Sunday, September 30, 2012

Deep night in the time of the taxi murders

DALLAS - In that hard time - flat oil prices, inflation, recession - the first bite of the arctic had peeled down the sky and turned the grass and the trees a dull shade of brown and gray.

Big D lay dormant, waiting for spring, the moon and stars standing out blazing white over midnight blue in a dome of continent-straddling high pressure zones ebbing and flowing across the prairies like the giant cartoon balloons and bubbles they really are.

In the mornings, people found dead taxi drivers slumped over steering wheels with their heads blown wide open, their brain tissue splattered all over the dashboards and windshields of the clunky sedans they drove to the brink of mad dash missions for unknown people seeking whatever they thought might get them through the night.

Men, women, freaks and fools demanded instant service and the blind trust of turning the back of one's skull to any stranger on a strange trip in total disregard of safety as the hands of the clock spun through the night cycles of quitting time, bar-hopping, theater and dinner dates, night caps, closing times, angry errands to the impound lot to retrieve cars towed at owners' expense, and the odd-john tomcat out looking for a kitty.

Then there were the deep nights, the times when people who never show themselves in the light of day come out to creep because they are so scarred and so bereft of the courage of their confidence. They have consigned themselves to a peep-and-hide kind of scuttling-down life.

Sitting still in a light doze in the middle of acres of asphalt under a bright moon, the wheel man waited where he could see in all directions, listening to the radio for his number to come up.



“Godda fare wants you to wait on him right there where you're at. You copy?”

“Five by five.”

“Fo-ten. Good luck, man.”


Wheel Man picked him up in the right hand mirror, angling along the asphalt in a loping stride, the collar of a jean jacket turned up against the chill, hands thrust deep into blue jean pockets.

Then he shifted in an oblique and came up in the left-hand mirror, rushing to the passenger's door on the driver's side.

Tapped on the window. Tapped again.

The Wheel Man gestured that he should go around to the right side. Waited for him to lean over and peer in the window.

Grinning face under horn-rimmed glasses. Close-cropped, brush-cut hair. Shrugging, palms up, like, what's the problem.

Flicked the automatic door locks and the dude crawled in the car.

“What'll it be, boss?”

“I godda g'over to the south side, Oak Cliff. Know the neighborhood?”

“Sure. Born and raised.”

“Off Illinois, corner of Alabama and Georgia.”

“For sure, hoss. Let's ride.”

The 'Hood. Used to be white folks. Way back there. The 'Hood.

Bonhomie bubbled and chuckled in the fare's voice - deep dish good old boy inflections. Said, “Well, then, fire this motha-roo up, bubba. It's cold in this car!”

Blew in his clenched fists, rubbed his palms on his blue jeans and stuck his mitts back in his pockets.

“I wanna make a stop back at the crib. It's right up here at the next light.”

As they pulled up to the gate, “Right in here. Charge on in there.” They eased along the parking lot. “Wait right here.”

Almost as an afterthought, said, “Oh, yeah. This is for you to hold.” He handed a crisp fifty across the back of the seat, his arm angled from right to left, the bill proffered between thumb and forefinger.

“There's another one just like it when we get back here safe. Okay?”

Wheel Man snatched the bill, reached up and turned off the meter.

“You got it.”

Dude went inside through a patio door. Came back quickly and hopped back inside.

“I hope you're strapped, because I am.” Pulled a very long revolver out of a shoulder rig under the jean jacket.

Wheel Man, startled, jerked his nine out of the cigar box on the seat beside him, said, “Yeah. Got to, man. Ain't no other way.” Mildly, “Uh, could you please state the nature of your emergency?”

Dude cracked up, guffawed, giggled, then belly laughed again. Thrust the big gun back in the holster and rared back, grinning.

“Keep it handy, buddy. You just might need it, where we're going.” Laughed again, chuckled.

“Okay, you got your shit; I got mine. We ready to ride. What's it all about? I mean, just tell me what I need to know, but, hey, man, make it sudden. Gotta know something about all this here...”

“OK, I'm a lawyer.” There was a question mark in his inflection. “Prosecuted these Jakes – know what I mean when I say Jakes, folks from Jamaica, y'see – for a string of gang killings over in Fair Park – gan'sta' types - and then I got out of that side of it. I'm in the defense bar, now, cause it pays so much better. Okay?”

