Killer Nurse

by John Foxjohn

  He begged the jury not to let this big company come into East Texas and snatch one of their own away from her home—they couldn’t let a corporate giant blame this poor East Texas girl for their sins.

  Deaton also blamed the water in the dialysis center for the deaths and injuries to the patients. He pointed out that Saenz was “only one of three employees that were giving meds, and that was how she was connected to all the patients.” He told the jury that one of the witnesses had claimed that Saenz injected 20cc of bleach, but that wasn’t true—the witness never said how much bleach was in the syringe. What she’d actually said was that Saenz had used two syringes.

  Deaton reminded the jury of how another witness had changed her testimony. In fact, he told the jury, she had been told how to testify in the trial. He left out how she’d testified that the instructions she’d received had been simply to tell the truth.

  The more Deaton spoke, the redder Herrington’s face got and the madder he became.

  Still Deaton wasn’t done. He told the jury that the doctor overseeing the DaVita clinic hadn’t cared enough about his patients to make them go to the hospital after it was reported that two patients had been injected with bleach. Deaton played his sympathy card—pointing out that his client was a daughter, wife, and the mother of two children. He told the jury about how the police had unfairly snatched Saenz from her trailer home, took her to the police station, and grilled her.

  When Deaton finished, so did Herrington’s calm demeanor. He shot out of his seat like someone had hit his rear with a cattle prod. His first words set the tone for the remainder of his closing: “That has to be the biggest case of misrepresented facts I have ever heard in my life!”

  Indeed, Deaton’s spin had been so egregious that Kristine Bailey, the first alternate on the jury, later said she’d “wanted to stand up and cheer” when Herrington took issue with Deaton’s untruths. She wasn’t alone. Quite a few people who had followed all of the trial agreed with her assessment.

  The more the angered Herrington spoke, the lower Deaton slumped in his seat. This was also noted by the jury. “One thing I noticed when Clyde got up and started talking, I noticed Ryan just kept going farther and farther down in his chair—you know, that kind of stuck,” said jury member Willie Wigley. “Not so much what Clyde was saying, but Ryan’s reaction to it.”

  As Herrington talked, his seething anger turned into raw emotion, and the court saw another side to him, one that had not previously shown itself. It was obvious to all that the DA believed with every fiber of his body that Kimberly Saenz was guilty, and he wanted her to pay for what she’d taken away from the families of the victims. With tears running down his face and his voice trembling, Herrington said something else that stuck with jurors and spectators alike, something that spoke directly to the question of motive. “Why do mothers scald their babies? You don’t need to know what evil is to recognize it.” In other words, even if everyone knew all the reasons why Saenz had killed and injured the patients, they’d never understand them.

  When Herrington finished and sat, emotionally spent, not a single person in the courtroom breathed—not even the judge. Many attempted to choke back their own emotions. It was like a giant vacuum had sucked all the air out of the packed room. Moments passed before the judge was finally able to speak.

  Many who were in the courtroom that day, including other local attorneys who’d shown up just to watch the finish, said that Herrington’s closing was one of the greatest they’d ever heard. Five days later, The Lufkin News, in their “Toast and Roast” editorial, toasted Clyde Herrington “for his impassioned plea to the jury just before it retired to deliberate its verdict.” The article observed that “[y]ou could tell as he choked up that he was determined to get justice for the victims’ families, and not just because it was his last big case as district attorney.”

  The newspaper then “roasted” defense attorney Ryan Deaton for his “in-your-face closing arguments on Saenz’s behalf. . . . he crossed the line by berating the state’s witnesses as ‘crazy’ and ‘liars.’”

  However, if Deaton had raised doubts about the prosecutor’s evidence, and if his scapegoat theory about Fortune 500 DaVita held sway in the minds of the jury of working-class East Texans, then how he’d come across in closing arguments was moot. His job was to get his client off, and if he accomplished that, he would be a hero, at least to some.

