Manuel Vasquez: Executed After 17 Years on Death Row | Last Words, Last Meal | Brutal Mafia| US deat
On March 11th, 2015 after spending nearly 17 years on death row, Manuel Meimme Vasquez was executed by lethal injection at the Walls unit in Huntsville, Texas. He was 46 years old. In this video, we will talk about what happened, his last words, and the execution that used one of Texas’s last remaining doses of penttoarbital.
But to uncover the brutal world of the Mexican mafia’s dime tax, a system that turned drug dealers into targets and enforcers into executioners, we have to go back to March 1998 and a motel room murder that would expose the inner workings of one of America’s most violent prison gangs. A 51-year-old woman strangled with a telephone cord for refusing to pay 10%.
A man choked with a belt, beaten with a crowbar, dowsted with gasoline, and set on fire. A drug dealer shot twice in the head at point blank range. He partygoers stabbed and left for dead. And throughout it all, one man, a Mexican mafia enforcer who learned violence from his father, perfected it in prison and used it to collect debts for the organization.
After killing at least three people and brutalizing countless others as a soldier for the Mexican mafia, Manuel Vasquez would face a needle, a prayer, and a sister’s tears. March 14th, 1998, 5 days before the murder, San Antonio, Texas. Manuel Vasquez sat in a room with other members and associates of the Mexican mafia.
These weren’t casual gatherings. These were business meetings. The Mexican mafia controlled drug distribution throughout San Antonio. They didn’t sell the drugs themselves. They taxed the dealers. Every drug dealer operating in San Antonio territory knew the rules. Are you paid 10% of your proceeds to the Mexican mafia every week? No exceptions, no excuses.
This was called the dime tax. Dime meaning 10%. It was a protection racket, an extortion scheme, a business model built on fear and violence. The system was simple and brutal. If you were a drug dealer and you sold $10,000 worth of drugs that week, you owed the Mexican mafia $1,000. You paid it to your designated collector.
The money went up the chain to the shot callers, the generals, the leaders of the organization. If you didn’t pay, there were consequences. The first time you failed to pay, they came for you. They robbed you. Took everything. Your drugs, your money, your jewelry, your car, everything. It was a warning. It was a message.
Pay next time or else. The second time you failed to pay, there was no robbery. But there was no warning. There was only death. On March 14th, 1998, during that meeting, a high-ranking member of the Mexican Mafia stood up and made an announcement. Juanita Ibara had to go down. Everyone in the room understood what that meant.
Juanita Ibara was a drug dealer. She operated on the south side of San Antonio. She was 51 years old. She had been in the game for years, and she had failed to pay the dime tax, not once, but twice. The first time they had robbed her, taken her drugs, her money. She should have learned her lesson. But Juanita was stubborn.
Or maybe she was desperate. Maybe she thought she could get away with it. Maybe she thought the Mexican mafia wouldn’t really kill a woman. Whatever she thought, she was wrong. She stopped paying again. And now the order had come down. She had to die. Manuel Vasquez was in that room when the order was given.
So was Oligario Luhan, another full member of the Mexican mafia. They both understood their assignment. This wasn’t a request. This was an order from the top. from Renee Munos, the Mexican mafia boss who was so dangerous, so wanted that he would spend years on the Texas Department of Public Safety’s 10 most wanted list before finally being arrested in 2012.
When Renee Munos gave an order, you followed it, no questions asked. Over the next 2 days, Manuel Vasquez and Oligario Luhan began making preparations. They needed a third person, someone younger, someone willing to prove himself to the organization. They chose Johnny Joe Cruz. Cruz was 24 years old. He was an associate of the Mexican mafia, not a full member.
Associates did the dirty work, hoping to earn their place, all hoping to get their tattoos, hoping to become soldiers. Cruz wanted to move up. And when Vasquez and Lugan approached him 2 days before the murder on March 17th, they told him exactly what was expected. Juanita Ibara had to die.
She wasn’t paying her 10% to the mafia. It was time to make an example of her. Cruz agreed immediately. He wanted to prove his loyalty. He wanted to show the organization he was willing to do whatever it took. The three men began planning. They knew Juanita was staying at the new Laredo Motel on the south side of San Antonio. She had a boyfriend, Moses Bazison, who stayed with her.
The motel was cheap, rundown, the kind of place where people minded their own business and didn’t ask questions. Perfect for drug dealers. Perfect for a murder. March 18th, 1998. The night before the murder, Manuel Vasquez, Onolario Luhan, and Johnny Joe Cruz gathered at the new Laredo Motel. They weren’t alone.
