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A grieving son finds no justice on Rev. Maury Davis' path to redemptionBy Brantley HargrovePublished on June 17, 2009 at 8:48amIt must be hard to watch the man who murdered your mother 30 years ago sermonize about the godly life. Ron Liles watches him gesticulate and stroll across a stage, not from a pew, but on his computer screen in suburban Dallas, some 700 miles away from the church in Madison, Tenn., where the preacher tells this story of profound redemption. It's Liles' story too, though he wishes to God it wasn't. He wants to tell Pastor Maury Davis that he's a liar for bending the greatest truth in his life. To remind the mega-church pastor that the price of his spiritual rebirth, his professed salvation, was the blood of Liles' 54-year-old mother, Jo Ella. That every good thing Davis has in this life is borne on the back of a grieving son, in whose home her blood was spilled. Rev. Davis must know that each time he stands at the pulpit, before his flock at Cornerstone Church, there are those who still desire a full accounting for his mortal sin. How could he not? From the path Davis set out on so many years ago, no one could ever have guessed that he'd end up here in Middle Tennessee. First he was the son of a well-to-do family in Irving, Texas. Then a convicted murderer. Yet today he's a high-profile pastor, known for his brash style and conservative theology, with a branded media ministry and a house worth nearly $1 million in a gated Goodlettsville neighborhood. Contrast this life with Liles'. He was the only child of parents who struggled to stay afloat, losing his mother to a senseless murder remarkable only for its viciousness. Now he's an unassuming pharmacist working the graveyard shift at a CVS in Texas, left to wear the garments of raw anger and heartbreak, which aren't easily shed. Pastor Davis says he's been forgiven for his sins. Washed in the blood, you might say. After all, who can argue with God? Yet in the eyes of the few who know the whole story, Davis wears an indelible stain, however faded before the eyes of his own congregation, for the violation of the most sacred law of God and man. And in this world, not even the blood of his Savior has been able to wash it clean. At around noon on Jan. 27, 1975, a two-tone Cadillac pulls up to a vacant house in Irving, Texas. Two young men step out. One is Ricky Payne, 20, a bearded man police describe as a hippie. The other is Maury Davis, 18, a short, slightly built and clean-cut young man with brown hair slicked back from his forehead. He wears a pair of brown cowboy boots with white stitching. Davis is fresh out of the New Mexico Military Institute, where he graduated with honors. He's from a successful, God-fearing, churchgoing family that spends weekends together at the lake. The sun is out. It's one of those unseasonably warm winter days found between the Blue Northers that sweep out of the Panhandle. Lining the street are single-family brick houses—modest, firmly blue collar. A mailman named Robert Clark strides down the sidewalk, dropping letters and bills into the boxes of families he knows by name. These days, Davis won't discuss what occurred on that January noon. But investigators will later say that he tells Payne they're meeting someone at the house. They walk up and peer through the windows into empty rooms. The home is owned by Ron Liles, a recent pharmacy school graduate who's moving to Lewisville. He is fixing the house up for sale. Liles' mother Jo Ella lives across the street. She sees the two young men wandering around and wonders if they're the carpet people her son's been expecting. She approaches in a print dress, warmed by the noonday sun. They exchange greetings. Davis tells her he's interested in purchasing the house. There is no reason to doubt him. Jo Ella—a recent widow, a Sunday school teacher who wears cat-eye glasses—retrieves the house key. She shows Davis and Payne in for a look around. According to newspaper accounts, Jo Ella remarks on the paint can left behind by the painters. Somehow, Davis spills paint on his boots. He'll later claim he "snaps," blaming it on drug abuse. From another room, Payne hears the sound of scuffling feet from the kitchen or dining room, according to retired Capt. John Looper of the Irving Police. He comes out to see what is happening. When Payne enters the hallway, police say, he sees Davis stabbing Jo Ella with a buck knife, cutting her throat and severing her carotid artery and windpipe. The blade penetrates so deeply that it bites into her spinal cord, nearly decapitating her. Blood sheets down her dress. In the yard, mailman Robert Clark crosses the lawn and notices the open front door. "I sorta saw a young fella in there, and I heard another say, 'Close the door, close the door,' " Clark tells the Scene. The mailman sees Payne shut the door and hears a gurgling noise from somewhere inside. Clark continues on next door. He sees Payne and Davis hurry across the lawn, talking quickly, but he can't make out what they're saying.
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