“Keep talkin'.”

“Pays cash, you dig? Hey, need to know. You got anything against going to a crack house? How 'bout it?”

Tom Sawyer, the eternal frat boy, out on a lark, a scavenger hunt, some kind of ridiculous down-by-the-riverside adventure only he and the brethren admitted to the inner sanctum could fathom.

“Gotcha. We rolling, Counselor.”

“Now, you're talkin'.”

Across the bridge, down the freeway in the moonlight gleaming on the glass towers and gaudy outline of the jut jaw, lead-with-the-chin gambler's town, and then, leaving John Wayne behind,  rolling into the shabby world of little clapboard houses and convenience stores, empty streets and intersections with slowly cycling green, yellow and red lights, the occasional cat scampering across the way and manholes spouting misty vapors.

The lawyer sat and jabbered, jicking and jiving about whatever, raving about houses with steel doors and little slots to peep out of, houses located in the middle of city blocks you couldn't drive straight to, but located in the middle of warrens of right-angled turns on hilltops with elevated porches and anything else to slow down the rivalry of cops and gun-toting raiders from other outfits, hell-bent and murderously intent on grabbing that money.

He laughed – nervously – his rant coming like choruses of jazz horn glissandos and arpeggios punctuated with percussive piano and drum licks. The wheel man glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the dude idly adjusting his glasses, looking out the windows fore and aft, side to side, apprehensive, hyperalert, hypervigilant, rabbit ready and nervous as hell.

Turn here, turn there, passed the two dudes on opposite corners with cell phones in their hands, slow down - let me look here for a minute. Okay, pull in to the curb.

Dashed out of the passenger side and across the street from the little pocket park, up the steep steps of the old prairie house with the wrap-around porch, to the solid steel door where he squatted down beside the narrow slot and got busy taking stacks of bills and counting them, stuffing them in the pockets of the jean jacket.

Wheel Man watched, sweating, tuned taut as a drum and uptight for any sudden move or sharp sound, the motor idling. Waited. Wanted to haul ass, but knew better.

Dude came jogging back across the street, chuckling, and said, “Step on it, hoss. Let's gedda-fug-ouda-here.”

The Wheel Man drove, zigged, zagged out of the strange little neighborhood and back to the cross street leading to the freeway, only slowing for stop signs, coasting through signal lights.

Dude leaned back in the seat, snapped his fingers as if suddenly remembering something, and leaned forward with another 50 in his fingers.

“Good job. Just get me back, back to the place.” He chuckled again.

“You wouldn't believe it, but did you know everybody in that house is nekkid? Buck naked? Huh?

“Know why?”

How come.

“Cause they can't carry anything away when they finish their shift in there. No money, no rock, no nothin'. Crack house!” They both roared.

Saturday, September 29, 2012

Football? Hey, dude, like, who needs a helmet?

First debate scheduled Wednesday - here come the quiz...

Judge orders New York subway ads: jihad is 'savage'

Hot Ramadan rhetoric in the electronic village
Pamela Geller of "Atlas Shrugs"

“The Zionists created that blasphemous film. They did it to enrage Muslims and provide the USA with an excuse to send in drones.” - English language Islamic Jihad website(click)

New York – Where else but the Apple, where Madison Avenue dominates the media and world culture is reduced to 30-second spots and billboard slogans?

Gothamites boarding the MTA at 10 stations will see a political ad that debuted on San Francisco's Muni Railway earlier this month terming Islamic jihad savage and calling for its defeat.

Thirty people have died in worldwide violence since a Coptic Christian distributed a video that mocks the image of Mohammed the Prophet and the notion of conversion of infidels to the Islamic faith through jihad in a 14-minute YouTube presentation.

So far, the only extreme reaction to the posters in San Francisco has been defacement of certain words such as “savage” and “jihad.”

The website and Ms. Geller first gained recognition in her protest of an Islamic mosque and cultural center located very close to Ground Zero, the site of the former World Trade Center twin towers demolished in the 9/11 attacks.

Ms. Geller has gone to federal court to obtain an order that allows her to display her advertisement. The judge ruled that it's protected speech – to be considered both religious and political - and thus privileged.