There were others with them. A juvenile witness would later testify that she was in a motel room that night with Vasquez, Luhan, Cruz, a woman named Rodriguez, and several others. The atmosphere was tense, but familiar. These were people who lived on the edges of society. People who used drugs, committed crimes, and didn’t think much about the future.
That night, the group was using heroin, drinking, preparing. At some point during the evening, Vasquez, Luhan, and Cruz stood up. They picked up some towels from the bathroom. They grabbed bandanas. They were getting ready. Vasquez turned to Rodriguez and asked for her car keys. She handed them over without question.
You didn’t question Manuel Vasquez. Not if you knew what was good for you. Bor the three men left the room. But they didn’t leave the motel. They rented their own room, a room close to where Juanita Ibara was staying. They spent hours in that room waiting, using more drugs, psyching themselves up for what they were about to do.
They knew Juanita and Moses were just a few doors down. They knew the layout of the motel. They knew that in the early morning hours when most people were asleep, they could strike without interference. The plan was simple. They would wear bandanas over their faces to hide their identities. They would put socks on their hands to avoid leaving fingerprints.
They would break into the room, subdue Moses Bazison, kill Juanita Ibara, and rob the place. take the drugs, the money, the jewelry, make it look like a robbery gone wrong. But the real reason was the dime tax. This was an execution. I’d a message to every other drug dealer in San Antonio. Pay your taxes or this is what happens to you.
As the night wore on, the three men prepared themselves mentally. They weren’t nervous. This wasn’t their first time. Vasquez had killed before multiple times. Lu Jan was a full member of the Mexican mafia, a man who had proven his willingness to do violence. And Cruz, though younger and less experienced, was eager to prove himself. They waited until the early morning hours. Around 5:00 a.m.
, that’s when they made their move. March 19th, 1998, 500 a.m. The sun hadn’t risen yet. The new Laredo Motel was quiet. Most of the guests were asleep. Inside one of the rooms, Wanita Ibara and Moses Bazan were in bed. Moses was 34 years old. He had been with Wanita for a while. He knew she dealt drugs. He knew it was dangerous, but he had no idea what was about to happen.
Manuel Vasquez, Oligario Luhan, and Johnny Joe Cruz stood outside their room preparing. They tied bandanas around their heads, covering their faces from the nose down. They slipped white socks onto their hands, makeshift gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. They checked to make sure they had everything they needed. They were ready.
The three men walked down the motel corridor. Their footsteps were quiet, deliberate. They stopped in front of Juanita Ibara’s room. Vasquez raised his fist and knocked on the door. Inside, Moses Bazan stirred. It was early, too early for visitors. He got out of bed and walked to the door.
He looked out the window and saw three men standing outside. They didn’t look familiar. Not at first, not with the bandanas covering their faces. Moses hesitated. Something didn’t feel right, but he cracked the door open anyway, just a few inches. The chain was still on. That was all the opening they needed.
Vasquez slammed his shoulder into the door with brutal force. The chain snapped. The door flew open. All three men rushed inside. Moses stumbled backward, shocked, terrified. Before he could react, before he could defend himself, Lugan and Cruz were on him. Lugan grabbed him. Cruz started throwing punches. Moses tried to fight back.
He was a big man, strong, but he was caught off guard. He was outnumbered. And these men were trained in violence. While Lugan and Cruz focused on Moses, Vasquez went straight for Juanita. She was on the bed, frozen in terror. She knew who these men were. She knew why they were there. She started screaming, begging, “Take the money.
Take the drugs. Take everything. I just leave us alone. But Vasquez didn’t respond. He grabbed her by the throat. Juanita fought back. She clawed at his hands. She tried to push him away. She was fighting for her life. Across the room, Moses was in his own fight for survival. Luan and Cruz were relentless. They kicked him in the ribs.
They punched him in the face, the stomach, the head. Moses kicked back. During the struggle, he kicked so hard that his foot went through the sheetrock wall, leaving a gaping hole. He swung his fists wildly. He managed to break a window in the motel room. Glass shattered everywhere. He was desperate, fighting with everything he had.
Cruz pulled out a knife. He started stabbing at Moses. The blade cut into Moses’s head. Blood poured down his face. Moses kept fighting. Lujan wrapped an electrical cord around Moses’s neck and started choking him. Moses gasped for air. His vision started to blur. He could hear Juanita across the room, still screaming, still begging.
