alone.

Shortly after the intercourse was completed, Sharon was ready to
leave.  Ricky handed her twenty-five dollars' worth of dope, she paid
him, and then she was gone.  Again Ricky was left forlorn in the
lonely apartment.

Ricky was pissed-off the next time Sharon called for drugs.  That's
all she wants, he thought.  I had hoped Sharon would come back, but
it doesn't look likely.

During Sharon's next narcotic pickup, Ricky took $225 from her purse.
"Get your ass out of here.  Get back to your mama's house," he
shouted.  Looking frightened by Ricky's tone, Sharon left without
delay, not complaining about the money.

Ricky left shortly after Sharon's departure.  Noticing her car parked
by a pay phone at the corner of Jacksboro Highway, he pulled in next
to her.  "Here's twenty dollars for gas to get home," he said,
tossing the bill at her feet.

Ricky noticed Bill Green's car at the Waffle House across the street.
Hungry, he decided to join his father and Green's girlfriend, Marti.

"What you doing' here?"  Green snarled at his son.

"Thought I'd get something to eat.  I saw your car," Ricky said,
sliding into the booth next to Marti.

"What are you doing Out so late?"  Green asked.

"I just had a fight with Sharon.  I stole all her money," he chuckled.

Hatred filled Green's eyes.  "Where is that bitch?"  Ricky did not
respond.  "Where is that bitch?"  Green asked a second time, loud
enough that everyone in the restaurant could hear.

"She's across the street," Ricky nodded toward the gas station.

Bill Green jumped up from the table and started for the door.

"Stop, William," Marti pleaded as she pulled on his arm.

"I'll kill that bitch," Green said.

"There's time for that," Marti tried to calm him.  "You're causing a
scene right here."

"Okay, I'm not gonna kill that bitch.  I just want to see where she
is."  Green walked to the window of the Waffle House and stared at
the figure of Sharon on the phone across the street.

Returning to the booth, Bill said, "Yeah, that fuckin' bitch is over
there!"  He sat down.

"There's an easy way to take care of Sharon," Marti said.  Ricky and
Bill listened intently as Marti suggested they put chloroform into
the next drug hit Ricky gave Sharon.  Marti even offered to get the
chloroform for them.  The trio agreed that would work, ate their
waffles, then left the restaurant.

Sharon's drug addiction was rampant.  Even after Ricky stole her
money, she still depended on him for a fix.  Sharon arrived at the
apartment a few days later ready for a needed hit but learned from
Ricky that Bill Green was still gunning for her.

"Bill Green wants me to kill you," Ricky told his wife.  "Marti is
going to get the chloroform, and she told me how to lace it in your
drugs."

Sharon was visibly shaken.  As strung out as she was, as much as she
needed a hit, she hurriedly left the apartment without a fix.  I
still love Sharon.  I could never hurt her, Ricky thought.  That's
why I had to tell her what Bill wanted me to do.

That was the last time Ricky ever saw his wife.

A television and his work tools were the only possessions of value
Sharon had left Ricky.  Although he had secured a job at a Mansfield
muffler shop on Fort Worth's southeast side, he was unable to catch
up on the rent the couple had failed to pay for the previous two
months.  Entering the barren dwelling one night he instantly noticed
that his only assets were gone.

Damn!  someone's broken in and stole my TV and tools.

He walked to the neighboring apartment and asked if anyone had seen
anybody at his place.

"No, I didn't see nobody," the neighbor answered.

Despondent, Ricky slowly walked back into his apartment, for the
first time noticing a slip of paper by the fireplace.  "We've
confiscated your TV and tools for rent," the note read.  Ricky went
straight to the phone to call the landlady.

"You bitch!  You slut!  Why did you take my stuff?"  Ricky screeched.

"Because you owe two months back rent, Mr Green," the landlady said
firmly.

"You bitch!  You motherfucking bitch!  You fuckin' slut, I'm gonna
get my damn stuff one way or the other!"  Ricky was uncontrollably
angry.  If she were here I'd kill her for comin' in and takin' my
stuff, especially my tools, Ricky told himself.  The TV was of less
importance than the tools of his trade.

By morning Ricky had calmed down.  He went to the landlady's
apartment to discuss the past-due rent.

"I had to wait till I cooled off before I came to talk to you.  It
wouldn't have been the right time," Ricky said, thinking back to the
previous night and his desire to kill the woman responsible for the
loss of his property.  "No tellin' what would have happened," he
said, grinning.

"Okay, I understand.  Thank you," the landlady said.

"I'll try to get the money.  Don't sell my stuff," Ricky pleaded.

But Ricky was unable to get together the cash to recover his
belongings.  He knew the landlady had stored the TV and tools in
another of the fourplex units, and he contemplated breaking in to
retrieve them.  He never did.

Finally evicted from the Lake Worth apartment for nonpayment of rent,
Ricky moved into an unfurnished duplex a few doors down from the Azle
7 Eleven store.  Bill Green paid his rent and loaned him a cot, a few
dishes, a chair, and a table.  Ricky had been in the house for less
than two weeks when Sharon checked into the Stephenville, Texas, drug
rehab.

"Ricky, you should kill that bitch," Bill Green advised his son.
"She was gonna have you killed."

After Sharon had talked with Bill Green about the events that led to
the deaths of Davis, Montana, Bailey, and Hefferman, Green had called
his son into the small office adjacent to the radiator shop.  "You
know those people Sharon told me you killed?"  Green asked
unemotionally.

"Yeah," Ricky said, ignoring his father's steely glare.

"What's the matter, Ricky?"  Green asked, his voice uncondemning.

"I don't know," Ricky said, hanging his head in shame.

"Sharon is talkin' about leaving, Ricky.  She wants to take out an
insurance policy on you, then have you killed," Green said.

Ricky couldn't believe what his father was telling him.  He is the
one thinkin' about doin' that.

One week after Ricky's conversation with his father, Sharon arrived
at their home with a twenty five-thousand-dollar life-insurance
application.  It was from Farmer's Insurance Company, where Sharon's
younger sister, Jamie, worked.

"I want you to sign this," Sharon told Ricky.

"I'm not stupid, I know what's happenin'."  Ricky was belligerent.
"You can throw that stuff away.  You ain't gonna take out none of
that stuff on me!"

On April 26, 1989, Ricky's phone rang in the small Azle duplex.
Ricky was suspicious about the call from the moment Sharon said,
"Hello."  He had not heard from Sharon in weeks.  Her voice seemed to
be shaking.  What's wrong?  he wondered.

"Sharon, something's wrong.  Something tells me you're in jail,"
Ricky said with skepticism.

"No, I'm in the rehab," she said with a quivering voice.

"I can tell something is wrong," Ricky insisted.

"Why would I be at the Fort Worth Police Department?"  Sharon asked.

Why did she say the Fort Worth Police Department?  The comment added
to his suspicion.  "You know," Ricky was being coy, "you ain't gonna
get me to say nothin'."  Ricky had an uneasy feeling that Sharon was
trying to trick him into making a statement about the murders over
the phone.  "What's going' on, Sharon?"

"I heard you were trying to get a hold of me."

Ricky had called the Stephenville rehab to speak to Sharon,
indicating that he, too, would like to enter the facility.  The
administrator had referred him to Psychiatric Institute in Fort
Worth, but Ricky didn't want to go to PI.  An hour later, a staff
person from PI called Ricky.

"How did you get my number?"  he asked.  He knew instinctively that
Sharon had to have given them the number.  "I don't need no
psychiatric center.  I'm not crazy," he said before disconnecting the
line.  Within thirty minutes, Sharon telephoned.

"I need to talk to you, Sharon," Ricky said.

"I'm here at the rehab?"  Sharon sounded like she was trying to
convince him.

"No," Ricky argued.  "Something tells me you're in the Fort Worth
jail.  Sharon, I love you."  Those words were ones Ricky had a hard
time saying, but Sharon always wanted to hear it.

"I love you."  Sharon hung up the phone.

Something is wrong.  Something bad is about to happen, Ricky thought
anxiously.

Three days earlier Ricky had told Timmy, "I did something real bad a
few years ago and I'll be arrested this week."  Ricky knew the time
was near, the police would soon be at his door.  He didn't run, he
didn't panic, he just sat and waited.

Ricky waited for nine hours.  Near midnight, he walked to the living
room window, pulling back the curtain.  Police cars lined both sides
of the street as far as he could see in front of his duplex.  And
God, there's even an ambulance here, he observed.  This is it.

They won't take me alive.  He drew a twenty-two caliber pistol from
his pants.  There's about to be a shoot-out, he thought.

Glancing at the thick glass window in the living area, Ricky saw
shadows of officers holding their guns in the air.  Damn.  Cops are
everywhere.  Calmly he walked to the coffee table, put the gun down,
un locked the front door, and put his hands against the wall.  He
waited.

Fort Worth police Detective R.  N.  SoRelle, along with a battery of
uniformed officers, burst into the room where Ricky stood waiting.

"Ricky Lee Green?"  SoRelle asked.

"Yeah," Ricky answered, still facing the wall.

"You're under arrest."

"What am I under arrest for?"  Ricky asked, secretly hoping it wasn't
for murder.

"Capital murder, to start," SoRelle said sarcastically.

"Oh, shit."  Ricky's fears about Sharon had come true.

SoRelle searched him, cuffed and shackled him, then read Ricky his
Miranda Rights.

"Where's Sharon?"  Ricky asked as they led him to a squad car.

"Who?"  SoRelle said.

"Sharon, my wife.  Where's she at?"

"I don't know," SoRelle said, aware that Sharon Green was at the Fort
Worth Police Department completing her statement.

Two-and-a-half years after the gruesome slaying of Steven Hefferman
and nearly four years after the discoveries of the bodies of Davis,
Montana, and Bailey, their executioner was in custody.

The investigations of Texas Ranger Phil Ryan into the murders of Mama
Doe in Wise County and Jane Doe, identified as Sandra Bailey, in
Montague County, were in suspension.  Ryan had explored every lead
during the three-and-a-half years since the discovery of the first
unidentified body.

On March 22, 1989, he had suspended the file for lack of new leads or
developments.

Just one month later, Ryan received a surprise phone call.  "Ryan,
this is Captain Doug Whitehead of the Wise County Sheriff's Office.
Amarillo Crime Stoppers had a telephone call from an unknown female
stating that Ricky Lee Green committed several murders in the last
three to four years.

Ryan was taken aback by the news.  He knew the family, who lived in
Boyd.  Ricky was a mild -mannered kid, the least likely of all the
Greens to get into trouble in Ryan's estimation.

"The Amarillo Police Department Crime Stoppers stated that the female
caller said that she lived with Ricky Lee Green in Boyd, Texas, when
the murders took place; that she observed Ricky Green commit three
murders; and that she knew of one murder of a white female that
occurred inside the home of Ricky Green.  She further stated that the
method of murder was by stabbing.  The victim was dropped under a
bridge two to three years ago, and that another white female was also
murdered by Ricky Green and her body dumped by a bridge or in a ditch
in Montague County.  Amarillo police are going to try to contact the
woman again to get more information," Whitehead concluded.

Within thirty minutes of Whitehead's call, Ryan was reviewing his
unsolved murders file.  The caller's description fit.

Early the next morning Ryan contacted the Amarillo P.D.  himself.
Sergeant Fisher confirmed the information Ryan had received from
Whitehead and added that the female caller also told him that one of
the female victims was possibly from Amarillo, one of the victims was
stabbed ten to fifty times, and that the murders took place in the
bathroom of Ricky Green's home.  The caller concluded the phone
interview by saying that one of the males Ricky Green had killed had
had his penis cut off and that the victim was from Fort Worth.  She
added that there was a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information on
the murder.

"The woman's on dope," Fisher told Ryan.  "I'll try to get more facts
from her next time."

By ten o'clock that evening, Sharon Green was sitting at the Fort
Worth Police Department with Tarrant County Sheriffs Office
investigators.

Ricky Green fumbled with the ashtray sitting on the scarred wooden
table of the interrogation room.

It's over, he thought.  It's finally over.  All his anxiety about
being connected to the murders of Davis, Montana, Bailey, and
Hefferman was gone.  Relief that he didn't have to look over his
shoulder waiting for the cops to find him was consoling.

"Can I have a cigarette?"  he asked.

Detective Danny LaRue tossed a pack of Marlboros on the table.

Ricky smiled.  My brand, he thought.

"Do you want a lawyer, Ricky?"  Detective SoRelle asked, leaning
against a file cabinet in the corner of the five-by-seven room.

"No," Ricky said dryly.

"Do you want to talk?"  LaRue asked.

"Yeah," Ricky said, his head lowered to avert the detective's
condemning eyes.  His fears about what had happened to Sharon were
returning.  Where's Sharon?  he wondered.  I hope she ain't in jail.

"Can I have a cup of coffee?"  Ricky asked.

"Sure," LaRue said, motioning to a deputy out side the chamber.

Ricky took a deep drag on the cigarette, letting the relaxing
nicotine fill his lungs, then slowly expelled the smoke through his
nostrils.

Detective LaRue plopped a yellow tablet on the tabletop and pulled a
metal chair up to the table across from Ricky.  "Why don't you tell
us about Hefferman?"  he said.

Ricky had been taking drugs and boozing all week.  He was tired.  It
was well past midnight, and he was functioning on only one hour of
sleep.  He could barely keep the lids of his hazel eyes open.

He guzzled the dark, smoking liquid provided by the detectives, the
aroma of the brewed beans clearing his head.

I hope they didn't get Sharon, he worried.  I wonder where she is.

"Are you ready, Ricky?"  LaRue said, pushing the pen and paper toward
him.

Ricky drew in a deep breath.  "On my birthday two years ago after
dark I was sitting in my car at Casino Beach," he wrote.  "Steve, a
white male, thirty-five, medium-build, driving a gray fancy car,
four-door.  He asked me to go home with him.  Then he got in my car,
a gray 1985 Pontiac, four door.  He started jacking me off.  I told
him I'd go home with him if he would go get me some beer -- a
twelve-pack.  He left and got it.  He came back with it and got in my
car.  I rode with him to his house.

"He lived off 1-30 in Meadowbrook.  I had been drinking that night
quite a bit.  He had pulled into a car port.  It was a fancy town
house.  I put the beer in his icebox.  I don't know what brand of
beer it was.  I called my wife on his phone and told her I'd be home
later.  She and I lived at 209B White Settlement.  His house had a
sunken living room with stairs.  He had a video/stereo entertainment
center.  It was on the left of the living room as you walked down the
steps.  The couch was on the right.

"We started drinking liquor.  I was also smoking Marlboro reds.  He
went in and took a shower while I listened to the stereo.  While we
were in the living room he went down on me.  Steve told me he worked
for Channel Five in advertising.

"We went into the bedroom.  He wanted to tie me up to the bed.  I saw
a large butcher knife laying on the floor next to the bed.  I told
him no.  He got mad.  I told him to let me tie him up first, then he
could do it to me.  He said okay.  I used his neckties to tie him.
He already had them laying there ready.  I just tied his hands.  I
was playing his game.  I asked him what he had planned to do with the
knife on the floor.  He said he just wanted to play with it.  I
didn't trust him anymore.  I had his hands tied to the bed.  He was
face up.  He started trying to get loose.  I picked up the knife.  He
started kicking me.

"I asked him if he had plans for me with the knife.  That's when I
just lost control.  I cut his throat.  I made him tell me what he was
going to do.  He told me he had planned to kill me.  I started
stabbing him all over, mostly in the front.  I called him a sorry
mother fucker and cut his dick off and stuck it in his mouth," Ricky
wrote.

Ricky paused to light another cigarette before continuing.  "Let's
see...after I stuck his dick in his mouth, he was still shaking.  I
got another butcher knife out of the kitchen.  I used it to cut the
front of him open.  I looked in his drawers for money.  I didn't find
any.  I left in his car.  I was going back home.  I was going to
sleep driving.  I must have run off the road on the West Freeway at
Las Vegas Trail.  I had a blowout.  I started walking home.  My wife
drove by as I was walking down White Settlement Road.  We went home
and I slept.

"I remember breaking out a window in Steve's car before I left it.  I
wanted to see if I left anything in there.  I told my wife what I had
done.  I read about what I had done in the paper and saw it on TV.
It was self-defense."  Ricky finally completed his confession at
about 3:30 A.M., one hour and thirty minutes after he was arrested
for capital murder.  He signed the document, "Ricky L.  Green,
4-27-89, 2:57 A.M."

"I'm really tired," Ricky said.  "Can I rest awhile?"

"Yeah," one of the detectives said.  "Deputy.  Take him to a holding
cell.  We'll call him out later."

Ricky Green walked down the dimly lit corridor of the Tarrant County
Jail shackled and hand cuffed.  He was placed in a tiny, solitary
holding cell where he attempted to sleep, but slumber would not come.
Where's Sharon?  God, I hope they didn't get Sharon.  I hope she's
safe.

My goddamn father must have done this.  He knew about them murders.
He was mad at Sharon 'cause of the money she stole and mad at me
cause I wouldn't kill her.  Yeah, that's got to be the one that
turned me in.  Nobody else knew about them murders, he thought.

Ricky tossed and turned on the sweat-soaked mattress.  He couldn't
get Sharon out of his mind.

He was scared.  Afraid for himself and for Sharon.  What's going to
happen to us?

An hour after he was taken to the isolated cell to rest, Ricky
summoned the jailer.  "Hey man, tell them I'm ready to finish
talkin'.  I can't sleep any way."

Back in the interrogation room, SoRelle and LaRue continued grilling
the alleged murderer.  "Why don't you tell us about the others,
Ricky?"  LaRue urged.

"Okay," Ricky said, taking a deep drag from the Marlboro.  Detective
LaRue wrote as Ricky talked about the murders.

"The first one was the boy, Jeffery Davis.  About four years ago I
met a boy named Jeff Davis, a white boy sixteen or seventeen years
old.  He was with his girlfriend.  I don't remember her name.  I was
at Casino Beach.  They walked up to me and I found out while talking
to them that they were runaways.  I took them home with me to where
me and my wife were living in Boyd, Texas.  It was Box 110.  They
stayed the night.  My wife and I took them both home the next day.
Sharon, my wife, called their parents.

"About a month later I was at Casino Beach.  I was cleaning out my
car.  Jeff walked up to me.  I don't know what day of the week it
was.  It was about noon when Jeff came by.  We drove around and ended
up at Lake Benbrook.  We were drinking beer.  We met some college
kids.  We visited them for about an hour, then drove around some more.

"We stopped at a park by the lake.  We just talked for a while.  We
got into an argument because he wanted to go steal something, in a
house.  I told him I didn't want to and he started calling me names.
We cussed each other out.  We got out of the car.  I beat him up.  He
got back in and he had blood all over him.  We rode around some more
but he kept arguing, raising hell.  Something was wrong with the way
he acted.  I went back to the same spot at Benbrook that we had been
at.  I told him if he didn't shut up I was going to kill him.  I
pulled him out of my car.  My car then was a yellow 1981 Ford LTD,
two-door.  I took out my pocketknife.  It's a big one.  I cut his
throat pretty bad.  I continued stabbing him all over.  I think he
was dead by then.  I pulled down his pants and cut his dick off.

"Can I stop making my statement for a minute?  This is making me
sick," Ricky said.  "Say, man, do you think I could have something to
eat?  I'm really hungry."

LaRue looked at SoRelle oddly.  "Sure, Ricky.  What would you like?"
SoRelle asked.

"How about a burger and fries, from What-a Burger," Ricky requested.
"And a Coke."

After eating, Ricky continued the story of the murder of Jeffery
Davis.  "I put Jeff in the backseat floorboard.  I stopped in the
City of Benbrook and bought a quart of beer.  I had blood all over
me.  It was about 6:00 P.M.  I was wearing shorts, and it was warm
outside.  I then drove to Lake Worth.  I went to the Nature Center.
I stopped the car and drug [sic] him out.  I drug [sic] Jeff through
the bushes down to the edge of the water.  I left him beside the
water in some cattails and small trees.  I left and drove home to
Boyd.  My wife was in Connecticut at the time.  I called her the next
day and told her to hurry up and come back.  When she came home I
told her what happened."

"Is that it?"  asked SoRelle.

"Yeah," said Ricky, lighting a cigarette off the butt of his last
one.  Smoke filled the air of the con fined space.  Ricky checked his
watch.  4:59 A.M.  He had been talking with the detectives for more
than four hours.

Damn I'm tired.  But I just want to get it over.  I'm gonna tell them
everything, he thought.  A cynical smirk crossed Ricky's lips.
Everything I want them to know.  I won't tell them about Sharon.

"How about another cup of coffee?"  Ricky asked.

The detectives willingly obliged the suspect.  They were getting
everything they wanted from him.

"Okay, I'm ready to tell you about the first girl," Ricky said.  "In
October of 1985 I picked Betty Jo up hitchhiking on Highway 287 about
noon on a Saturday I think, but I'm not sure.  My wife and I had a
gold Chevrolet Impala, four-door.  The car was sitting at my dad's
shop in Boyd right now.  The name of the shop is Green's Marine.
Sarah was with me, my daughter.  She was five years old then.  Betty
Jo was hitchhiking out of Fort Worth.  I took her to our house in
Boyd across the street from my dad's shop.  The house was a trailer
that later got traded off or moved somewhere.  She had been beaten up
by somebody before I picked her up.  She used my shower to get
cleaned up.  All three of us went to pick up Sharon, my wife, from
work.  She worked at AT&T on Houston Street Fort Worth.  We all drove
back to Boyd.  I told Sharon how I had met Betty Jo and that she was
going to baby-sit for us.  That night after Sharon and Sarah went to
sleep I went into the living room where Betty Jo was sleeping.  I
started playing with her breast.  She went with me into the bathroom.

"We had sex.  I fucked her once.  We must have woke [sic] Sharon up.
She came to the bathroom door and knocked on it.  I put my clothes
back on and left the bathroom.  Betty Jo stayed in there.  I went to
the kitchen and got a butcher knife.  Sharon saw me with the knife
and she went to Sarah's room.  She must have known what I was about
to do.  I went in the bathroom and shut the door.  Betty Jo was still
naked.  I started stabbing her because she was a whore.  She was
hollering 'Why are you doing this?  Why do you hate me?' I went to my
bedroom where my toolbox was and got a ball-peen hammer out and also
my pocket knife.  It's the same knife I killed Davis with.  I went
back into the bathroom.  Betty was still alive, but couldn't get up.
I hit her in the head several times with the hammer.  I told her she
'was nothing but a whore and people like you deserve to die.' I then
used the pocket knife to stab her some more.  I cut one of her
nipples off on purpose.  Betty Jo died there in the bathroom.  I
might have fucked her with the hammer, I'm not sure because I was
drunk.  I took her to Sharon's car, the gray 1985 Pontiac.  The car's
in Eastland now at her daddy's house.  I put her in the trunk.  I
drove to Highway 730 toward Decatur.  I drove to a road that one of
my friends, Marvin Idell, lived on.  I think it was Cottonwood Road
or something 'Wood' Road.  I went about a mile off of 730 to a little
bridge.  I took her out of the trunk and dropped her off the edge.  I
think I had wrapped her in a blanket, I'm not sure.  I drove back
home.  Sharon was cleaning the bathroom.  The next day I threw the
hammer and two knives away.  I took her clothes and bloody stuff to
my shop and burned them."

Six A.M.  Ricky Green's third confession was complete.

"Is that all, Ricky?"  one of the detectives asked.

"Yeah."  All except what Sharon did, he thought.  I won't tell them
what Sharon did.  Where is she?  I sure hope she's okay.

Ricky rubbed his bloodshot eyes.  Gosh, I'm tired.  Only one more to
go, he thought, massaging the back of his aching neck.

"What about the girl found in Montague County?"  The detectives were
pressing him.  They wanted to obtain all the information they could
get as quickly as possible.  Ricky had agreed to talk to them without
an attorney present.  They needed to bear down while he was being
cooperative.

"One night about eight P.M.  I was driving out of Fort Worth going
toward Boyd -- I'm not sure what month it was.  It was sometime after
I murdered Betty Jo Montana and before Steve.  I'm kind of getting my
times messed up," Ricky said.  Fatigue was beginning to take hold of
him.

"I picked up a white girl named Sandra on Jacks boro Highway by
Inez's 50/50 Club.  She was hitch hiking.  She had blond hair,
heavyset, about thirty years old.  We went in the 50/50 Club and
danced and had a drink.  I left and then came back.  I asked her if
she wanted to go home with me and she said yes.  We drove to my
wife's and mine trailer house in Boyd.  It's across the street from
my father's shop, Green's Marine.  The trailer is now gone.  I was
driving the gray 1985 Pontiac.  When we got to my trailer Sandra and
I sat on the couch.

