WHEN I FIRST wrote about the murder of River Oaks wife and mother Doris Angleton (“The Bookmaker’s Wife,” TM, November 1997), the investigation already had enough twists to fill up a mystery novel. Since then, however, the case has taken such an extraordinary turn that many Houstonians wonder if prosecutors can convict the man accused of the murder—Doris’ multimillionaire husband, Bob Angleton—when his trial begins late this month.
OUR FRIEND JAN REID has never pushed his way into the spotlight. He’s not shy exactly, and he’s too self-confident to be truly self-effacing; but he is reserved and observant, someone you are more likely to find moving around the edge of a party rather than creating a spectacle in the center. He is a large, athletic man with natural grace.
IT IS SO REFRESHING to know that lawmen who are hardworking and corruption-free still exist [“The Last Posse,” March 1998]. These men set an example in their profession. They seem so down to earth and determined. These men are truly role models.
FIFTEEN MILES EAST OF DALLAS, wedged between Mesquite and Garland, the cheerfully named town of Sunnyvale has been swept up in a Who Shot J.R.?—style mystery since March 1, when former mayor Charles Mayhew, Sr., was found dead in his bed, having sustained a single gunshot wound to the neck.
UNTIL A STAR-STUDDED FILM SHOT THEM BACK into the spotlight, the Newton Boys had faded from public memory. Famous during the twenties, the four brothers—Jess, Willis (below left), Doc, and Joe (right)—were part Western desperadoes, part newfangled gangsters.
There is something special about places at the end of the line. People who come to such places have two choices. One is to turn around and go back; the other is to stay and take what comes along. In time, such a place accumulates a disproportionate number of loners, drifters, seekers, romantics, and fugitives from normal, boring, regulated life. Their philosophy generally includes a desire to be left alone and a willingness to leave others alone. Therefore, the community tends to be more tolerant and relaxed than most.
ON MOST DAYS I WAS YELLOW 698. When I opened the door for you to climb into the back seat of my cab, that’s all you knew about me. Okay, you knew my name—assuming that you glanced at my license—but you didn’t know if I was driving Houston’s streets on two hours’ sleep, if I had a handgun tucked under my seat, if I was a paroled felon, or if I planned to cheat you.
JESUS CHAVEZ’S RING NAME IS EL MATADOR, but he came out of his corner like a terrier trying to dismember a stork. Bone-gaunt at 128 pounds, his crew-cut opponent, Wilfredo Negron of Puerto Rico, was six inches taller and had a nine-inch reach advantage. Jesus missed often and sometimes badly.
IT SEEMED INCONCEIVABLE THAT SOME some damned fool would steal Parnell McNamara’s daughter’s horse, in broad daylight no less. Though there were about fifteen horses in the McNamara family stable in Bosqueville, west of Waco, the thieves targeted the two horses penned behind the family rodeo arena, just across FM 1637.
IN THE END, the would-be bombers of Wise County went out not in a blast of Oklahoma City infamy, not in a surreal Republic of Texas—style standoff, but quietly, in a series of plea bargains. On the morning of October 8, just five and a half months after their arrest, two Klansmen and a Klanswoman stood in a Fort Worth courtroom before federal judge John McBryde and cratered, just as a fourth Klan member had done earlier.