Everyone agrees that Christopher Brosky didn’t pull the trigger on the shotgun that killed Donald Thomas early one June morning in 1991.
Brosky’s buddy William "Trey" Roberts admitted shooting Thomas, 32, who was sitting on a flatbed truck in east Arlington, drinking beer with friends. Roberts fired from the front passenger seat of a 1965 Mustang driven by a second friend, Joshua Hendry.
Regardless, it’s Brosky’s name that is indelibly linked to the slaying, which outraged many in Tarrant County because of its random brutality and blatant racism.
Thomas was black. The boys in the Mustang were 16-year-old white skinheads.
And when an all-white Tarrant County jury convicted Brosky of murder in March 1993, and turned around and recommended that he serve only probation, protests erupted.
Four days after Brosky’s sentencing, an estimated 10,000 people marched in downtown Fort Worth to protest the lenient sentence.
The outcry by ministers, politicians and ordinary people, including Thomas’ widow, led to the passage of the state’s first hate crime law.
And the Tarrant County district attorney’s office responded by filing new charges against Brosky, overcoming defense objections that doing so was double jeopardy.
Brosky’s second trial was moved to Galveston, where the jury included two blacks and one Hispanic. They heard much more about Brosky’s skinhead activities, and he was convicted of engaging in organized crime with the intent to commit murder and received 40 years in prison — the same as Roberts.
Almost 20 years have passed. With no public notice, Brosky, now 34, is free again.
He was released from prison Aug. 10 and was deported to his native Canada on Sept. 17.
"I figured one day he’d be getting out," said Carolyn Thomas, who gave testimony opposing the release of her husband’s killers each time he came before the parole board.
Thomas said she was notified that Brosky was being paroled but had no idea he had been deported.
"I never really thought about whether he’d be around here," she said. "My focus was just that he stay in prison longer."
A flash, then a bang
Carolyn Thomas’ emotional testimony before a state legislative committee — one week after Brosky’s first trial ended — was credited with winning the votes to pass the first hate crime bill in Texas history.
Legislators were inspired by the young woman’s story about her husband’s murder as he and several co-workers relaxed outside one man’s home after they finished an overnight shift at a Grand Prairie liquor distributor.
Steve Sloan, a white co-worker, told police that he and Thomas were sitting on a flatbed truck when a Ford Mustang drove by twice. The second time, Sloan said, the Mustang stopped just feet from the truck. Sloan said he saw a flash, heard a bang, and then saw Thomas fall off the truck into the road, shot in the chest, mortally wounded.
Within 24 hours, three teenagers were in custody after police tracked them through a license plate number obtained by Sloan, who followed the Mustang while another friend stayed with the dying man.
The teens were proud white supremacists.
Brosky, of Dallas, was the only one to go to trial. Roberts, of Carrollton, pleaded guilty to murder and agreed to a 40-year prison term. Hendry, of Arlington, pleaded guilty to delinquent conduct-murder in 1991 and was sentenced to 15 years. He served two years in a juvenile facility and 13 years in adult prison.
Hendry and Roberts testified against Brosky. Prosecutors contended that Brosky handed the gun to Roberts immediately before the killing. Hendry testified that he heard Brosky cry, "Shoot!" But the state case was hurt when Roberts backed off, saying he wasn’t sure Brosky gave him the gun.
Brosky’s defense was that all the boys were drunk — they had been "slamming beers" and had consumed more than 12 each — and that Brosky was passed out in the back of the car.
State District Judge Everett Young did not allow prosecutors to play a movie that they said would link Brosky to the Dallas-based Confederate Hammerskins. The jury took only an hour on March 22, 1993, to return the guilty verdict. But the elation felt by Carolyn Thomas and other observers was short-lived.
The next day, the jurors sentenced Brosky to 10 years of probation after hearing pleas for leniency by his mother, Sheilaugh Brosky. Judges must impose the sentence recommended by the jury, but Young ordered that Brosky serve 180 days in jail as a condition of probation.
How far have we come?
Maryellen Hicks, then a judge on the 2nd Court of Appeals, said the shock of the sentence led to spontaneous demonstrations.
About 200 people marched on the courthouse the day after Brosky was sentenced, demanding justice for Thomas. Within four days, Hicks and other African-American leaders had organized a march that drew more than 10,000 people — black and white — to downtown Fort Worth.