And then he heard something else. He heard Vasquez yell out in pain. Juanita had bitten him. She had sunk her teeth into Vasquez’s hand, biting down as hard as she could, refusing to let go. Vasquez screamed, “She’s biting me. Get over here.” Cruz let go of Moses and rushed over to help Vasquez. Together, Vasquez and Cruz started hitting Juanita.
Over and over, they punched her in the face, the head, the body. They hit her more than 10 times. Juanita’s grip loosened. She stopped biting. She was weakening. Vasquez grabbed a telephone cord from the nightstand. He wrapped it around Juanita’s neck. He pulled it tight, tighter. Juanita tried to scream, but no sound came out. The cord was crushing her windpipe.
She gasped for air. Her hands reached up, trying to pull the cord away, trying to loosen Vasquez’s grip, but she was too weak. She had been beaten too badly. Vasquez pulled harder. Juanita’s body started to go limp. She made one last sound, a desperate, choking gasp. And then she went silent. Her body stopped moving. Juanita Ibara was dead.
Moses heard it. Even as he was being choked, even as he was bleeding from stab wounds, he heard Wanita’s last breath. He knew she was gone, and he knew he was next. Vasquez turned to Lujan. Stab him. Lugjun raised the knife. Moses braced himself, but instead of stabbing Moses, Lugan stabbed the floor.
The knife hit the hard surface and bent. Lujan didn’t try again. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Maybe he thought Moses was already dying. Whatever the reason, he stopped. Cruz and Lugan grabbed another cord and wrapped it around Moses’s neck. They pulled tight. Moses made a split-second decision. He stopped fighting. He went completely limp.
He let his body go slack, pretending to lose consciousness. He played dead. The two men stopped choking him. They let go. Moses lay on the floor, motionless, barely breathing. He kept his eyes closed. He listened. The three men were talking now, discussing what to do with his body.
“We need to get him outside,” one of them said. “Cut him up. Throw him in the lake.” They tried to lift Moses, but he was too heavy. They couldn’t move him. They tried again. still couldn’t do it. They gave up. Forget it. Let’s just take what we came for and get out of here. The three men started ransacking the room.
They grabbed cameras, jewelry, cash, drugs, anything of value. They stuffed everything into a pillowcase. Moses lay on the floor bleeding, a cord wrapped around his neck, stab wounds on his head, pretending to be unconscious. He didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He was terrified that if they realized he was still alive, they would finish him off.
After what felt like an eternity, he heard footsteps. The door opened and closed. The room went quiet. Moses waited. He counted to 30 in his head. Then he slowly opened his eyes. The room was empty. The men were gone. Juanita was lying on the bed, motionless, a ligature around her neck, her hands bound behind her back. Moses knew she was dead.
He forced himself to move. His body screamed in pain. He was bleeding. He could barely breathe, but he had to get help. He stumbled to his feet. He staggered out of the room and made his way to the motel office. He banged on the door. The clerk opened it and gasped at the sight of Moses, bloody and barely conscious. “Call the police,” Moses said.
“They killed her. They killed Juanita.” The clerk called 911 immediately. Within minutes, sirens filled the air. At 8:30 a.m., San Antonio police arrived at the new Laredo Motel. Officers rushed to the room. What they found was a scene of absolute brutality. The room was in chaos.
There was a hole in the sheetrock wall, a broken window, glass everywhere, blood on the floor, on the walls, on the bed. And in the middle of the bed, lying face down was Oneanita Ibara. Her hands were tied behind her back with a cord. On another cord, a telephone cord was wrapped tightly around her neck. Her face was bruised and swollen.
She had been beaten, strangled, murdered. The medical examiner would later confirm that Juanita died from strangulation. The ligature around her neck had crushed her windpipe, cutting off her air supply. She had fought back. The bruising on her body, the bite mark on Vasquez’s hand, all indicated that she had fought for her life.
But in the end, it wasn’t enough. Outside the room, paramedics were treating Moses Bazan. He was conscious but barely. He was bleeding heavily from stab wounds to his head. A wire and a piece of cloth were still wrapped around his neck. He was disoriented, drifting in and out of consciousness. But he was alive and he could talk.
Detectives arrived on the scene and immediately began interviewing Moses. Should despite his injuries, Moses was able to give them crucial information. He told them there were three attackers, all men, all wearing bandanas over their faces. He told them that during the struggle, one of the men’s bandanas had come off. He had seen his face clearly.
