By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Eric Nicholson
He stood on lush grass that was soft as fleece and storybook green. The sun shone a brilliant white, sending waves of gentle warmth through his body, penetrating all the way to his bones. Someone was talking to him, reciting the names of his brothers and sisters and little niece: Demetra, Bernard, Ericka, Jamaal, Jasmas.
Ketrick Jordan knew he'd gone to see Jesus.
He rested there a moment, soaking up the light.
Then he woke up in hell.
He felt a jab of pain. Someone had stepped on his little finger, snapping a bone. He let out a holler.
The boot that broke his pinkie belonged to a fireman. "We have one alive," the man said.
The boy felt pain so excruciating that it saturated his nerve endings from head to toe. He was lying on his back in the grass; it was dark. He saw his aunt's legs walking by. He passed out.
He drifted back to consciousness in the ambulance and fixed his eyes on his underwear. They were pitch-black, like charred newspaper. Then he saw his legs. They were hideously burned, right down to the bone; he could actually see the bone poking out.
One of the paramedics started smearing some kind of ointment on Ketrick's raw limbs and torso. "This cream is gonna ease the pain," he said.
He saw his little brother Jamaal lying on his side on a stretcher, back turned, dressed in Ketrick's pajamas. He didn't stir, not a twitch. He seemed almost peaceful there.
"Is he alive?" Ketrick asked in a croaking voice.
The paramedics didn't say a word. They didn't even look at him.
The sirens hurt his ears, he remembered. He was extremely thirsty. At the hospital he saw his mother, Beverly Jordan, and begged her for water. She scrambled around until she found some. A doctor smacked the cup out of her hand.
"You'll kill him if you give him that water," Ketrick heard.
Later, he vaguely remembered someone saying they had to amputate his legs. Ketrick was barely hanging onto life; his heart had stopped more than once during those critical first hours. He'd suffered severe burns on more than half of his body, including his back, buttocks, arms and legs; if he were to survive, some of him would have to go.
When he woke up days later--after the first of some 30 surgeries over the years--he couldn't have cared less about his legs. He just wanted to know what happened to his family. He was in the burn unit at Parkland Memorial Hospital, and every now and then he'd hear someone shrieking in the room next door. He thought it was one of his brothers or sisters, though he'd later realize, through an abundance of firsthand experience, that it was just another patient going through the horribly painful process of getting his burns scrubbed.
"I was calling out their names," Ketrick recalls. "I'd ask the nurse, 'Is that my brother that I hear hollering? Is he all right?' She would never say nothing."
He figured it out pretty soon afterward--suspicions confirmed one day by the television in his hospital room, where he saw the grainy pictures of his two brothers, two sisters and niece, who ranged in age from 2 to 18. They were all dead, victims of one of the most heinous crimes in Dallas history.
But two years ago, Dallas police got a breakthrough and, with virtually no publicity, arrested the first suspect. Vincent Lamont Thomas, 33, a South Oak Cliff native, was charged with capital murder, and his trial is set for October. It's no sure thing for the prosecution. While the assistant district attorney assigned to the case, Eric Mountin, declined to comment except to praise the dogged work of the Dallas police investigators, cold cases such as this are extremely difficult to bring to trial. The prosecution must re-create the 15-year-old crime in cinematic detail for a jury while relying on the blurred memories of a diminishing roster of witnesses, many of whom have credibility problems and criminal records. Thomas' lawyer, Scottie Allen, notes that his client was questioned, polygraphed and released by police in 1988. "This is obviously a very, very tragic situation, because those people did lose their lives," Allen says. "But they charged and indicted the wrong person. He didn't have anything to do with that fire. They really don't have a case."
Now, for the first time, details are emerging about the fire and the events that led up to it. Investigators got their break in 2001 when a Dallas man who had been arrested on an unrelated murder charge offered information on the 1988 fire during his interrogation. The man, who'd killed another man in apparent self-defense, admitted he'd unwittingly disposed of the gasoline-soaked clothes of several suspects in the fire back when he was working as a 15-year-old lookout for Jamaican crack dealers in South Oak Cliff. Dallas police homicide Detective Randy Loboda reopened the case and was joined by a colleague, Detective Dan Trippel. They also received help from Assistant Chief Phyllis Allen of the fire department's arson investigation section. They dusted off the old investigative notes and followed new leads, which led to several other witnesses and some real identities for their suspects. "When they pulled the case file," says fire department Assistant Chief Debra Carlin, who handled the arson investigation in 1988, "a lot of what the guy was saying jibed with the original notes"--including such street names for suspects as "Freddy Krueger," "Curly Diamond" and "Silky."
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