Much of the outrage was focused on the jurors, who said later that they had intended to give Brosky a five-year prison term followed by 10 years on probation but were confused by the jury instructions.
"We were in utter shock that the majority community didn’t understand that we would be so hurt and angry and offended," Hicks said.
But, she said, she was gratified that legislators and court officials listened.
"I commend the district attorney who said we, too, are shocked and dismayed, and we’re willing to take this to a different level, and they did," she said.
County officials conducted diversity training and began actively recruiting more minority grand jurors, prosecutors and others, Hicks said.
"I think we’ve come a long way in the criminal justice system, but quite frankly many African-Americans and people of color still have a very negative perception of the justice system because of the lack of minority judges and jurors," she said. "Since Brosky and since we had to take it to the street, there’s a better understanding on all sides — minority and majority — but we’re not there yet."
The Rev. Wendell "Buck" Cass, another protest organizer, vehemently disagreed. He said he was "horrified" that Brosky was free.
"Killing a black man don’t mean nothing in Texas," Cass said. "Now he’s going to Canada where he can still live a full life. Donald Thomas can’t live no full life. He’s in the grave."
Not much has changed for minorities, said Cass, associate pastor of Morning Chapel CME Church, near downtown Fort Worth.
"No, the hate crime law didn’t do anything," he said. "It’s easy to say when you’re not affected by it. Those who are affected don’t see the changes. The same system is still in place, and they’re still doing the same thing."
And the Rev. Michael Bell, a leader of what he called the "death march" — "Justice is dead!" he said at the time — and discussions with prosecutors after the Brosky verdict, sees little change in the criminal justice system.
"Tarrant County has been pretty consistent in its failure to evolve as far as justice issues are concerned," said Bell, senior pastor of Greater St. Stephen First Church.
He cited the case of Grace Head, an older white woman in Arlington who hit her black neighbor in the head with a two-by-four. Head was tried under the hate crime statute — it’s rarely used in Texas — and was sentenced to 180 days in jail and a $4,000 fine after being convicted of a reduced charge.
But Bell credited then-District Attorney Tim Curry for meeting with African-American leaders to try to address their concerns.
"At least back then, there were conversations across cultures about race," he said. Since then, however, "any movement has been incremental," he said. "We have not made any great strides or quantum leaps. We seem to be stuck in a kind of time warp."
Staying quiet
Even Brosky’s attorney, Ernie Bates, didn’t know that his former client had been paroled until he got a call from Brosky’s mother a few days before the deportation.
Brosky came to the United States with his mother when he was 12 but never became a citizen. Noncitizens are routinely deported after serving time for criminal convictions. They are prohibited from re-entering the U.S. for as little as five years and for as much as life. A spokesman for Immigration and Customs Enforcement could not say how long the ban would last in Brosky’s case.
On Sept. 15, Bates said, Brosky called him collect on a borrowed cellphone. He was to be deported in two days. Brosky had been in the custody of U.S. immigration officials since he was paroled, 13 years after he was first eligible.
"He sounded a lot different from what I remember — none of the crazy talk from before," he said, referring to Brosky’s "intellectual" discussions of his "dyed-in-the-wool" white supremacist beliefs.
Bates contends that the teenage Brosky was "a true believer" in the ideology. But he said Brosky told him that he steered clear of those like-minded groups in prison.
In another brief call from Canada, Brosky told Bates that he just wants to get on with his life. "Sixteen years is a long time to serve when he was in the back seat passed out," Bates said. "He said he was glad he was transferred to Canada. 8."
Bates said he had no way to reach Brosky, and Brosky’s mother declined to put the Star-Telegram in touch with her son. She also refused to talk about her son’s life before and after prison.
In a brief phone conversation, the Dallas nurse, who was outspoken during the 1993 trials, seemed bitter about her son’s treatment by authorities and the media. Her son was vilified more than Roberts, who admitted killing Thomas, she said.
"I don’t want to stir things up," she said in a voice-mail message. "The press was not kind to him. I don’t trust [the media], the police or the justice system. I just want Christopher to have a life."
Relatives of Hendry, the Mustang driver, want the same for him. By pleading guilty in juvenile court, Hendry could have been freed when he was 18. But a juvenile court judge ordered Hendry to serve the remaining 13 years of his sentence in adult prison, and he did. He was paroled in 2006, two months before completing his entire 15-year sentence.