She is preparing a similar application for a federal injunction that would allow her to display her advertisement on public transport vehicles and at stations in Washington, D.C., where they were rejected for similar reasons by officials who fear an Islamic backlash.

A Muslim subway patron interviewed by a New York publication told a newsman, “If you don't want to see what happened in Libya and Egypt after the video – maybe not so strong here in America – you shouldn't put this up.

“But if this is a free country, they have the right to do this. And then Muslims have the right to put up their own ad.”

Filmmaker arrested for probation violation
Ms. Geller's motto is “You can avoid evil, but you cannot avoid the consequences of avoiding evil.”

"Since 1838, there have been only a handful of blasphemy prosecutions in the United States, and a broad consensus has emerged that Jefferson and Adams had it right. In 1952, the Supreme Court of the United States finally put the matter to rest in Burstyn v. Wilson, holding in a unanimous decision that "it is not the business of government in our nation to suppress real or imagined attacks upon a particular religious doctrine" or to protect "any or all religions from views which are distasteful to them." The First Amendment, the Court declared, renders any such government action unconstitutional. Religions and religious figures, like political parties, politicians, businessmen, and other members of society are fair game for criticism, condemnation and even mockery...

"Apply this to the current situation, and the implications are obvious. If we punish American citizens for engaging in otherwise constitutionally protected speech in order to prevent foreign terrorists from engaging in violent acts, then we cede to those very terrorists the meaning of the First Amendment. That doesn't sound very promising, does it?"

Friday, September 28, 2012

Texas leads red states in income increase – 8.6%

According to a study publicized by Gannett Newspapers's “USA Today,” the red staters are reaping the benefits of economic recovery, while workers in the states that favor Democratic candidates are enjoying a tepid rise in income at best.

Nevada has experienced a negative change of 10.6% to lead the nation in a net loss of income level.

The Happily Ever After Project...

Life after Hogwarts: "Harry Potter goes to therapy"

Judgment of 'People of the State...' swift, sure

Map of 705 Harlem Ave., 806 Lenox(click here)

Waco – Don Patterson has the matter of fact delivery and blunt affect of a professional harness bull on the witness stand. He bites off, chews and delivers each word - with precision.

He is the Investigator In Charge of the Waco Police Department's drug enforcement unit, and has a lot of experience with dope houses and the people who run them. It's a deadly serious business.

As the lead witness in 'People v. Ulis Howard Alexander,' he bluntly told jurors that 705 Harlem Avenue is the kind of place run for “the cartels” by a sophistica
ted network of lookouts, enforcers, guards, men who take the money, and men who hand off the drugs.

Using that system, “one person would not be holding everything.”

As the youthful prosecutor, Mr. Luce, said in framing a question, “Nobody wants to be the next guy...”

The cartels, it's understood, are illicit combinations run by Mexican drug lords for multibillion-dollar profits, men who peddle the kind of dope that will blow a person's perceptions to the four winds, shatter their minds, and render them helpless to fight their cravings. Jails, institutions and death follow close behind. Always. Every time. Without fail. Believe it.

It's understood. In fact, it's the only thing that is guaranteed, other than the tremendous, tax free profits for the men who control the trade from afar, beyond international borders.

Recalling a series of drug raids that took place in the fall of 2010 and the early spring of 2011, at the little frame house with Permastone facing, and across the street at another “trap house,” 708 Harlem Avenue, he explained, “That location used to be notorious for drugs...It was difficult to get in there with squad cars.”

It's so difficult, in fact, that the men of the drug squad used a city bus to drive into the north Waco neighborhood, breezed past lookouts and spotters standing on street corners with cell phones to signal “5-0” was coming, and rush upon the house with a SWAT team to get through the front door “as quickly as possible.”

Sgt. Allovio testified that “They had various ways of filtering people in there.”

There is no direct route to the 700 block of Harlem Avenue. The street dead ends into Dallas Street on one end and J.J. Flewellen Rd. on the other. From the front door of 705 Harlem to the premises of the Future Minds Day Care Center at 809 Lenox, it is exactly 960 feet.

Anyone who chooses to visit the 700 block must take a circuitous, zig-zagging route to do so, drive past young men stationed at watch points, and then get clearance from lookouts on the curb who look to a window with a slattern bamboo blind emblazoned with a tropical scene of palms on a coral atoll. There, a chief watchman passes on who can get to the front door to hand off money and pick up drugs.