"I tried to unbutton her shirt and she started hollering.  It woke
Sharon, my wife, up.  Sharon came into the living room, and I took
Sandra back to our bedroom.  I made her take her clothes off.  Then I
tied her up with gray duct tape, I think.  I gagged her with a rag.
I left her in the bedroom.  I went back into the living room and
talked to Sharon.

"Sharon told me, 'You've got to quit doing this, quit killing
people.' I told her, Some people have to die.'

"We talked for about an hour.  I went to the bed room and untied her
feet and took her to the bath room.  I left her gagged.  I then went
and got a butcher knife from the kitchen, and took it in the bathroom
with me.  I slapped her around some.  I bent Sandra over the tub and
fucked her in the ass for a while.  Her hands were still taped.
Sharon was standing in the bathroom door watching me fuck Sandra.
She didn't say anything.  I started stabbing Sandra while I was
fucking her.  I stabbed Sandra a bunch of times.  Sandra died in the
bathtub.  I put her body in our bedroom on the floor between the bed
and the wall.  I covered it up with newspapers.

"Me and Sharon went to work the next morning.  After we both got off
work we went home that afternoon.  Late that night I put Sandra's
body in our Pontiac's trunk and left with it.  I drove out Highway
287 about seventy miles.  I drove past Bowie.  I picked some side
road between Bellview and Henrietta off Highway 287 to dump the body.
I stuffed her body in a metal culvert to hide it.  I then drove back
home."

Ricky put his head in his hands.  Tears moistened his eyes.  What are
they going to do to me?

"Where was Sharon when the murders were happening?"  SoRelle asked.

"Sharon wasn't at home," Ricky lied.  He had promised Sharon that if
they were ever caught he would protect her.

"Did you dump the bodies by yourself?"  LaRue questioned.

"Yes.  I got rid of the bodies by myself," Ricky answered, unable to
look the detective in the eye.

"Did Sharon know anything about the murders?"  The officers continued
to pursue questions concerning Sharon's involvement.

Ricky hesitated before answering.  He could lie about Sharon's role
in the murders, but he better tell them the truth that she knew about
them.  His father could tell the police that Sharon had knowledge of
all four murders.  It would be better if he told the police himself.
"Yes.  Sharon knew about all the murders," he admitted.

Each of the confessions were typed by a court reporter, and signed by
Ricky Green.  It was nearly 7:30 A.M.  More than nine hours had
elapsed since his arrest.  Ricky was exhausted.

"Ricky, we're going to take you back to the holding cell.  In just a
little while we'll give you a polygraph," one of the detectives said.
Cold steel handcuffs were snapped around Ricky Green's wrist, then
attached to the wide leather brown belt encircling his waist.
Shackles were fastened to his ankles.

I don't know why they want to do all that shit, Ricky thought.  I
ain't going nowhere.  He shuffled back to the cold, drab cell to wait.

At 1 P.M.  that afternoon, two Tarrant County deputies escorted Ricky
to the section of the jail where polygraph tests were administered.

While Ricky was undergoing the lie detector, Sharon Green was leading
law enforcement personnel to the Tarrant County location on the west
side of Blair Road where Ricky had thrown the weapons used to kill
Betty Jo Montana.  Due to the time lapse of more than three years,
the weapons were undetectable under several inches of soil.  Officers
returned to the Tarrant County Jail, where Sharon Green was further
questioned.

[Missing text below]

"Is your name Ricky Lee Green?"  the polygraph examiner asked general
information questions before broaching the subject of the murders.

Ricky responded.

The examiner watched the needle of the polygraph machine.

There was a deviation in the pattern.

Ryan studied the examiner's report with in

Ryan entered the information in his file: "It's the opinion of the
examiner that Ricky was not truthful when answering relevant

was stabbed and left in the vicinity

Such questioning was in reference to a

Green stated he had never stabbed a black man and was not holding any
other information on any other deaths.  The examiner believes Green
was not truthful as to his knowledge of [the] stabbing of a black man
and withholding information.

While Ricky was undergoing polygraph testing, Phil Ryan, along with
Wise County and FWPD investigators, conducted a brief oral interview
with Sharon Green.  Ryan had waited three-and-a-half years to
discover the identity of Mama Doe.  He knew he was close.

Sharon Green began her statement by saying that she met Ricky in 1985.

"Ricky stabbed another male but had taken the victim to John Peter
Smith's Hospital in Fort Worth, Texas," she said.  "The stabbing had
taken place in a white mobile home located across from Ricky's
father, Bill Green's Marine in Boyd, Texas."

Sharon appeared overwrought, jumping from one subject to another
erratically.

"Two girls were killed in our white-and-gold mobile home.  The
trailer has been traded for a double-wide mobile home.  I don't know
who has it now," Sharon said.  "One of the victims, a Betty Jo, has a
brother who owns a bar in Amarillo, Texas."

Sharon was growing increasingly uneasy.  "I delayed in coming forward
to the police because Ricky has threatened to kill me.  I left Ricky
on February 22, 1989, because Ricky was too violent.  I got drugs
from Bill Green, Ricky's father.  I told Bill Green about the murders
but Bill told me not to say anything because I'm just as guilty as
Ricky."

Sharon's speech was quickening.

"Ricky would often bring other males home and have sexual relations
with them, and make me participate.  I got very mixed-up and involved
in using drugs.  He burned the clothes of victims at Bill Green's shop," she rattled on.

Sharons statement ended by explaining that she had told her father
about the murders and that he told her that she would know what to
do.  That was when she contacted authorities.

"Okay, Sharon, that's all for now," Ryan said.  "We'll talk again
later."

Later on in the evening of April 28 a Tarrant County jailer beat on
the thick metal door of the holding cell.  "Green.  You have an
attorney visit," he said.

"I don't have no attorney," Ricky answered.

"Apparently you do," the jailer snapped.  "Let's go."

The jailer led Ricky down the cell block located on the tenth floor
to a private room reserved for attorney-client visitation.

"Ricky, I'm Mr. Payne, an attorney.  Your father had retained me to
represent you," said an unfamiliar man.

"I don't need you.  Tell my father to save his money.  It's no use,
I've already told them everything," Ricky said coldly.

"Your father wants me to help you, Ricky.  We need to talk."

"No.  Just tell him to save his money," Ricky said.

Why would he want to help me after he turned me in?  Just to make
himself look innocent.  Ricky was confused.

Ricky was filled with anxiety, unable to sleep, unable to think
clearly.  What is going to happen to me?  What are they going to do
to me?  I don't want to live.  I just want to die.

Slowly and deliberately, Ricky Green removed his T-shirt, ripping off
the bottom one-third.  He climbed on the toilet, slipped the fabric
over a support bar in the ceiling of his jail cell then tied it
tightly around his slender neck.  Tears swelled in Ricky's eyes as he
hopped from the toilet seat just as a jailer was opening the cell
door.

The soft fabric broke away from the bar, sending Ricky falling
forward.  He stumbled headlong into the stunned officer.  He grabbed
Ricky, unaware of his foiled suicide attempt, and wrestled him to the
floor just outside the cell door.

"Help."  the frightened officer yelled.

Within a matter of seconds a half-dozen officers were piled on top of
Ricky, pinning him to the cold concrete floor.

"What are you doing?"  Ricky shouted.

"You attacked me," the first officer in the cell exclaimed.

"No, I didn't.  I was trying to kill myself when I fell off the
toilet," Ricky explained as the breath was being squeezed from him.

Sheriff Don Carpenter ordered that Ricky be moved to a
suicide-prevention cell where he could be more closely monitored.
Ricky's mattress and clothes were taken from him to prevent further
attempts on his own life.  Embarrassed, angry, and humiliated, Ricky
slumped in the corner of the empty cell.  I'm such a failure, Bill
Green was right.  I never do anything good enough.  I can't even kill
my self.

The next morning Ricky lay on the dirty floor in his new cell, the
aroma of hot oatmeal drifting from his breakfast tray.  Bill Green
must have turned me in to save his ass, Ricky thought.  It was the
only explanation he could think of for why his father would have
betrayed him.  He'll probably use me to plea-bargain him self out of
that delivery-of-a-controlled-substance charge.  Yeah, he was
arrested in February.  That must be it!  Ricky speculated, rubbing
his sore neck.

"Green.  Let's go," the jailer said, leading Ricky back to the
interrogation room where Fort Worth detectives were waiting.

"Ricky, have you read the paper this morning?"  LaRue asked, tossing
the morning edition of the Fort Worth Star- Telegram on the table.

"No," Ricky said.  "Have ya'll heard from my wife?  Do you know where
Sharon is?"

LaRue and SoRelle stared at one another as Ricky opened the pages of
the newspaper.  His eyes immediately fell on the April 28 front-page
picture of himself, just under the headline, "Man in Azle is arrested
in 4 killings."  Slowly his eyes drifted to the caption below his
photo, "Ricky Lee Green: His wife's statement led to his arrest."

"That sorry woman!"  Ricky exclaimed.  He scanned the article quickly.

The four cases came together Wednesday when Green's estranged wife
told Fort Worth homicide detectives that her husband had described
killing three people in 1985 and a fourth in 1986.  The woman told
police she had kept her husband's secrets for several years because
she was afraid of him, but decided to shed the burden Wednesday, said
Fort Worth Detective Roger SoRelle.

Ricky was stunned.  Why Sharon?  Sharon has as much to lose as I do.
Why would she do such a stupid thing?  He was confused and furious.

"I'm gonna tell you the truth," Ricky snarled at the detectives.

"About Betty Jo Montana, I picked her up on Highway 287.  At the time, she was hitchhiking out of Fort Worth.
Me, Montana, and my daughter, Sarah, went to pick up Sharon at
Sharon's work.  I told Montana that I wanted her to baby-sit, but
that was only to have her stay with us.  After we all went home and
went to sleep, I got up and went to the living room and began to play
with Betty Jo.

"Then I took her into our bedroom where Sharon was lying in bed.
Sharon then asked Betty Jo if she would eat her pussy, but Betty Jo refused.  I took Betty Jo's clothes
off and tied both arms and both feet on each side of the bed frame.
Sharon, who was also naked, got on top of Betty Jo and sat on her
face.  Sharon told Betty Jo to eat her, but Betty Jo bit Sharon.
Sharon ran into the kitchen and got a butcher knife and again requested Betty Jo to eat her.  Again Betty Jo bit Sharon.  Sharon got mad and asked me to take
Betty Jo to the bathroom and fuck her in the ass.  I did it and while
I was doing it Sharon stabbed Betty Jo a number of times.  I quit
fuckin' Betty Jo and left to get a ball-peen hammer and the knife I
used to kill Jeff Davis.  I hit Betty Jo on the head with the hammer,
and Sharon took the knife and stabbed Betty Jo in the mouth and also
struck her with the hammer.  We loaded the body in the trunk of the
1985 Pontiac, a four-door, then cleaned the bathroom and drove out to
Flatwood Road and dumped the body."

Damn, I didn't want to tell them about Sharon.  She forced me to do
this, Ricky agonized.

"What about the others, Ricky?"  LaRue asked.

"Well, Sharon asked me to go find a woman for her.  I went Out riding
around at about eight or nine P.M.  and found a girl walking on
Jacksboro Highway.  I stopped and gave her a ride to the 50/50 Club.
Sandra and I went in and had a few drinks.  I talked Sandra into
going home with me.  I took her home and began to play with her
breasts, but Sandra did not want me to do that.  I forced Sandra into
my bedroom and took her clothes off and tied her up.  Sharon went
into the kitchen and got a butcher knife.  I told Sandra that she was
going to die.  Sharon came in and was naked and started playing with
Sandra's tits.  Sharon wanted me to fuck Sandra in the ass, and I
tried to but Sandra was struggling too much.  I got the knife and
told Sandra to calm down or I was going to kill her.  I put the knife
down and Sharon picked it up and began to stab Sandra and stuck the
knife into Sandra's pussy.  Sandra fell into the tub and I got the
knife from Sharon and stabbed her a lot more times.  We put Sandra's
body in our bedroom.  We went to work and after work, late at night,
we loaded the body into the trunk of the 1985 Pontiac.  Sharon drove
out [on] Highway 287 past Bowie.  We pulled over and I stuffed
Sandra's body into a drainage ditch metal culvert.  The next day, I
burned Sandra's clothes and the newspapers at my father's place.

"After I killed Steve, Sharon and I decided if we ever got caught, I
would take the blame.  I would leave Sharon out of it.

"That's it.  Sharon was involved in them two murders, not the
others," Ricky stated.

After signing the new statements, Ricky was escorted back to the
barren cell, where his personal agony intensified.  "I'm sorry,
Sharon," he mumbled sitting on his bunk, his face buried in his
hands, Ricky cried.  I didn't want to tell them.  I love you Sharon.
I'm sorry.

Unaware of Ricky's revised statement, Sharon Green voluntarily
submitted to a polygraph examination.  Afterr the test was completed,
the examiner gave his judgment of Sharon's answers.  "In my opinion,
Sharon was not truthful when answering relevant questions.  The
relevant questions were in reference to: if she ever stabbed either
of the two victims or hit them with the hammer."  Sharon had
emphatically stated, "No," to both questions.

Within an hour following Sharon's polygraph inquiry, she was read her
constitutional rights as per the Miranda warnings.  "Sharon, do you
waive your rights?  Do you want to talk?"  Ryan asked.

Reluctantly, Sharon agreed to talk with the Texas Ranger about
Montana and Bailey.

"Sharon, Ricky has made new statements implicating you as a willing
participant in the murders of Bailey and Montana," Ryan said.

"I knew Ricky would try to implicate me in the murders," Sharon said.
"I never had sex with either of those women, and I wasn't involved
in stabbing them or hitting them with a hammer," Sharon added.
Sharon agreed to give Ryan written statements concerning the murders
of both Montana and Bailey.  She began her account with the slaying
of Betty Jo, aka Mama Doe.

After Ricky, Betty Jo and I got home, Ricky took Betty Jo into our
bedroom.  Ricky told me "let's fuck" and asked me if I wanted Betty
Jo to eat me.  I said no and asked Ricky to let Betty Jo go.  Ricky
said that if I did not want Betty Jo, to get the hell out of the
bedroom and let him finish what he wanted to do.

Ricky threatened to kill me if I did not shut up and leave him alone.
I woke up Sarah and left the mobile home and drove across the street
to a pay phone and was going to call the police, but decided instead
to call Bill Green, Ricky's father.  Bill did not answer the phone so
I drove down through Boyd hoping to find Bill or see a police car.  I
didn't find anyone so I drove back to the trailer.  By then, Ricky
had Betty Jo in the bathroom with both hands and feet tied up.  I
begged Ricky to let Betty Jo go, but again he told me to shut up or
he was going to kill me, too.  I left the bathroom and Ricky closed and locked the door.  I heard Ricky stabbing Betty Jo
and Betty Jo saying that Ricky hated her and that Ricky agreed and
told Betty Jo that she was going to die.

Ricky called me to come into the bathroom and to stab Betty Jo.  I
refused, but Ricky placed the knife in my hand and physically made me
stab Betty Jo.  Ricky let go of my hand and made me stab Betty Jo
again, several times, on my own.  Ricky also made me strike Betty Jo
in the head with the hammer twice.  He told me that I had helped kill
her and then he stabbed Betty Jo several more times to make sure she
was dead.  I had to help Ricky get Betty Jo's body into the trunk of
our car.  Ricky made me drive to Flatwood Road and stop on top of a
bridge where Ricky dropped the body off the bridge.  Ricky told me
that if I ever turned him in, he would say that I wanted Ricky to
kill her.  He told me that if I would not have stabbed Betty Jo, he
would have killed me, too.

After Sharon completed her rendition of the murder of Betty Jo, she
began to write her description of the Bailey homicide.

The evening of the murder, Ricky had been drinking heavily and told
me he wanted to go out and find somebody.  Later on that evening,
around midnight, Ricky telephoned me and told me he had found
somebody and was bringing her over to the house.  Ricky told me to be
very quiet because the girl didn't know anybody was at home.  After
Ricky got home with Sandra, he came into the bedroom and asked me if
I wanted to go to bed with Ricky and Sandra, but I refused and Ricky
said he was going to kill Sandra.  I told Ricky not to kill her but
Ricky told me to shut up or he was going to kill me, too.  Ricky then
took Sandra into the bathroom and both of them removed their clothes.
I walked into the bath room and Sandra asked me who I was.  I told
her that I was Ricky's wife.  Ricky took Sandra and I into the
bedroom and asked me if I wanted Sandra to eat me.  I said no and
Sandra asked what was going on.  Ricky told me that Sandra wanted me
to watch while he fucked Sandra in the ass.  Sandra said she did not
want that and Ricky then punched Sandra in the face and she began to
yell.  He made me grab some rope and tape to tie up Sandra.

After tying up Sandra, Ricky began to fuck Sandra in the ass again
and then took a knife and stabbed Sandra in the stomach area.  I left
the bathroom and went into the bedroom and cried.  I could hear Ricky
stabbing Sandra over and over again.  Ricky asked me if I wanted to
stab Sandra but I begged him not to make me do it and not to hurt me.
Ricky said he wouldn't make me do it and he started to cry.

Ricky told me that we would have to wait until night time to get rid
of the body because it was already getting day light.  I agreed in
order to clean up everything so my daughter would not see all the
mess.  I was in shock.  We put the body in our bedroom and covered it
up with newspapers.  That night, after work, I backed up the car
close to a window.  We drug [sic] the body out the window and into
the trunk of our vehicle.  I drove the car with Ricky toward Bowie
where we dropped the body off a dirt road.  We went home and I
cleaned up the house, removing bloodstains off the carpet and window.

Sharon Green was not arrested or charged with any offense.
Detectives thanked her for her cooperation and excused her.

Meanwhile, officers from numerous law enforcement departments across
the North Texas area con verged on the Tarrant County jail.  They all
wanted an opportunity to question Ricky Lee Green in connection with
unsolved, similar murders in their jurisdictions.  "We're looking at
him pretty close, checking his whereabouts and his method of
operation in regard to those unsolved killings," Fort Worth Detective
Curt Brannan said.

Green became the center of interest in the un solved murders of
eleven young women in south west Fort Worth in 1984 and 1985.  A
special task force had been created at that time to investigate the
slayings.  As investigators sifted through all the information of
their files, they were reminded of another notorious Texas serial
killer, Henry Lee Lucas.  Not since Lucas had they had one suspect in
so many possible homicides.

Weatherford police Detective Lee Doffer said Green was also their
prime suspect in the unsolved slaying of nineteen-year-old Wendy Kae
Robinson, who disappeared on July 8, 1987, while sunbathing at Lake
Weatherford.  Robinson died of massive blunt trauma applied to the
head.  The condition of the body made it difficult to determine if
she had been stabbed or slashed.  "Green is probably the best suspect
we've got right now," Doffer said.

On May 4, 1989, six days after his arrest, Ricky Lee Green was
indicted on capital murder charges, with bail set at $1.25 million.
Unable to make bond, Ricky remained in the isolated cell in the
Tarrant County Jail, while Sharon Green remained free.

We were happy, Ricky thought.  Sharon and I were happy living in our
own little world until we got messed up with drugs.  Why did she tell
all them lies?  I never beat her.  Why is she trying to make me look
like the worst mother fucker that ever lived?  Ricky was in misery.
Tears filled his eyes as he remembered the last words Sharon ever
said to him.  "I love you," she had said, only nine hours before his
arrest.  The tears in his eyes fell across his whisker-stubbled
cheeks.

Two weeks after Sharon Green contacted North Texas authorities with
information that her husband had killed four people, she surrendered
to Wise County officials.  Sharon was charged and indicted on two
counts of capital murder in conjunction with Ricky in the sex
slayings of two women at the couple's Boyd home.

District Judge John Lindsey set Sharon's bond at $1.5 million,
$750,000 for each indictment.

Sharon stood on her bare feet with head bowed as a Wise County
sheriffs deputy expertly pressed her fingers into ink and transferred
her prints to a booking sheet.  Sharon Green's face expressed the
excruciating emotional pain that swelled within her.

"I don't want to make any comment," the twenty nine-year-old mother
told reporters capturing the scene.

James Dollar stood supportively near his daughter.  "We're not a
wealthy family and we don't have any wealthy relative," he said.  "It
would be impossible to come up with a large sum of money."  Un able
to make bond, Sharon Green remained in the Wise County jail, with her
husband, Ricky, sequestered in Tarrant County.  Both Greens awaited
separate trials for capital murder.

Ricky Green had urged the jail's physician to re turn his mattress
and clothing.  He was emotionally distressed at the indignation of
living nude in the cold confines of the small cell.  The day
following his first suicide attempt, the bedding and easily
recognizable orange jumpsuit were returned.

Ricky's emotional state worsened.  Depression swallowed him.  Why did
this happen?  Why did I kill them people?  Why did Sharon turn on me?
He had so many questions and no answers.

His reflections turned to his mother.  Mom was the only person in my
whole life who ever really loved me.  Why did she have to die?  I
thought Sharon loved me.  The tears flowed freely from his eyes.

On May 21, 1989, exactly one month after his arrest and four years
and six days after the death of his beloved mother, Ricky Green took
the mattress in his cell and put it on the floor.  He methodically
crumpled newspapers, placing them in the center of the bedding.
Ricky then unrolled the sheets on each of the toilet paper cylinders
stored at the back of the latrine in the corner of the room, tossing
the soft white paper on top of the newspapers and mattress.

Carefully Ricky hung his county-issued blanket across the bars of the
cell in an attempt to trap the smoke that would soon be rising from
the bonfire he had built.  Ricky stood in front of the combustible
mound and tossed lighted matches onto the material.  Flames danced in
the dimly lit space as smoke began to billow.

Ricky breathed in deeply the deadly fumes filling his lungs.  He
slowly sat down, feeling as if he were going to pass out.  I just
want to die, Ricky thought.


The Long Wait

Ricky's instinctive will to live overcame his melancholy desire to
die.  Air -- I gotta get some air Ricky thought as panic gripped him.
He desperately crawled to the steel bars separating him from the
free world, lifting the blanket that en trapped the choking smoke.
He breathed in the stale, musty air of the cell block corridor.

"Fire!  Fire!"  yelled the inmate in the cell next to Ricky's

Ricky heard rapid footsteps of leather on concrete.

"What the hell is going on?"  asked a startled guard.  He called for
assistance at once.

When the smoldering mattress was extinguished, Ricky was cuffed,
shackled, and transferred to another segregated cell.  Stripped of
his clothing and footwear again, he was banished to a chamber that
had no running water, no toilet paper, no mattress, and no
bedclothes.  He huddled in the corner of the cubicle, naked and
embarrassed.  Why couldn't I do it?  How come I couldn't go be with
Mom?  Ricky wept openly.

The search for Mama Doe's identity was concluding.

Texas Ranger Ryan knew from discussions with Sharon Green that the
unidentified homicide victim was from Amarillo.  The National Crime
Information Center had no record of her fingerprints, indicating that
she had never been arrested on a felony charge.  But if Ryan were
lucky, Mama Doe would have had a misdemeanor arrest record in
Amarillo.  After three-and-a-half years of searching, Ryan deserved a
break.

The ranger forwarded the prints to local Amarillo law enforcement
officials and came up with a match: a woman arrested in 1981 on a
simple assault charge.

Betty Jo Monroe was a twenty-eight-year-old white female who once
worked as a topless dancer at the Crystal Pistol, an Amarillo
nightclub.  She was known to ride with motorcycle gangs.  Her only
child, a daughter, died in 1984, just two days old.

Ryan's search was complete.  Without a doubt, Mama Doe and Betty Jo
Monroe, aka Betty Jo Montana, were one and the same.

Just over two weeks after his failed suicide attempt, Ricky Green
remained in the bleak living conditions of Tarrant County's
suicide-prevention cell.  Frustration over powered him.

"I want to talk to the press," Ricky told his court appointed
attorney, Suzie Johnson.

"You will not talk to the press,"Johnson told him force fully.

"But I want to protest how they're treatin' me," Ricky insisted.
"It's colder than hell in here.  And the last time my toilet was
flushed was a week ago Friday.  It makes me gag."

"You know they implemented those measures after the suicide attempt.
It's for your safety, Ricky," Johnson stated.

"I was depressed.  It was near the anniversary of my mom's death,"
Ricky said.  "There were a lot of things in the paper that upset
me...just being in this crazy world."

"You don't need to talk to the press," Johnson insisted on Tuesday.
"I'll talk to Sheriff Carpenter myself."

"I want to talk to the media.  I want to tell them the whole story I
want to make Sharon quit lying," Ricky argued.

"If you do that I'll kill you!"  Johnson threatened.

Ricky smiled.  She's beautiful when she's mad, he thought.

By Thursday Ricky's living conditions had not improved.  Following a
breakfast of waffles and bologna, Ricky made a decision.  I'll just
go on a hunger strike.  I won't eat until they let me talk to the
sheriff and I tell him how bad things are here.  But by Friday
evening, nothing had changed.

