They knew what the waiting was like, but they didn’t know what to expect this time.
They’d been here before, at the Frank Crowley Criminal Courts Building, waiting in a room in the district attorney’s office. That time, in November, hours crawled by as they waited for a verdict which never came.
This time, they knew they must wait — again — for 12 jurors to consider if Billy Chemirmir, the man they all say killed their loved ones, would be sentenced to life in prison without parole for the death of one woman, Lu Thi Harris.
After a shocking mistrial, with 11 hours of jury deliberation over two days, they were cautious and unsure of what would happen next.
In the courtroom Thursday, they listened as prosecutor Glen Fitzmartin told the jury to “please bring back a speedy verdict, so we can bring an end to this.”
They left the courtroom with tears and sighs, smudged makeup and long hugs.
Dan Probst, whose aunt was Catherine Probst Sinclair, reached for Loren Adair Smith, whose mother was Phyllis Payne. Their loved ones died about a month apart at Edgemere in Dallas.
Probst gave Smith a deep hug. Her mascara had spread around her eyes. His long mustache quivered over his top lip.
“You’re beautiful ugly,” Probst said, with a chuckle.
Every day, just like during the last trial, Probst has commuted to the courthouse from his farm on the line between Kaufman and Hunt counties. He’s ambled in, with brown cowboy boots and a black cowboy hat, and found his spot in the hard wooden benches of the courtroom’s gallery.
“That was like an out-of-body experience,” Probst said as the wait for a verdict began. “If the jurors only knew all of the other [expletive].”
None of the relatives of the families waiting at the courthouse were mentioned during this week’s capital murder trial. Jurors only heard about Harris’ death in March 2018, an attack on Mary Bartel the day prior, and the death of Mary Brooks in January 2018.
But Chemirmir faces 17 more counts of capital murder in Dallas and Collin counties. He’s been accused of at least two dozen deaths in all, each attached to a family in mourning.
Those families have formed strong connections with each other — bound by experiences they say no one else can understand. They organized to lobby for legislation in Austin to increase security at senior living communities. They call and text each other over glasses of wine, comparing progress on each other’s cases. They reminisce over memories of their mothers, and draw connections between their lives and deaths.
“This group of people is something you could never dream up,” Probst said. “Who knows which path this is going to take from here. None of us had a dog in that fight, and it doesn’t matter, but we all got bit by the same dog.”
He thought Fitzmartin did an excellent job presenting the case, but said he knew all too well that just one juror could cause problems, again.
“Let’s see how long it drags out,” he said.
Moments later, a red light appeared in the courtroom — a sign that the jury had a note for the judge.
After just 45 minutes, the jury foreman wrote, they had reached a verdict.
The families rode the elevator back down to the courtroom, filling the benches again before the jury was led in for the final time. They’d been told not to react, no matter the verdict, and took a few deep breaths while they waited.
“What is the verdict of the jury?” Judge Raquel “Rocky” Jones asked the foreman.
“Guilty of capital murder, ma’am,” the foreman said.
Some heads bowed, others fell back. Some gasped. Others released a long-held breath.
Probst, wearing a button that bore a red ribbon and his aunt’s face, dropped his elbows onto his knees, pushed his glasses to his forehead, and pulled out a red handkerchief to wipe his eyes.
Chemirmir stood, arms crossed, as the judge sentenced him to life in a Texas prison, a fate he once said he was certain he’d never see.
The judge thanked the jury, and a bailiff escorted them out of the room. Chemirmir stayed standing. The families waited.
Finally, a bailiff opened a door, and escorted him out of the courtroom.
The families stood still, silent for a moment.
“Now can we react?” asked Cheryl Pangburn, whose mother was Marilyn Bixler. “Now can we shout and say praise God?”
“Yes,” said someone from the district attorney’s office.
The room burst into applause, shouting, cheering. Someone banged loud on one of the wooden pews, surely loud enough for the man who was led away to hear. Years of waiting, the families told the television cameras later, had finally been repaid with a speedy verdict of guilty.
“One down, 23 to go,” said Scott MacPhee, whose mother was Carolyn MacPhee, as he walked out of the courtroom. “That’s how I look at it.”
