© Longview News-Journal
Reprinted by permission

Ron Shamburger's upbringing was no forecast for how his life will end

Editor's Note: Longview News-Journal readers were first introduced to Ron Shamburger in a story published on Christmas Day 1998. Shamburger, who was raised in Longview, shot to death fellow Texas A&M University student Lori A. Baker in September 1994 during a burglary of her home.

Today's story is the first of two about his life for the last eight years on death row and his upcoming execution, set for Sept. 18 in Huntsville.

But the lives of four parents also have changed forever.

Next Sunday, reporter Robin Galiano talks with Dacell and Lynell Shamburger of Longview and Derrel and Faye Baker of Dallas to learn how each is coping with the loss of a child.

And family therapist Dr. Lynn New, who has visited Shamburger on death row more than a dozen times, provides insight into how a man with a good upbringing could commit such a terrible crime.

By ROBIN GALIANO, Staff writer

LIVINGSTON — Wearing a white prison-issued T-shirt, baggy shirt and slacks, Ron Shamburger rests with his head face down over crossed arms as visitors arrive.

He lifts his head and smiles as he picks up a telephone receiver in a small white cubicle where visitors, separated by an inch-thick window, can talk with him on death row.

Shamburger, who was raised in Longview, is articulate and polite, and responds thoughtfully to questions. He engages visitors with keen eye contact and talks easily about his faith.

He describes himself as "quiet." Shamburger appears to be gentle, mild-mannered, even kind. The sort of young man you'd expect to be helping out with a church youth group or teaching Sunday school. By now, he should have been working as a youth pastor, or doing bio-medical research in a laboratory, one of the two career choices he had considered.

He likely would have graduated from seminary, gotten married and had children by now.

Instead, he has less than six weeks to live.

Shamburger is scheduled to be executed by lethal injection on Sept. 18 in Huntsville, nearly eight years after he shot to death fellow Texas A&M University student Lori A. Baker, during what he said was a botched burglary of her home.

Others later would say he intended to kill Lori that night.

Christian upbringing

Pulling that trigger is a far cry from how he was raised.

Growing up in a solid Christian family, Shamburger had attained the rank of Eagle Scout and participated in church activities: camps, missions trips, retreats and youth choir. He even served as a Baptist missionary one summer during college.

Shamburger knew better. His faith experience is no death-row conversion. In a written testimony printed as a gospel tract, Shamburger said he "lived a good clean life and never got myself into trouble." From a cubicle in the visiting room on death row, he admits he strayed from his faith.

"I gave my life to the Lord when I was 7 years old. I can't always say I did the right thing. And then you begin to wonder, ‘What does the world have to offer?’ It became more consuming over time."

Shamburger says he began to drift from his upbringing and his faith when he felt he was owed more out of life than he was getting. Before it was over, he would be involved in burglaries and stealing credit cards and cash to finance a better lifestyle.

"I wasn't where I needed to be in a lot of areas," he says. "Laziness was a part of it. If you're bored with what you're supposed to be doing, you will find it in other areas. You did find a form of satisfaction in criminal behavior, in sin. It became a false filler, like eating Ritz crackers instead of apples."

Ultimately, he would be convicted of capital murder.

His conviction has been affirmed by the 5th Circuit Court of Appeals. He still could ask the U.S. Supreme Court to hear his case, but Shamburger does not want to prolong the inevitable.

In an interview July 31 from the Polunsky Unit in Livingston where he was transferred in June after receiving his execution date, he talked about his daily routine, what it's like to have just a few weeks left to live and how he copes with the consequences of his choices.

Reflection, depression

Shamburger says he doesn't spend much time rehashing the events of Sept. 30, 1994, when Lori Baker lost her life. He doesn't want to talk about what happened that night.

"I do reflect, but I cannot say I enter into full reflection," he says. "I do it in bits and pieces. It is overwhelming. There's depression in it. You have to go to the Lord and find your peace again, even though you know you're forgiven."

According to court testimony, it was sometime after midnight on Sept. 30, 1994, when Shamburger, then 22, entered the duplex of Baker, a 20-year-old fellow student from an affluent family whom he briefly had dated. Shamburger had attempted to burglarize the home several times before. This time, Baker was at home when he flipped on her bedroom light.

The Court of Criminal Appeals decision states that Shamburger held her down, bound her hands with duct tape and then heard Baker's roommate, Victoria Kohler, opening the garage door.