With the assistance of his younger brother, Timmy, Ricky was
connected in a three-way telephone conversation with a reporter from
the Fort Worth Star Telegram.

"I want to plead guilty.  My attorneys don't want me to," Ricky told
reporter Kathy Sanders.

"Why?"  Sanders asked.

"I'd have more of a chance for not getting the death penalty," Ricky
said, hoping for a life sentence if he confessed to the Hefferman
murder.  "I ain't got nothing to lose."

"Why did you kill the four people?"  Sanders asked.

"Why?"  Ricky hesitated in answering.  "I have no idea.  I really
don't know what happened.  It all started in April 1985.  I have no
idea."

Ricky was anxious for the public to know the intolerable living
conditions at the Tarrant County Jail, and the involvement of his
wife Sharon in the murders for which they had been indicted.

"Sharon lied to police and friends about her involvement in the
slayings and about our relationship," Ricky said.  "Sharon said I
forced her to kill these women.  I didn't force her to do nothin',"
Ricky angrily stated.  "It was as much her fault as it was mine.  It
started in the bedroom and the girls were tied down.  Everybody had
their clothes off.  Sharon got mad at Betty Jo.  She went into the
kitchen and got a knife," he said.  "She said she wanted to watch me
have sex with her, but when I started to [sic] Sharon stabbed her.  I
used my pocket knife on her, then the hammer.  Sharon took it and
used the hammer," Ricky continued.  "I never had intercourse with the
women.

"The other one (Bailey) happened about the same," Ricky said.

Ricky became enraged when Sanders questioned him about Sharon's
statements regarding their violent relationship and her fear of him.

"Sharon knew about Jeff Davis and she married me any way," he
protested.  "And I sure didn't force her to.  Her friends and dad are
saying we wasn't in love.  They know we was.  All these things didn't
happen until the end of '87.  I never hit Sharon until then, till the
last part of '87.  It happened at the end of our marriage."

Ricky realized he had a drinking problem; after all, that was why he
had checked himself into CareUnit.  But he was not prepared to accept
all the blame for his marital difficulties.  Sharon's drug problem
was certainly a contributing factor.

"She was shooting up.  She was doing drugs long before I knew about
it," Ricky told Sanders.  "She says I didn't love her, that I beat
her up, abused her -- that's all lies.  She said we weren't in love.
We used to be, until she got her drugs."

Ricky was hurt.  How could Sharon have said all those things about
me?  he wondered.  She knows damn good and well how much I loved her
-- I still love her.  Ricky paused to consider his next statement.

"She had a car.  The checking account was in her name, she had
several opportunities to leave me," he said.  Then his temper began
to fester as he spoke of the alleged abuse of his stepdaughter.

"I raised Sarah up from two-and-a-half years to seven or eight years
old," he said.  "I was strict on her.  Sharon wasn't but I wasn't
mean to her."  Ricky's eyes watered as he spoke about the little girl
he loved with all his heart.  He missed seeing Sarah's smiling face.
I'll never see her again, he anguished.

Ricky ended the interview by explaining his feeble attempts at
suicide and his disgust for county jail conditions in general and his
treatment in particular.

"It won't help me, but it might help someone else," he said.
"SheriffCarpenter probably treats his dog better than this."

Ricky thanked Sanders for her time and hung up the phone.

Suzie Johnson, Ricky's defense attorney, was furious.

She advised her client not to speak to the media.  Now she was forced
to make some statement pertaining to his exclusive interview with
Sanders.

"I think it's obvious to any reasonably minded person that this is
just a young man not in his right mind," Johnson stated.  "He doesn't
know what he's doing or what he's saying.  Other than that, I don't
want to say anything else."

Johnson waited impatiently for the jailer to bring her client to the
attorney-client meeting room located within the Tarrant County Jail.
As the door swung open Ricky could see the fury in her eyes.  Boy,
she sure is mad.

"I don't know why the hell you won't listen to me," Johnson's voice
grew louder as she spoke.  "Look at me," she demanded.

Ricky averted his eyes from the angry glare of his attorney.

"Look at me," Johnson repeated, grabbing his chin and pulling his
face directly to hers.  "Do not talk to the press again.  Do you
understand?"

Ricky nodded his acknowledgement, smiling slightly at the fire that
blazed in the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.

"Hey, man, what's the weather like outside?"  Ricky asked jailer
Barry McCafferty as Ricky rubbed his freshly shaved head.  He asked
the same question several times each day.  He also taped news
clippings of his case on the walls of his cell.

Ricky was reconciled to being isolated in the segregated chamber
following his final suicide attempt.  He didn't want to go into the
general inmate population, fearing the other prisoners.  The
slightly-built introvert was satisfied to limit his contact to
MeCafferty and other jailers assigned to his block.

Few friends or relatives visited during the two days set aside each
week by Tarrant County for visitation.  Marti, Bill Green's
girlfriend, was the most faithful caller.

Marti stood at the window of Ricky's sparse cell.  Ricky pressed a
sign to the window, as Marti squinted to make out the words faintly
printed on the stark white paper.  "I want you to tell me about the
girl at Lake Weatherford," Ricky had written.

Nineteen-year-old Wendy Robinson disappeared on July 8, 1987, while
sunbathing at Lake Weatherford's beach area known as "the wall"
Thirty miles west of Fort Worth, and approximately twenty miles from
the apartment Ricky and Sharon Green rented in Lake Worth, Lake
Weatherford was a man-made waterway where Ricky had fished on a
couple of occasions.

Robinson's decomposed body was discovered five days after her
disappearance at the entrance to a ranch in rural Parker County.
Wendy had suffered wounds similar to those inflicted on victims
linked to the Greens.

But when Weatherford Police ChiefJerry Blaisdell and his detectives
questioned Ricky, he insisted that he had no knowledge of the
slaying.  "I just wanted to help my dad get off one of his drug
cases," Ricky said.  "I was going to admit to it to help him.  If I
could find out what kind of car she was driving, what she was
wearing, and where she was found dead, then I could admit to it to
help him."

Weatherford authorities didn't buy the veiled reasoning of the
suspected murderer.  They knew Suzie Johnson had advised her client
not to discuss any additional crimes he may have committed.  Johnson
had even sent Blaisdell a letter barring him from interviewing her
client outside her presence.

Ricky Green remained a prime suspect in the Robinson murder.  Not
only had the pretty teenager been slain in the same manner as Monroe
and Bailey, she had been bound in like fashion.

"At least two of the vehicles that we know he (Green) had, match
descriptions of two vehicles that were seen at the wall, near the
place where the abduction occurred," Detective Doffer told the press.
Information Doffer did not re lease pertained to the discovery of
some of Robinson's personal effects, along with stolen articles from
a Weather ford robbery, under a bridge in Lake Worth, just a few
miles from Ricky's apartment.

The theft had occurred at the Petro Truck Stop south of Weatherford
on Interstate 20.  A sleeping eighteen-wheel driver was awakened at 2
A.M.  on the morning after Robinson's disappearance.  What appeared
to be two men robbed the driver, hitting him in the head before
fleeing.

The truck driver was able to give a detailed description of one of
the assailants and a sketchy account of the second.  Although the
composite drawings did not give authorities positive proof of the
Greens' involvement, the likenesses left them with serious questions.
Questions that could no longer be asked, because of Johnson's letter.

Blaisdell and his detectives were forced to pursue other avenues of
investigation.  They contacted Sharon Green.

"Sharon told us that Ricky had told her that he hit a truck driver in
the head in Weatherford and stole his money.  The only reported theft
on our books during the time frame Sharon indicated was the theft at
Petro Truck Stop," Blaisdell said.  "Some of that trucker's personal
belongings were found along with a few of Wendy's under the Lake
Worth bridge off Loop 820, only a few miles from where the Greens
lived."

Detective Marc Gray, along with Blaisdell, was convinced the two
people in the composite sketches were Ricky and Sharon Green.  "Look,
it was July.  It was hot.  Why would someone wear a knit hat unless
they were trying to alter their identity?"  Gray asked, referring to
the sketch that most closely resembled Sharon Green.  "Sharon was
pretty strung out on drugs at that time.  Her face was thinner and
her eyes sunken, much like the person in the picture.  And the gap
between Sharon's front teeth is nearly identical to the person's in
the sketch.  I think it was Sharon trying to look like a man.

Ricky Green had opportunity, he was out of work at the time of
Robinson's abduction, and he was known to have frequented the wall at
Lake Weatherford.

"We know from Ricky's friend, Alvin Steele, that Ricky and Steele
fished that area of the lake on at least two occasions the summer
Wendy disappeared.  Steele also took us to an area in Lake Worth,
under the Lake Worth bridge off Loop 820, where he and Ricky also did
some fishing.  Now is it coincidence that Ricky Green was at both
those locations the summer of 1987?  The same place where Wendy
disappeared and the same spot where some of her property was
recovered?  I don't think so," Blaisdell said matter-of-factly.  Then
with a coy grin Blaisdell added, "What chance is there of another
homicidal maniac fishing at the wall and throwing property from a
bridge where Ricky Green frequented?  I'd say twenty thousand to one."

But Blaisdell's circumstantial evidence would remain just that --
circumstantial as long as Suzie Johnson banned the Weatherford Police
Chief from interrogating her client.

Suzie Johnson had become very protective of Ricky Green.  She
appeared to feel comfortable in his presence, freely entering the
attorney conference room without security and sitting close to him
while discussing his trial strategy.

Ricky was attracted to the pretty young lawyer.  He was drawn to her
beauty, her compassion, and her brains.

Slowly he stroked the short brown hair of his defender, running his
fingers along her arm in a tender caress.  She is so pretty, Ricky
thought.  She is going to help me.  She cares about me.  He smiled
shyly at Johnson as she began questioning him about Steven Hefferman.

"Ricky, we are going to have to have some psychological testing done.
I want you to cooperate.  Do you under stand?"  Johnson asked her
client.

"Yeah," Ricky grumbled.  He didn't want to talk to any psychiatrists.
He had talked to enough of them while he was at CareUnit.  He knew
that Suzie thought it was important.  He would do it for her.

While Ricky Green awaited trial in Tarrant County, his older brother,
Perry, was incarcerated in the Wise County Jail for delivery of a
controlled substance.  Perry advised jailers that he wanted to talk
to officers concerning his brother and sister-in-law.  He wanted to
cut a deal.  On the morning of October 12, 1989, Phil Ryan and King
Barnett met with Perry Green.

"I heard Sharon tell my father that she would drink the blood of
victims," Perry told investigators.  "Sharon was into satanic cults.
I found numerous books dealing with satanic cults in her closet one
time," he added.

"Did you ever see her drink blood?"  Ryan asked.

"No," Perry said.

"I had sex with Sharon on two occasions," Perry stated openly, "Both
times Sharon would instigate the relations.  Sharon was using drugs.
We all fooled around together.  We were all doped up during those
times."

That evening Ryan and Barnett paid a visit to Debbie Green, Perry's
wife, at her residence in Boyd.  They expected Debbie to verify
statements made by her husband.

The oral interview covered many of the same topics Perry had
introduced in his earlier questioning.

"I supplied Sharon with drugs most of the time and even helped her
shoot up.  That explains her bruises on her arms, where she would
inject herself," Debbie told Ryan and Barnett.

"Sometime in 1985 Sharon came over to our house and did drugs with
us.  During that time Sharon pulled Perry's penis out and had oral
sex with him, while I was right there in the room," Debbie said
bluntly.

"Sharon told me one time that having sex with other couples was their
fantasy.  She and Ricky came over one night, we were all doing drugs
and watching sex movies.  They got excited and started having sex,
then asked Perry and I to join in.  I think Sharon had sex with other
people, too," Debbie said, remembering the amount of times their
friend Leslie Carson had spent at Sharon's while Ricky was away at
night.

After pressing Debbie for information concerning the homicides of
Monroe and Bailey, the investigators asked if Debbie knew of any
other murders the Greens may have committed.

"No, but Perry thinks that they [Ricky and Sharon] have killed other
people besides the four they have confessed to murdering," Debbie
answered.

Debbie Green's written statement was retained by Ryan until submitted
to the Wise County D.A's office for evidence in the Sharon Green
trial.

Perry Green's forty-year sentence was reduced to thirty years in a
plea-bargain arrangement to testify against Sharon.

In November 1989 Ricky was taken to the Vernon State Mental Hospital
for evaluation.  While in the upstate Texas facility, he made a phone
call to his aunt in Springtown.

"I'm not gonna give them anymore.  What's done is done and they're
not gonna get anymore out of me," Ricky told his aunt irritably.

Ricky was miserable over losing Sharon.  "I still love her, Ann," he
said.  "I would have done anything for Sharon.  Even when she asked
me to prove my manhood by getting the blood of jeff Davis, I was
willing to do it.  I'd have done anything for Sharon.  I don't
understand why she turned on me."

He didn't like taking the mental evaluation tests or talking with
state psychiatrists.  They think I'm crazy, he thought.

I'm not crazy.  Everybody fucks me over, that's all.  Everybody I
know fucks me.  These doctors are being paid by the state.  They are
going to say things that are untrue about me.  They fuck me over,
too."

In February 1990 Sharon Green began her defense against allegations
that she willingly participated in the murders of Betty Jo Monroe and
Sandra Lorraine Bailey.

From his Tarrant County Jail cell Ricky followed the trial with
interest through newspaper accounts in the Wise County Messenger.

"A key element of her defense will be proving that she was a battered
wife who suffered psychological abuse while living with and married
to Ricky Green," the paper reported.

Battered wife?  Hell she wasn't no battered wife, Ricky thought as he
stewed in his jail cell some forty miles from the scene of Sharon's
trial.  Hell if they want to know the truth, Sharon used to beat the
hell out of me.

Charles Baldwin, Sharon's court-appointed attorney, stated that he
wanted the case tried in Wise County to give individuals there a
chance to judge her since the case originated in that county.  "I
think the Wise County people should judge them if they think they can
be fair," said Baldwin.

Two-hundred-fifty potential jurors were called for the highly
publicized case that would cost taxpayers between fifty and one
hundred thousand dollars for Sharon Green's defense, which included
not only Baldwin's fee but also fees to a psychiatrist, a
battered-wife syndrom specialist, and a private investigator.

Four days after the selection began, an eight-woman, four-man jury
was seated.

Texas Ranger Gary De Los Santos was the First witness for the
prosecution.

"I always thought Sharon had been with my dad, but she always denied
it.  Damn bitch.  Sharon Green cried quietly when the second
statement, admitting she stabbed Monroe at her husband's insistence,
was reread to the jury," Ricky read after gathering the discarded
paper.

Yeah, I bet she did, Ricky thought.  Sharon could always turn on the
tears when she wanted to.

"Do you suspect him of any other murders," Baldwin asked De Los
Santos.

"Really, I suspect both of them," said the ranger.

Baldwin introduced into evidence Green's complete statement.  Baldwin
emphasized the number of times Mrs. Green recounted being threatened
by her husband.

Why does Sharon continue to lie?  Ricky asked himself.  Just to save
her own ass.

Tarrant County Sheriffs investigator Wayne Boggus took the stand.
"She seemed very upset and scared at the time," he said, referring to
the day he interviewed Mrs. Green.  "She expressed fear of her
husband several times.  She said she had told Bill Green about the
murders, Bill Green told her she could be killed.  She said she was
afraid of Bill and Perry Green."

Well, she should be.  My dad wanted to kill her once, I'm sure he
would have done it after she went and turned me in, Ricky speculated.

Boggus and De Los Santos said the fear she exhibited was typical of
an informant in fear of the person being turned in.

Tarrant County Sheriffs investigator Doris Hem bree said she provided
protection for Mrs. Green the first night she came forward.  They
spent several hours talking at the Motel 6.

"By that time she was rather calm," said Hembree.  "She would giggle
once in a while.  I didn't know if it was an emotional reaction," She
said.  Mrs. Green never cried.

Mrs.  Green told her about Green's order to stab Monroe.  "She said
she wouldn't be charged with the murder since the woman was already
dead," Hem bree recalled.

Hembree agreed some battered women return repeatedly to their abusive
husbands.

"Some women can't break the spell that the husband has over them, can
they?"  asked Baldwin in cross-examination.

"I don't know if it's a spell or a dependency," she said.

Ricky laid the newspaper down beside his bunk, closed his damp eyes
and slept.

The biweekly Wise County Messenger was not delivered to Ricky's jail
cell for another three days.  He anxiously awaited news of Sharon's
trial.  What is going on?  he wondered.  The bold headline that
topped the front page told him immediately that Sharon was
testifying: "Green Tells Story of Family Gone Bad."

"Oh shit," Ricky mumbled.

Mrs.  Green told the eight-woman, four-man jury Thursday that she was
raised the daughter of a Church of Christ preacher.  She was taught
that women are subservient to their husbands, the leaders of the
family.  "That's the way I was brought up; that's how I feel," she
testified.

She talked about the family she had married into.  She spoke of its
patriarch -- Bill Green -- and the three sons who have been charged
with various crimes.

"The Green family has a history of violence," she testified.

She said Bill Green operated a drug ring and used his sons as
carriers.  She said Bill Green offered Ricky Green $1,000 and a
weapon to kill a cousin after one drug deal went bad.

"Ricky took the money but worried he was being trapped, that his
father had set him up to be killd by the cousin," said Sharon Green.
He never killed him, she said.

"Bill Green was accused by Ricky Green of raping Ricky's only
sister," she said.

She described Bill Green as a wife beater, molester and alcoholic.

She said Ricky Green was ostracized by the family because he was
accused of raping his brother, Tim, and because he was bisexual.  She
said Green told her he had never raped his youngest brother, who
showed support for Ricky Green after his arrest in April.

Mrs.  Green said she was routinely raped by her husband, starting
with the first night their marriage was consummated.

"That's it!"  Ricky screamed, slamming the paper against his cot.  I
never raped that woman.  I never had to, he thought.  That bitch is
just running her mouth to save her ass.

Ricky walked to the washbasin in the corner of his cell and rinsed
his face.  Slowly he picked up the newspaper and continued to read
the account of his wife's trial.

She said she broke months of silence about the murders and sought
Bill Green's help in January 1986.  He told her Ricky Green would
fulfill his promise to kill her if she talked, and to remain quiet.
Then he raped her, she testified.

Mrs.  Green chronicled her four-year relationship with her estranged
husband.  She spoke softly, crying occasionally when talking about
her father, daughter and the fear she lived with.	 if she was so afraid I would hurt Sarah, why did she leave her with me while she ran around all the time?  Ricky thought.  Why don't they ask her that
kind of stuff?

The article recorded Sharon's life with ex-husband, Steve Lardi, who
she claimed had a history of mental illness, and her involvement
with another abusive male.

Sharon's testimony continued with a description of the murder of
Jeffery Davis.

"Did you believe Ricky when he told you about the murder?"  Baldwin
asked.

"No, because I couldn't picture anybody, especially him, killing
anybody," she said.  "I just couldn't imagine Ricky doing something
like that."

Even though Ricky had been arrested for driving while intoxicated
three times in three months, Sharon claimed that she didn't realize
he was an alcoholic until after their marriage.

She knew damn good and well I had a drinking problem.  Hell, that's
what we did.  We drank together.  I was drunk most of the time.

Sharon Green's lengthy testimony continued.

They settled into a routine with Green working across the street,
picking up his wife from her evening job in Fort Worth each evening,
then leaving on his own to cruise.

He became more assertive after their marriage, she said.  She said
she followed his orders.  "I just believe that's the way it should
be," she said.  She learned to modify her behavior to draw less anger
from him, she said.

She said his money was used to buy beer and fuel for riding around.
Hers was used to pay for the car, house, insurance and groceries.
The only car they owned was hers.

Of course she paid the bills, Ricky stewed.  She kept the check book.
She controlled the money.  Whenever I would want to go out I would
have to beg for money from her.

He kept on reading as Sharon's attorney questioned her concerning the
murders of Monroe and Bailey.

"Didn't you think this must have had a terrible effect on Sarah,"
asked Baldwin.

"She didn't know anything or see anything," she said.

"Why didn't you leave for the child's sake?"  he asked.

"I felt he would kill both of us...because that's what he said he'd
do."

Ricky's anxiety heightened as he read Sharon's description of his
abusive childhood.  Fear seized him as his eyes scanned the page to
find where Sharon stated she discovered his bisexuality after their
marriage.

Goddamn.  She shouldn't have said that, he worried.  Doesn't she know
what can happen to me in here?

In the spring of 1986, Green submitted to a 30-day detoxification
program.  It worked for a month, then he started drinking again, she
said.

In 1987 she began using drugs infrequently.  "So I wouldn't feel
anything," she said.

She was snorting and swallowing crank, she testified.

"Perry's the one that started me shooting up," she said.

District Attorney Morris spent part of Friday morning attacking the
inconsistencies in three statements to law enforcement agencies.
Mrs. Green tearfully defended her actions most of the morning.

He pointed out she made no mention of stabbing or hitting Monroe with
a hammer in statements made April 26 and April 27.  She said her
husband forced her to stab the woman in a statement written by her on
April 28 for Wise County law officers.

In her direct testimony, she testified her husband grabbed her hand
and forced her to stab Monroe three times and hit her with the hammer
once.

Forced her to stab Monroe, my ass.  She's the one that started the
stabbing in the first place.  This is unbelievable.

Morris noted she told Tarrant County Sheriffs investigator Hembree
that she hadn't been afraid to leave Sarah with Ricky because he
wouldn't hurt her.

She testified several times fear for herself and her daughter had
kept her from reporting her husband to authorities.

"Did you ever tell Hembree that Ricky didn't start beating you until
two years before you came forward?"  he said.

"I don't remember," she said.  "I could have."

Of course you did, Sharon, Ricky thought as he read his wife's
statements.  That's 'cause I never hit you until we started shootin'
up.

She said she didn't remember telling law officers she had voluntarily
gone to bed with Bill Green, in stead of [having] been raped by him.

"I could have been wrong in telling them that," she said.

Under questioning by Baldwin, she admitted to having a sexual
relationship with Green's friend, Leslie Carson, in 1987 and Green's
brother, Perry, in 1989.  She said she was using drugs more heavily
then.

She turned to Carson and his wife when Green became abusive, she
said.  She had sex once alone with Carson, she said.

Under cross-examination, she said that one time was at a porno movie
house in a small room equipped with a television and couch.

Morris suggested the only reason she turned her husband in was to
protect herself from retaliation for the drug money theft.  "The
reason you came forward was to get Bill Green and Ricky Green off
your back, didn't you?"  he said.

"No," she said.

Ricky Green didn't implicate her in the deaths until he found out she
was the informer.  "It's only when you're confronted after Ricky
changes his statement that you admit [to stabbing the women]," he
said.  "Truth is, you thought that you'd get out of this scot-free,
didn't you?  Your statements are still changing as we're speaking,
isn't it?"

"I didn't kill those girls," she said.  "I'm sorry I waited so long
to turn Ricky in, but I didn't think I had a way out."

Morris said she testified she stayed with Ricky Green because her
religious upbringing impressed upon her that a wife stays with her
husband.

He pointed out she didn't practice those beliefs where celibacy
before marriage and fidelity were concerned.

That's right, Ricky thought as he finished reading Sharon's
testimony.  She sure wasn't no religious person.  It was always a
front she put on for her daddy.

Ricky finished reading the courtroom account, then pasted the paper
up on the wall of his cell, along with dozens of others.  He
anxiously awaited the next edition: "Doctor Compares Greens to
Mansons"

The headline stunned Ricky.  What are they trying to do to me?  We
ain't nothing like that.  Is Sharon on trial or am I?

Dallas psychiatrist James Grigson testified that he had examined more
than fourteen hundred people charged with murder in his career,
including three hundred ninety one people charged with capital murder.

Baldwin asked how Ricky Green compared to the 1,400.  "If he's not at
the top, he's sharing that space," he said.  "He derives pleasure out
of the killing process.  He's enjoying it.  He's a brutalizing
killer.  He truly enjoys what he's doing to these people."  He said a
killer like Green is rare.

This guy don't know me.  I've never talked to him.  What the hell
does he know?  Ricky was becoming angry as he read the latest news
from the Wise County Messenger.

Ricky's irritation increased as he followed Grigson's testimony that
Sharon was not a murderer.

She's gonna get away with it, Ricky worried.  Sharon's gonna get away
with murder

Sharon Green's defense was at work.  Baldwin called Sharon's
chiropractor to the stand.

Chiropractor John Michael Scott estimated he treated Mrs. Green 50
times for a low-back problem between 1986-88 at his west Fort Worth
practice.  He said based on information Mrs. Green told his workers
and him and on what they observed, he classified her as a
psychologically and physically battered wife.