Quite simply, the men who run the drug house dominate an area that covers many square blocks, thus occupying a residential neighborhood where people go about their business of living, raising their kids, relaxing between work shifts – all the activities in the key of life.

Asked why there are numerous confidential complaints on drug houses and why the drug enforcement unit takes an “extremely proactive” approach to their work, Investigator Patterson did not hesitate to say, “It's a quality of life issue.”

The true nature and quality of the issue hit jurors with full force as the prosecution played video files from a camcorder seized at the time of the raid on 705 Harlem.

As the first unspooled, a middle-aged woman wearing a turban, staggeringly loaded on some kind of intoxicant, is seen loudly confronting a lookout at the curb in front of the shabby little house. She says she will call the police if they don't cool it as the lookouts close ranks and deny her access to the property.

Asked what was going on in the video, Sgt. Allovio said, “There was a disturbance. He said he should hit her before she left for threatening to call the police. A man is heard telling her, “You've got to master your high and grow up.” Ulis Alexander, the 20-year-old defendant, is seen blocking her access to the door of the house.

In the next video clip, a group of men stand just inside the front door, arguing loudly as pounding music thunders in the background.

When asked, Sgt. Allovio said, “They're having an argument, a disagreement because he is not doing what he's supposed to do in the organization.”

As the tape is stopped and started, the frames frozen, one man is seen taking the currency, the other handing off the drugs.

A man is heard protesting, saying, “You're clean-up man. You're the watch-out man...Who pays the rent here? We do, man. This is OUR house!”

The camera zooms in on the face of Ulis Alexander, then freezes on his youthful grin. He is holding nothing in his hands.

Everyone appears to be totally ripped to the tits. It's quite obviously party time at 705 Harlem, though there is an undertone of steely resolve, a professional attitude of the teamwork displayed by young men on a mission, the kind of situation that can explode into bloody violence at any moment if not tightly controlled.

Mr. Luce asks Sgt. Allovio, “Do you often find a camcorder at the scene of a raid on a drug house?”

The sergeant paused, arched his eyebrows, pursed his lips, then quietly mouthed the word, “No,” with just a trace of an ironic smile.

The camcorder was just part of the evidence seized at the time of the raid. Sgt. Allovio has examined and described a bag of six cell phones, various digital scales, a Pyrex measuring cup used to form the “cookies” of crack after they have cooked powder cocaine in a pan with baking soda and water, baggies, photos of people who work at the house and some of the customers, and – almost as an afterthought – two nasty-looking little semi-automatic pistols, one black and the other a dull silver color, a 9 mm and .380 caliber manufactured cheaply and sold at low cost for express purpose of shooting another human being. Think Peter Lorre lisping his way through a threatening phrase in an old black and white movie, a little black automatic leveled at his interlocutor's gut.

In the light of the quiet courtoom, tagged, bagged and admitted into evidence, they look almost like pieces of filthy medical equipment following some odious surgical procedure, or tools left carelessly astray by some negligent workman.

The tagged, bagged fourteen grams of crack cocaine officers found hastily dumped in the crawlspace under the house was passed from hand to hand by jurors. The men, who are wearing the ordinary garb of the working class - jeans and snap button shirts, pullover polos with collars - are very interested. They peer into the baggie, manipulating the plastic in various ways to get a closer look.

Predictably, the women handle it by grasping it between thumb and forefinger, as if passing a dead rat by its tail, their eyes averted.

They didn't take long to make the finding that Ulis Howard Alexander, who was only 19 at the time, had possession of cocaine with the intent to deliver it within 1,000 feet of a school, playground or day care center, as defined by the Texas Health and Safety Code. It's an enhancement to the offense that can net an offender a life sentence or a term in the penitentiary of not less than 5 years or more than 99.

During the punishment phase of the trial, they learned that a cousin named Chance Alexander was arrested for the same type of offense six months earlier, across the street at 708 Harlem Ave., in the same kind of shabby little house where no one lives, for possession of marijuana with an intent to deliver it within...etc.

At the time, photographic evidence showed, Ulis Howard Alexander was handcuffed hand and foot, his face averted from the dirt of the back yard of 705 Harlem as he lay on his stomach, hog-tied. He was not charged.

