Former dispatcher recalls being taken hostage by escaped inmate, ensuing manhunt 25 years ago

It was July 10, 1986.

Big Sandy Police Chief Richard Lingle walked down a long hallway, heading toward the back room of a home where people were standing guard at the door.

Rosalie Williams sat inside the room - her hair messy, her uniform in disarray.

"She said, 'Richard, Richard' and she ran through the door. She grabbed my neck and hugged me so tight," Lingle said. "She was Rosie, and she was alive."

The day before, Williams - whose last name now is Turner - had been taken hostage by Jerry Walter "Animal" McFadden when the accused murderer escaped from the Upshur County Jail.

His escape prompted Texas' largest manhunt. More than 700 officers filled every nook and cranny of Big Sandy to ensure McFadden's return to jail.

"When people are going through a traumatic experience, they want to forget about it," Williams-Turner said Friday on the eve of the 25th anniversary of McFadden's escape.

"Everything happens for a reason. A lot of times we may not understand what's going on when we're in the midst of it. We can hardly see clearly. Above all else, if we have faith in a higher power and stay prayerful, you will always come out victoriously."

<strong>The escape</strong>

On Wednesday, July 9, 1986, 24-year-old Rosalie Williams began getting ready for work at the Upshur County Jail in Gilmer, where she served as a dispatcher and jailer.

At 2:30 p.m., Rosalie dropped off her son Ray, then 4 years old, with a babysitter. She kissed his forehead before leaving for the jail, which at the time was on the fifth floor of the Upshur County Courthouse. Rosalie had worked for the jail about three-and-a-half years, dispatching officers to calls and keeping an eye on the inmates.

On this July day, the county's jail cells were overcrowded with one inmate in isolation - McFadden.

McFadden, who had nicknamed himself "Animal," had been scheduled to go to trial July 28 on charges of aggravated assault and robbery, but he also faced a murder charge.

McFadden had served two prison sentences. Each lasted five years or less, and each was for a charge of rape.

On May 4, 1986, McFadden kidnapped teenagers Brian Boone, Gena Turner and Suzanne Harrison from Lake Hawkins. Harrison's body was found the next day on Barnwell Mountain in Gilmer. She had been raped and strangled. Boone's and Turner's bodies were found in the following days near Ore City, where McFadden lived. Boone had been shot in the back of the head. Turner had been raped and murdered.

McFadden had been charged in Harrison's murder.

Though Upshur County Jail employees typically worked in pairs, Sgt. Kenneth Mayfield had been assigned specifically to watch McFadden. Rosalie Williams and her partner continued with their normal duties in the dispatch room, which was surrounded by glass and at the opposite end of the hall from the jail.

About 6 p.m., McFadden asked Mayfield if he could use the phone, kept beside the glass-enclosed dispatch room, to call his wife. Mayfield didn't have a gun. They weren't allowed near prisoners, as jail officials feared inmates might try to take them from the guards.

Mayfield unlocked McFadden's cell door, and as he did, McFadden hit Mayfield in the head with an L-shaped piece of steel that the 6-foot, 220-pound inmate had ripped off the window.

"Blood spurted out," Rosalie Williams-Turner said. "Mayfield fell to the ground as if he'd been struck with an ax."

McFadden went to get Mayfield's gun, which was locked in a drawer. He forced Williams-Turner and her co-worker to drag Mayfield into McFadden's empty cell. He then pushed the other jailer inside and made Williams-Turner lock the cell door.

McFadden had been observing the comings and goings of the dispatchers, jailers and deputies. He knew Williams-Turner had a key to the back elevator that led to the south side parking lot.

He then put a gun to her throat.

"When it first happened, I was just in a state of shock," Rosalie said. "But I was not in disbelief that it was happening. Doing that type of job, I always knew in my heart that something like this could happen. When you accept the responsibility of a job in that manner, there's always the possibility of the unthinkable happening .... I just realized this actually was happening. The first thing I said was 'Help me, Jesus.' I let my instincts take over."

McFadden took the key to the elevator as well as the keys to Williams-Turner's car. He forced her into the elevator with him, into the parking lot and into her car, where one of her son's toys rested in the passenger seat.

McFadden then entered the car on the driver's side and put the key in the ignition.

<strong>The revelation</strong>

McFadden turned the key, and the 1979 Datsun jerked.

The car was a standard. McFadden only knew how to drive an automatic. Williams-Turner said he didn't know the clutch had to be pressed for the car to start.

They sat there for a few seconds. McFadden repeatedly trying to start the car, the car jerking but not starting, and Williams-Turner sitting quietly in fear.

"He was waving the gun everywhere," she said. "I said, 'Calm down, Jerry, calm down.' He said, 'I can't start the vehicle.' "

He ordered Williams-Turner to start the car, which she did. Then she returned to the passenger seat.

"We backed up, then he started zooming," she said.

Williams-Turner said she just wanted to cooperate with him. She was in survival mode.

"I wanted to do whatever needed to be done, not only to protect myself and to keep myself safe - but I had to think about him," she said. "I know that sounds really hard to believe, but I was concerned about his state of mind. He was very upset. He was angry. He just wanted to survive, too."

But beyond that, she realized she was not the only person in danger.

Any person who might come into contact with McFadden could potentially be threatened. She prayed, asking God to put her in a state of mind to protect everybody.

While McFadden was speeding down Texas 11, deputies were attempting to call the dispatch office. No one, of course, was answering.

"Everybody got suspicious something must be going on in the jail because nobody was answering," Williams-Turner said.