Ricky was confused and angry.  Why don't they ask her about her work
problems?  She had been off work for more than six months drawing
disability benefits for lower-back problems.  She said her chair
didn't fit right and messed up her back.  I just figured it was from
all the drugs, but it sure wasn't from no beatings.

The defense had rested their case.

Ricky impatiently paced the five-by-seven-foot cell waiting to
receive the February 25 edition of the paper.  As soon as he unfolded
the front section a smile crossed his lips -- a smile that instantly
turned to a frown.

Guilty:

Sharon Green gets probation following murder conviction.

Damn!  She got away with it.  The jury believed all that shit about
being a battered wife.  Ricky dropped the paper to the floor,
collapsing on his bunk.

Ricky's anger skyrocketed when he saw the news photo of Sharon
climbing into a long white limousine outside the Wise County
courthouse.  The photo had also angered many Wise County residents.

District Attorney Morris had received angry reactions to the jury's
sentence and to the plea bargain.

"I had this lady call yesterday...said she was infuriated by the
fact...that they would be flaunting her probation in the face of Wise
County, in the face of these two women," said Morris, referring to
the victims.

Sharon evidently pled guilty to Bailey's murder in order to get
probation, Ricky thought as he read the paper.  Damn, all she has to
do for ten years is pay one hundred twenty-three dollars a month for
court costs, commit no offense, use only prescribed drugs, and submit
to random urine analysis at her expense.  That's nothing!  I just
hope she jacks up her probation.  Ricky folded the newspaper and
tucked it neatly under his bunk.  Tears filled his eyes as fear
caused his body to tremble.  Sharon got away with murder all right.
What's gonna happen to me?

Ricky Green had nothing but time on his hands.  He had been in jail
for more than a year awaiting trial.  Sharon roamed free on a
ten-year probated sentence while he chased cockroaches in the dreary
cell block of the Tarrant County Jail.

His lawyers were diligently preparing for his defense.

The trial was slated for September 1990, three months away.  A
battery of psychiatrists were waiting to interview him.

Dr.  Richard Coons of Austin, Texas, was the second to evaluate Ricky
in a psychiatric interview and mental status examination on May 27.

"I just talked with a psychiatrist," Ricky said to Dr. Coons with
little expression.  "Dr.  Rappaport.  Do you know him?"

Dr.  Coons nodded silently.

"I told him I'd like to know what's going on.  He's going to give me
truth serum to find out what's going on in my brain," Ricky explained.

Dr.  Coons wrote in broken shorthand as Ricky continued to freely
verbalize.

"It's like I'm angry.  It's not like I'm trying to kill the person
I'm killing."  Ricky felt a need to know himself, why he had taken
the life of Steven Hefferman.

"I took one hundred dollars out of Mr. Hefferman's dresser drawer,"
Ricky said.  "I dumped all the clothes out of his dresser drawers on
him.  I didn't want to look at him.  It was a mess.  That's when I
found one hundred dollars."

This was the first time Ricky had admitted to anyone that he had
indeed taken more than Hefferman's Volvo.  For thirteen months Ricky
had denied robbing the slain Hefferman.

Ricky was being cooperative.  He detailed the evening of the murder,
how he had met Hefferman at Casino Beach, accompanied him to his town
house, and savagely murdered him.

"I killed Mr. Hefferman because he's a homosexual and he deserved
it," Ricky said with little emotion.  "The others were homosexuals
and whores.  Homosexuals are sick people.  They don't care who they
hurt, kids or anybody."

Ricky's voice trailed off as he lowered his head and added, "A
homosexual hurt me when I was a kid, eleven years old."

Dr.  Coons continued to write in silence.  "I don't do stuff like
that when I'm not drunk.  I'm Ricky Green when I'm not drunk."

"Did you ever not kill anybody because you thought you'd get caught?"
Coons asked.

Ricky smiled as he remembered Sandy alone in the vacant Lake Worth
apartment.  "Probably so.  Probably so," he answered.

"I'm glad I got caught," he said.  "I hope they give me the death
penalty.  I'm ready to die.  The only two people in the world I cared
about are gone, my mom and my wife," Ricky said sadly.

The initial interview with Dr. Coons was concluded.  "I'll be back
this afternoon, Ricky."

Ricky shrugged noncommittally and returned to his cell.

That afternoon Dr. Coons knew immediately that Ricky's mood had
changed significantly from their productive morning session.

"I don't want you to be here during visiting hours," Ricky barked.

"It's okay," Dr. Coons assured him.

"I'm missing my car race on TV," Ricky snapped.  "I won't cooperate
because I can't bring my smokes in here."

"We'll take smoke breaks frequently.  Just tell me when you're ready
for a cigarette," Coons said calmly.

"You shouldn't have come back in here.  They shoulda made you wait
until visiting hours are over.  What if I get a visitor?"  Ricky
appeared extremely overwrought.

"Ricky, if someone comes we'll stop and you can visit," Coons assured
him.

"They shouldn't have let you in during visitor hours," he repeated.
"Nobody else can get in then.  The only reason they let you in here
is because you work for the state and they're paying you a lot of
money."  Ricky was hostile.  "It don't matter whether I talk to you
or not.  It's not gonna change anything.  Anytime the state hires
doctors they hire them to go in there and lie.  The doctors lied in
my wife's case.  I don't know what it done for her, but it made me
look pretty bad."  Ricky's anger was increasing.  "And I know the
judge's got his mind made up.  And he's gonna kill me," Ricky said
emphatically.

Coons wrote uninterruptedly.

"They're so stupid.  The lawyers and judges, spending all that money,
all that tax money to send me to prison.  I think they ought to just
kill me and get it over with!"

Ricky's attitude grew worse.

Coons's pen did not stop as he chronicled Ricky's words.

"What are you doing?  Writing a book?"  Ricky snarled.

Coons lowered his pen and looked into Ricky's eyes.

"Did you have any school problems?  Did you have trouble reading,
spelling, or [doing] arithmetic?"  the doctor asked.

"No.  I can read good," Ricky said with conviction reaching for a
copy of People magazine.  He read aloud.

"Indeed, he reads well," Coons wrote in his notes.

"Tell me about your family," Coons encouraged.

"I hate my father.  He was cruel, did all kinds of things to the
kids.  He didn't need to do that stuff to us kids.  We didn't deserve
that," Ricky said.  "Mom didn't intervene because she was scared of
him, too.  She'd get the same thing."

"Can we proceed with the mental evaluation testing Ricky?"  Coons
asked again.

"Nah, it's stupid," Ricky said.

"Did you ever think of killing your father?"  Coons asked.

"Thought of killing him lots of times when I was a kid, But I thought
he was indestructible and wouldn't die," Ricky answered honestly.

Ricky's mood had changed from hostile to melancholy.

"Something is wrong with my mind.  There's gotta be, the crazy things
I've done to people.  I hate hurting people.  I'm telling you, it
wasn't me who did it.  Evil spirits possess me at times.  Oh, skip
it," Ricky brushed away the thought

The interview was over.

Dr.  Coons's letter to the court indicated that in his opinion Ricky
Green had some difficulty remembering events while he was
intoxicated, but there was no indication that Mr. Green suffered from
a severe mental disease or defect at the time of the offense.  Coons
believed that Ricky Green was sane at the time of the murder on
December 27, 1986.

Ten days later Ricky was examined by Dr. Mark Kalish of San Diego,
California.  Dr. Kalish's diagnostic impression included that Ricky
Green suffered from mixed sub stance abuse disorder.  In Kalish's
letter to the court he wrote: "The only other diagnosis that would
apply to Mr. Green is that of antisocial personality disorder."
Kalish explained that antisocial personality disorder is an
abnormality of behavior that is manifested only by repeated criminal
or otherwise antisocial conduct and is not a defense as a mental
disease or defect as described in the Penal Code.

"Mr.  Green did not, in my opinion, at the time of the instant
offense, suffer from a severe mental disease or defect.  He did at
the time of the instant offense, know what he was doing and he knew
it was wrong."

Cocounselors Suzie Johnson and Jeff Kearney pondered the psychiatric
reports.  Only Dr. Rappaport, based on his videotaped interview of
Ricky Green while under truth serum, indicated that Ricky was insane
at the time of the murder.  What defense could they take?  How were
they going to save Ricky Green's life?


The Trial

The long-awaited capital murder trial of Ricky Green was about to
begin.  Defense attorneys had won the first round of courtroom
arguments, gaining a change of venue to a Travis County court in the
state capital city of Austin.

Pretrial publicity had been immense.  Major news papers in both
Dallas and Fort Worth covered the Greens exploits from the moment the
news broke that Sharon Green had implicated her husband in four North
Texas murders.  Headlines of Green's exploits topped the pages of
area newspapers read by hundreds of thousands each morning.

Officials Say Greens Killed for Thrills

Police Say Tarrant Man Confessed to 4 Slayings

Area Law Officers to Confer on Green Case

Wise County Indicts Green in Capital Murder

Police Study Likelihood of Fifth Green Victim

Wife Indicted in Deaths Tied to Spouse

Sharon Green Murder Trial Opens to Packed Courtroom

Tearful Green Tells How Spouse Forced Her Hand in '85 Killing

Green Found Guilty in Sex Slaying

Green Gets Probation Heads Home

Television coverage was just as intense, with all three major network
stations carrying coverage of the arrests of both Greens and the
subsequent trial of Sharon.  Defense attorneys Johnson and Kearney
had felt strongly that Ricky could not receive a fair trial with an
impartial jury in Fort Worth.

Once the change of venue had been granted, Jeff Kearney filed a
motion to withdraw as cocounsel.  Kearney cited a federal case
scheduled for lengthy trial in another state in which the federal
judge would not release him.  Presiding Judge Joseph Drago granted
the motion and appointed David Bays cocounsel with Suzie Johnson.

Johnson and Bays were in conflict from the beginning.

On August 7, 1990, the court was prepared to hear pre trial motions
from both the defense and the prosecution, but Judge Drago was not
prepared for the motion of Suzie Johnson to withdraw as counsel.

"At this time I am going to make a motion to withdraw in this case,
and as grounds for that motion, state the following.  Number one, I
was appointed to represent Ricky Lee Green," Johnson began explaining
her actions.

David Bays rose to address the court.  "Shouldn't we have the
defendant present for this?"  Bays asked.

"Not yet," Johnson told the court.  "I was appointed to represent
Ricky Lee Green on or about April of 1989 by the Honorable Judge Don
Leonard.  Immediately after that, Jeff Kearney was appointed
cocounsel.  The case was then transferred to the Honorable Joe Drago.

"We had one month of voir dire in Fort Worth, and Judge Drago granted
the change of venue.  At that time, Jeff Kearney filed a motion to
withdraw, due to the fact that his federal practice was such that he
had a lengthy federal trial scheduled.  Judge Drago granted that
motion and at that time appointed David Bays.

"At this point in time, and at the beginning of Mr. Bays's
appointment, there have been irreconcilable differences between
defense counsel.  I have worked on this case for one solid year prior
to this.  As of a couple of months ago, and as of this morning, Mr.
Bays and I have had irreconcilable differences which can in no way be
remedied or reconciled."

There was an uneasy silence in the near-empty court room.  Judge
Drago, David Bays, and Austin attorney Houp -- the only people
present -- listened intently to Johnson.

"As I see the differences," Johnson continued, "they are as follows:
Number one, it is my opinion that Mr. Bays wishes to put on a defense
for Ricky Lee Green that, in my opinion, would violate every rule of
the attorney-client privilege and that would be ineffective
assistance, per se.

"Mr.  Bays has informed me about thirty minutes ago that he has
several years of experience and has tried several capital murder
cases.

"I myself was licensed in April of 1985.  I have had a criminal
practice for about five years now.  I used to be a felony prosecutor.
I have tried one prior capital murder case as prosecutor.

"Mr.  Bays obviously has advised me that he is to be lead counsel in
this case because I am not competent, as he phrased it.

"I was also advised by Mr. Bays this morning that prosecutors Alan
Levy and Marc Barta, and that Judge Don Leonard, and that Judge Drago
have stated that I am not competent to handle this lawsuit because of
my, quote lack of experience, close quote.

"For all of the above read foregoing reasons, I think that there is
such a conflict which exists at this time that would create ineffective
assistance of counsel, per se, for Ricky Lee Green due to the obvious
fact that defense counsel have such differences," Johnson read from
her prepared motion.

"They're trying to kill my client," Johnson said with stirring
emotion.  "I am not going to do anything which I think would help the
state kill my client.  I think that is what is happening at this
point in time."  Suzie Johnson's feelings of compassion for Ricky
Green were evident.

"I have not discussed this with Mr. Green.  I make my motion to
withdraw and if His Honor allows me to withdraw I would ask that I be
appointed on appeal," Johnson requested.  Ricky Green had previously
asked her to take the appeal on his case, unconditionally trusting
her with his life.

"I just will not be a party to the defense as it stands now because I
think it goes against my client's best interests, and I don't think
that two lawyers can be fighting all of the time in court.  It is
going to work against everybody.  It is going to do harm to my
client, and I will not have that."

Johnson sat down, awaiting the court's reaction.

"Do you want to say anything, Mr. Bays?"  Drago asked.

David Bays stood, glancing at Johnson as he took a few steps toward
the bench.

"I would like to say, first of all, that the conversations that I
have had with Ms. Johnson this morning and at other times, I did not
consider to be anything other than privileged communications," Bays
said sharply.  "So the things that I have said to her, I tried to say
in the spirit of candor so that they would be kept between us, or at
least that was my expectation," Bays shot a scowl of displeasure
toward Johnson.

"Now that we are here, I want the court to know that in no way did I
say to Ms. Johnson that you had expressed that opinion.  I said I
believed that the opinion was shared by a number of people.

"Now that we are on the subject of the defense, and since that is,
apparently, the thrust of her motion here, there are two distinct
ways to defend this case, as I see, and Mr. Houp and Ms. Johnson and
I have talked about this ad nauseam.  We have talked about it so much
that I am afraid that we don't get very far with new ideas on this
subject as we have talked.

"Now, the first way to defend the case, obviously, is to rest right
behind the prosecution and to assert through argument and
cross-examination and otherwise, that the state failed to prove the
underlying felonies in the case.

"Perhaps by approaching it that way, we might get ajury verdict that
says the defendant is not guilty of capital murder and is guilty only
of murder.  And I think all of us would agree that would amount to a
quote, unquote, win in this case, to keep this death penalty from
being imposed."  Bays took a long, deep breath.

"The second approach to the case is to plead insanity.  Is to attempt
to prove to the jury that the defendant is not guilty by reason of
insanity.  But the only way that we can do it is to put Dr. Rappaport
on the witness stand.

"The court is familiar with Dr. Rappaport.  He has given a report
which indicates, in his medical opinion, the defendant was insane
under Texas law at the time of the commission of this offense.

"Obviously, if we put Dr. Rappaport on the witness stand, the
cross-examination and, indeed, the substance of the materials in his
report would, to my way of thinking, open the door wide for
cross-examination, at least in the other three indicted homicides,
and perhaps into other un indicted homicides."

Dr.  Rappaport, Ricky, and his defense team were the only people
aware of the statements made by Ricky under the truth serum
administered by the psychiatrist.  Ricky had discussed the homicides
he was known to have committed, but there were references to other
murders as well.

During his videotaped discussion with Rappaport, Ricky talked about
Wendy Robinson, as well as two other possible victims.  After the
interview was completed, Ricky insisted that he was aware of his
statements concerning the unsolved murders and intentionally
implicated himself in an effort to ensure a death sentence in the
Hefferman case.

Bays and Johnson knew that if Rappaport took the stand in an effort
to show Ricky was insane at the time of Hefferman's murder their
client could be exposed to other indictments.

Johnson preferred to fight the capital murder charge rather than
subject her client to further possible prosecutions.  Bays leaned
toward insanity as Ricky Green's best chance to escape the death
penalty.  The attorneys' views were on a collision course.

Bays continued to address the court.  "If we go that [the insanity]
direction, we run the risk of putting the jury in a position of
dealing at the outset and then making the decision of capital murder
or not capital murder -- making a decision based on the full
knowledge of their dealing with one of the most vicious, heinous
crimes and criminals in the annals of Texas history.

"There are two distinct ways to approach the defense of this case.  I
think that we don't have to decide for another three or four weeks,"
Bays suggested.

Bays looked at Johnson as he talked about her motion to withdraw.

"I believe that we can continue to work together.  Ms. Johnson has been taking over the responsibility of presenting the
sentencing evidence in this case.  This includes family members,
friends, neighbors and so forth, to testify about the sexual abuse
that occurred in Ricky's childhood, in the physical abuse occurred in
his childhood, emotional abuse, and so on and so forth.

"I had been counting on her to sponsor each of the witnesses in that
matter.  There will be approximately twenty witnesses.  If she is
allowed to withdraw and I am allowed to continue, then I will have to
talk to all of these witnesses again," Bays said exasperatedly.

"I am embarrassed that we can't have a spirited conversation about a
very serious subject.  I am a little bit disappointed that I can't
feel that I can speak frankly to her without it being spread upon the
minutes of this court what I have to say."  Bays' words had a bite
directed to his cocounsel.

"I would ask that you not grant her motion to withdraw and that you
allow us to continue and to fight," Bays concluded, returning to his
seat.

"Do you want to say anything, Mr. Houp?"  the judge asked.

Kenneth Houp had been appointed by the court to assist Ricky's arrant
County cocounselors when the case was moved to Austin, Texas, on a
change of venue.  A Travis County criminal attorney, Houp's role was
jurisdictional.

"I feel that I have not seen an attorney who has developed a
knowledge, a working knowledge of a case as much as I have seen Ms.
Johnson," Houp praised his fellow attorney.  "I also think that she
is wearing her heart on her sleeve.  She became a little too
emotionally involved with the client and, as that goes, it is
affecting, I think, a lot of her decisions in this case."

Suzie Johnson's eyes avoided the stares of the three men in the
courtroom.

"On the other hand, I think that Mr. Bays' ego is getting in the way
of having an effective relationship with Ms. Johnson.  I think Mr.
Bays is not trying to work together.  I think he came in thinking he
was going to be first-chair attorney and it's my way, right or wrong.
Ms. Johnson, who has been with this case longer than him and knows
more about this case than him, I think, has been offended by Mr.
Bays's attitude," Houp attempted to explain.

"My personal feeling is that to allow her to withdraw would be a
devastating blow to the defense's preparation."

Houp retreated to his chair.

Judge Drago spoke without hesitation.  "Well, I think what we should
do is, number one, I think that all of you should be more
professional in this matter.  And there is no lead counsel in this
case, everybody is equal.

"The motion is denied at this time, although I will take it under
advisement," Judge Drago stated.  "But we are going to try this case."

Ricky Green entered the Travis County courthouse dressed in the new
navy blue coat, dress pants, and black dress shoes Suzie Johnson had
purchased for him.  He was happy not to be shackled, although his
hands were uncomfortably cuffed in front of him.

Once the pretrial motions were considered and ruled on by the court,
Judge Drago addressed Ricky.

Ricky rose to face the court.

"Cause Number 103, 696, in the 167th District Court of Travis County,
Texas.  The state of Texas versus Ricky Lee Green.  You are Ricky Lee
Green?"  Drago directed his question to the accused murderer.

"Yes, sir," Ricky spoke softly.

"Mr.  Green, you are here in court today with your lawyers, Ms. Suzie
Johnson, Mr. David Bays, and Mr. Kenneth Houp, is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Ricky said woodily.

"You've had time and opportunity to consult with your lawyers about
the charges pending against you; is that right?"  Drago inquired.

"Yes, sir," Ricky's expression had not changed.

"The district attorney will read the indictment."

Marc Barta, Assistant District Attorney for Tarrant County, read the
indictment against Ricky Lee Green in the capital murder of Steven
Hefferman.

This is it, Ricky thought.  I don't know why we are even going
through the motions.  Everybody knows what's gonna happen to me.

Ricky's thoughts were interrupted by the words of Judge Drago.

"To which charge, the defendant pleads guilty or not guilty?"  Drago
asked.

"Not guilty," Ricky said with no conviction.

"You may be seated,' Drago instructed.

The lengthy jury-selection process began.  Ricky listened intently as
the judge explained that the state has the right to accept jurors who
are in favor of a death penalty and that the defense has the right to
choose jurors who favor a life sentence.

Yeah, we have that right, Ricky thought, but our chances of getting a
jury who won't want to kill me is slim.  He wished Suzie had Just let
him plead guilty.  He didn't want to go through a trial.  He didn't
want to hear all the things that were going to be said about him.

"The minimum punishment for murder, for somebody who is eligible, is
five years on probation," Judge Drago explained to prospective jurors.

For somebody who is eligible, Ricky thought.  I guess those people in
wise County thought Sharon was eligible.  She got compassion.  She got
away with murder.

Ricky sat quietly uninvolved during the first seven juror interviews.
He was not happy with the way things went.

"How come you don't ask me if I want them on my jury?"  Ricky asked
Suzie Johnson.

"Okay, Ricky.  You can have the final say on who we select until
we're out of strikes," Johnson told her client.

The next prospective juror stood for questioning.

"Ask her if she could consider probation for murder, Ricky instructed
Johnson.

Johnson followed Ricky's suggested questioning.

"No," the woman responded.

Johnson challenged the woman for cause, eliminating her from jury
service.

The tedious jury selection continued.

"Would it affect your decision if testimony showed that the victim
and or the defendant was homosexual?"  John son asked one of the
one-hundred-fifteen potential jurors.

Ricky's eyes focused on the table in front of him, embarrassed by the
insinuation.

Approximately five weeks after the defense and prosecution polled the
first possible juror, a six-man, six-woman panel was seated in the
capital murder trial of Ricky Lee Green.

Ricky was relieved to hear that Sharon had not been called to testify
for either the defense or the prosecution.

Charles Baldwin, Sharon's attorney, stated publicly that, "If she is
called, the husband-and-wife privilege will be involved.  The only
thing she knows about Hefferman is what Ricky told her and that's
marital communications.  If she'd seen it, then she could testify."

I don't want to see her, Ricky thought.  I don't know what I'd do if
I saw her.

Sharon Green filed for divorce from her estranged husband in March.
The divorce suit contended that "the marriage has become
insupportable because of discord or conflict of personalities" and
that Ricky Green "is guilty of cruel treatment."

Sharon just needs to stay in Eastland with her mama and daddy, Ricky
thought.  She's caused me enough trouble.

Ricky had awakened early on the morning of September 10.  He fastened
the freshly cleaned slacks Suzie had brought by for him.  As Ricky
was slipping the blue blazer over his open-collared dress shirt, a
guard informed him that he wouldn't be going to court after all.

"A juror's wife is having a baby right now," the guard told Ricky.
"They've postponed your trial until tomorrow morning."

Ricky was both relieved and frustrated.  I just want to hurry up and
get this over with, he thought.  But he was also glad that he didn't
have to face the reality of his trial for one more day.

"Testimony in the Ricky Lee Green capital murder case won't be
pleasant,' prosecutors warned jurors during their opening remarks.

"Mr.  Hefferman was slaughtered," Tarrant County Assistant District
Attorney Alan Levy said.  "This was not a quick kill.  The killer
took his time."

Ricky hung his head as Levy addressed the jury.

In presenting a blueprint of the state's case, Levy explained that
Hefferman had gone to Overton Park National Bank on the afternoon of
December 26, 1986.  Hefferman made a deposit, less one hundred and
twenty-six dollars, bought some Liberty coins, and put them in his
safe deposit box.

"That was the last time Steven Hefferman was ever seen alive," Levy
said.

The assistant district attorney stated that it was apparent that
sometime on the twenty-seventh, twenty-eight year-old Hefferman went
to Casino Beach in Lake Worth.  "A place where people who may be
homosexuals some times meet," Levy said.

"Hefferman met Green there and the two engaged in a sexual act at
Casino Beach," Levy said.  Levy noted for the jury that the two men
made arrangements to go to Hefferman's home, but at Green's
insistence they first went to his apartment to drop off his car.  The
men then went to Hefferman's town house.

Levy quoted from Sharon Green's statement that her husband told her
he took knives from Hefferman's kitchen and hid them under the bed
while Hefferman was in the bathroom.

"When Hefferman emerged from the bathroom he agreed to be tied
spread-eagled to the bed for sex.  Then after beginning to have oral
sex with Hefferman, Ricky Green grabbed a knife and castrated
Hefferman, then proceeded to stab and cut him repeatedly," Levy
concluded his reading from Sharon's statement.

Levy added that testimony would show that when investigators pulled
the covers and clothes from the blue mound on the bed, "It was a
scene of extravagant brutality."

The assistant district attorney was ready to call his first witness.
Levy was prepared to try Ricky Green for capital murder, a charge he
ardently believed.

Brian Hocker, one of Hefferman's coworkers, testified that Hefferman
didn't show up for work on December 29.