They learned that his older brother Gary Wayne Alexander had been previously sentenced to 40 years in the penitentiary for the same offense for which the pair were arrested on that day in May of 2011 at 705 Harlem.

They also learned that during the interim between his arrest for the cocaine charge they were in trial to settle with their verdict, he managed to plead guilty to two misdemeanor marijuana charges in a county court and a count of evading arrest by motor vehicle, crimes for which he served less than 6 months.

They sentenced him to 10 years in the penitentiary and ordered him to pay a fine of $10,000.

The prosecutor Gabrielle Massey, a radiantly tanned young lady of tall stature and elegant carriage – think Greta Garbo without the picture hat - dressed in a form-fitting black business suit and spike heels, said, “He's had his second chance...This isn't a victimless crime. His family are victims. He made them victims...It's the same house, run by the same people. The same people are there.”

She told jurors that for many years, the public has believed “There's nothing we can do about it. Today, you are the something that can be done about it.”

When Judge Matt Johnson read the jury's verdict, which eschewed the notion of rehabilitation, a second chance, community supervision, psychological counseling – or any other half measure short of the punishment of retribution for a series of bad acts against the peace and dignity of The People of the State of Texas, a small look of triumph lit her abnormally luminous and expressive eyes.

For a moment, like Sgt. Allovio, a small smile played around her lips, and she stood up a little taller - and a lot straighter.
This is an installment in a 6-part series on the criminal courts of McLennan County: A week of reporting on jury selection, prosecution and jurors' deliberations has convinced The Legendary that if the people bring the cases before the Courts, justice will be dispensed. One may read by clicking the links below. - The Legendary

"Peremptory strike of black woman was for cause..."

"The kind of house where people sell drugs..."

"Mad mouse dash to evade arrest..."

"Molesting little girls nets man 7 life terms..."

"Accused child rapist to resume questioning victims..."

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

'The kind of house where people sell drugs...'

Narcs say 705 Harlem had all the signs
"Have you ever SEEN a dollar and fifty cent worth of cocaine?" - Richard Pryor

Waco – When the point man on the SWAT team cleared the front door of the dope house, he didn't need the battering ram.

Michael Bucher, a 9-year veteran of the Waco Police Department, testified that all he had to do was give the front door of the “trap house” a gentle shove - and just stroll on in.

The latch was off.

Inside, the brothers Alexander were taking care of plenty business selling crack cocaine rocks and cooking down powder to make the 'cookies' that dealers carve up into one-gram, $10 hits of the deadly addictive drug.

Officer Bucher followed a number of officers who testified about all the details of what to look for in a dope house where no one lives, the kind of place Narcotics Force supervisor Don Patterson calls a “trap house,” but many come and go – day and night – to buy the drug that has made urban life miserable now for at least a couple of generations of Americans.

Pictures made at the scene of the raid clearly show the evidence the officers sought, including a picture of Gary Wayne Alexander wearing a shirt emblazoned with the slogan, “Married to the game.”

Asked what such a statement could mean, a veteran narcotics officer named Jason Barnham testified over objections by defense counsel that his answer could call for speculation about an area for which he has no subject matter expertise and no training as a photo interpreter.

Most players in the crack cocaine trade call their enterprise, “the game,” that of selling the kind of dope that makes people take leave of their senses and do nothing but hustle and drive back and forth to the dope house non-stop – until the day they either die, or the police put them in jail, a hospital, or a mental institution.

Mr. Alexander has been previously convicted for the same set of charges and sentenced to a prison term of 40 years.

His brother Ulis, who is only 20 years of age, is facing the same set of indictments, offenses for which he could serve as little as 5 years probation, life, or a term not to exceed 99 years.

That's because the charge is enhanced by the location of 705 Harlem, which is exactly 960 linear feet from Future Minds Day Care Center, according to the testimony of an official from the city's Planning Department.

In a hiding place – a hole in the floor under a flap of carpet beside the threshold of the bathroom door in the little house near the Brazos River in north Waco, the officers found a baggie laden with 14 grams of the drug resting on the dirt of the crawl space under the pier and beam foundation.

Said Sergeant Allovido, who was designated as the search officer on that day in May, that's enough dope to kill a true crack addict.