It was Johnny Joe Cruz. Moses knew Cruz from high school. They had gone to school together years ago. Moses also recognized the other two men. One was Oligario Lusian. Lusian had done yard work for Juanita in the past. Moses had met him several times. The third man was Manuel Vasquez. Moses had met Vasquez through Lusion before.
He knew all three of them. The detectives had their suspects. They immediately put out a bolo be on the lookout for Johnny Joe Cruz, Oligario Luan, and Manuel Vasquez. While detectives were interviewing Moses, our crime scene investigators were processing the motel room. They photographed everything.
the broken chain on the door, the hole in the wall, the broken window, the blood spatter, the ligature around Oneanita’s neck. They collected evidence: fibers, hair, bloodstained clothing. Detectives also canvased the area, looking for the getaway vehicle. They found it a few blocks away, parked at the home of George Martinez.
It was Rodriguez’s car, the one Vasquez had asked to borrow the night before. Detectives searched the car. In the trunk, they found bloody clothing. The clothing was sent to the crime lab for DNA testing. The results would later show that the blood matched Manuel Vasquez and Moses Bazan. The evidence was piling up.
Within 24 hours of the murder, detectives had located and arrested Johnny Joe Cruz. Cruz knew he was in trouble, and the evidence against him was overwhelming. Moses Bazison had identified him. His bandana had come off during the attack. There were witnesses who had seen him at the motel that night. Cruz made a decision. He decided to cooperate.
He told detectives everything. He admitted that he, Vasquez, and Lucian had gone to the motel room. He admitted that they had planned to rob and kill Juanita Ibara. He admitted that Vasquez had strangled her with a telephone cord. He described the entire night in detail. The planning, the bandanas, the socks on their hands, the breaking down of the door, the beating of Moses Bazison, the murder of Juanita Ibara.
Cruz’s confession was damning. But he didn’t just incriminate himself. He incriminated Vasquez and Luin. He told detectives that Vasquez was the one who strangled. And he told them that this was an ordered hit from the Mexican mafia. He explained the dime tax system. He told them about the meeting on March 14th when the order came down that Juanita had to go down.
Detectives were stunned. This wasn’t just a robbery gone wrong. This was an organized crime execution. A few days later, detectives arrested Oligario Lugan. Like Cruz, Lugan knew he was caught. The evidence was overwhelming. DNA from his blood was found on one of the Nitsky masks recovered from the scene. Moses Bison had identified him.
Cruz had already confessed and implicated him. Lujan also decided to cooperate. He confirmed Cruz’s story. He admitted that he, Vasquez, and Cruz had gone to the motel room. He admitted that Vasquez had strangled Wanita. He admitted that the murder was ordered by the Mexican mafia because Juanita had failed to pay the dime tax.
Now, detectives had two confessions, two eyewitnesses placing Vasquez at the scene, DNA evidence, and the testimony of the surviving victim, Moses Bazison. But they still needed to arrest Manuel Vasquez. Vasquez was the last of the three to be taken into custody. He knew the police were looking for him. He went into hiding.
But in a city like San Antonio, you can only hide for so long, especially when your face is known to every cop in the city, especially when your codefendants have already given you up. Within a week of the murder, police located and arrested Manuel Vasquez. He was brought into the police station for questioning.
Detectives laid out the evidence. They told him that Cruz and Luhan had confessed. I They told him that Moses Bazison had identified him. They told him that his blood was found on clothing in the trunk of the car. They told him that he was being charged with capital murder. Vasquez didn’t confess. He denied everything. He claimed he wasn’t at the motel that night.
He claimed he had nothing to do with Wanita’s murder. But the detectives didn’t believe him, and they had enough evidence to charge him even without a confession. On June 10th, 1998, a Beexar County grand jury indicted Manuel Vasquez for the capital murder of Juanita Ibara. The indictment charged that Vasquez intentionally killed Ibara by strangling her with a liature while in the course of committing and attempting to commit the offense of robbery. This was a death penalty case.
The state of Texas was seeking to execute Manuel Vasquez. And over the next year and a half, as Vasquez sat in the Beexar County Jail awaiting trial, prosecutors built their case. They had Cruz and Lucian, both willing to testify in exchange for reduced sentences. They had Moses Bazison, the surviving victim, who could identify all three attackers.