Hocker had gone to the town house to check on his friend, noticing
that Hefferman's Volvo was gone.  He stated that another coworker
contacted Hefferman's landlord, Dennis McCarty.

McCarty took the stand.

Ricky didn't recognize McCarty.  He had not noticed anyone as he
entered the rear entrance to Hefferman's town house on the evening of
December 27, 1986.  And he was sure no one had seen him.

"I walked down the hall and went up to the bedroom door...I looked at
the bed.  There was a blue mound on the bed and as I more or less
focused on it, I noticed what I believed to be two feet," McCarty
said.

McCarty testified that he then called his wife, who instructed him to
call police.

Fort Worth Police Officers Billy Joe Cordell and Robert Cook
testified that they were the first officers on the scene.

They described the disarray of the Hefferman town house, the body,
and their summons for the special crime-scene unit of the Fort Worth
Police Department.

This all takes so much time, Ricky thought wearily.  The state's
wasting so much time and so much money on this case.

The first day of the trial was over.  Ricky had shown little emotion,
only occasionally glancing at jury members.

I wonder what they are thinking.  He was uneasy as he watched the
people who would determine his fate file out of the courtroom.  One
of the jurors was a perky young woman who appeared to be excited
about serving on a capital murder jury.  Each time Ricky had looked
at her during testimony she would be staring directly at him with
interest.  I guess she's enjoying this, he thought sadly, but I'm
sure not.

Ricky's defense team had adamantly fought to block the admission of
sixteen-by-twenty-four-inch photos of the slaughtered Hefferman into
evidence.

"The state can use regular-sized thirty-five-millimeter photos and
pass them around the jury," the defense argued.  "The enlarged
poster-size photos are inflammatory."

But the three-person defense team lost the battle to block the
graphic pictures, which were unveiled the second day of Green's trial.

Dr.  Charles Harvey, Deputy Medical Examiner for the Tarrant County
Medical Examiner's Office, illustrated his testimony with the
explicit color photographs, which depicted the numerous wounds
inflicted in the victim -- wounds that were sustained while Hefferman
was alive, while he was dying, and after he had died.

Ricky stared momentarily at the grotesque pictures, shuddering at the
gory sight.  He turned his eyes downward to the defense table.

I'm going to be sick, he thought, placing his hands on his stomach.
I can't believe Idid that.  That wasn't me.  it couldn't have been me
that did that.

Harvey testified that Hefferman suffered only two wounds that would
have been potentially fatal by them selves, although there were
injuries on the front, back, side, neck, torso, face, and genitals of
the victim.

The jurors, attorneys, and gallery of spectators listened intently as
Harvey explained the extent of the injuries.  As each new photo, more
graphic than the last, was shown, muffled gasps rose from the
courtroom, and members of the jury winced.

Ricky did not look at the pictures, his eyes steadfastly fixed on the
table in front of him.  But he didn't have to look at the photos to
know what the jury was seeing.  The images were so real in his mind
that Ricky could smell Hefferman's blood.  He could feel the sticky
substance on his hands.  He rubbed his palms together in an effort to
dispel the illusion, but the smell and feel remained.

One of the two fatal stab wounds was a very deep, long slash across
the victim's neck, the other a deep stab wound in the back.

"Hefferman bled to death," Harvey said.

The district attorney prompted Harvey to explain the erratic stabbing
and asked about the significance of the lo cation of Hefferman's
wounds.

"The wounds, including those in the back and side, could have been
inflicted with Hefferman tied to the bed if, in a frantic escape
attempt, Hefferman twisted his body.  His hands were tied so tight as
to restrict the blood flow," Harvey answered.

Dr.  Harvey interpreted the prosecution's other remarks: Hefferman
was a victim of extravagant brutality slaughtered and emasculated in
a sawing motion after death.

"A cut was made with irregular strokes from the chest plate to the
scrotum, laying bare the internal organs," Harvey said.  "A
black-handled butcher knife, which may have been used to inflict the
wounds, was embedded in the genital area."

Ricky wiped away the tears that filled his eyes.

"Do you think such a wound was difficult to inflict?"  Levy asked.

"It is rather remarkable," Harvey stated with a note of surprise in
his voice.  "It requires skill and time to be able to make that kind
of an incision without injury to the intestinal tract."

"Could someone impaired physically or mentally make such an
incision?"  the prosecutor asked.

"I don't think so," Harvey said.

"Were there other injuries to the body?"

"Yes.  The body bore some minor wounds that probably would have been
painful and could have been made to torture the victim," Harvey
stated.

The poster-photos were laid on the evidence table and Dr. Harvey was
excused.  For the first time since the doctor's testimony began,
Ricky lifted his head.  He looked at the jury, many of whom were
staring at him with expressions of revulsion.

They wonder how I could have done that.  I wonder myself.

Three days after Ricky's capital murder trial began, the state was
winding down its presentation of witnesses.

Michael Wiener, a Washington, D.C., fingerprint specialist, said he
identified three latent fingerprints of Greens at the Hefferman town
house.

Ricky scribbled a note on a small piece of paper and passed it to
Suzie Johnson.  "Will you marry me?"  the note read.  Johnson shot a
quick glance at her grinning client.

"Not right now," she whispered, refocusing on the expert testimony.

Wiener described latent prints as the reproduction of the outline of
the friction ridges, which are raised on the undersides of the
fingers.  Latent prints are left on an object when touched, due to
perspiration from sweat pores, grease, oil, or some other foreign
substance.  "Latent means hidden," Wiener explained.  "They require
chemicals, powder, or a laser to detect.

"One of Green's prints was taken from the bathroom next to the
bedroom where the murder occurred.  Another came from a table in the
living room, and a third was found on a small plastic tie hanger,"
Wiener said.

I knew I should have wiped off that table, Ricky thought as he
listened to the expert's testimony.

The final damning witness for the state was Fort Worth Police
Detective Danny LaRue.  LaRue read Ricky's written confession to a
staggered audience.  The state rested its case.

The following morning, defense attorney David Bays stunned courtroom
spectators by calling only two witnesses.  The defense had abandoned
the expected use of an insanity defense, calling two Fort Worth
police officers to the stand in an effort to disprove the capital
murder charge.

Officer A.J.  Tiroff was the first to take the stand.

"I want to ask you about the appearance of the crime scene that
night.  From what you saw in that living room, that evening, did you
believe that a struggle had occurred between the deceased and whoever
committed this offense?"  Bays asked.

"No.  Everything was in...pretty well in order with the exception of
one broken glass that was on the coffee table," Tiroff answered.

"Did you have a hypothesis at that time as to what you thought had
happened?"  Bays questioned.

"Yes, I did," Tiroff said.  "I thought that the victim and the actor
had engaged in sexual activity in the living room, on the couch."

"And what about the bedroom?"  Bays asked.

"The bedroom was in complete disarray and had been ransacked.
Clothes had been taken out of the drawers and dumped on the body,
which was on the bed.  The body was tied by the hands and ankles
across the bed and had been badly mutilated," Tiroff said.

Bays was through with Officer Tiroff.

"Thank you.  No further questions," Bays announced.

Bays was concentrating on attacking the capital murder charge; he was
claiming Hefferman's slaying did not occur during the commission of a
robbery or aggravated sexual assault, as alleged in the two-count
indictment.  He hoped to prove a consensual sexual act occurred, and
that there was no evidence of robbery.

Officer T.P Ellis was Bays' next witness to be called.

"One of the assignments that you had in investigating this case was
to view some videotapes, was it not?"  Bays asked Ellis.

"During the investigation, they were taken from the house of Mr.
Hefferman, and they were given to me to view at the police
department," Ellis explained.

"How many tapes were there?"

"Approximately five or six, but I cannot swear to that," Ellis said.

"Could you characterize the contents of those tapes as pornographic?"
Bays asked.

"Yes, sir, I would," Ellis said.

"And included with the tapes that you saw, did you ever see anything
that you would call bondage depicted on those tapes?"

"On one tape a slight bondage, tying of hands, such as that," Ellis
explained.

"Thank you, no further questions.  At this time, your Honor, the
defense rests," Bays announced.

Spectators and jurors were shocked The attorney called only two
witnesses.  A mere thirty minutes after Ricky Lee Green's defense
began, it ended.

It wasn't much, but it was all the defense had to go on.

Green had engaged in sex, played out a cene from a pornographic
movie, and killed Hefferman.  Bays hoped the jury would believe Green
had not gone to Hefferman's house with the intent to rob him.

Judge Drago excused the jury.

"Your Honor," Bays addressed the court.  "I ask the court for
acquittal based on insufficient evidence to prove the underlying
felony of robbery."

"Denied," Judge Drago ruled.

"Your Honor," Bays began again, "I move for a verdict of not guilty
on murder committed during the course of an aggravated sexual
assault.  The only penetration of the anus was after death, with a
knife."

Assistant District Attorney Alan Levy stood.

"Our position is that the defendant killed the victim in the course
of attempting to commit an aggravated sexual assault.  That is hardly
grounds for a motion for acquittal.  It may be that his timing was
bad, but it doesn't make the crime any less," Levy said.

The state agreed to waive the sexual assault allegation, but held
firm to the charge that the murder occurred in the course of
committing robbery or attempting to commit robbery.  The D.A.  wasn't
about to lose a capital murder conviction.

The jury was reseated in the courtroom, ready to hear closing
arguments from the prosecution and the defense.

"All right.  Hour a side.  Who's going to open the closing arguments
for the state?"  Judge Drago asked.

"I will, Your Honor," Marc Barta said.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to go back with you to the Saturday
after Christmas in 1986.  Steve Hefferman's house," Barta began.

"State's Exhibit 49A is Mr. Hefferman's wallet.  The wallet that this
man sitting right down there went through as he robbed, as he stole
from Steve Hefferman," Barta said, pointing to Ricky, who sat with
his head bowed.

"And he went through that wallet and cast aside the contents he knew
nothing about, he probably didn't stop very long to look at those
contents because they didn't interest him, they weren't profitable to
him.  One of the things that he probably didn't see in there is a
photograph that you see now of a man that you have come to recognize
as Maurice Hefferman, Steve's father.

"That man took those pictures and those contents of that wallet and
flung it to the floor; threw it away, because it wasn't valuable to
him, just like a piece of trash.  Just like he was getting ready to
do to Mr. Hefferman's son.  He was getting ready to take that life
and fling it away.  Waste a life.  Brutally, savagely, horribly, and
painfully end that life.

"You saw the results of the carnage.  You saw in graphic detail from
the eye of the camera what no human being should ever have to see.
And you suffered.

"But compare your suffering in looking at the carnage to the
suffering the victim of that carnage had.  Think of the final minutes
of Steve Hefferman.  Think of his time, tied to that bed.  Think of
his time helpless.  Think of his time as he watched this man rifle
the contents of his wallet, stealing his worldly possessions, knowing
in his heart beyond any doubt that his life was about to be taken
from him.

"Think of the horror; think of the terror; think of the pain that
Steve Hefferman suffered.  And then look at the end of the table,
look right down here, because of all the people sitting in this
courtroom today, there is only one person, and he sits right here,
that we have to blame for what happened there that day.

"Ricky Lee Green.  The man who robbed and killed Steve Hefferman,"
Barta's voice rose as he pointed to Ricky.

Ricky wept as the prosecution recounted the gruesome pain of his
victim.  I knew he was in pain, Ricky thought.  That's why I had to
kill him.  As soon as I stuck him with the knife the first time, I
saw his pain, I had to relieve that pain.  I had to kill him.

Barta expounded on each element of the offense, finally addressing
the last component.  Did Ricky Lee Green kill Steven Hefferman in the
course of committing or attempting to commit a robbery?

"The evidence is manifest," Barta said.  "Strewn on the floor of the
bedroom are the credit cards, the wallet.  The result of being
rifled.  Missing: a sacred Jewish medallion, given to Mr. Hefferman.
Missing: the medical alert necklace that he always wore to notify
people of his medical condition.  And how ironic that the very man
who rips the life blood from the body of Mr. Hefferman feels
compelled to rob him of the one medallion that notified people.  Mr.
Hefferman was beyond help, no one could have saved his life when the
butcher Ricky Lee Green got through with that body.  But he stole it
from him anyway.  Gone is his watch, never to be found.

"A robbery occurs.

"And a robbery also with his car, a theft.

"When he began to drink, when he began to tie him up, when he began
to inflict the beating and the torture, he knew that he had to leave.
He knew that he had to take the fruits of his bounty with him, and
he knew that the only way on God's green earth he was going to do it
was in Steve's car.  He had every intention from the minute he left
his own car behind and gave himself only one means of escape to steal
that car.

"There was a robbery from the beginning, the middle and the end, and
there is no question," Barta emphasized to the spellbound jury.

Barta turned his attention from convincing jurors of the robbery
aspect of the case to pointing out to them the lies he said existed
in Ricky's confession.

"Do you remember where this knife was?"  Barta asked the jurors.
"This isn't the knife in the bedroom.  This is the knife secluded
beside the entertainment center in the living room.  I believe you
can conclude from the evidence, while Steve Hefferman was taking a
shower; this man put this knife there in case they went back in the
living room.

"That is lie number one," Barta said.

David Bays objected to each point made by the prosecutor with the
court overruling him.

"Ricky Green said that Steve Hefferman already had the ties out.
Well, that fingerprint didn't jump off his finger and fly in that
closet, ladies and gentlemen.  That finger print was put on that tie
hanger when that man went in the closet and got those ties to bind
Steven Hefferman to the bed.

"Another lie in the confession."  Barta was on a roll.

"Lie number three in the confession," Barta announced proudly, "Ricky
tells us: 'I cut his throat and then he told me that he was going to
kill me.' No air could pass up that passage again and from the moment
that his throat was cut, Steve Hefferman couldn't tell anybody
anything.

"The defendant is caught in his own lie again," Barta said.

"Lie number four: 'I looked in his drawers for money.'

"Well, that is probably true.  He rifled those drawers for money.  He
admits to the robbery.

"He forgot to tell you about the wallet, that he strew its contents
on the floor of the bedroom.  He doesn't tell you about the money
that this wallet must have contained.

"And then obviously, and most ridiculously of all, the last lie: It
was self-defense," Barta said with emphasis on the last word of his
sentence.

"A man tied to that bed and helpless, a man butchered like an animal
taken to slaughter; and this man, this killer; has the nerve to
insult every member of the human race and rates his confession by
telling you it was self-defense."

Barta's voice increased in volume.

"Ladies and gentlemen, sometimes words are inadequate to express the
enormity of a crime," Barta said.

After asking for a verdict of guilty of capital murder as charged,
Barta thanked the jury and relinquished the floor to the defense.

David Bays stood and slowly walked toward the jury panel.  He had a
difficultjob ahead of him.  He had to sway the jury and make them
believe that Ricky Lee Green was not guilty of capital murder.  He
was up against insurmountable odds.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let me begin by stating to you that I want to
tell you how the defense attorneys have divided the work in this
case, because I think that you have noticed up until this point, that
Ms. Johnson has not had any role in the cross-examination of
witnesses," Bays began.

Bays proceeded by explaining Johnson's expected role during the
punishment phase of the trial.  He continued by talking about his law
school days with Assistant District Attorney Alan Levy, and his
respect for the integrity of Marc Barta.  Bays even mentioned
Margaret Moore, the Travis County Attorney, and her role in the
trial.  Bays seemed to want to talk about everyone but Ricky Lee
Green.

"I think Judge Drago is even standing for election so I should
mention his name," Bays said, drawing laughter from jurors and
spectators.

Bays finally approached the subject of Ricky Green's confession.
"Now, Mr. Barta was pleased that we had a confession from Ricky Lee
Green.  But he was displeased at some of the things that Ricky Lee
Green said.  And he tried to...to give the impression that Ricky Lee
Green when he was writing this statement down, telling Officer LaRue
what he had done at three o'clock in the morning that somehow or
another this clever young man was formulating all of these little
tricks in his statement that would exonerate him of capital murder."

The court-appointed attorney began reading Ricky's confession line by
line, defending each sentence.

"I told him that I would go home with him if he would get some beer,"
Bays read from the confession.  "He left and got it.  He came back
and he got in my car.  I agreed to go home with him.  He followed me
to my house and dropped off my car.  I rode to...rode with him to his
house."

"Now, in his opening statement," Bays said, lowering the paper he
read from, "Mr.  Levy said that this was a factor that shows you that
Mr. Green was forming the intent to rob.  There is something about
the fact that he didn't want his car seen at Hefferman's place.  You
remember he said that in his opening statement, to this effect, that
by getting Steve to take him to his place to drop off his car and
going over with Steve, he avoided the possibility that his car would
be seen at Steve's place."

Bays suggested to the jury that it may have been equally as likely
that Hefferman and Green just wanted to be with each other.  They
dropped Green's car off nearby so they could have that time together.

He further suggested that the two men had engaged in sex in the
living room before Hefferman took a shower and again after the bath.

The defense attorney's approach made Ricky uneasy.  I wish they
didn't have to talk about me and Steve, Ricky thought.  I'm not a
homo.  He was just a trick.

"Now, this ...this statement here is important," Bays stammered.  "I
want to highlight this statement here just for one reason.  The fact
that he includes this information here in the statement, that he
[Hefferman] worked for Channel Five in advertising, is a
disassociated fact, has nothing to do with what is going on here, all
right?  What he is talking about in the living room.  Yet, he throws
this fact in for his statement."

Bays was confusing Ricky with his oration.  why was he making a big
deal out of mentioning where Steve worked?

"Well, I am going to suggest to you later that [Ricky's
disorientation] has happened on one or two other occasions in the
statement, and it's the sort of thing that Mr. Barta characterized as
lies.  They are not lies.  They are just the attempt of an
unsophisticated individual to give a statement of what happened at
3:30 in the morning after he has been arrested in his home at
midnight.

"And, by the way, don't you think for a minute it is a mistake that
the police arrest people at midnight.  Because the law says you are
to take an individual directly in front of a magistrate," Bays said
sarcastically.

Alan Levy was on his feet.  "I think I am going to object to this, as
Mr. Bays is 'testifying' about police procedures now," he said.

"I'm going to overrule," Judge Drago said.

"He is now giving legal instructions," Levy argued.

"I overrule the objection.  I don't know what he is going to do,"
Judge Drago said.

Bays continued after winning the point.  "So oftentimes the plan in
these kind of cases is to make this kind of an arrest at midnight so
that it will be eight or nine the next morning before you can take an
individual in front of a magistrate.  But in the meantime, we go by
the police station and give our statements, and that is what happened
here, and I am not criticizing.  I just threw that in as a little
nuance of our business that has no meaning here, probably," Bays
stated with a smile.

It was time for Bays to reinforce his own witnesses statements.  He
stressed that Detective Tiroff testified that it looked like a
homosexual encounter had happened in the living room and carried over
into the bedroom where the murder occurred.  That a fight had not
begun in the living room as the prosecution wanted the jury to
believe.

"Officer Ellis testified to you that seized in the home of Steven
Hefferman were several VCR tapes, that these tapes were pornographic,
and that depicted among the things on the tapes was bondage, people
with their hands tied," Bays reviewed.

"The inference here certainly is that if Steven Hefferman enjoyed
watching bondage, then, in all likelihood, he enjoyed doing it.  And
if that's true, it explains a lot of things.

"What it says to you is that when Steven Hefferman got onto his bed,
he assisted and helped Ricky Lee Green tie him up, tie him, Steven
Hefferman, up, because that is what he wanted to happen.  And the
evidence, the physical evidence, is all consistent with that.  And
Ricky Lee Green's statement is consistent with that," Bays said.

The act of cooperative bondage would explain the fact that Ricky's
fingerprints were found on the tie hangers.

Bays was making a feeble attempt at explaining each of the
prosecution's points of argument.

"Whatever happened there was the result of delusional thinking of
idiocy, of the most irrational kind of behavior possible, the most
gruesome behavior possible," Bays said.

"But it was not with the intent to commit theft.  Nothing in this
statement, nothing from the evidence, shows you that when he began to
stab Steven Hefferman, he had any intention to take anything that
belonged to Steven Hefferman.

"The prosecution says Hefferman had one hundred and twenty-six
dollars, and it is missing.  Therefore, we must presume that the
defendant went through the wallet belonging to the deceased and then
took his money, and yet there is not one word of testimony before you
that Steven kept his money in his wallet.  Not one family member told
you that he doesn't walk around with a money clip, like some people
do.  They want you to presume that because the wallet was on the
floor that the money was taken from the wallet," Bays said, seeming
to grasp at straws.

The defense attorney tried earnestly to win over the jury to the idea
that no capital murder was involved in the heinous crime by asking,
"What was not taken from the wallet?  What was not taken from that
room?"

"Credit cards," Bays said with emphasis.

"What else is missing?

"Some Jewish medallion.  But the watch is the more curious question.
There is a watch missing; therefore the defendant had the intent to
rob.  And yet, we know that the watch Hefferman was wearing that day
was left behind, the evidence is that the watch and Hefferman's
glasses were found on that coffee table in the living room.

"So they want you now to say that because that watch is missing and
because that money is missing and nobody can find either one of them,
either of those two things, that Ricky Lee Green committed capital
murder.

"No matter how you scream it or shout it, it doesn't make it true,"
Bays drove his point home.

Bays turned his attention to Hefferman's car.

"If we're going to talk about the car; if that is what you think was
the robbery aspect of this case, I want you to remember that the
definition of theft that the court has given you is that theft means
to unlawfully appropriate property without the owner's effective
consent and, very importantly, and with the intent to deprive the
owner of the property.

"Ricky drove this car as far as he could.  When it wouldn't go any
more, he got out and kept on walking.

And if that's true, then he did not have the intent to deprive the
owner of that property," Bays argued.

Bays again read from Ricky's sworn statement, " 'I told my wife what
I had done.  I read about what I done in the paper and saw it on TV.
It was self-defense.'

"Well, I am not going to argue to you that it was self defense," Bays
said, knowing that an attempt to do so was useless.  "But I am going
to say to you that it was a senseless, stupid, crazy thing to do.

"I ask you now to go back and look at the evidence and conclude with
me that, what was said in King Leay; this is nothing more and nothing
less than a mad act of a fool and your verdict should say that," Bays
said, looking at each member of the jury panel.

"That's all I have, Your Honor," Bays said.  He sat down at the
defense table next to Ricky.  He had done all he could for his
client.  The verdict was in the hands of the jury, and Ricky's
punishment was in the hands of Suzie Johnson.

Ricky sat silently, void of expression.  Well, there ain't no more he
can do now.  He watched the six men and six women file out of the
courtroom.  I know they think I'm guilty.


The Verdict

Three and one-half hours after the Travis County jury began
deliberations in the Ricky Lee Green capital murder trial, they
returned with a verdict.

During the jurors' discussions, they had requested individual copies
of the judge's charge, an enlarged copy of Ricky's confession, and
the medical examiners report.

Judge Drago complied with their requests, except for the copy of the
medical examiner's report because it had never been admitted as
evidence.  But the jury was bent on re viewing the medical evidence.
They asked for copies of the examiner's diagrams of Hefferman's
wounds submitted during his testimony.

While Ricky waited apprehensively with his attorneys for the verdict,
jury members dined on pizza, then asked the judge to allow them to
take a walk minutes before re turning to the courtroom to announce
their verdict.

Ricky watched with fearful curiosity as the six men and six women
filed into the jury box.

"Mr.  Singleton, you were the foreperson of the jury?"  Judge Drago
asked.

"Is this a unanimous verdict of all twelve members of the jury?"

"Yes, it is," Singleton said.

"If you will give it to the bailiff, please," Drago instructed.  "Let
the defendant stand."

Ricky Green stood numbly with his attorneys.  He faced Judge Drago,
avoiding the blank stares of the jury panel.

Ricky took a deep breath, expelling rapidly as Drago announced the
verdict.

"We, the jury, find the defendant, Ricky Lee Green, guilty of the
offense of capital murder as alleged in the indictment," Drago read.

Ricky slumped in his chair, staring at the defense table with a dazed
expression, as his attorneys conversed with him briefly.  It wasn't
no capital murder.  I didn't plan to rob him, Ricky thought.  I
didn't plan anything that happened that night.

After jurors were polled individually to ensure that each of the
members concurred with the verdict, Judge Drago addressed them
collectively.  "Ladies and gentlemen, now that you have returned a
verdict finding the defendant guilty of capital murder, as was
explained to you, we will now go into the punishment phase of this
trial."

Whisked away in handcuffs and shackles to the Travis County Jail
within minutes of the verdict, Ricky passed the jurors' box, evading
the condemning eyes of the jurors.

"Were you surprised by the verdict?"  a reporter shouted to Green as
he departed.

"No," Ricky said bitterly.

The capital murder conviction came in at 4:30 P.M., Friday, September
15, 1990.  Testimony in the punishment phase of the trial would not
begin until 9 A.M Monday.