With his gun pressed against Baker's forehead, he shot her, killing her instantly.

Shamburger says he panicked knowing that she would be able to identify him, that he acted out of impulse.

Brazos County District Attorney Bill Turner believes it was intentional.

"He had been in the home before. This was a repeated return. It was my opinion he was looking for a confrontation," Turner said. "There are a lot of burglars who go to a home and don't bring a gun. And when they hear someone, they flee."

Police records show Shamburger abducted Kohler, whom he didn't know, and put her in the trunk of her car. He left her unharmed a few blocks away.

He then returned to Baker's duplex and methodically tried to remove the bullet from her head with a knife and scissors, according to a police report.

He also tried to cover his tracks by saturating Baker's room with gasoline and lighting it. The home ignited, blowing the garage door off its tracks.

Singed by the explosion, Shamburger fled to nearby woods, then realized he had left his car keys in the burning duplex. Knowing he would be tied to the crime, Shamburger twice lifted his gun to his own head, but couldn't pull the trigger. He found a convenience store, called his youth minister and asked to be picked up. Within a few hours, Shamburger had turned himself in to the police and confessed.

Following a yearlong investigation and capital murder trial in Brazos County, he was given the death penalty.

Detachment, guilt

For Shamburger, the first few weeks in Brazos County Jail following his arrest were the hardest part: dealing with the shock and guilt of what he'd done, seeing his parents suffer grief and disappointment and adjusting to the reality of life behind bars.

"You still wonder, ‘Why did I do this?’ A lot of it was just greed," he says. "I had no idea of other people at that time. I didn't see myself as part of a community. I didn't see the effects of what I was doing.

"Something I've learned is our actions do have consequences. I've seen how it's affected my parents, my friends, even people I've never met. You're not alone. You always think you're alone, but you don't live in a bubble. It's like a pebble that causes a ripple in a pond. You don't always see it, but we know it goes all the way to the edge. And here I come in with this huge boulder."

It took a few more weeks of being imprisoned before Shamburger came to recognize the real value of his faith. In the process, he says he found peace and acceptance despite being locked up.

"I used to hear that a lot of comfort is in Scripture. I have that benefit. I know I'm not alone and I have a relationship with the Lord. It brings a lot of peace."

He believes he has been ultimately forgiven by God, but Shamburger also knows he has to pay the price for making that awful choice. He has never denied his guilt, an admission that has reduced the number of appeals that might have been possible.

He sometimes wryly comments that he is the only guilty person on death row. Unlike many of his fellow inmates, Shamburger is willing to accept the consequences, even if it means dying for his crime.

"Some people back here are uptight, depressed, trying to distract themselves. I'm sitting there thinking I'm ready to go. I'm going home. I'm getting clean clothes that fit. I'm looking through the death to the glory of heaven. I think of Paul's words that to die is gain, and to live is for the Lord. Sooner or later, I'm going. I've placed that in his hands."

Always alone

Security is tight at the Polunsky Unit where about 455 inmates await execution. Rows of white buildings are surrounded by tall, barbed wire-topped fences.

Visitors enter through heavy electronic doors, which slide open slowly only after security has been checked. No purses, tobacco products or cell phones are allowed.

Walls in the 60-square-foot death row cells are solid, windows are a mere strip of light at the top of the cell. Climate control is nonexistent.

Prisoners are forbidden any contact with one another. They make do by shouting through the walls, but when more than a few inmates are yelling, the echoes drown out conversation.

Death row prisoners read, write letters and listen to radio broadcasts. Shamburger’s pen pals include individuals in England and Switzerland who oppose the death penalty and who have contacted the Texas Department of Criminal Justice Web site to obtain names of inmates on Texas' death row. Weekly visits from Longview ministers and his parents help break up the isolation.

Breakfast will show up anywhere from 3:30 a.m. to 5 a.m. A tray is pushed into each cell through the "beanhole" in the door, a nickname prisoners use to refer to the frequent entree of beans.

Shamburger has morning devotionals after breakfast.

"That's the quietest time of day. I can spend time with the Lord," he says. "Normally I read five chapters in Psalms. But some days you might get to Psalm 119 and spend more time with it."

Inmates are taken out, one at a time, for an hour of solitary recreation between 6 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. Shamburger walks the grounds by himself or shoots hoops.

"That's my time out of my cell. You're alone all the time," he says. "We don't have a lot of interaction. I miss the feedback. You have nothing but time."