Once they're hooked, they can't think to do anything other than to smoke the crack - until it's all gone.

But there were other signs, including other baggies with their corners torn off. That is a convenient way to package the rocks carved off of “cookies” made from a combination of cocaine, water and baking soda boiled in a Pyrex container over a stove.

Cooking the mixture leaches out the impurities and turns the crystalline powder into a hardened mass.

Individual pieces vaporize almost instantly and make a distinct “crack” when they go up in smoke that penetrates the blood-brain barrier instantly and vaults a loser into a chemical state of nirvana through a massive release of the neurotransmitter dopamine.

It's similar to what happens to a normal person who experiences the most mind-blowing, soul-changing, toe-clenching orgasm of their lives.

But there is a cruel catch. Dopamine is manufactured in the brainstem in very small and finite quantities. Once it's been released, there is no more available for long periods of time, which leaves the addict totally convinced that if he doesn't “get off” on one rock, two will get the job done.

Wrong. It never happens that way. What's more, sex is not any good because the neurochemical that makes the pleasure of love making possible – and just about any other kind of pleasure – is simply unavailable and might not be for many, many years of careful and diligent rehabilitation, all of which can go up in smoke with the flick of a Bic any old time an addict decides he was wrong about all that. Things will be different this time, etc.

There's a lot of money in it – that is, the game - according to the Sergeant.

“Stepping on” the powder and cooking rock yields the “28 to 56” formula most rock cooks and dealers rely upon to make their fortunes. For every 28 grams, they are usually able to produce 56 grams of product, and since the addicts are so neurologically impaired, they hardly notice the difference. 

One-tenth of a gram – the size of the average rock, sells for $10, and the customer will be right back for more, cash flow tax free and no questions asked until the day the SWAT team crashes the party, followed by the Drug Force narcotics officers, the bondsmen, the lawyers, the prison guards.

A $900 ounce of powder will yield two ounces of crack, he pointed out.

It's a wild, wild west proposition, this business of selling an illicit substance that can only be grown in South America, shipped to America and cooked in the ghetto kitchens of sad little houses in blighted neighborhoods, he testified.

“Everything is subjective, especially in an industry where there is no regulation. It depends on if you pay cash or if someone fronts it to you.”

To pay $1,400 for 14 grams supplied on the cuff requires much more diligence to make that 100 percent markup than it does to pay a cash price of $350 for the same amount and net $1,050 without first cutting the strength of the product with such bunk substances as baby laxative, baking soda, and sometimes such off the wall stuff as pulverized gypsum from scrap sheetrock.

It's a cruel world.

No doubt.

Molesting little girls nets man seven life terms

Though he denied it in court, Jeffery Harold Ackors murdered a Potter County man during a burglary of a habitation near Amarillo when he was only 16.

Confronted with that and other offenses of record after his conviction on seven counts of continual sexual abuse of a child less than 14 years of age, he denied it ever happened.

“It was not shown that I threatened either one of those girls,” he told Judge Matt Johnson just moments before he sentenced him to seven consecutive life terms.

“There's been like 10 or more years between the murder charge and the burglary charge,” he pointed out.

Prosecutor Britney Lannen told the judge, “Your honor, this is one of the most egregious offenses we have seen...I can't imagaine a more atrocious crime.”

She and most females within ear shot on the third floor of the McLennan County Courthouse all said that Mr. Ackors continued to sexually abuse the two little girls, both of whom are members of his family, as he cross examined them on the witness stand earlier this week.

Both of the elementary school age girls gladly accepted the comfort offered by a high-spirited 'therapy dog' they proudly led into the courtroom and onto the witness stand with them. 

His manipulation of the mother and the fact that the girls testified that he had threatened to hurt them if they ever told anyone constituted a gross miscarriage of a power relation between helpless children and an adult endowed with what they no doubt viewed as unlimited powers during the time they were repeatedly assaulted at the ages of 8 and 10, according to women asked at random in the offices and corridors of the Courthouse.

Ms. Lannen asked for and got the maximum sentence for each of the counts for which she prosecuted Mr. Ackors.

He and the attorney the judge appointed to stand by and make sure he received a fair trial while he represented himself in the judge trial both said he will file an immediate notice of an appeal. They did not elaborate on what grounds they would seek a hearing.