They had DNA evidence. They had the bloody clothing. They had testimony from witnesses who had seen Vasquez at the motel that night. But prosecutors wanted more. They wanted to show the jury who Manuel Vasquez really was. They wanted to show his history of violence. So they began investigating his past.
What they found was shocking. Manuel Vasquez wasn’t just a one-time killer. He was a serial violent offender. A man who had been killing and brutalizing people for over a decade. And every time he had gotten away with it until now. Manuel Vasquez was born in San Antonio, Texas. His childhood was defined by violence and dysfunction.
His father, Manuel Rodus Vasquez, was a murderer. In 1976, when Manuel was just a young boy, his father was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. Manuel grew up knowing that his father was a killer. Violence was part of his family’s DNA. It was in his blood. Manuel’s mother struggled to raise him and his siblings alone.
There was no stability, no guidance, no positive role models. Manuel dropped out of school after the 8th grade. He never graduated. He never learned a trade. He drifted into the streets, into gangs, into crime. By the time Manuel was a teenager, he was already deep into the gang life. And on August 31st, 1986, when Manuel was just 17 years old, he committed his first murder.
The victim’s name was Robert Alva. The details of the murder were horrific. Manuel, his younger brother, and several others attacked Robert Alva. They choked him with a belt, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe. They beat him with a crowbar, smashing his skull, breaking his bones. They kicked him repeatedly, stomping on his body.
And then, as if that wasn’t enough, they doused him with gasoline and set him on fire. Robert Alva burned to death, screaming in agony. Manuel Vasquez watched him burn, and he felt nothing. Manuel was arrested and charged, but he got lucky. Instead of being charged with murder, he was charged with aggravated assault. His younger brother took the brunt of the blame and received a 45-year sentence.
Manuel received just 10 years. He was sent to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice to serve his sentence. On prison didn’t reform Manuel. It made him worse. Inside, he joined the Mexican Mafia. The Mexican Mafia, also known as LAM, is one of the most powerful prison gangs in the United States.
They control drug trafficking, extortion, and violence inside prisons and on the streets. To become a full member, you had to prove yourself. You had to show that you were willing to kill, to hurt, to do whatever the organization demanded. Manuel proved himself. In 1989, while incarcerated, Manuel was cited for inciting a race riot.
A fight broke out between 170 Mexican and black inmates. It was brutal. Two inmates were sent to the hospital with stab wounds. Manuel was at the center of it. A year later in 1990, Manuel was written up for possession of a homemade knife. Prison officials found the shank in his cell. It was clear that Manuel was a violent inmate, a dangerous man who had no intention of changing.
But in 1991, Manuel was released on parole. Texas prisons were overcrowded. A federal judge had imposed strict population caps, forcing the state to release inmates early. Manuel Vasquez, a convicted killer, a gang member, a violent offender, walked out of prison, a free man. Less than a year later, he killed again.
In March 1992, Manuel murdered Richard Pacheco. Pacheco was a drug dealer operating in San Antonio. Like Juanita Ibara, he had failed to pay his taxes to the Mexican mafia. The order came down. Pacheco had to die. Manuel was given the assignment. He found Pacheco and shot him twice in the head at point blank range. Pacheco died instantly.
Manuel was never formally charged with this murder. But years later, and at his capital murder trial for Juanita Ibara’s death, prosecutors would present evidence from a confidential informant proving that Manuel was the trigger man. The informant told investigators that Manuel had bragged about the Pacheco killing, that he had described how he walked up to Pacheco, put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger twice.
Manuel got away with murder again, but he wasn’t done. Also in 1992, Manuel stabbed a man named Hector Zacharias at a party. The stabbing was vicious, nearly fatal. Hector survived, but barely. This time, Manuel was caught. He was arrested and charged with attempted murder. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 8 years in prison.
But again, because of the prison overcrowding crisis, Manuel was released early. In 1995, after serving just 3 years, Manuel Vasquez was back on the streets and he was 26 years old. He had killed at least two people. He had stabbed another and he was a full member of the Mexican mafia. Over the next 3 years, Manuel continued working for the organization.
He collected debts. He intimidated rivals. He did whatever was asked of him. And in March 1998, when the order came down to kill Juanita Ibara, Manuel didn’t hesitate. Manuel Vasquez went to trial in November 1999 in the 144th District Court of Bessar County, Texas. His lead defense attorney was Joel Perez.