  The jury began deliberations at one thirty and the hours dragged. Little clusters of people—prosecutors, investigators, family members of the victims, and friends of the defense attorney there to support him—gathered all around the second floor of the courthouse.

  Close to five in the afternoon, the normal time that the jury left, a note came from the Saenz jury that they planned to deliberate until seven that night, but when seven came, the jurors left without having yet reached a verdict. Family members and friends of Saenz said this was the longest night in their lives.

  At nine the next morning, the jury reconvened, but the morning dragged by with no verdict. The same conversations as the day before swept through the groups: “Do you think she’s guilty?” “Will the jury let her go?” But most of all, “How long do you think the jury will take?”

  Although no one had an answer to this question, most believed that the jury would have a verdict by that evening, but this was more of a desire than outright knowledge.

  After lunch on Friday, word passed from one group to another that the jury had taken care of three of the six charges. This seemed to revive the spirits of those waiting, until someone mentioned that it may not mean anything—it depended on which charges they’d done. The person pointed out that one of those charges contained five murders. In order to convict Saenz of the capital murder charge, the jury would have to find her guilty of at least two of the five murders.

  Time passed like watching a turtle race. Some people attempted to work or read, but they, too, didn’t fare well with their tasks. People’s nerves were tottering on the edge, and those emotions weren’t conducive to anything that required concentration.

  Finally, at three thirty, word swept through the second floor that the jury was almost done, which sparked a mass of cell phone calls to pass on the news. Still, it wasn’t until Saenz, her family, and attorney showed shortly thereafter that real hope began to thread its way through the gathering.

  Anticipation rose even higher when a long line began to form outside the courthouse doors. TV reporters with camera crews crowded close, or stood on the steps out of the way, where they had a better view of the people waiting to get into the courtroom. Sheriff’s deputies were again on hand blocking the doors with their handheld metal detectors.

  Anticipation crackled up and down the line that reached all the way to the end of the second floor. The news began to leap from mouth to mouth. The jury had reached a verdict.

  Suddenly, the courtroom doors opened, and the noise in the hallway vanished.

  As the line inched forward, the only noise became the loud beeps from the metal detectors, which had been turned to their most sensitive settings.

  Saenz’s immediate family took up their stations in the first two rows behind the defense table on the left; just behind them sat Lesa and Vann Kelley, the husband and wife investigative team hired by the defense. Along with them were friends of the defense attorney and friends and supporters from Saenz’s church.

  The right-hand side, behind the prosecution table, filled with spectators and people who had assisted in the prosecution, but most of the seats were taken by the true victims in this case—family members of the people Saenz was accused of killing. Their faces showed the strain they’d been through, and the families sat close together, bodies touching, black and white alike—maybe to garner some strength from the person next to them. Many of the family members of the victims sat with their arms wrapped around themselves almost in a protective cocoon, while others vi
sibly trembled.

  Several of these family members said that going in, they didn’t know if Kimberly Saenz was guilty or innocent—they just wanted the truth of what happened to their loved one to come out. Some said that if she was found guilty, they hoped that she wouldn’t get the death penalty. Two family members pointed out that the rest of her life in prison would be much better because she’d have all that time to think about it—death was too easy. Other family members said that only God had the right to put someone to death. Several said that, either way, they would leave the verdict in the hands of God. He was the final judge, and He would impart unto the jury what they should do.

  With the family that Friday was Ms. Marie Bradley, one of the surviving victims. Alongside Ms. Bradley sat several ex-DaVita employees who’d also testified in the trial. Their attitude seemed to be, “We cared for your loved ones and we’ll stand by you now.”

  The tension inside the courtroom was as thick as the East Texas humidity. People sat rigid in their seats, most leaning forward—some rocking slightly. Every pair of eyes in the courtroom went to Kimberly Saenz as she entered, slumped slightly, her eyes red and swollen from crying—in stark contrast to her earlier appearance and demeanor throughout the trial. Most pictures taken by the paper or TV as the trial progressed had showed a woman laughing or smiling who appeared to be supremely confident she was about to be found not guilty.