Accused child rapist may resume questioning victims

Bulletin: The Court sentenced Ackors to seven consecutive life terms in prison following his conviction.Compiled from published reports
Waco – When Jeffrey Ackors questioned two little girls about allegations of continuing sexual abuse at his trial on Tuesday, they both cried. 

He told the judge he may resume questioning of his alleged victims again today. 

Mr. Ackors is defending himself against the charges, though 54th District Court Judge Matt Johnson has appointed an attorney as a standby to see to it that he receives a fair trial. 

Members of the gallery at the trial described the eerie feelings caused by Mr. Ackors's behavior in his self defense. In his cross examination of his victims, observers said he repeatedly referred to himself in the third person, as “the defendant.” 

When he called his own sister to the witness stand, she told the Court that the allegations against her brother are true. She said he frequently took one of the girls, who are aged 8 and 10, to bed with him at his home in Hallsburg and in Waco. She told the Court that she told him what he was doing was wrong. 

Mental health experts often agree that sexually assaultive behavior against children is not actually so much about sexual gratification as it is about exercising power through violent means against a helpless child. 

According to a handbook for Texas victims' advocates, the actor not only assaults the child, but also impairs the ability of the victim to assess the degree of trust that should be placed in persons with whom there is a power imbalance, sometimes for life.

In the presentation of evidence against Mr. Ackors, prosecutors elicited testimony from his victims alleging that he threatened to hurt them if they told anyone about his sexual relations with them. 

Prosecutors rested their case yesterday afternoon. Mr. Ackors has subpoenaed two witnesses from the Dallas area who will appear this morning. 

He has elected to be tried by the judge for his alleged offenses, and to have the Court assess his punishment if found guilty. 

The offense of continuing sexual abuse against a child of less than 14 years of age carries the possibility of a life sentence, or for any term of not more than 99 years or less than 25.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Mad mouse dash to evade arrest, - lawyer tests jury

The panic of the pursuit, the fear of the cuffs

As the afternoon wore on, the jurors began to look more and more strained. The judge and the officers who testified had already passed that point.

A tall black man with a shaved head, the attorney representing Johnny Duffey in his third offense of evading arrest with a motor vehicle had belabored the point – every point – every step of the way.

It's up to prosecutors to prove that it was Mr. Duffey – and no one else - who drove his white Tahoe SUV at excessive speeds on a quick tour of north Waco to a fearsome collision with a brick column at a car wash on N. 19th St. after peeling out with a cloud of black smoke from his tires at a corner on 25th street following a half dozen quick turns and twists.

The jurors, a group of 7 men and 5 women who look like the kind of well-groomed and behaved people you would be proud to know anywhere you may go, glanced back and forth from ex-Texas Ranger Matt Cawthon to the defense table where Mr. Duffey sat. They seemed incredulous, but as the attorney began to question every observation, they became as annoyed as Judge Ralph Strother.

Ranger Cawthon, who is now employed by Texas Department of Criminal Justice and seconded to the U.S. Marshals Service Fugitive Warrants Task Force, said in his 27-year career, when a motorist begins to make turns from street to street and corner to corner, it usually means “to people in our business” that they know the cops are chasing them.

It's the kind of full flight or fight panic displayed when the hawk hovers or the house cat pounces.

Though he didn't see Mr. Duffey get out of the driver's side door at the scene of the wreck, he testified, he could plainly see that he had run headlong into an 8-foot chain link fence at the car wash as he ran away in a panic.

Officers of the Waco Police Department who were in hot pursuit certainly saw him.

But did he know for a fact that the heavy car had collided with the brick structure that houses a vacuum cleaner at the car wash?


“I have investigated many vehicle collisions as a Highway Patrolman and a Texas Ranger,” he said, trying hard to maintain the neutral affect of a law enforcement professional.

At one point, he said, with exasperation, “I don't have any idea what Mr. Duffey was thinking.”

In another exchange, he completely lost track of the question, its convoluted structure losing him in its twists and turns.

Judge Strother didn't have much better luck. It was something to the effect that “Whoever was driving, they didn't know who was driving. Correct?” When they got it right, he said, with a sigh, “I really can't speculate.”

“That's not the only white Tahoe in Waco, Texas, is it?”

