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Former Death-Row Inmate Sent Back to Prison

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When Draughon saw the men banging on the windows, he ran for the back exit. He busted through the door and rushed for Gafford's truck. Guerrero chased after him.

Draughon pointed the gun behind him and fired several shots. Draughon jumped in the truck, and Gafford sped off.

Two days later, Draughon robbed another Long John Silver's. As he ran from the store, a police officer shot at Draughon but missed. Draughon dropped to the asphalt and gave up. He soon learned that he had killed ­Guerrero.

During his trial, Draughon argued that he hadn't intentionally killed the man. He was only firing warning shots. No ballistics testimony was offered on Draughon's behalf.

The prosecution, however, called a weapons examiner from the Houston Police Department. The officer testified, based on ballistics, that Draughon shot Guerrero point-blank. The jury convicted Draughon of capital murder and he was sentenced to death.

Felicia had traveled from Florida with her mother and younger sister for the weeklong trial. She was on summer vacation between her junior and senior years of high school. As soon as the death penalty was announced, Draughon's mother walked out of the courtroom and ­collapsed.

"It was wretched," Felicia says. "I never in a million years would have expected the death penalty."
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While Martin Draughon was in the early years of his death-row sentence, Weathers was working at NutriSystem diet centers in Houston.

Weathers lived and worked in the Houston area until her father became ill, which prompted her to move to North Carolina. When her father died, she sold the family's marina business and decided to return to Texas.

Weathers had liked Houston, but she wanted to live near a lake. So, she chose Livingston. She found a small place to live and used the marina money to open a deli on the main street that runs through the town.

About the same time, Jim Wolfe, a longtime Livingston resident, had decided to set up a radio station in his 12-room Victorian house. Wolfe had always worked on satellite and radio equipment, and wanted to start the station as a hobby. He really wanted a way to play his massive collection of old rock and blues records.

The station was never intended to be a moneymaker, and Wolfe says he personally funds the station for about $3,000 a month. Wolfe's wife wasn't happy with that idea, and, shortly after the station was up and running, the couple split after 32 years.

Wolfe had frequented Weathers's deli, and the two had become friends. Business at the deli was slow, she told Wolfe, because she wasn't having any luck getting customers into the store. Wolfe asked her to move into his house so she could help manage the radio station. Weathers agreed.

Wolfe didn't set out to broadcast to prisoners. He wasn't certain that his signal would even penetrate the walls at Polunsky. But soon, Wolfe started receiving letters with song requests from inmates.

Then he received a letter from an inmate asking him to track down some case information. Wolfe found the info and read it over the air. The letters started pouring in after that.

Soon, friends and family members of the prisoners were calling and writing the station. They all had messages they wanted broadcast to an inmate.

Wolfe, who speaks with a deep baritone drawl, felt uncomfortable reading letters from women. Especially, he says, when the messages were accented with a couple kisses. Wolfe did his best, he says, trying to read the letters in a high-pitched, sexy voice. It was a complete failure.

Wolfe turned to Weathers, who had been reluctant to appear on the radio because, she says, she sounded like a "big country hick." But Wolfe coaxed her, and Weathers soon felt comfortable. In fact, she says, it felt natural. Weathers began reading the majority of the letters to inmates.

Sunday became the official night for the prison broadcast. The more she heard from prisoners and their families, the more she spoke about the poor conditions on death row.

Weathers realized she was in a unique position. She wanted to teach prisoners about Jesus.

"It was all God," Weathers says. "It needed to turn into a ministry, and the Lord just laid it on our hearts to do that."

Weathers enlisted the help of her longtime friend, Silvia Joplin, to serve as pastor. Joplin, who was living in Michigan at the time, agreed to move to Livingston to start her career as a preacher.

Weathers broadcast a message to inmates asking for a name for the ministry. A prisoner on death row mailed Weathers a drawing of two hands clasped in prayer with a Bible in the background. Written above the picture in colorful script were the words "All Life Is Precious."

The show soon expanded to two nights. Sunday nights were reserved for reading messages to inmates, and a Thursday night show was devoted to preaching.

"This is something God knew needed to exist because of the men in prison. They need to know that Jesus Christ loves them," Joplin says. "You would call us great humanitarians. I think we're doing one of the greatest humanitarian works that anyone has ever done."

Ray Hill has been doing a prison show on Houston's KPFT for 28 years. Hill, who spent four years in prison, has heard the KDOL show and, for the most part, likes what Weathers is doing. In fact, KDOL has a better signal going to death row than KPFT does.

"She isn't as diplomatic as I am, nor is she as sophisticated as I am," Hill says. "But the territory is big enough for the both of us, so I'm kind of glad for that. I don't buy into the religion thing, but that's just me."

While Weathers was laying the groundwork for her ministry, Draughon was becoming a celebrity on death row.

Draughon had received a small flash of publicity during his murder trial for a number of poems he wrote in his jail cell. After his sentencing, one headline read, "Jail poet given death in slaying."

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