  After Saenz collapsed in her seat, everyone rose when Judge Barry Bryan entered. With silver hair and beard with traces of gray showing through, the judge looked exactly as someone might picture a district judge to look like. The judge had the ability to be stern when needed, and even funny when appropriate. He took care of the jury, and the people who worked for him loved him. Everyone, even people who weren’t that fond of him, agreed on one thing—Judge Bryan was fair. What better recommendation can a judge receive?

  As Herrington said later, “I don’t always agree with his decisions, but I know that when he makes one, he has thought about it a lot.”

  However, on this day, moments before the jury was to enter and deliver the verdict, Judge Bryan was neither stern nor funny, but solemn. After a warning to the spectators on how to behave themselves when the six verdicts were read, he indicated for the bailiff to bring in the jury.

  It was easy to tell the newcomers to the courtroom—mostly media from out of town—because the ones who’d followed the trial knew to rise when the jury entered. In the Angelina County Courthouse, the spectators rose out of respect for the jury just as they did for the judge.

  As the twelve jurors and three alternates filed in, some were visibly shaking. The women had scared looks on their faces, and the men were somber. Two closed their eyes while the others stared at the judge—all avoided looking at the spectators in the court or the defendant. When the judge asked if the jury had come to a unanimous verdict, foreman Larry Walker’s voice cracked when he answered, “Yes, sir.” Once the bailiff handed the verdict sheet to the judge, most of the jurors turned their heads and faced Saenz, as if they wanted to show their solidarity in the verdict.

  The judge asked Saenz to rise, and she got to her feet on wobbly legs. At her side were defense attorney Ryan Deaton on one side and Steve Taylor, Saenz’s court-appointed defense attorney, on the other.

  What Kimberly Saenz’s life would be like after this, no one could say at that moment. Even if the jury pronounced her not guilty, the mother of two as well as her family would always have to live with the lingering stigma that she was a serial killer who got away with it.

  However, the alternative would be what the owl was hooting about. Life in prison without a chance for parole, which meant Saenz would leave prison in a box—her life as she knew it would end. In what would perhaps be a grim case of poetic justice, if Saenz received the death penalty, she’d die by lethal injection—the same fate she’d allegedly given her victims.

  Seconds that felt like hours passed as Judge Bryan looked at the charge sheet and the verdicts—all six of them. Five of the charges were for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Those were the only charges for which the jury would actually impose the sentence. The sixth charge was for all the murders.

  The judge looked at Kimberly Saenz and began to read the jury’s verdict.

  CHAPTER 2

  RÉSUMÉ

  On March 7, 2012, not long after Kimberly Clark Saenz’s trial began, Nancy Grace featured Lufkin, Texas, on her CNN show. She began by calling Lufkin a suburb of Houston. This statement tells people two things about Nancy Grace—she has obviously never been to Lufkin, nor consulted a map either.

  In Grace’s defense, Lufkin had no reason to be on the world’s radar before Kimberly Clark Saenz put it there. Cut deep into the piney woods of East Texas, 120 miles north of Houston and 150 miles southwest of Dallas, Lufkin is in Angelina County, named for a Hainai Native American woman who reportedly assisted early missionaries and so was named Angelina by the Spanish. Lufkin is the county seat.

  The relative size of the town depends on whom you ask. To Nancy Grace and others outside of East Texas, Lufkin is a small town. In 2008, it had a population of around 30,000. However, the heart of East Texas is made up of a lot of truly small towns and communities—Huntington, Zavalla, Diboll, and Hudson surround Lufkin, each with its own government, school, stores, and post office, and not a one of them with a population over 5,000. Unincorporated communities such as Pollok—the area where Saenz was raised—also dot the landscape around Lufkin and make up the rest of Angelina County. Residents of these little towns and communities consider Lufkin a big town, maybe even a city. After all, Lufkin is where they travel for entertainment, shopping, eating out, and in many cases, work.

