You don’t run into too many magazine articles where the “N” word is used as much as in the Texas Monthly article below. Kilgore sounds like a town that never got over the Civil War. Still, there are some people in Kilgore that don’t believe that Daroyce Mosley should die on August 28. He claims he did not kill anyone and that his uncle was the real killer.
“Goddam, I hate to sound liberal, I really do. But, there are too many questions about this case for it to end with the death penalty. This kid participated in a robbery in which four people were killed-and that should definitely involve a jail term. But putting this kid to death? Oh, man, no.”
Raised in Kilgore’s poorest black neighborhood, he was an honors graduate with a bright future until he was convicted of killing four whites. But the case is still hotly disputed, and the question remains…,
by Skip Hollandsworth
IN THE EAST TEXAS TOWN OF KILGORE, KATIE’S WAS JUST ANOTHER beer joint perched next to Texas Highway 135. Inside, there were a few tables the size of hubcaps, a small pool table, a jukebox, and some Dallas Cowboys posters tacked to the plywood walls. The customers were white working-class people. Most of the men who stopped in for the 81 bottled beer were oil-field workers still trying to make a living from the dregs of what was once the
largest oil field in the world. They arrived in unwashed pickup trucks. They wore shirts that had their first names sewn above their pockets. Their wives or girlfriends often came along, sitting at separate tables, smoking cigarettes and calling each other “honey.” The owner, a rusty-voiced woman named Katie Moore who had been operating East Texas honky-tonks for more than thirtv vears. liked to call Katie’s a “quiet little family place.”
But on the night of July 21. 1994. Sandra Cash, the 32-year-old barmaid who was paid S30 a night to serve the beer, crawled to the phone and made a 911 call. “Please help me.” she rasped. “I am choking.”
A young Kilgore police officer, one of the first to arrive at Katie’s was young horrified by what he saw that for months afterward he needed counseling. Behind the bar. Cash was barely alive. her spinal cord severed by as many as six shots that had been fired into her. The four customers who had been at Katie’s that night were crumpled on the floor, each one shot in the head. Patricia Colter, a 54-year-old Wal-Mart employee, and her 44-year-old husband. Duane, who worked at a Kilgore company that built ceramic toilet fixtures, were closest to the front door; face down, blood from their heads seeping into the carpet. Alvin “Buddy” Waller, a 54 year-old oil-well worker; was lying a few feet away with a pool cue in his hand. He had been shot once in the leg, once in the back of the head. and once through the left eye. Because of the gunpowder on his face, investigators knew that the killer had stuck the gun right up to Waller’s eye and pulled the trigger. Luva Congleton, a 68-year-old retiree, had crawled under the pool table to lude. The killer had walked to the pool table, leaned down, and shot her. The only item missing from Katie’s was a gray fishing tackle box that Cash used to keep the bar receipts. It held $308.