The jury would be asked to decide whether Ricky would serve a life
sentence or die by lethal injection.  Judge Drago instructed the jury
not to discuss the case until they determined punishment.  But the
alternate juror, who was excused from service after the announcement
of the verdict spoke freely with the press.

"I would have said guilty of capital murder," Madeline Lee, an Austin
special education teacher, stated shortly after the jury left the
courtroom.  Lee cited the manner in which Ricky carried out the
murder as her reason for believing him guilty.  Lee said that not
until she viewed the gruesome color photographs of the body of the
slaughtered Hefferman did she realize how horrible and vicious the
crime was.  Lee failed to mention the robbery allegation, essential
to the capital murder conviction.

"I don't think I will ever forget that there are people in the world
who would commit a crime like that," she said.  "It was truly
horrifying."

Attorneys Johnson and Bays feared that the remainder of the jury
panel shared the opinion of the alternate.  Yet Bays spoke
optimistically to reporters, saying he believed Ricky had a good
chance of avoiding the death penalty.

"This trial isn't over yet.  There is much left to be said."

Bays knew Johnson was prepared to mount a vigorous campaign to save
Ricky's life.

Ricky Green sat on the bunk in his stark Travis County cell, his face
resting in the palms of his hands.  Tears dampened his blood shot
eyes.  Ricky had expected the guilty verdict handed him by the jury;
after all, he had confessed to killing Hefferman.  But he had held on
to the slim hope that the jurors would not believe the prosecution's
allegations of capital murder.

Before going to trial, Suzie Johnson had explained to Ricky the
defense team's plan of attack for his defense against the death
penalty.  They would portray Ricky as a victim of a traumatic and
terrible life -- an existence that was dominated by a tyrannical
father who may have trans formed him into a vicious killer.  Suzie
made him believe he deserved to live.

"We'll be calling your sister, Teresa, and brother, Perry, to the
stand,"Johnson informed Ricky.

I don't want them to put Teresa and Pery on the stand, Ricky thought.
I don't want them to have to go through that, to tell everybody all
that stuff Bill Green done to us.

Only days before his trial began, Ricky had telephoned his father.
Bill Green, released on bond for delivery of a controlled substance
and awaiting trial himself, answered the phone gruffly.

"Yeah!"  Bill Green shouted.

"This is Ricky."

Green remained speechless for a moment.  "Where are you?"

"I'm in Travis County waitin' for my trial to start," Ricky said
meekly.

The father and son spoke briefly about Ricky's defense in the highly
anticipated trial.  Bill Green grew increasingly irritable as he
learned that many of his relatives would be testifying on Ricky's
behalf.

"You're gettin' on my nerves," Green snapped.

I just wanted some kind of support from you, Ricky thought.  I wanted
to know that you stood beside me.  But you never have.  Why would you
be there for me now?  Memories of his painful youth came crashing
back.

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm gonna get up on that stand and
tell them you fucked me in the ass.  I'm gonna make you look as bad
as I can," Ricky threatened.

"They ain't gonna believe you," Bill Green shouted at his son before
slamming the receiver into the cradle.

Although Ricky didn't want Teresa and Perry to testify, he didn't
argue with Suzie.  He knew there was no use.  She was determined to
try to save his life.  I don't know why she even bothers.

Prosecutors began parading a battery of witnesses in support of their
contention that Ricky Lee Green was a sadistic serial killer who
would continue to be a threat to society.  One by one family members
and acquaintances of Jeffery Davis, Betty Jo Monroe, and Sandra
Bailey talked about the victims, all of whom died in 1985.

Nancy Chancy, Davis's aunt, testified she last saw her
sixteen-year-old nephew near Casino Beach.

"He was small for his age," Chancy said as she began crying.  "He was
a sweet person and would do anything for anybody."

Fort Worth Police Officer C.D.  Wilson told jurors that a body, later
identified as Davis, was discovered by two Denver couples at 7600
Shoreline Drive at the Fort Worth Nature Center.

The members of the jury shuddered as they viewed grisly photos of
Davis's decomposed body -- a body that had been castrated and stabbed
fifteen times.

Jurors appeared puzzled by the deluge of information concerning
Jeffery Davis.  Prosecutors made no connection between Davis and
Ricky Green before transferring their attention to the death of Betty
Jo Monroe.

Jimmy Dunn, the owner of several Amarillo, Texas, businesses,
including the Crystal Pistol nightclub, stated that Betty Jo Monroe,
also known as Betty Jo Montana, worked for him at the club in 1985.

Prosecutors then called Texas Department of Public Safety Trooper
Alan Troup to the stand, who told jurors about discovering the
mutilated body of Betty Jo Monroe.

Again, the jury was exposed to explicit photos of the victim, but no
connection was made to the defendant.

Patricia Ann Harvey Rogers was the next witness to appear.  She
related details of her birthday party celebrated at the 50/50 Club on
Jacksboro Highway on November 24, 1985.  She said her cousin, Sandra
Bailey, was at the party with her.

Rogers described her cousin as a slow, mentally handicapped woman who
was outgoing and trusting.

"She was going to meet me at County Express and then go on to my
house," Rogers said.  "But she never showed up and I never saw her
alive again."

Rogers cringed, along with jurors, as they were shown a picture of
Bailey's maimed body.

Following Rogers, Texas Ranger Bill Gerth testified that he was
notified of a body found in Clay County on December 2, 1985.  The
body, identified a month later as Sandra Lorraine Bailey, had been
hit in the head with a hammer and stabbed more than thirty times.

Even though prosecutors failed to immediately connect Ricky Green
with any of the three victims, that Green was accused of the gruesome
deaths was obvious.  Jurors began to stare intently at Ricky as
prosecutors discussed the murders and presented photographs.

Ricky covered his eyes or looked down at the defense table with the
introduction of each of the gory photos.  He was not alone in his
disgust.  At least one juror refused to look at the crime-scene
photographs, averting his eyes when prosecutors exhibited them in
front of the jury box

It makes me sick to see them pictures, Ricky thought.  It makes them
sick, too.  What will they do when they find out I did that?  Will
they want to kill me?

The next morning Tarrant County district attorneys resumed their
charge for the death penalty by calling Steve Stracener and John
David Wilson.  Both men testified that on New Year's Eve in 1984 or
1985, neither man was certain, they went to Ricky Green's house to
smoke pot.  Wilson had gone into the kitchen for the marijuana as
Ricky went to his room, emerging moments later with a shotgun.

"He put the gun to my head and told me to suck his dick," Wilson
said.  "At first we thought it was ajoke.  Then as he was unzipping
his britches, Ricky and I lost eye con tact.  I grabbed the gun and
Steve and I took off running across the yard."

"Ricky ran after us," Stracener stated.  "He yelled, 'Don't call the
cops.  Don't get me in trouble.'"

Both men indicated that they never saw Ricky Green again.

When did I do that?  I don't remember any of that happenin', Ricky
thought as the two men told their stories.  Attorneys told me these
guys testified at Sharon's trial, but I don't remember them.  The
judge won't let me stand up and say, "Wo, it didn't happen."  This
really pisses me off!

"The state calls Connie McKeever," the prosecutor announced.

Ricky was surprised by Connie's appearance.  She's real cute.  Ever
since he had made the harassing phone calls to her in April of 1984,
he often wondered what she looked like.  He was anxious to see her.

Connie, who was a junior at Bridgeport High School at the time of the
incident, recalled the fear she felt during her limited conversations
with the defendant.

"He said my name and said, 'I want some pussy,'" McKeever told the
jury with embarrassment.  "He began calling regularly in the morning,
afternoon, and nights, two or three times a day.  Sometimes five.  He
would say sexually vulgar things.  He told me he was watching me and
he knew what I was wearing.  He would call and say that it wouldn't
be long till we could be together.  He said, 'I want you to suck my
dick.' It was very frightening."  The young woman's eyes reflected a
trace of the fear she felt five years earlier.

On cross-examination, Johnson asked McKeever if the defendant had
ever called to apologize for his actions and asked her to forgive him.

"Yes," Connie said.

"And did you just hang up the phone?"  Johnson questioned.

"Yes."

"And that was the end of it.  Thank you, Ms. McKeever."

Johnson passed the witness, having shown that Ricky Green had caused
no physical harm to McKeever and displayed remorse for his behavior.

The defense was ready to tackle the mission of demonstrating that
Ricky Green was a victim himself; a casualty of severe physical and
psychological abuse by a tyrannical father who virtually programmed
him to kill.

Johnson had prepared her case thoroughly.  She arranged to call
numerous family members who would testify that the Ricky Green they
knew was a mild-mannered boy who feared confrontations and was
terrified of his father.

Ricky held his breath momentarily as his older sister, Teresa, swore
to tell the truth.  This is going to be bad.  I feel sorry for her.

Teresa Green Baker began to detail incident after incident in which
she and her siblings were physically and emotionally abused by their
father.  She cried openly.  Ricky cried along with her.

"Did you ever see your father hit Ricky with a paddle?"  Johnson
asked.

"Yep," Teresa said.

"Did you ever get hit with it?"

"Yep."

"Did it hurt?"

"It sure did," Teresa said.

"Do you remember how old Ricky was when he used to hit him with that
fiberglass paddle?"

"Around eleven."

"These things that you are telling us about, were they isolated
instances?  I mean, did they just happen like every few months or was
that the way that y'all lived?"  Johnson coaxed.

"It is how we lived."  Teresa's eyes began to moisten again.

"Did Ricky ever run away, that you know of?"

"One time when I was at home.  Perry and Ricky and I all ran away.
We lived at Cottondale and we had all left.  And then when Daddy
found us, he brought us home and he beat us and we had to stay up all
night.

"I think Perry washed dishes, had to take the dishes out of the
cabinet and keep rewashing them.  I had to iron clothes all night.
And Ricky had to wash walls.

"And he caught us all asleep, come in there beating us and then made
us get back up and do our work."  Teresa's voice was crisp with
bitterness.

"Did he have any rules for eating supper for the children?"  Johnson
knew the question would lead to a gut wrenching answer.

"Cleaning our plate."

"Did you ever see him abuse Ricky in the way of supper?"

"Yeah."  Teresa told the story of Ricky being forced to eat his own
vomit, as the jury squirmed.

"Did you ever see him lock Ricky in a closet?"  Johnson moved to her
next point.

"Yes."

"Do you remember how old Ricky was when Bill used to lock him in a
closet?"

"The earliest I remember that he started it on Ricky was from the age
of four, and it stayed up doing that up until around eight or nine.
Daddy would come in there and it would be pitch-dark.  He would
scratch on the door, make weird noises, and we would just sit there
real quiet because we was scared something was going to get us."

"What would you think would be after you?"  Johnson asked.

"A monster."

Yeah.  A monster was after us, Ricky thought.  The monster was Bill
Green.

Teresa's testimony continued with descriptions of the Green children
running from the shots of a BB gun, and the near drownings from their
heads being held beneath the water.  She cried continually.

"Teresa, you were home fifteen years.  If I asked you to use a word
to describe your childhood, what word would you think of?"  Johnson
asked.

"Hell," Teresa said without hesitation.

"Do you know where Bill Green is today?"  Johnson asked.

"Yes."

"How often do you see him?"

"I check him out every now and then because I want to know where he
is at.  I mean, I don't see him personally."

"Are you afraid of Bill Green?"

"Yes," Teresa answered with a quiver in her voice.

"Why?"

"Because of what he had done to us," Teresa's voice grew more
unsteady.  "He tells people other things and then it gets back to
you.  You are scared."  Teresa wept uncontrollably.

"Okay.  Calm down," Johnson said reassuringly.  "You mentioned
punishment for bed-wetting, something that your father did to Ricky?"

"Uh-huh," Teresa mumbled.

"With a knife?"Johnson prodded.

"He went to the kitchen and got a knife and put catsup on the -- not
the sharp edge of it, but on the top of the knife, and went back into
the bedroom and told Ricky and Perry to drop their drawers.  And then
he took that knife -- no, he told them to close their eyes and he
took that knife and went around their penis and he said, 'Y'all won't
wet the bed no more.'" Teresa's crying again stopped the proceedings
momentarily.

Teresa Green Baker's most emotional testimony came when she explained
to jurors that she left home at age fifteen.  "I got tired of Dad
sexually abusing me and beating on me.  Once when I ran away he found
me and took me home.  He had me lay flat on my back in my mother's
and dad's bedroom and he put a chain around my right hand and a chain
around my right foot.  It was on his side of the bed where he laid.
I laid on the floor and he padlocked it to the bed."

Relief flooded Ricky when Teresa was finally excused.

As Teresa passed the defense table she stared at her younger brother
and wondered, Did tellin' all that Daddy did to us help Ricky?  Her
lips turned up slightly, while tears tumbled down her rounded cheeks.

Outside the presence of the jury, Ann O'Shields, Bill Green's sister,
testified that her older brother locked her in closets and scratched
on the doors when they were children.  "He told me the bogeyman would
get me," she said.

O'Shields's fear of Bill Green grew as they matured.

"When I was fifteen, he was already married to Lou, he tried to
molest me on several occasions," she told the court.

O'Shields waited in a room adjacent to the courtroom for the judge's
decision on the admissibility of her testimony.  On the table where
O'Shields was seated were the graphic photos depicting the mutilation
of Steven Hefferman.  Someone had inadvertently placed the
poster-sized photos in the witness room.  O'Shields was sickened by
the sight.  She did not know how Ricky, the sweetest of the Green
children, could possibly have committed such a grotesque act.  Bill
caused this, O'Shields thought.

"Now what we are offering here," David Bays addressed the court in an
effort to admit O'Shields's testimony, "we believe pertains directly
to the defendant's background and how he was raised, because when the
jury -- if the jury is allowed to see the pictures we want to paint,
they are going to see a family headed by Bill Green, who will become
more and more to resemble Freddie Krueger."

"Resemble what?"Judge Drago interrupted.

"Freddie Krueger," Bays repeated.

"That case wasn't in Tarrant County, Your Honor," Suzie Johnson said,
tongue-in-cheek.

"I think that is another fictional account," Assistant D.A.  Levy
added cuttingly.

"Let's take about a ten-minute recess and let me think about it,"
Judge Drago announced, striking his gavel on the bench.

Outside the courtroom, the drama of Ricky Green's trial escalated.
Feuding members of the Green family shouted allegations at one
another and traded threats.

The family confrontations centered around Bill Green -- which members
supported the allegations made against him during the trial and which
members did not.

"I think they're being disloyal," Dona Carroll, a niece of Green's
said, referring to numerous relatives scheduled to testify.  Her
animosity carried over into the courtroom.

"All right.  Let's have order in this court," Judge Drago demanded.
"Young lady, what is your name?"

"Dona Carroll."

"If I see you or hear about you doing anything to any of the
witnesses in this case...you just keep quiet and sit still," Drago
demanded.

"I didn't do --"

"I said keep quiet.  If I see any facial expressions, which I have
seen a great deal of already this morning, any mugging or reacting to
the witnesses' testimony, you are going to see what six months in
Travis County Jail looks like.  Do you understand?"  Drago threatened.

"Yes, Sir," Carroll replied sarcastically.

"Bring in the defendant," Drago ordered.

Judge Drago denied the introduction of Ann O'Shields's testimony
concerning her relationship with Bill Green, however, she was allowed
to report observations she had personally made of Ricky and his
father.

"I witnessed Bill Green kick Ricky, hit him with his fist, and knock
him down," she said.  "He would make fun of Ricky's eye.  He called
him Ole' One-Eye, or One-Eyed Jack in front of people.  You could
tell it hurt Ricky's feelings," O'Shields said sympathetically.

Yeah, it did hurt, Ricky reflected.  The words hurt more than the
whippings.

Ricky's uncle, Tommy Green, also appeared on behalf of his nephew
under condemnation of relatives siding with his brother, Bill.

"First of all, what kind of person is Bill Green?"Johnson asked Tommy
outside the presence of the jury.

"He is a manipulative person.  He could talk the Devil into giving
him whatever he had.  In other words, if God had a son, Jesus Christ,
the Devil has a son also; that is Bill Green," Green said in
characterizing his brother.

"Do you have a relationship with Bill right now?"John son asked.

"As long as it is way apart and I have my pistol, that is the
relationship."

Ricky chuckled under his breath at his uncle's statement.  He always
liked his uncle.  Tommy had taken up for him against his father on
numerous occasions.  Yeah.  Uncle Tommy's a good guy.

In the presence of the jury, Johnson restated her question to Tommy
Green concerning his brother's character.

"Well, he is kinda like a backstabber, you wouldn't want to stand
behind him.  But also at the same time, he could be kissing you at
the front.  This is the type of person Bill Green is," Tommy said.

Ricky smiled gratefully at his uncle as he stepped down from the
witness stand.  I hope he made the jury understand what a
son-of-a-bitch Bill Green is.

Ricky's smile instantly turned to a frown of sorrow as he watched his
older brother, Perry, led into the courtroom by armed deputies.
Dressed in the distinctive prison garb of the Coffield prison unit
where he was serving a thirty-year sentence for delivery of drugs,
Perry appeared thinner than Ricky remembered him.

As soon as Perry sat in the witness chair, he and Ricky made eye
contact.  A spark of affection glimmered between the brothers.

How sad, Ricky thought.  I feel sorry for him having to be brought to
court with guards.  That's humiliating.  They could have let him wear
regular street clothes.  Surie said she'd get him some.  Damn
prosecutors said no.  They want him to look as bad as possible.

Thirty-one-year-old Perry Green's testimony about the pleasure Bill
Green took in inflicting pain on his children on a nearly daily basis
with electric shocks, punches in the stomach, or holding them
underwater until they went limp and nearly drowned, drew hushed moans
from the audience.

"He enjoyed this stuff," Perry said softly, "He didn't use that for
punishment.  That was just for fun."

"What other types of things did your daddy do to you and
Ricky?"Johnson asked.

"He used to tell Ricky all the time -- he never did much to me, but
he used to tell Ricky that he wasn't his kid, that he was the
milkman's kid, stuff like that, and called him bitch or whore.  He
called us names like that all the time around other people.  He
didn't around our kinfolks.  It was kind of degrading," Perry said,
lowering his voice as he looked at the jury.

Johnson paused before her next question.  "Did he ever do anything
involving electricity?"

"Yeah, he had a crank telephone.  It is a device that's got two wires
coming out of it and it generates electricity; what a lot of people
use for illegal fishing.  They put two lead weights and tie it to the
end of each wire and stick it down in the water and they crank it and
it shocks the water and all the fish will float to the top and they
get a net and get the fish out.

"Daddy would make us hold onto those lead weights while he cranked
the deal, shocking us.

"It hurt.  You couldn't hardly turn loose of it, it shocked so much.
Sometimes you'd turn loose of it before he got it going real good and
then he would get mad and slap the shit out of us."

"What other things did he do for enjoyment as opposed to punishment?"

Perry waited momentarily to answer.  "After Timmy was born and Timmy
was three, four; five years old, some where along in there, Daddy
would make Timmy bite us on the cheek, and he called it a Daddy kiss,
and thought it was funny.  Timmy would bite us on the cheek or our
nose.  Daddy would say, give Ricky a Daddy kiss, and he would.  Ricky
would have to sit there and take it," Perry said, looking into
Johnson's eyes.

"Was he beating your mother up, too?  Give me an example."

"Like if we were eating at the supper table, and he would get onto
one of us kids for not eating right or something, he would stab us
with a fork and then Mama would say something to him and he would
backhand Mama.  And then she would walk off from the table and they
would go in the bedroom and fight," Perry said sadly.

"Did you ever hear any unusual noises coming from your parents'
bedroom?"

"Yeah.  I heard Daddy beating up on Mama a lot," Perry said sadly.

"How did you feel at home hearing your dad's car drive up?"

"I felt fear.  Very scared."  Perry's body trembled slightly.

"Did your daddy ever give Ricky alcohol when Ricky was a little boy?"
Johnson asked, moving quickly to make hernextpoint.

"Yeah.  Whenever we drank alcohol, we both drank it."

"Do you remember how old Ricky was the first time that you saw Bill
Green give him alcohol?"

"He was pretty young.  Under ten."

"Do you know if Ricky ever played sports in school?"

"He wasn't allowed to play any kind of sports."

"Do you know if Ricky ever attempted to play sports in school?"

"Yeah, we both joined the football teams, track teams, but my dad
stopped it, told us that we couldn't play."

"Did you ever have school friends come over to the house?"

"Never!"  Perry said angrily.

"When you boys got to be in your early twenties, you still stayed
around your daddy?"

"Yeah."

"You worked with him?"

"Yeah, we felt like we couldn't make it without him, he made me feel
that way.  He put it in my head, he told me all the time, you can't
make it out there without me and all this.  I've never worked for
anybody else except my dad."

On cross-examination Perry said he had not run around with his
brother after his release from prison in 1983 on a burglary
conviction because Ricky seemed to have a drinking problem.

Perry was excused.  Leaving the witness box, escorted by the armed
deputies, Perry glanced at Ricky for an instant.

He didn't know if his testimony had helped his brother or not.  He
told the truth about their father.  Perry could only hope that he had
made a difference in the attempt to save Ricky's life.

Testimony was recessed for the day.  Ricky was tired.  It had been
emotionally draining to relive his cursed child hood.  He lay on the
squeaky bunk of his jail cell and reflected on the day's events.  The
Green children had never been close, thanks to their father; but
Ricky loved Theresa and Perry more now than ever before.

Ricky slept soundly through the night, rising at 5 A.M.  for
breakfast before another day in court.

As testimony began at 9 A.M.  on September 20, jurors heard
conflicting testimony about the effect child abuse might have had on
Ricky.

Testifying for the prosecution, psychologist George Parker quoted
from an interview he conducted with Ricky Green in jail.  "I killed
Mr. Hefferman because he was a homosexual and he deserved it.  A
homosexual hurt me when I was a kid."

Parker commented, "This is, in my view, a very deliberate kind of
behavior that cannot be dismissed as the product of child abuse."
Parker added that there was virtually no hope of successful clinical
treatment for Green's abnormal sexual behavior.  He cited Ricky as an
antisocial personality with a history of substance abuse, but stated
that he found no significant central nervous system problem.

The psychologist concluded that he considered Ricky to be very
dangerous, in or out of prison, and because of his dislike for
homosexuals he might try to hurt them or kill them while incarcerated.

The prosecution questioned their second expert wit ness, Jeff Ezell,
concerning his opinion on the defense's allegations that child abuse
could have prompted Ricky's destructive behavior.

"I don't think that explains this behavior at all," Ezell said.
"There is no direct link between abuse and later criminal activity."

The defense countered with Dallas psychologist Randall Price, who
testified that Ricky suffered from organic brain dysfunction,
possibly caused by blows to the head during childhood abuse.  The
condition can produce impaired judgment, but does not preclude the
person from being legally sane, Price explained.

"It affects thinking -- especially thought that involves language and
the ability to think in symbols, to reflect on their own activity.
It would affect their judgment and decision processes, and affect
their ability to monitor and control their own behavior.

"The pattern that I see in the test results is consistent with
chronic abuse of alcohol.  It is also consistent with some type of
head trauma," Price said.

The witness added that he considered Ricky to be dangerous and a
continuing threat to society.  "His behavior can be controlled and
managed, but the treatment potential is low," Price said.

Life in prison is the best that I can hope for, Ricky thought.

In the presentation of dueling psychologists, the defense's last
witness was James McCabe, who, without examining Ricky, concluded
that his behavior could have been produced by child abuse.

As Ricky watched the procession of shrinks, he was growing
increasingly depressed.  I don't like them talkin' about me like
that.  I've never talked to some of them guys.  what do they know?

Following a brief lunch recess, the prosecution presented the last of
the witnesses in an effort to help them gain a death sentence.  Among
those called was Robert K.  Ressler; a retired twenty-year veteran of
the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who had played a major part in
the development of the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit, and in
establishing the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crimes.

Ressler described Ricky as an organized, sexually sadistic murderer.

"I feel he is very dangerous, and will continue to be dangerous,"
Ressler said.

It was time for final arguments.  Prosecutors and defense attorneys
had presented their evidence to the jury.  It was time for each
side's final appeal -- one asking for life; one asking for death.

The following morning, Ricky rose early, ate a breakfast of pancakes
and cereal, and dressed in the clothes provided by Johnson for his
final day in court.  I'm glad this is almost over: All I wanted to do
was die until Suzie made me want to live.

"Is the prosecution ready?"  Judge Drago asked.

"Yes, Your Honor."

Ms.  Moore began the prosecution's arguments on punishment.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.  This matter is soon to pass into
your hands.  I suppose at this point it has be come obvious to you
why we sat across this table and warned you to expect us to be asking
you for the death penalty.  We knew then what you know now, and I
submit it would have been irresponsible for the state of Texas not to
seek the death penalty in this case.  The responsibilities for making
the determination, the final determination, is going to be yours.