Sometime during the day he is allowed to take a shower. Each time Shamburger is taken out of his cell, he has to squat with his back to the door so that handcuffs can be secured behind him. Then the door is unlocked.

Lunch is between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m., followed by dinner sometime from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m.

In his cell, Shamburger has a Bible, several books, a radio with headphones, which he uses to listen to on-air preachers, writing materials and a hotpot to heat water for coffee or Ramen noodle soup.

"There's nothing that really ties me to this world. I have my parents and my friends, but I'm not gonna miss these white suits that don't fit me. I'm ready for the new white that does fit," he says, referring to the clean, white garments mentioned in the New Testament Book of Revelation that are reserved for those who accept Christ.

Hugs for Mom

For a young man who once wanted a sports car and designer clothes so badly he was willing to steal — and eventually kill — for them, Shamburger has come to terms with wearing baggy prison whites and having just one car ride in seven years, when he was transported from Huntsville's Ellis Unit to Livingston's Polunsky Unit.

Through his imprisonment, Shamburger says he has learned how to cope with frustration and to become more patient.

"You learn to trust the Lord for things you can't control. When they bring your food, when you get your shower. If my Mom gets sick, there's nothing I can do. If they have car trouble driving down here, they can't even call me.

"You learn to trust the Lord to provide. He is your provider. You learn that God is your satisfaction. That he's going to supply all your needs. People always think it's harder in prison, but there's less temptations, less distractions. In here, there's maybe three or four areas that tempt you. In the world, there are 104."

He is thankful for the little things, like having a slit of a window in his cell. If he stands on his bunk and rolls up his mattress for an extra few inches of height, Shamburger can see the sunrise over the treetops.

At his execution date hearing in June, he asked for permission to give his Mom a hug, since he hadn't been able to touch her since he was arrested. He was granted a five-minute visit with his parents, without handcuffs.

"I gave my Mom a hug," he says, gesturing with an outstretched arm. "I gave my Mom another hug. I hugged my Dad. And I put my arm around my Mom. It meant a lot more to me than I realized. I was on cloud nine for a month."

Even now, Shamburger asks a newspaper photographer to take an extra picture for his Mom.

"The only one I have is the (prison) mug shot. I'd like a nice one for my Mom to have," he says, holding one hand up against the glass window.

Unpayable debt

Some would say his life has been wasted. Shamburger doesn't agree.

"I believe everyone's given a span of life. I don't read too many places in Scripture where God added to a life, but I do read that he took away. Because of my choices, I'm not able to fulfill my full potential. That's one of the reasons I'm looking forward to heaven, because God will restore things as they should be."

He knows Sept. 18 is coming, but he says "scared" is not the right word for how he feels.

"As the time approaches, I will be more anxious. But there's not going to be any loss. There will be gain. I will gain freedom from this sinful body, from confinement. I will gain the physical presence with God that I don't have now. If you're a racing fan, it's like the restrictor plates are coming off."

He is working on a final statement to read at his execution, but is afraid it will sound "flip.”

"How can I express it in the most expressive way? I'm always afraid I'll say the wrong thing. I would ask (Baker's parents) for their forgiveness. I would tell them I'm sorry for the pain, loss and heartache I caused. That if there was any way to go back and alter what I did, I would.

“I have an unpayable debt. Nothing I can say or do, even the loss of my own life, will bring back Miss Baker. It's like that with God. We have an unpayable debt with him. But he has given us a substitute in Jesus Christ. His mercy is everlasting. I can't replace what's been taken, but there is a future."

His family, he knows, will endure the most emotionally wrenching pain. His younger sister and brother already have experienced their own agony. Shamburger sees it in their eyes when they visit him.

"Embarrassment. Insecurity. Probably a lot of uncertainty. When you have a brother on death row, there's a lot of questions."

Shamburger's sister is expecting her first child, his parent's first grandchild, on Oct. 17, a month after his execution. It's not a replacement for his own life, but it helps.

"I think that's quite timely. They're losing a son, but they're gaining a grandchild," he says.

But he says his parents still have the worst imaginable experience ahead of them: saying goodbye to their son who will be executed for murder.

Shamburger thinks about the words of the Old Testament King David, who also lost a son: "I can't rejoin you here, but you can join me there."

"It will be hardest for my parents. I'm going to enter my rest, my peace. They're going to be left behind to deal with loss and grief. They hide a lot of pain."