Since then, Hendry has done well, his attorney and relatives said. He got a driver’s license, a job and a house, and is staying out of trouble. Hendry’s mother declined to talk about her son, saying it was at his request because he wants to move on and fears retaliation from people still angry about the case.
Roberts’ family could not be located. He became eligible for parole in 2001, but his requests for parole have been turned down several times. He comes up for parole again next year.
His defense attorney Layne Harwell said he has had little contact with Roberts or his mother, Linda Roberts, who was nearly as outspoken during the trials as Brosky’s mother. "I haven’t heard from Linda, but she was very happy with what I did for him," said Harwell, who has retired.
Trying to cope
Carolyn Thomas, 45, is a shy, private woman who still speaks to groups about her experience but not as often as she did in past years. She works at the same job, attends the same church, has a daughter and is supported by friends and family.
"For me to go on, I had to pray and ask God to forgive the boys that killed my husband and to help me forgive them," she said. "I’ve learned a lot that made me a different person. I’m the same Carolyn, but a little stronger and more outspoken. It’s about standing up for what I believe no matter what.
"Overcoming obstacles makes you stronger and do things you have to do in life no matter how tough it is."
Donald Thomas’ mother, Ruth Aviles, had an emotional breakdown after the murder and the trials, said her husband, Paul Aviles.
"It changed her life 100 percent," he said in a telephone interview from Ohio, where the couple lives. "She was a happy woman. She hasn’t been the same since."
Aviles said his wife had to quit her job at an auto plant where they met. Without her income, the couple ended up filing for bankruptcy, he said.
"We’ve faced many hardships since then," Aviles said. "Our biggest concern is with her health. This has been very damaging."
Aviles said his wife was too upset to be interviewed about the case but said she appreciated the strangers who supported her during the trials.
"She would like to thank the people for the Fort Worth and Dallas who showed their support of the misjustice of Brosky’s first trial," he said.
Impact on the law
Mark Briskman, regional director of the Anti-Defamation League, who helped write the Texas hate crime laws, said the Brosky case had an impact statewide, beginning with the passage of a 1993 law that made it a crime to target a person because of hate.
The law increased the range of punishment for crimes motivated by bias or prejudice and forbids granting probation for hate-motivated murder. The law defined a hate crime as an offense where the victim was chosen "primarily because of the defendant’s bias or prejudice against a person or a group."
From the beginning, the lack of specificity in that language troubled legal experts because it created ample room for legal challenges.
But combined with the 1990 prosecution of 17 leaders of the Confederate Hammerskins — the group the teens were associated with — the law led to a decline in the number of racially motivated hate crimes, which seemed rampant in the late 1980s and early 1990s, Briskman said.
Then came the 1998 murder of James Byrd Jr., a black man whose throat was slashed before he was stripped, dragged behind a truck and decapitated by three white men in the East Texas town of Jasper. Two of Byrd’s killers were sentenced to death; the third to life in prison. Byrd’s gruesome death led state legislators in 2001 to revise the hate crime law and name it for Byrd.
"The Donald Thomas incident was horrific and garnered a lot of attention," Briskman said. "But with time and the incident with Mr. Byrd, [Thomas’ killing] kind of got eclipsed.
"A lot people have forgotten, but having been involved with the Thomas case, it was just as bad and just as heartbreaking as the James Byrd case."
Kirk Lyons, an attorney who represents groups that believe they are discriminated against because of their Confederate or Southern heritage, said Texas legislators overreacted to the Brosky case.
Lyons, who works through the North Carolina-based Southern Legal Resource Center, said hate crime laws use people’s "belief structures" to convict them.
"I don’t want to be against the widow, but this resulted in bad law," he said. "The people that promoted this hate crime law nonsense are the same people who promote gun control legislation every time a politician is killed. The problem is nobody wants to be against that because they’ll be labeled racist. Nobody in government cares about the Constitution anymore."
Briskman disagreed.
"Hate crimes don’t just victimize the victim’s family," he said. "They victimize the whole community. If it’s a hate crime against an African-American, it’s a form of terror for the entire African-American community.
"That’s why we tack on the hate crime charge. It helps to bring closure to the community because the legal community recognizes it’s a hate crime."
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