"The ultimate issue is whether Ricky Lee Green is going to be
executed for what he has done," Moore said.

"Let's go back now to what you know about the death of Steven Lee
Hefferman.  Was the conduct of the defendant committed deliberately?

"We introduced some pictures.  You know that the defendant went and
obtained knives in advance of the killing and placed them around Mr.
Hefferman's residence so that he could use them.  You know that the
victim was beaten badly before he died.  You know that the victim was
bound in advance of killing because of congestion of blood on his
hands.  You know that two life-threatening wounds were inflicted on
that man, the first of which would not have resulted in the immediate
death of the victim.  But he didn't quit there."

Ricky sat at the defense table void of expression.  The prosecution
is setting me upfor the kill.

"Now you know something else," Ms. Moore continued.  "Ricky Lee
Green, by the time that he killed Steven Hefferman, is experienced.
He knows exactly what a knife can do to the human body, he knows how
long it takes, because he has practiced three other times.

"The second question, submitted to you now, is: Is this man a danger?
Is there a probability that he will go on to commit future acts of
violence?

"We showed you some other offenses, the rather ominous behavior
toward little Connie McKeever.  Stalking, harassing her.  You met the
two young men who were assaulted by Ricky Lee Green," Ms. Moore said.

"Little" Connie McKeever exaggerated about them phone calls and I
don't even remember the incident the two guys talked about.  The
state is settin' me up, Ricky thought.

"But you know a whole lot more than that," Moore continued her
arguments.  "You know there are three other brutal, vicious, alarming
murders.  All of which were committed by Ricky Lee Green.

"This man is a danger; and your common sense ought to tell you that.
How many people do you kill before it is obvious that you can and
will kill?  And how many bodies are we going to spot him before we
are going to finally stop him?  Because it has to be stopped.  We
have to act to stop it," Moore said with conviction.

"This man will kill people who are strangers to him.  He is capable
of luring them into vulnerable positions, gaining their confidence,
and then inflicting upon them horrors that are, frankly, too painful
to comprehend, and I know that we have made you uncomfortable, I know
that we have assaulted you, and inflicted upon you things that you
didn't need to see.  But when we are faced with a clearly dangerous
individual, we have the right, responsibility and duty to act as
protectors of potential victims.

"You seldom get this kind of evidence on dangerous ness.  My God,
it's not even a close call.  The answer to the question is yes."
Moore paused for the jury to absorb her statements, then began to
challenge the defense's allegations of mitigating evidence.  "The
defense brought you the testimony of Ricky Lee Green's family.  I'm
not going to stand here and tell you that Ricky Lee Green was not
abused in any way, shape, or form.  In fact, I submit to you that
there is no way on earth we can know at this point in time what
happened to Ricky Lee Green and his siblings in their childhood.  But
I am willing to assume something not too good," Moore said softly.

"Would you speak up, Ms. Moore?  I am having trouble hearing," Judge
Drago said.

"We are not calling upon you to make a decision about executing Ricky
Lee Green on the basis of sentimentality or emotional reaction,"
Moore continued.  "The defense's own expert told you that victims of
abuse turn out lots of different ways.  They can be anything from a
workaholic, to depressed, to a criminal.

"Well, I submit to you, being an abused child does not a serial
killer make.

"Ms.  Johnson will tell you that the defendant was acting out a lot
of terrible things that were done to him.  And I could not quarrel
with that.  But he chooses to act them out -- on strangers, he
chooses to act them out in a premeditated and calculating way.  And
he must be stopped," Moore added with emphasis.

The prosecution had fired the first shots in an attempt to obtain a
death sentence for Ricky Green.  It was the defense's turn to present
their arguments.  Under the rules of the court, prosecutors would be
given an opportunity to rebut before the jury would be charged.

Suzie Johnson addressed the jury.

"You have been exposed to horror that you never probably even thought
about.  You have looked at pictures and heard about autopsies and
crime that you see on television, or that you may see when you go to
the movies, or read in magazines.  This is not something that you
have direct contact with in your daily life.  It has been shocking.
It has been disgusting.  It has been depraved.  And I agree with Ms.
Moore, we apologize for having to do that.  But it had to be done.
This case had to be tried.

"Stuff like this does occur in the movies and in books.  But we are
talking about the real death penalty.  This is not an abstract theory
of execution.  This is real.  We are talking about that boy at the
end of the table over there, whether the government ought to kill
him.  That's the question here," Johnson said, pointing to
twenty-nine-year-old Ricky.

"You have heard testimony about probably the most pervasive child
abuse that you could ever imagine," Johnson said.  She reminded the
jurors about the Green children's lonely upbringing with little
access to family and no exposure to friends.

Johnson turned her attention to the testimony of Teresa Green Baker.
"I don't think that I have seen a person that is more hurt or has
more problems than Teresa Green.  Her daddy did that to her, Bill
Green did that to her, Ricky Green's daddy.  The fear that he has
instilled in that girl, we don't know whether that will ever go away.
The woman is thirty-three years old and she sat up there and she was
like a frightened rabbit.  I barely asked her her name when she
started to break down.  That fear came from Bill Green.  That fear
came from their daddy.

"They are all terrified of Bill Green.  I have never seen a person
like Bill Green before," Johnson said with a trembling voice.

Ricky's breath became shallow.  He was no longer sitting in a
courtroom in Austin, Texas: he was underwater, fighting for his life
against the hand of Bill Green.

Johnson's forceful words brought him back to the trial.

"Child abuse does not happen in public.

"We don't know why these people don't leave.  They have some type of
sick, perverse bonding with the abusers.  It goes back to the fear
that is instilled in these people, in these children,"Johnson
explained.

It was more than fear, Ricky thought.  We were terrified of Bill
Green.  Even now, I wonder if he can get to me.

"We are not talking about him being abused as he is today.  What we
are talking about, ladies and gentlemen, is this little boy right
here,"Johnson said, holding up a photo of six-year-old Ricky Green.
"Got his little bow tie on, little dark suit, little white shirt on,
little smiling face, little crew cut.  That is a cute little boy.
That is a cute, innocent little boy.  And what happened to that cute,
innocent little boy?

"Now he is sitting in this courtroom," Johnson said looking at a
somber Ricky Green.

Johnson recapped the childhood abuses endured by the Green children
while jurors shifted uneasily in their chairs.  "There was a lot of
testimony that Mr. Green has an alcohol problem.  Well, I guess so,"
Johnson snapped.

"Little nine-year-old boy, here, just have all the alcohol you want.
Been drinking since nine, ten years old.  Do you think that might
cause an abuse problem of some sort, a substance abuse?"

"I will say one thing, other than being creative, Bill Green was very
clever; very careful.  You don't leave marks on children by making
them stand for hours on their tip toes.  You don't leave marks that
people can see by beating a little kid on the bottom of his feet.
Those don't leave marks.  You don't leave marks by being punched in
the stomach.  Electric shocks don't leave marks.  Making a child eat
his own vomit, that doesn't leave a mark.  Psychological mark, I'm
sure, but doesn't leave a physical mark."

Johnson's emotional plea was receiving expressionless stares from
jurors.

Johnson's voice softened.  "I am not trying to tell you that every
abused child commits murder.  My own expert witnesses told you that.
But a little over twenty-three percent of convicted murderers have a
history of child abuse.  What do you think that says about our
society?  Think that says that maybe we ought to do a little more
something about child abuse?"  Johnson challenged the jury.

After allowing the jury to reflect a moment on her comments, Johnson
began a lengthy explanation of how the Texas Department of Criminal
Justice segregates prisoners to ensure that no harm comes to inmates
from others who carry with them severe prejudice.  She desperately
wanted jurors to believe that Ricky Green deserved to live his
remaining years in the confines of a Texas prison.

"Some people who can't function on the outside can function in an
institution,'Johnson said.  "I submit to you that Ricky is one of
those people."

"You are here today to decide whether to kill -- whether the
government should execute Ricky Lee Green.  Is that going to solve
anything?  Is that going to do anything other than add another victim
to this list?  Because that is what he would be.  He would be another
victim.  He has been a victim all of his life,"Johnson said with
sadness in her eyes.

"You have ten minutes, Ms. Johnson," the judge said.

"Ten minutes, Ms. Johnson," Johnson repeated the words.  "What can I
possibly say to you in ten minutes?  Perhaps if I had ten hours or
ten weeks.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you have to look at all the circumstances
here.  You have to look at the fact that Ricky probably would have
been better off being raised by a pack of wolves than Bill Green.
You have a child that grew up in a depraved, pervasive child abusive
situation.  You have a child that grew up seeing the world
differently than any other child.  That person, this person right
here, does not deserve to die.  Life imprisonment?  Perhaps.  Lock
him up away from society?  Keep him from going around cruising?
Perhaps.

"But this little boy was destroyed by Bill Green.  How do we know
that there is not perhaps a little piece of that little boy left?
Are you going to kill all of this little boy?"Johnson asked, staring
at her client.

"Bill Green is not on trial here.  But he darn well should be.  Bill
Green at least should be sitting at the other end of that table.
Because I want to tell you something, Bill Green killed those
victims.  And now, Bill Green is going to kill Ricky.

"Death is final.  There is no room for error in this decision."
Johnson's impassioned plea for Ricky's life was over.

There was nothing more that she could do for the client she had
become so fond of.  It was up to the six men and six women who had
spent the past few weeks reviewing the evidence and listening to the
witnesses.  Johnson wished the rules of order disallowed rebuttal.
The state had another shot to fire before the jury was charged with
the awesome responsibility of determining Ricky's fate.

Marc Barta was the first assistant district attorney to address the
court following Johnson's presentation.

"Does he pose a danger to society?"  Barta asked.

"Mr.  Ressler told you that the man sitting at the end of the table
is the most dangerous kind of serial killer that there is.

"Ms.  Johnson asked you to imagine what it was like to be locked in a
closet with your father scratching on the door when you were a little
boy.  Isn't it more appropriate in making your decision to imagine
Jeff Davis, a sixteen year-old boy?

"If you want to talk about child abuse, let's talk about the abuse
that in the course of a single afternoon, that man heaped on this one
boy," Barta said, pointing directly to Ricky.

"If you want to talk about abusing a child, remember that during the
torture and the killing of Betty Jo Monroe there in that trailer
house with Ricky Lee Green was a five year-old child, Sarah.

"What in the background, what in the history that you have heard
about, mitigates against the things that Ricky Lee Green did to her?

"What in his background mitigates against him being the one to decide
that the Sandra Baileys of this world have to die?

"And finally," Barta said, stroking his salt and pepper beard,
"Steven Hefferman, bound to the bed, suffering a wound to the back,
lying there while the blood is flowing out and lowering his blood
pressure and then having his throat slit.

"What mitigates and gives Ricky Lee Green the right to do that?"

The state had one final round left in their arsenal: Assistant
District Attorney Alan Levy.

"Now the defense tells you that it is Bill Green's fault.  That Bill
Green killed those victims.

"This, I tell you, is almost beyond belief.  Because the indictment
and the evidence all read Ricky Green.  Bill Green is not on trial,"
Levy said strongly.

"Ricky Green did not pick the most prominent citizens to kill, he
didn't pick the most powerful citizens to kill, or the most beloved.

"He picked a woman that was a hitchhiker and had no friends.  He
picked a woman that was retarded and had no sense.  He picked a child
who had no strength.  And he picked a vulnerable homosexual who was
gullible and believed him when he said that he wanted to go home with
him.  He picked the weak and the deserted.  The abandoned," Levy
said, describing Green's victims.

"Give us your verdict of yes, not because you want to.  I know you
don't want to.  And I know it's hard for you to believe that people
like this exist.  But they do.  And they will exist as long as they
are tolerated," Levy said in asking the jury for Ricky Green's death.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, you will now retire to the jury
room to begin your deliberations," Judge Drago said.

Ricky, waiting nervously with his attorneys, was lighting his third
cigarette when the bailiff informed them that the jury was ready.
Thirty-five minutes after deliberations began, a verdict had been
reached.

That sure was quick.  Are they gonna let me live, or are they going
to kill me?

Johnson, Bays, and Ricky filed back into the court room.  Ricky, who
had restrained his emotions throughout the trial, was filled with
faltering hope.

"All right.  I have received a note from the foreperson," Judge Drago
announced.

"State ready for the verdict?"  Drago asked.

"State is ready," Barta said.

"Defense ready?"  Drago asked.

"Yes, sir," Johnson said nervously.

"Let the defendant stand."

Ricky Green locked hardened stares with Judge Drago.

"Special issue number one," the judge boomed, reading from the jury's
charge.  "Do you find from the evidence beyond a reasonable doubt
that the conduct of the defendant that caused the death of the
deceased was committed deliberately and with the reasonable
expectation that the death of the deceased or another would result?
Answer: Yes.

"Special issue number two: Do you find from the evidence beyond a
reasonable doubt that there is a probability that the defendant would
commit criminal acts of violence that would constitute a continuing
threat to society?  Answer: Yes."

Ricky's head lowered slightly, his eyes moving from Judge Drago's to
the dusty floor.  Death.  I'm gonna die.  That's what I wanted, until
Suzie and Bays gave me hope of living.

"May we have a poll, Your Honor?"  David Bays re quested.

Judge Drago called each name of the jury panel, asking if they
concurred with the verdict that was read aloud.

Ricky sat down at the defense table, watching dispassionately as each
juror reiterated their consensus.

"Let the defendant stand," Drago said after the last of the jurors
answered yes.

"The jury having answered special issue number one and special issue
number two, and upon the answer to both issues being yes, it being
mandatory the punishment be assessed at death, the court hereby now
assesses your punishment at death by lethal injection," Drago said.

Ricky stood passively as the judge continued.  Ricky barely heard
that he would be put to death before the hour of sunrise on a date to
be determined by the court.  "In Huntsville," Ricky heard Drago say.

I'm going to Huntsville.  I'm going to Death Row.  I hope they give
me a date soon.  I'm ready to die.

"Your prisoner, gentlemen," Drago said to the waiting deputies after
reading the death sentence.  Ricky was immediately seized by two
uniformed officers who escorted him from the courtroom.  His feet
shackled, Ricky waddled past the jury box without looking up or
making eye contact with jurors.  I wonder if they're taking me
straight to Huntsville.

Once Judge Drago thanked the jury for their service during the
difficult two-week trial, a barrage of re porters began questioning
defense attorneys, prosecutors, and jurors alike.

"He's a sadistic killer," juror Clarence Goins said.

"You can't ever say an individual like that will ever cease to be a
threat to society.  I have a difficult time dealing with the child
abuse thing.  I don't think it played a role in it whatsoever."
Goins added that the panel only briefly considered Ricky's childhood
during deliberations.

"The pictures of Hefferman's body didn't get to me as much as they
did once I got home and I had those thoughts to myself," Goins said.
"That was when it really started to sink in, as far as what happened
-- a sense of man's inhumanity to man.  Those are things that are
just hard to deal with when you're alone."

Lead prosecutor, Assistant District Attorney Alan Levy told reporters
that the jury's job was made easier by extensive evidence that there
was no firm connection between Ricky's abuse and his criminal conduct.

"It wasn't necessarily a job of brilliant lawyering.  The fact that
there were four corpses was a big help," Levy said.  "We did what we
were supposed to do."

While prosecutors were celebrating the victory, attorney David Bays
reflected the frustration felt by the defense.

"I can't say that I'm surprised with the verdict.  It's pretty clear
he acted deliberately and he is dangerous.  But Ricky was a human
bonsai tree.  Every time he tried to grow, his father kept bending
him," Bays said, describing his client.

"That wasn't a trial, that was a morality play.  Ricky Lee Green --
granted, he's an extreme example -- is a product of what can happen
when child abuse goes unchecked," Bays added.

"Juror Goins commented that the jury was wondering what happened
between the end of 1985 when Hefferman was killed and 1989 when he
was arrested.  Alan Levy said Green might be responsible for ten more
slayings.  Any comment?"  a Fort Worth reporter asked Bays.

"I am aware of one similar killing investigators suspect Green of
committing -- the death of Wendy Robinson of Weatherford," Bays said
before retreating from the courtroom.

Hefferman's family, attending the painful trial that included grisly
testimony, graphic photographs, and Ricky's own confession, fought
back tears after the verdict was announced.

"We feel most strongly that this punishment will protect innocent
victims, like Steven, from this vicious serial murderer," Hefferman's
sister said.  "Nothing will bring Steven back, but we at least have
this verdict for some peace of mind."

The state and the Hefferman family had the conviction and penalty
they desired.  Ricky Green would die for his actions.

Ricky changed from the sports coat and slacks he had worn during his
trial to the orange jumpsuit and thong sandals of prison.  Melancholy
he sat on the edge of his bunk.

September 21, 1990, the day they decided I would die.  Yesterday was
my fuckin' wedding anniversary.  Happy Anniversary, Sharon.  I hope
you're satisfied.

Ricky spent the next two weeks reading and writing letters to
relatives while he waited to be transferred to the Ellis I Unit of
the Texas Department of Criminal Justice in Huntsville, Texas.  He
wanted to thank Teresa and his Aunt Ann for their support during his
trial.

In the tank next to Ricky's isolated cell, his brother Perry was
being held until transported back to Coffield prison.  Timmy, their
younger brother, was also being held at the jail.  While his brothers
were in close proximity, Ricky had no contact with them.  But Perry
and Timmy's presence gave Ricky a sense of peace and comfort.  Timmy
had not testified at Ricky's trial, but had been transferred from
Tarrant County in the event he would be called.  Timmy faced charges
of attempted murder from a July 1989 incident when he stabbed a
pregnant teenager, resulting in the death of her unborn fetus.

"Come on, Green," the jailer yelled to Ricky.  "They're gonna let you
talk to your brothers."

A smile crossed Ricky's lips for the first time in weeks.

Ricky sat on one side of the cubicle, holding a telephone receiver
in his right hand.  Facing him on the other side of the thick glass
partition were Perry and Timmy, a receiver positioned between them.

The visit lasted no more than five minutes.  "I love you, Ricky,"
Perry said.

The unanticipated statement took Ricky by surprise.  Only one other
time in his twenty-nine years had Perry ever told Ricky he loved him.
He said he loved me when I was fifteen, Ricky thought.  I had just
come back from Kansas after running away.

"I love you, too," Timmy chimed in.

"I love ya'll," Ricky said, fighting back tears.

The conversation was over.

Ricky saw Perry again a few days later.  Guards had been instructed
not to let the Greens recreate in the jail gym at the same time, but
a mistake was made and Ricky and Perry found themselves united.

"Ricky, I don't understand why you wouldn't sell dope, but you'd kill
people," Perry said with confusion in his voice.

"I was too scared to sell dope," Ricky said with sincerity.

Perry just shook his head.

"The more I drank, the more I killed.  The more I killed, the more I
drank," Ricky said sadly.

Two weeks later, on October 5, 1990, Ricky Green was taken to
Huntsville.  There he would wait on Death Row for his day of
execution.  The white van, secured with wire on each of the windows,
rolled down the back roads of central Texas, past rolling pastures
with cows grazing on green grass.  Bright yellow-, orange-, and
red-leafed trees lined the roadways, mixed with the greenery of tall
Texas pines.  Pine needles carpeted the pavement.

The first Texas state penitentiary had been established in 1849 amid
the wooded, peaceful settlement of Huntsville.  The town possessed
the charm of the Old South combined with the assertive individualism
of the Western frontier.  That first prison expanded and additional
units were added across the state to include thirty-six facilities
housing more than fifty thousand inmates and employing more than
twenty thousand workers.

Driven through the red-bricked entrance, adorned with colorful pink
crepe myrtles and bright yellow marigds mixed with white periwinkles,
Ricky felt the heavy weight of doom wrap around him.  Past the picnic
area to the west and employee housing to the east, the bus traveled
beyond the guard towers and into the cyclone fenced prison yard.
Ricky's depression mingled with fear.

Until then, he had been isolated from the general prison population.
He had been placed in single cells with little or no contact with
other inmates.  He was suddenly afraid.

Ricky, like all new prisoners who arrived on Death Row, was placed in
lock down.  He had to wear hand cuffs wherever he went.  His
activities were restricted, and during visitations, if any, he was
confined to a four-foot-by-four-foot cage inside the larger secured
visitation room.

Ricky's greatest fear was realized during his firSt week at Ellis I.
"Who's that?"  an inmate asked the guard escorting Ricky from the
dayroom back to his cell.  The "new boot," a nickname given to
inexperienced guards, quickly answered, "Green.  He killed his lover."

"He killed his lover?"  the inmate asked loudly.

Ricky's shoulders sank and his head dropped downward.  My God, did
that son-of-a-bitch have to say I killed my lover?  These homos in
here are gonna use me, hurt me.

Ricky's body began to tremble.  I'd like to get a hold of that guard,
the stupid SOB.

Ricky stood in his bleak cell, considering cancelling the
state-mandated appeal of his sentence.  He was ready to die.  Life in
the confines of his eight-by-ten foot cell was intolerable.  He
longed to roam the back roads of North Texas as he had done for at
least four teen of his twenty-nine years.

Standing nearby an open window on the cell block, Ricky breathed in
the fresh country air.  Hogs.  I smell hogs.  Ricky closed his eyes
and remembered the days of his youth, he and Perry slopping the hogs
on Grandpa Green's farm.  Tears rolled down his cheeks as he opened
his eyes to the reality of Death Row.

Yeah.  I'm gonna write Suzie Johnson and tell her to cancel my
appeals.  I want out of here.  I want to die.


Afterword

"Do you know who that man over there is?"  Ricky asked on my first
visit to Huntsville.

"No," I said.

"That's Henry Lee," Ricky said, smiling.

Henry Lee Lucas was one of Texas's most notorious serial killers.
Lucas, who once confessed to as many as three hundred fifty murders,
now claimed the only person he ever killed was his mama.  Lucas
served ten years in a Michigan prison for her slaying.  His death
sentence was imposed for the murder of his fifteen-year-old
common-law wife, Becky Powell.

"We work together in the clothing factory," Ricky said.

The Ellis I clothing factory dates back to the Civil War when inmates
stitched uniforms for the Rebel army.

"Henry Lee sews the sheets and I fold and stack them," Ricky said
with a grin.  "I'm always sayin', 'Henry Lee, you'd better slow
down.' He says he's trying to get them out as fast as he can, but I
tell him to slow it down."

The lives of Henry Lee Lucas and Ricky Lee Green, both convicted
Texas serial killers, parallel incredibly.

Henry Lee and Ricky Lee were the victims of severe child abuse by a
dictative parent beginning at age four.

Both men lost the vision in their left eyes in accidents involving
their brothers.  Lucas and Green were introduced to alcohol as
youngsters, and both were considered alcoholic by the time they had
reached their teens.

Both men had been accused of child molestation, but neither man was
ever convicted.  Both men had difficulty holding down a steady job
and spent many hours cruising the Texas highways where they
frequently picked up victims.  The knife was their weapon of choice,
and they each stabbed their victims repeatedly, cutting off the
nipples of the females and the genitalia of the men.

"Are you and Henry Lee friends?"  I asked.

"No," Ricky said dryly.  Perhaps each was leery of the other's
reputation for death and destruction.

Ricky Green had been on Death Row for ten months, only once leaving
the facility.

Three weeks before my visit, Texas Ranger Phil arrived at the Ellis I
Unit to pick up Ricky on a warrant.  Ryan was assigned the
responsibility of transporting Ricky back to Wise County for
sentencing in the murder of Sandra Lorraine Bailey.

"Ryan talked about my family, prison, and the Wise County
sentencing," Ricky told me.  "He wanted to know about some unsolved
murders he thought I did, but I told him I didn't know nothin' about
them."

Ricky had taken Suzie Johnson's advice seriously concerning
discussions of other possible homicides.

"Ryan is a pretty good guy," Ricky continued.  "He asked me if I'd
like to go by Mom's grave before going to the courthouse.  I said, 'I
sure would.'"

Ricky explained that was fifteen miles from their destination.  Ryan
pulled his car onto the narrow pathway that led to the back of the
Aurora Cemetery.  Ryan parked the car beside the grave of Lou Green.

"He opened the back door, and let me walk to the graves of my mother
and brother," Ricky said with tears in his eyes.  "I'm so glad she
couldn't see me.  I'm glad Mama didn't know nothin' about the
murders."

He recalled the sweet aroma of blooming roses hanging from the bush
planted next to his mother's grave and a soft breeze that gently
caressed the wind chimes in the tree overhead.

"I hung those chimes on the tree branch myself," Ricky said proudly.

The man known for unspeakable horror was obviously moved by the
recent visit to his mother's grave.  He showed me a poem he had
written.


MOM'S LOVE

When I was a child I went through so much
Born in this world with a tender touch.

My eyes open to see the one that carried me
She looked at me with her heart full of glee.