The prosecution presented their case methodically. First, they called Moses Bazan to the stand. Moses testified about the night of the murder. He described being woken up by a knock on the door. He described opening the door and having three masked men burst into the room. He described being beaten, kicked, stabbed, and choked, while he described hearing Juanita beg for her life.
He described hearing her last breath. And most importantly, he identified all three attackers. He pointed at Manuel Vasquez in the courtroom and said, “That’s him. That’s the man who strangled Juanita.” The defense tried to discredit Moses’s testimony. They argued that he was a drug user, that his memory was unreliable, that he couldn’t possibly have identified the attackers because they were wearing bandanas.
But Moses was adamant. He had seen Cruz’s face clearly when his bandanna came off. He had recognized Lugan and Vasquez because he knew them from before. The jury believed him. Next, the prosecution called Johnny Joe Cruz to the stand. Cruz had already accepted a plea deal. In exchange for his testimony, he would receive a 7-year sentence instead of the death penalty, and it was an incredibly lenient deal for someone who had participated in a brutal murder.
Joel Perez, Manuel’s defense attorney, was flabbergasted. “He was charged with capital murder, no different than my client,” Perez would later say. “I think what happened was they made a deal with the devil just so they could get the death penalty on Manuel Vasquez.” But the deal was done and Cruz testified. He told the jury everything.
He described the meeting on March 14th when the order came down to kill Juanita. He described the planning. He described the night at the motel, the drugs, the preparation. He described putting on bandanas and socks. He described breaking into the room. He described beating Moses Bazison while Vasquez strangled Juanita.
He described Wanita biting Vasquez and Vasquez yelling for help. He described hitting Juanita over and over until she stopped fighting. He described Vasquez wrapping the telephone cord around her neck and pulling until she stopped breathing. Cruz’s testimony was devastating. He had been there.
He had participated and he was pointing the finger directly at Manuel Vasquez as the man who killed Juanita Ibara. The prosecution also presented testimony from San Antonio police detectives who explained the Mexican mafia’s dime tax system. They explained how the organization controlled drug distribution in San Antonio.
They explained how dealers were required to pay 10% of their proceeds. They explained what happened to dealers who didn’t pay. First, they were robbed. Second, they were killed. Juanita Ibara had failed to pay twice. The order to kill her came from the top from Renee Munos. Yeah. a Mexican mafia boss so dangerous that he was on the state’s 10 most wanted list.
The jury was getting a clear picture of who Manuel Vasquez was. He wasn’t just a murderer. He was an enforcer for a brutal criminal organization. He killed on command without hesitation, without remorse. The prosecution then presented DNA evidence. Blood found on clothing in the trunk of Rodriguez’s car was tested. The blood matched Manuel Vasquez and Moses Bazison.
This placed Vasquez at the scene. The defense couldn’t explain it away. During the punishment phase, the prosecution presented evidence of Manuel’s violent history. They told the jury about Robert Alva, choked with a belt, beaten with a crowbar, set on fire. They told the jury about Richard Pacheco, shot twice in the head for failing to pay the dime tax.
They told the jury about Hector Zacharias. I stabbed nearly to death at a party. They presented evidence that while Manuel was in prison, he had incited a race riot that sent two people to the hospital with stab wounds. They presented evidence that he had been found with a homemade knife. They presented evidence that even while awaiting trial for capital murder, Manuel continued to associate with the Mexican mafia.
He was found in possession of letters from high-ranking members of the organization. The message was clear. Manuel Vasquez was irredeemably violent. He would kill again if given the chance. The defense tried to present mitigating evidence. They called Mercedes Varial, who testified that she was dating Manuel at the time of the murder.
She said Manuel called her between 5:50 and 6:00 a.m. on the morning of the murder, and asked her to pick him up near the motel. She picked him up about 45 minutes later. She said she saw no blood or injuries on him. The defense was trying to create doubt. If Manuel had just participated in a brutal murder, wouldn’t there be blood on him? Wouldn’t he look disheveled? But the prosecution countered.
They pointed out that 45 minutes was plenty of time for Manuel to clean himself up. They pointed out that Variel’s testimony didn’t prove Manuel wasn’t at the motel. It only proved that he had cleaned himself up afterward. The jury deliberated on November 5th, 1999. They returned with their verdict, guilty of capital murder.
The trial moved immediately to the punishment phase. The jury had to decide should Manuel Vasquez be sentenced to death or to life in prison without parole. After hearing all the evidence about Manuel’s history of violence, after hearing about the brutal nature of Juanita’s murder, the jury deliberated for slightly more than 2 hours.