  Geography has a tendency to mold people, and the citizens of Angelina County are no different. Most people in the county are descendants from East Texans—people who moved to the area and remained not only because of the forests, rivers, lakes, and abundance of fish and wildlife but also because of the lifestyle. For the most part, East Texans don’t like or want a fast-paced, large-city atmosphere with its problems and crime. They are happy right where they are.

  A vast majority of Angelina County’s blue-collar residents wake up and throw on jeans to go to work rather than dress pants. The largest employer in the county is Lufkin Industries, a manufacturing plant that makes oilfield pumping units and equipment and power transmission products. It’s not hard to find ranches and chicken houses in the East Texas landscape, with trucks carrying poultry to Pilgrim’s Pride, Lufkin’s chicken processing plant. It’s even easier to find log trucks on the roads taking advantage of one of the true resources of East Texas, the pine forests. Between those industries, the paper mills and wood processing plants, is where the majority of the people work. Seventy-eight percent of the population are high school graduates, and only 16 percent have a bachelor’s degree or higher. Considering that Lufkin’s second biggest employer is the Lufkin Independent School District and there’s a community college in town, that doesn’t average out to much post-high-school education for the rest of the people of Angelina County. But this doesn’t bother most folks. You don’t need a Ph.D. to process wood or poultry.

  Kimberly Clark Saenz’s parents were typical East Texans with stalwart East Texas values. William Kent Fowler, who goes by Kent, was born August 24, 1952, and hails from the Redland area, an unincorporated area just north of Lufkin. Saenz’s mother, Benjamin Frances Thigpen—known as Bennie—was born on September 8, 1954, in Pollok, in Angelina County. Nineteen-year-old Kent and seventeen-year-old Bennie were married in Angelina County on October 1, 1971. Two years later, on November 3, 1973, the couple had their first child, a daughter they named Kimberly Clark Fowler. In an almost improbable occurrence, their second child, a son they named William Cody Fowler, was born exactly three years after Kimberly, on November 3, 1976.

  Like most of their neighbors, Kent and Bennie Fowler epitomized the ter
m “blue-collar.” Kent Fowler worked at Rush Truck Center in Lufkin, and Bennie Fowler worked at Lufkin’s Walmart, starting in 1980 and working her way up to department manager. Kent, like most East Texans, loved NASCAR and football—especially the Dallas Cowboys. Friends and acquaintances said that to get this quiet and unassuming man to talk, just mention the Cowboys. Several people described Kent as just a good ol’ country boy, and they meant it as a compliment. Both Kent and Bennie Fowler loved country music and performers such as the Sons of the Pioneers, one of America’s earliest country and western singing groups. They also liked to gamble—in person at the casinos in Louisiana or on-line. They were members of the Clawson Assembly of God Church, and Bennie especially took her church and her religion very seriously.

  This was the culture in which they brought up their daughter and son. The parents’ beliefs in many ways echoed those of most parents in East Texas and other working-class communities—seldom can anyone find fault in parents who teach patriotism, God’s graces, honesty, family values, and hard work.

  But plenty of East Texans said that these teachings didn’t seem to take in either of the Fowlers’ children. As adults, both Kimberly and Cody got to know law enforcement well.

  William Cody Fowler, known to most as Cody, officially began his acquaintance with the police and the court system at the age of seventeen. (If there were earlier incidents, they remain sealed in juvenile records.) On September 16, 1994, a little less than two months before his eighteenth birthday, he was charged with driving while his license was suspended and failure to give information—both misdemeanors.

  On October 18, 1997, Cody Fowler married Christiane Hayes. Marriage often has a tendency to make men mature, but from the continuation of his minor problems with the legal system, this doesn’t seem to have been the case with Cody. On March 4, 1998, he was cited for failure to maintain financial responsibility. In other words, he didn’t have insurance on his vehicle as required by law. He followed that up on March 10 with driving while intoxicated. Then in June, he was again cited, this time for no safety belt.