Mom cared for me with all her gentle Love
All with the help from God up above.

Thinking back to when I was that young child
Happy was I when Mom looked up and smiled.

Always smiling and thanking God from her heart
And asking every morning for a fresh start.

As the years went by there were some hard times
But that didn't stop all the nursery rhymes.

Mom's love was like a breath of fresh air
It was with kindness and she was always there.

What really hurt was when Mama passed away
But I thank God she's in heaven to stay.

All the love from Mom is totally gone
The memories of her is all I got to fall back on.

I suppose the memory just wasn't enough
Cause life for me got really tough.

I ended up on Texas' death row
Life here is even a harder row to hoe.
But I guarantee you I'm ready to go.

I have been forgiven from God up above
And soon I'll be with Mom and God's true love.

"You know, I'll see my mom and Tony in heaven.  I've accepted God and
I've even been baptized.  I'll see them again -- probably real soon."

I had read the news account and seen the front-page color photo of
the thirty-year-old Death Row inmate ascending the stone steps of the
Wise County courthouse in gray pants, wrinkled blue button-down
shirt, and a buzz-style haircut.

Ricky pleaded guilty to the November 24, 1985, killing of Sandra
Lorraine Bailey.  Visiting Judge David White of Denton, Texas, issued
a life sentence to be served in addition to the death sentence an
Austin jury returned against him.  Wise County District Attorney Pat
Morris had agreed to dismiss the murder charge of Betty Jo Monroe as
part of Green's plea bargain.

The following day Ricky appeared before the Fourth Criminal District
Court of Tarrant County to plead guilty in the fatal stabbing and
sexual mutilation of jeffery Davis.  He received a second life
sentence.  Then it was back to Ellis I where he would spend the
remainder of his life, however long that would be.

"I hate the hot, humid cell on Death Row," he complained to me.  "I
sweat at night.  I try to keep cool by sleeping with a wet towel on
my head and a six-inch fan blowing in my face."

The towel provided only limited relief from his misery, however.  It
was against the rules to keep towels in his cell, and he feared being
reprimanded.  And while his makeshift air conditioner did help cool
him off, it contributed to the sinus problems and habitual colds he
told me he suffered.

On my second visit to Ellis I, two months later and one year after
his initial incarceration, Ricky had been released from lock down and
had been moved to wing seventeen.  He now lived on the only Death Row
wing that housed two men per cell.  His isolation had ended: He had a
cellmate.  With the move also came increased mobility.  He now could
go to the exercise yard for longer periods and participate in group
sports.  The experiences of playing with teammates, withheld from him
in his youth, are now his greatest pleasure.  He plays volleyball,
basketball, and handball daily.  The camaradery he feels for his
fellow inmates is exhilarating.  He almost enjoys life.  For the
first time in a year, Ricky thinks about living.

"Life here is like living with my father.  It's no different.  The
only thing I don't like about this is I can't have no woman.  I'm
used to being told what to do and when to do it, because my dad's
always been that way with me, even when I was grown," Ricky said.

Ricky doesn't want to die after all.  He is taking his appeals
seriously.  He appears content to live the rest of his life behind
the wire fences and walls of prison.

Ricky has become involved with Amnesty International and the Lamp of
Hope Project, anti-death penalty organizations.

"Do you believe in the death penalty?"  Ricky asked me.

Hesitantly, I answered, "Yes?"  I feared my response would anger him,
but instead he began to explain his reasons for believing the death
penalty ineffective.

"You know, it has been proven that the death penalty is not a
deterrent to crime.  There are more than three-hundred fifty inmates
here on Death Row, and the number is growing fast," he began his
argument.  "Life with out parole could save the state millions of
dollars.  It costs something like two million dollars to carry out
the death sentence.  It would be cheaper to keep us alive."

"How do you explain the two million dollar figure?"  I asked.

"The appeals," he said.  "The legal costs of all them appeals.  They
can keep us in prison for forty years for two million dollars."

But Texas law does not currently allow for inmates of violent crimes
to be imprisoned for life without parole.  Public anxiety that
murderers would get out of prison and kill again keeps the death
sentence alive.

Ricky writes letters to newspapers opposing the death penalty, which
is law in thirty-six states.  He also writes to relatives and enjoys
the love of family he had never felt as a child.

Ricky's sister, Teresa, her husband, and two sons have visited a
couple of times, and his aunts from Arkansas see him on occasion.  He
is grateful for their sporadic visits and occasional letters but he's
lonely.  He misses Sharon.  "I still love her.  I don't know why, but
the love for Sharon will always be in my heart," he told me.

"Do you know that Sharon is going to appear on The Oprah Winfrey
Show?"  I asked.

"What?  Sharon?"  Ricky couldn't believe what he heard.

"Yes.  Are you going to watch?"

"Not just no, but hell no," Ricky said.  "That bitch better not say
anything that would hurt me in here."

Ricky couldn't bring himself to watch the Winfrey program televised
November 12, 1991.

"I asked one of the guards how Sharon looked on TV," he told me on my
next visit.  "He said she was fat.  Huge.  He asked if she was always
that fat.  She wasn't.  Sharon always worried about her weight, but
she was never huge.  In fact, at the end she looked great.  She had
lost a lot of weight when we were doin' drugs so heavy."

Ricky didn't want to watch Sharon on television, but he did want to
know what she said.  He asked me to send him a transcript of Sharon's
interview.

"You know what she said?"  he asked me angrily.  "She said she was in
the kitchen hearin' me kill Betty Jo, then she came in and I told her
I wanted her to stab her.  She claims she said, 'Please don't make me
do this,' and I said, 'You have to, Sharon.  That way I can say that
you helped me do it.' Then she claims I took her hand and put the
knife in it and stabbed Betty Jo with Sharon's hand.  Do you believe
she said that?  She was as much involved in the murder as I was,"
Ricky said with disgust in his voice.

Ricky was visibly shaken by Sharon's television appearance.

"You know what else?  She said I threatened to kill her and she was
afraid I'd kill Sarah.  She knows better than that.  I love Sarah,"
he said.

Ricky turned his face away.

"Lies, all lies," he said.  "Sharon got up there on national
television and lied through her teeth.  They must have paid her a lot
of money to do that.  If not, she did it to be in the spotlight.
Sharon always loved attention."

Ricky's anger subsided when he read the account of Sharon's
television appearance in the Fort Worth Star Telegram: "Green Recalls
Murders, Receives Little Sympathy on 'Oprah' Show."

"Sharon Green cried on television yesterday but elicited little
sympathy either from the audience or the host of 'The Oprah Winfrey
Show' as she described her part in helping her husband with the
slayings of two women," Amy Keen wrote.

Ricky was pleased that no one believed Sharon's lies about being
forced to kill Monroe and Bailey.

Ricky's second Christmas at Ellis rapidly approached.  Carefully he
selected a card from the prison store, and wrote a message inside for
Sharon.  "I wish you would stop inflicting pain into my heart by
continuing to lie," he wrote.  "Some day the state of Texas will
murder me.  I know where I'm going and I'm going to stand at the
heavenly gates with God and watch him turn you back and say, 'I know
you not' and cast you into the lake of fire."

Ricky was devastated by Sharon's betrayal.  But he still loved her.
He continued to write, "I still care for you and Sarah, and you will
always be with me in my heart."

He signed the card, "Ricky."

Ricky thought of his brothers more than usual during that Christmas
season.  Perry would soon be released after serving only three years
of a thirty-year sentence for delivery of a controlled substance.
Ricky hoped Perry had learned something while he was in prison.  He
knew that his brother had completed a two-year college business
course, but he was more concerned that Perry had learned how
important freedom was.

Ricky held little hope for his baby brother, Timmy.

Timmy was imprisoned for attempted murder less than five miles to the
west of Ellis I at the Ellis II Unit of the TDC.  Timmy seldom wrote.
"He believes Bill Green," Ricky said.  "He believes Bill Green when
he says he never did those horrible things to me.  Only because Bill
Green never abused Timmy."

Bill Green is in the state's Palestine, Texas, prison serving time on
drug charges.  He was also under federal indictment for operation of
a drug ring that spanned from Texas to Washington State.  Ricky has
received two letters from his father.  He has not responded.

"I pity him," Ricky told me when I asked about his father.  "I feel
sorry for him, but I don't ever want to talk to him or see him."

Ricky writes occasionally about life beyond the walls.

In the summer of 1992, the Los Angeles riots were on his mind.

"The Death Row work program is all locked down," he wrote.  "We went
Out to work yesterday and the big boss said that there was a rumor
that something was about to come down out in the garment factory (it
was the first I heard of anything like that).  All day long yesterday
they were taking inmates to the DR office and questioning them one at
a time.  Then about 6:30 yesterday evening they locked us down and
come in and pulled a major shakedown.  I suppose they were looking
for homemade shanks (knives).  Anyway, they finally finished around
10:00 last night with this wing and I believe today they are doing
the other three work program wings.  All this is happening because of
a rumor.  Rumors are the biggest problem in this place.  Personally,
I think it's behind the Rodney King deal.  I think the officials here
were afraid that riots and trouble would break out between races so
they started this rumor.  That's my theory.  What's yours?  Just
joking."  Signed, "Ricky."

Prison life is exasperating for Ricky.  Ordinary procedures became
complicated and frustrating.

"About three or four months ago the dentist put me on a list to go to
Ellis II to have my teeth, my wisdom teeth and the teeth in front of
them, plus one of my back top teeth cut out.  So last night the
officer asked me if I wanted to go to Ellis II.  I said yes cause I
knew what it was for.  He said don't eat or drink nothing.  So I
skipped breakfast.  So at 7:30 this morning they took me out to the
back gate and shackled me up good along with another Death Row inmate
and we took the short trip to Ellis II.  We got there around 8:00
A.M.  and they put me in a cell which was all cement and was very
well air conditioned and it was extremely cold in there.  There was
no bed (bunk) or no blanket so I had to freeze.  They had a TV in the
cell and I turned it to Country Music Videos on TNN.  I took a piss
and flushed the noisy stainless steel toilet and sat back down on the
cold cement bench and the toilet wouldn't stop flushing.  It was very
noisy and it was really beginning to annoy me.  I couldn't hear the
TV and I was freezing, listening to the water rush through the
toilet.  An hour later it was still flushing.  I started kicking it,
hitting it, and it still wouldn't stop.  By this time the videos were
over and a car race was on.  So here I was walking from one side of
the cell to the other glancing at the TV.  I could not hear and
listening and watching the water rush thru the toilet, and freezing
my butt off and hungry as all get out.  I was hoping they would come
and get me anytime to do the surgery.  But the time never came.  I
sat in that freezing, noisy cell until 11:30 A.M.  and they come and
shackled me back up and took me back to Ellis I and never let me know
nothing so now I'll probably get sick again because of that torture
trip to Ellis II.  Now what do you think about that?  I know the next
time they ask me if I want to go to Ellis II, I'm gonna say no."

Following the incident at Ellis II, Ricky toyed with the idea of
going back into lock down.  He had been at Ellis I for more than two
years and was still having trouble adjusting.

"These officers are always making up new rules," he complained.  "All
summer, until a couple of weeks ago, we were always allowed to go
from our cell to the day room only in our shorts and now certain
officers tell us we have to be totally dressed.  Then some officers
tell us we have to wear at least pants.  Others tell us we can go to
the dayroom with only our shorts, but we also must wear a shirt.  You
never know what to expect from one day to the next."  Ricky's
irritation was growing.

"These people don't want us to be settled down in any way," he
continued to gripe.  "They want to keep us in suspense and guessing
what they will come up with next."

The heat, the rules, and the confinement wear on Ricky.  He sees
prison as another "Big Daddy" ready to squelch his individuality.
Depression often overtakes him.

"My mind is under the disturbance of evil spirits," he said, while
suffering one of his bouts of depression.  "I'm constantly being
controlled by the devil."

But there are enjoyable times.  Ricky has made friends with many of
the inmates, sometimes buying their allegiance with cigarettes or
food from the prison commissary.  They in turn share their good
fortunes.

"Yesterday I smoked a good joint," he confided.  "I was sitting in
the exercise yard with some friends, they passed it to me.  It was
good stuff."  Ricky smiled with satisfaction.  "It made this place
more tolerable."

The pot had been smuggled into the prison by a trio of guards, who
ultimately were fired for their actions.

"In my last letter I told you that I heard a gunshot while I was out
walking," Ricky said in his November 1992 letter.  "Since then I have
found out what happened.  Three Death Row inmates attempted to
escape.  I heard that they went through the fence on Wing 23 rec
yard, then went over the other fence, then came across and went over
the first fence in front of the wing I'm on.  One of them made it
over the second fence and was cut pretty bad, the other two was
climbing the second fence when the guard in the far tower fired a
shot their way and they fell to the ground and froze and they were
captured.  The shot that was fired went into the garment factory.  We
had to stay racked up all night and I didn't even have to work."

"Dumb," Ricky said later.  "If I'd gotten that far I'd have just kept
on going.  They'd have to shoot me to stop me."

For a while Ricky enjoyed the freedom of wandering the wing as a
porter versus the confinement he experienced in the garment factory.
But Ricky, who is compulsively clean, was sickened by the disgusting
filth he was forced to deal with when he performed routine janitorial
duties.

The most repulsive chore was clearing away soiled towels from the
shower where fellow inmates would defecate in the open stalls, then
cover their feces with wet towels.  "Animals," Ricky said while
describing his new job.  "They act like animals."

Ricky continues to function in his restrictive surroundings, working
three and a half hours a day and playing sports.  He enjoys reading
-- murder mysteries are his favorite.  Ricky keeps up with hometown
news by subscribing to the Wise County Messenger, and occasionally
borrows a Fort Worth Star- telegram.  He declines his friends' offers
to share their pornographic magazines or photos of their nude
girlfriends.  All kinds of hard-core pornography are allowed, with
the exception of materials dealing with homosexuality.  But the
nudity and explicit sexual illustrations on the pages of the
magazines only frustrated Ricky further.

While Ricky was adapting to his surroundings, his case was under
review by the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals.  Danny Burns, a Fort
Worth criminal attorney had been appointed by the court to represent
Ricky during the appeal process.  Burns filed a motion that con
tended twenty-six points of error were committed during Ricky's trial.

The errors he cited included the fact that the evidence was deficient
in establishing that the murder was committed in the course of
attempting robbery.  Burns also asserted that instructions given by
the trial court during the punishment phase failed to allow the jury
to properly consider the mitigating evidence, in particular Ricky's
moral culpability.  The petition further contended that the court
erred by granting the state's challenge for cause during jury
selection based on jurors' views of the death penalty.

The appeal was submitted to the Criminal Court of Appeals on January
16, 1992.

Although Burns was handling Ricky's appeal, Suzie Johnson continued
to be in limited contact with her client until June 19, 1992.
Johnson requested to be re moved from representation based on her
acceptance of a position with the state of Texas.  She informed the
court that she had closed her private practice and was now working
for the state's special narcotics force.  The motion was granted.

On December 9, 1992, Justice Morris L.  Overstreet affirmed the
conviction of Ricky Lee Green.  Ricky was stunned when his cellmate
asked him about the affirmation of his case by the CCA.  He didn't
know what his cellmate was talking about.  No one had told him about
the court's decision.  "I was sick when I read about it in the
newspaper.  I'm scared, real scared.  My world has come to an end,"
Ricky said to me with tears filling his eyes.

Ricky's fear turned to anger.  "Why didn't anyone tell me sooner?
Why in the hell didn't Burns call?"

According to Ricky he hadn't heard from the Fort Worth attorney in
months.  He was uncertain if Burns would file an extension on his
behalf, so Ricky initiated the necessary paperwork through an inmate
well-versed in the law.

Briefly Ricky rode the edge of trouble.  When anyone spoke to him, he
became instantly annoyed.  The mood didn't last long.  He was soon
thinking positively and praying that Burns would do his job to help
him out.

"Pat, if Burns don't file the papers, I'll be dead before March of
'93," he said with panic in his voice.

March 19, 1993, guards escorted Ricky Green to the District Criminal
Court Number Four of Tarrant County to receive his date of execution.

The crisp, clean courtroom, located in the newly constructed Tarrant
County Criminal Justice building, was vacant of spectators.  Danny
Burns entered laughing, making a cross with his forearms to Assistant
District Attorneys Barta and Levy, who stood by the prosecution
table.  Burns's charcoal gray suit and plain white shirt contrasted
with his bright green tie.  He ran his fingers through his mussed
brown hair as he continued to joke with prosecutors.

Judge Joseph Drago assumed his position on the bench in front of the
Seal of the State of Texas hanging on the wall behind him.  Flanked
by the American flag on his left and the Texas flag on his right,
Drago motioned to the bailiff.

"Make sure Green is shackled before you bring him into my court," he
ordered.

Burns left the courtroom for a few minutes of consultations with his
client.  Ricky was upset with Burns.  He had been sitting in the jail
at Tarrant County for more than a week awaiting the order setting his
execution.  At no time during his week-long stay in the jail he
detested had Burns been to see him.  Now only moments before A
sentencing his attorney wanted to talk.

A young female bailiff appeared from the conference room at the front
of the courtroom.  Twirling her finger in a clockwise direction in an
attempt to speed up the proceeding, she said, "It's happy hour."

Several youthful attorneys from the District Attorney's Office were
seated at the back of the courtroom to observe their first Order of
Execution.  A voice from the crowd said, "There's free beer waiting."

Ricky Green, escorted by his attorney and a bailiff entered the
courtroom with head bowed.  His oversize blue-green jumpsuit hung
loosely from his body as his steps were shortened by the shackles
around his ankles.

"The state versus Ricky Lee Green," Drago stated.

"I move for a stay and delay in sentencing pending a Supreme Court
review," Burns stated.  "We ask for a delay in sentencing due to a
writ to be filed on or before April 28.  I will have it filed by
then."

"This case has been affirmed and reaffirmed," Drago said dryly.
"Request denied.  Stand up, Mr. Green."

"The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals having affirmed defendant's
conviction on December 9, 1992 and mandate having issued on February
24, 1993, from the court of Criminal Appeals, the court now enters
the following order:

"It is ordered that the defendant, Ricky Lee Green who has been
adjudged to be guilty of capital murder shall be kept in custody by
the director of the Institutional Division of the Texas Department of
Criminal Justice at Huntsville, Texas, until Friday, the fourth day
of June 1993, upon which day, at the Institutional Division of the
Texas Department of Criminal Justice at Huntsville, Texas, at some
hour before sunrise, in a room arranged for the purpose of execution,
the director, acting by and through the executioner designated by the
director as provided by law, is commanded to carry out this sentence
of death by intravenous injection of a substance or substances in a
lethal quantity sufficient to cause the death of Ricky Lee Green and
until Ricky Lee Green is dead."

Ricky nervously wiped the defense table with his right hand.  His
gaze wandered about the courtroom, avoiding Judge Drago as he read
his order.

As Ricky exited the courtroom with the bailiff and Burns, he glanced
to the back of the spectator area where I sat.  He grinned slightly,
then lowered his head as he was led away.

When we spoke by phone that evening, Ricky's voice reflected the
depression that overwhelmed him.  "June 4.  If Burns don't do
something I'm dead in six weeks.  He'll probably fuck me over.
People been doing that all my life and I'm tired of it," he said.

Ricky was put back in lock down upon his return to Death Row.  The
increased security was instituted for the protection of inmates who
had received their death dates and may try to harm themselves.  It
was also to protect fellow prisoners who may be the target of
uncontrollable anger that boiled within the death watch prisoners.
Death watch meant fewer privileges.  Ricky could no longer work and
was only allowed to recreate one hour per day.

"Ricky Lee Green receives stay of execution."

The Fort Worth Star- telegram headline brought a broad smile to the
face of Ricky Green.

HUNTSVILLE - US.  Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia granted a stay
of execution yesterday for a Texas Death Row inmate scheduled to die
June 4 for the sexual mutilation slaying of a Fort Worth man.

A brief order issued by Scalia said the enforcement of Green's
sentence "is stayed pending the disposition by this court" of a
formal appeal filed on the inmate's behalf.

"The stay will be lifted automatically if the full court turns down
the appeal," Scalia noted, "but will continue if review is granted."

Ricky felt a swell of relief.  It could take as long as two years
before the Supreme Court reviewed his case.

Two weeks later, the day before his previously scheduled execution,
Ricky sat in the wire cage of the visiting room across from me.

"You gotta help me," he said frantically.  "Last night they came and
took all my property.  They said I was still scheduled for execution
because the governor's office hasn't called the warden to officially
inform him of the stay.  They're gonna take me to the Walls Unit
where they kill us this afternoon."

Distressed, Ricky lit cigarette after cigarette.  "They know I got my
stay.  They're just playin' their mind games with me."

A guard knocked on the side of the cage about an hour into our visit.
"Green, we just got word from the governor's office.  You got your
stay.  When you finish your visit you can get your stuff and move
back on the regular wing."

Ricky closed his eyes to say a prayer of thanks.  Lifting his head he
said, "Those son-of-bitches, they do this to us on purpose."  His
tense body began to relax for the first time during the conversation.

InJune 1993, the Supreme Court denied a full review of Ricky Lee
Green's case.  A motion to postpone setting another execution date
was granted for a period of 120 days after Ricky requested the
removal of Danny Burns from his case.  He now relies on the Texas
Resource Center, a group that assists Death Row inmates with legal
motions, to intervene on his behalf.

Ricky Green occupies his time making beautiful clocks and jewelry
boxes for friends in the free world.  He works out regularly and
continues to participate in a number of recreational activities.
Although not required to work, Ricky spends three hours each day back
in the garment factory, making clothes for parolees.

Clothes that Ricky will never have an opportunity to wear.

"Pat, you know they say Death Row inmates can't be rehabilitated.  We
can.  I've been rehabilitated," Ricky said with conviction.

"How?"  I asked, aware that Death Row inmates were not offered
training, education, or psychological treatment as in other Texas
prison units.

"just being here.  I know I'm not the same person I was.  I know that
I wouldn't do those things again, as long as I stay away from
alcohol.  The alcohol done it," he said.

But can a serial killer change his pattern?  Law enforcement
officials don't think so.

Ricky is the subject of FBI schools conducted across the country
profiling serial killers.  Texas law enforcement agencies also use
his modus operandi and personality profile to teach officers how to
track serial killers.  They also encourage local police departments
to bring unsolved murder case files to these conferences in an effort
to find any connection between the victims and Green.

During my more than 150 hours of interviews with Ricky Green, I have
asked him repeatedly to discuss the murder of Wendy Robinson.  He has
regressed from vague innuendos of guilt to flat denials.

"I didn't kill her, Pat.  If I did I'd tell you, but I didn't," he
said.

The circumstantial evidence looms heavily in favor of Ricky Green's
connection to the Robinson murder.  The opportunity; the fact that
Ricky fished at the wall the summer of 1987; the truck driver's
stolen property found with Wendy's at another site known to be
frequented by Green; the murder and disposal of the body committed
almost identically to those of Monroe and Bailey; Ricky's own
confession of guilt to Dr. Rappa port.

Yet Ricky Green continues to deny any connection to the unsolved
murder.  "I swear on my mother's grave I didn't kill that girl," he
said, looking me in the eye.

Linda and Jim Robinson have accepted, with reservation, Ricky Green
as the murderer of their daughter.  In a conversation with Chief
Jerry Blaisdell, Jim stated that an informant contacted him
concerning the murder.  Jim was told that beyond doubt Ricky Green
killed Wendy.  The person refuses to come forward to testify at a
grand jury inquiry for fear his reputation will be for ever damaged.
Jim Robinson, a man of honor and integrity, refuses to expose the
source.

Ricky Green may or may not know the events that occurred on that
sunny afternoon at Lake Weatherford in July 1987.  But the question
remains: Who killed Wendy Kae Robinson?


The End by Ricky Lee Green

The sky lights up suddenly with a bright flash of light, 
A voice calls out from one row down below, "all right."  

It seems like I'm in a dream or a bad nightmare, 
Lightening [sic] strikes somewhere near and gives me kind of a scare.  

From all around I hear people whispering with their chitter chatter 
Some of the things they talk about doesn't really even matter.  

Hour after hour its usually the same, 
The time flies by, before long I'm thinking about where I am
and wonder why.  

The feeling I get way down deep straight from my heart, 
Is that I'm a changed person and dearly want a new start.

There is one thing I do fear if I were to be set free, 
And that's drinking alcohol and taking drugs 
then back the way I use [sic] to be.

An execution takes place and reality really sets in again, 
Then wonder when they will take me from this lion's den.

I keep my emotions and feelings down deep on my inside, 
But they constantly stay on a long roller coaster ride.

I'm deeply sorry for taking these four innocent lives, 
I hope with God's grace each of their spirits survive.

Each day that goes by my time grows near, 
When that time comes at least I'll be free and clear.