“No, it is not,” Ranger Cawthon replied.

Why is it so important? As a previous offender, Mr. Duffey guaranteed he would be prosecuted for a third degree felony, and not an accused state jail felon. The enhancement makes the punishment range not less than 2 years in the penitentiary and no more than 10 years imprisonment.

Waco Police Officer Steve Anderson, who is attached to the fugitive warrant squad, too, and doubles as a public information officer, didn't see the car collide with the brick structure. But he knows it was the car who hit the structure. How? Thirty years experience, he said.

Why is it important?

Mr. Duffey is facing a drug charge and was wanted for parole violation when the task force came to his home at 3912 N. 22nd to pick him up.

Later, in the corridor outside the courtroom, the entire task force, most of them dressed in razor sharp dress blue uniforms of the police department, waited for their turn on the witness stand.

Ranger Cawthon and Officer Anderson recalled another suspect they apprehended on a warrant for theft, a man Officer Anderson says “Yeah, he was jicking. He was pretty wound up.”

The old boy just kept babbling from the back seat of the patrol car, hollering “This ain't for murder, is it? This ain't about no fire at a mobile home, is it?”

No one knew anything about a murder until a local arson investigator made it clear he is seeking answers to the man's whereabouts the night in February when a mother and her three kids were trapped in a mobile home on 19th Street in Bosqueville.

Neighbor kids were able to rescue one of her sons, a 3-year-old boy, but she and two others perished in the blaze, which was so intense it injured firefighters with first and second degree burns caused by heat and steam.

Some days, the dragon wins.

- The Legendary

Anonymous announces Nov. 5 debut of 'Tyler 2012'

New Wikileaks scheme needs no pay

...imagine we all synchronize our clocks to act at the same Time, on the Winter solstice, The 21st of December 2012 at eleven minutes past eleven local time.

On the 5th of November 2012 TYLER will be out of beta testing.

TYLER is a massively distributed and decentralized Wiki pedia style p2p cipher-space structure impregnable to censorship

TYLER will gather an unprecedented number of the best hackers and coders ever to develop its structure from scratch, from the lessons learned from the Freenet, TOR, G N U net, e-Mule, Bit Torrent I2P, Tribler and related projects

From the 12th of December 2012, to the 21st of December 2012, people all over the world upload the evidence of illegality corruption and fraud They have gathered To TYLER

Imagine we Leak it all


The hacktivist group Anonymous announced it will begin a worldwide protest on election day Nov. 5 called Project Mayhem 2012.

A new Wikileaks-type network interface of sites dedicated to exposing sensitive or classified information is in “beta testing,” according to the announcement.

It is called “Tyler 2012,” an obvious reference to the Peasants' Revolt of June, 1381, in which “Wat the Tyler” and a highly organized group of people known only as “The Great Society” captured the Tower of London in a nationwide series of revolutionary actions.

It all began at the Essex village of Fobbing, where the people had refused to pay their “poll tax” in protest of having to work without pay up to two days per week for the church. This interfered with their being able to work their own land to feed their families. When a tax collector arrived there to learn why they had not paid the tax, they threw him out of town. Soldiers who arrived there shortly afterward were similarly ejected.

The affair ended with a confrontation outside the walls of the City of London at Smithfield, when the Lord Mayor killed the Tyler.
Some historians believe that The Great Society was the beginnings of the Masonic lodges that sprung up throughout the British Isles during the period, coming into the light in 1717 with the formation of the Grand Lodge of England.

Until that point, only Past Masters of lodges knew of the existence of other lodges, each lodge serving as an anonymous cell unknown to others.

Anonymous is believed to have recently caused numerous shutdowns of websites hosted by a massive corporation called Go Daddy by tampering with the Domain Name Systems (DNS) of the company. Their exploits include hacking FBI, Bank of America, Visa, Mastercard, and Department of Defense sites in protest of banking services' boycotting payments to Wikileaks for information.

Unlike Wikileaks' interface, the Tyler system will operate without any need to pay fees for information obtained from its files.

...Imagine we purchase a USB drive.

Imagine we take it to our workplaces.
Imagine we pretend we have to work late hours.

Imagine we accumulate all sort of evidences about illegal deeds.
Imagine Conscientious insiders worldwide begin to expose all lies.