They returned with their decision. Manuel Vasquez should be sentenced to death. On November 10th, 1999, the trial judge sentenced Manuel to death by lethal injection. Johnny Joe Cruz, who admitted participating in the murder, who admitted beating Moses Bazison, who admitted helping kill Juanita Ibara, served his 7-year sentence and was released.
Oligario Lusian, the other full member of the Mexican mafia who participated in the attack, received a 35-year prison term. Only Manuel Vasquez received the death penalty. Manuel was taken to the Palinsky unit near Livingston, Texas to await his execution on death row. He would spend the next 15 years filing appeal after appeal trying to overturn his conviction, trying to save his life.
On February 6th, 2002, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals affirmed Emanuel’s conviction and sentence on direct appeal. Manuel did not seek review from the US Supreme Court. In December 2001, Manuel filed a state habius corpus application asserting seven grounds for relief. He argued that his trial attorney was ineffective.
He argued that the evidence was insufficient. He argued that the prosecution had committed misconduct. In August and September 2005, the trial court held an evidentiary hearing on Manuel’s claims. The court heard testimony from witnesses. The court reviewed the evidence. And on August 7th, 2009, the court issued findings of fact and conclusions of law.
The court recommended that Manuel’s application be denied. On November 18th, 2009, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals agreed. They denied habius corpus relief. Every one of Manuel’s claims was rejected. On November 12th, 2010, Manuel petitioned for federal hobbyist relief, asserting seven grounds. He argued that his constitutional rights had been violated.
He argued that the trial court had made errors. He argued that he deserved a new trial. On July 19th, 2012, a federal district court issued a 123page opinion. The court meticulously reviewed every one of Manuel’s claims, and the court rejected them all. The court found that Manuel had received a fair trial, that the evidence against him was overwhelming, and that his conviction and sentence were appropriate.
The court denied Manuel a certificate of appealability, meaning he could not appeal the decision to a higher court. Manuel’s attorneys tried anyway. They appealed to the fifth circuit court of appeals, but the fifth circuit agreed with the district court. In their opinion, they wrote that reasonable jurists would not debate the district court’s well-reasoned and thorough decision.
Manuel’s appeals were exhausted. In October 2013, the US Supreme Court refused to review his case. There were no more appeals. Manuel Vasquez was going to die. Manuel was originally scheduled to be executed in August 2014, but just weeks before the execution, his attorney filed a motion asking for a delay.
The attorney claimed he was behind schedule on filing the necessary paperwork, including clemency petitions. The court granted the delay. The execution was rescheduled for March 11th, 2015, 7 months later. As the new execution date approached, Manuel’s attorneys filed a clemency petition with the Texas Board of Pardons and parrolles.
So, the petition argued that Manuel’s life should be spared. It argued that he had been a model prisoner on death row. It argued that executing him would serve no purpose. The Texas Board of Pardons and parrolles reviewed the petition and in a 7 to zero vote, they rejected it. No mercy, no clemency. Manuel would die as scheduled.
Manuel initially agreed to an interview with the San Antonio Express News in the days leading up to his execution, but he later declined on the advice of his attorney, Michael Gross. He would not speak publicly. He would not explain himself. He would not apologize. March 11th, 2015 was significant for another reason beyond Manuel’s execution.
Texas was running out of pentarbital, the drug used for lethal injections. For years, a manufacturers of execution drugs had been refusing to sell to states that used them for capital punishment. Pharmaceutical companies in Europe, where the death penalty is banned, had stopped exporting drugs to the United States for this purpose.
American manufacturers had followed suit. Texas had turned to compoundingarmacies in September 2013. Thesearmacies were allowed to mix or compound drugs on site, but supplies were limited. By March 2015, Texas only had enough pentabarbital for two more executions. Six more executions were scheduled between March and Midmay.
Manuel’s execution would use one of the last two doses. The next scheduled execution, Randall Maze, on March 18th, was expected to be the last using Penttoarbital unless Texas found a new supply. The state’s execution schedule was in jeopardy. But on March 11th, 2015, Texas had enough pentabarbital for one more execution, and they were going to use it on Manuel Vasquez.
March 11th, 2015. Manuel Vasquez’s final day on Earth. Manuel woke up in his cell on death row for the last time. He had spent nearly 17 years in this place. 17 years of appeals, 17 years of waiting, 17 years knowing that one day the state of Texas would kill him. That day had finally come.