When the deputies went up the elevator, they saw blood on the floor from where McFadden had attacked Mayfield. They went in the jail and discovered Mayfield and the other dispatcher/jailer in McFadden's cell.

Upshur County did not have a plan in place to block off streets in the event of something such as a jail breakout.

Nearby law enforcement agencies were notified to be on the lookout. All of the local news agencies plastered McFadden's and Williams-Turner's faces on TV screens, telling people to be on the lookout.

Big Sandy Police Chief Richard Lingle told his department to find a way to block off every street, every dirt road and every avenue out of town.

<strong>The hiding place</strong>

About 7:30 p.m., McFadden heard a helicopter. He kept driving, but he was scared.

He started to panic and ended up driving off the highway and straight into a tree.

"He jumped out of the car, walked over to my side and pulled me out," Williams-Turner said. "He grabbed my wrist and we just started running into the woods, hearing the helicopters above us."

Williams-Turner didn't realize it at the time, but the duo were in the woods behind Jarvis Christian College. About 3 a.m. or 4 a.m., they came upon a boxcar in Big Sandy.

There were toys near the boxcar, and it looked as if children had been playing nearby.

"He said, 'Rosalie, you better hope and pray there's no kids around there because they're in trouble,' " Rosalie said. "He was getting scared. He wanted somewhere to hide."

Williams-Turner was thankful there were no children in the boxcar, and it provided them a place to hide until the next night.

Their words were brief, but what Williams-Turner - or Rosie as friends call her - recalled was McFadden's repeated cries that he didn't murder Suzanne Harrison.

"He said, 'Rosie' - because he called me Rosie sometimes - 'Rosie, they're trying to give me the needle for something I didn't do.' He said that over and over," she said. "He said he didn't kill those children. He said, 'I've been through a hard life. I've done a lot of things, but I didn't do what they're accusing me of doing.' "

Throughout the following day, Rosalie said they could hear people driving across the nearby tracks and workers talking around them, but no one came by the boxcar.

By night, they were dehydrated. It was July, and temperatures were in the triple digits.

Williams-Turner had her eyes closed, and when she opened them, she recalled only being able to see color spots.

"I started screaming and hollering. He said, 'What's wrong with you?' " Williams-Turner said.

She asked him for water. She couldn't stand or see.

"He said, 'Shut up. Calm down. I'll get us some water,' " Williams-Turner said. "He figured I wouldn't try to run away because I couldn't walk. So he left me in the boxcar."

<strong>The second escape</strong>

When McFadden jumped off the boxcar, Williams-Turner stood up and walked to the entrance.

She heard a dog barking and the sounds of McFadden fighting with the animal.

"When I noticed he was hollering and trying to get a dog off of him, it was like the Lord just said to me, 'This is your time. Jump off the boxcar,' " Williams-Turner said. "That's exactly what I did."

<strong>She started running.</strong>

When she looked back at McFadden, he was still fighting the dog.

She ran to the home of Mancho Martinez.

"I fell on the porch and knocked on the door but no one answered," she said. "A voice told me to open the door. It was unlocked. I just fell on the floor and a little boy, about 10 years old, just ran up to me."

As the boy's parents approached Williams-Turner, her face appeared on the television.

"The daddy said, 'Don't cry. We know you. We see you on TV,' Williams-Turner said.

The man's wife helped wash her face, while the little boy gave her water to drink.

Moments later, a phone rang at the Big Sandy Police Department where Lingle and his staff were plotting out street blockages.

"He said, 'We've got the lady - the lady that was on TV,' " Lingle said.

Lingle, who knew Williams-Turner because of their law enforcement ties, immediately went to the Martinez home where they were reunited.

A call was then heard on the radio - "Big Sandy 301, I have Rosalie with me. She's OK. She's not hurt."

Williams-Turner took the radio from Lingle to tell everyone she was safe and to thank them.

Lingle then requested backup.

"Within 30 minutes or an hour, I had plenty of help," he said.

<strong>The capture</strong>

More than 700 officers filled Big Sandy, blocking every street to ensure McFadden did not escape.

Officers searched the various areas of the city, but did not find him for hours. Upshur County Sheriff Dale Jewkes asked Lingle if he really believed McFadden was still in Big Sandy.

"I told him, yes, because everybody did what they were supposed to," Lingle said.

The officers considered pulling back, notifying media that they were giving up on the search, as a tactic to make McFadden think they had quit, and perhaps come out of hiding.

However, they first decided to search vacant houses and buildings.

A SWAT team from Collin County found McFadden on July 11 in a vacant house at College Street and Wildcat Drive. He surrendered - and Texas' largest manhunt ended.

Lingle said it made him realize that anything can happen in the community.

"Rosalie needs to be remembered. The officers who helped need to be remembered," he said. "But above all else, we need to try to remember the kids. Three kids died. We are thankful that none of us got hurt and that everybody went home. Those kids didn't go home, though. They were at the wrong place at the wrong time. We need to remember them."

McFadden was found guilty of capital murder and received the death penalty. He died by lethal injection Oct. 14, 1999.

A new Upshur County Jail opened in 1987 with improved security. Lingle is now retired, and Williams-Turner continues to work in law enforcement for the Texas Department of Public Safety.

She said she would not trade what happened to her because it made her stronger.

"It made me more aware of the everyday blessings - the good, the bad and the ugly," she said. "As long as we're among the living, it's a blessing. It increased my faith even more.

"I highly respect the profession of law enforcement, and all of the men and woman who have committed themselves to perform this duty. It's honorable. I don't take anything for granted. It makes me more appreciative for each day. It just made me a better person all the way around."