Manuel was moved to a holding cell at the Walls unit in Huntsville, adjacent to the execution chamber. There is no record of Manuel requesting a last meal. If he did, the details were never made public. In the hours before his execution, Manuel was allowed to meet with visitors. His sister, Mary Helen Vasquez, came to see him. They spoke. They prayed. Mary Helen cried.
She didn’t want to lose her brother, but there was nothing she could do. The execution was going to happen. At 6:00 p.m., witnesses began gathering at the walls unit. Among them was the sister of Juanita Ibara, the woman Manuel had strangled to death 17 years earlier. She had waited a long time for this moment.
She wanted to see justice. She wanted to watch Manuel die. Also present were Manuel’s sister, Mary Helen, and a female friend. They came to say goodbye. At 6:10 p.m., Manuel was escorted into the execution chamber. He was strapped to a gurnie. His arms were extended. Fourth lines were inserted into his veins. The warden stood beside him.
In the witness room, separated by glass, the witnesses watched in silence. The warden leaned down and asked Manuel if he had any final words. Manuel looked straight up at the ceiling. He didn’t look at Wanita’s sister and he never acknowledged her. He never apologized for what he had done. Instead, he spoke to his family and to God.
I want to say I love you to all my family and friends. Thank you Lord for your mercy and unconditional love. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen. Then he looked at the warden and said, “I’m ready.” At 6:15 p.m., the lethal dose of pentobarbital began flowing into Manuel’s veins. The drug entered his bloodstream quickly.
Manuel took three deep breaths. His chest rose and fell, and then he began snoring loudly. In the witness room, Mary Helen Vasquez sobbed. She watched her brother’s chest rise and fall. She watched him take about two dozen breaths. The snores became progressively quieter and then they stopped. Manuel’s chest stopped moving. His body went still.
17 minutes after the injection began at 6:32 p.m. Manuel Vasquez was pronounced dead. The execution was over. Mary Helen Vasquez was escorted out of the witness room. She was crying so hard she could barely walk. She declined to make any statement to the press. Juanita Ibara’s sister watched in silence. She didn’t celebrate.
She didn’t cheer. She simply watched. Justice had been served. After the execution, Mary Green, the assistant Beexar County District Attorney who had prosecuted Manuel, spoke to reporters. I recall he was an extremely violent individual. She said, “In the punishment phase, we proved up two other homicides he’d been involved with.
” Manuel’s execution was the 522nd in Texas since the state reintroduced capital punishment in 1982. He was the fourth Texas inmate executed in 2015. 17 years had passed since he strangled Juanita Ibara in that motel room. And 17 years since he collected the Mexican mafia’s dime tax with violence and death.
After Manuel’s execution, Texas had enough pentabarbital for one more execution. Randall Mays was scheduled to die on March 18th, one week later, and then Texas’s supply would be gone. The state would have to find a new source or its execution schedule would come to a halt. But on March 11th, 2015, Texas had enough for one more, and they used it on Manuel Vasquez.
The case of Manuel Vasquez is a window into the brutal world of organized crime. The Mexican Mafia is one of the most powerful and violent criminal organizations in the United States. They control drug trafficking, extortion, and violence, both inside prisons and on the streets.
The dime tax was their business model. Every drug dealer paid or they died. Juanita Ibara thought she could defy them. She thought she could refuse to pay. She was wrong. Manuel Vasquez was the enforcer. He was the man sent to collect. And when Juanita wouldn’t pay, he strangled her to death. Manuel’s life was defined by violence from the very beginning. His father was a murderer.
His brother was a murderer. Violence was the family legacy. At 17, Manuel helped beat a man with a crowbar and set him on fire. At 23, he shot a drug dealer twice in the head. At 24, he stabbed a man nearly to death. At 29, he strangled a woman for refusing to pay a tax. Manuel never showed remorse, never apologized, never took responsibility.
Even in his final statement, he thanked God for mercy and love. But he never mentioned Juanita Ibara. He never mentioned Robert Alva. He never mentioned Richard Pacheco. And he never acknowledged the pain he caused, the lives he destroyed, the families he tore apart. Nearly 17 years on death row, multiple appeals, all denied.
A clemency petition rejected 7 to zero. A prayer to God, a sister’s tears, and finally on a Wednesday evening in March 2015, three deep breaths, loud snoring that faded to silence, and a heart that stopped beating. Justice, such as it is, was served.
