The Man in the Monster (29 page)

“No, it's way too early for that. They don't want you to see the executioner,” Barry whispered.

I imagined a burly man wearing a black hood and carrying a big ax trying to sneak through the lobby. I started to laugh and then realized Barry wasn't laughing. “You're serious? Why don't they just have someone from the DOC do it?”

“No one is supposed to know who actually did the killing. People apply for the honor from other states.”

“You're not serious.”

“I'm serious. And the pay is pretty good, too.”

In another room, T. R. was trying to figure out what his legal and ethical obligations were, but State's Attorney Kevin Kane and Chief State's Attorney Christopher Morano had no doubts about what had to be done. They cornered T. R. and took him into a private room to talk. “You're in no shape to give any legal advice,” they told him. “We're calling this off. It's not going to happen tonight.” No one told us it was off until much later.

 • • • 

W
hen I went back for my final visit with Michael, he was calmer and convinced that the execution would not happen that night. I hoped he was right, but I couldn't help but wonder whether the next time I would see him, he would be stretched out on a gurney with a bunch of tubes coming out of his arms.

Just before eleven, I was told I had to leave. I put my hand up on the Plexiglas, and he lifted his up next to mine on the opposite side. “It's been a roller coaster,” I said.

“Yeah, remember? I'm a real pain in the butt.”

I laughed. “And even though I hate roller coasters, I wouldn't have missed this one for the world. I'm going to miss you.”

“Me too. But it ain't going to happen tonight.”

As we were about to be escorted out of the prison, T. R. came out beaming. He couldn't stop to talk because he was on his way to see Michael. “I'll call you,” he promised.

Because of Michael's mood shift, we were sure that the execution had been called off, but Coates, the head of the guards, nixed that assumption as we walked out. “It's off, right?” Barry asked.

“No, it's going forward. You have to go over to Cybulski. Nothing has changed.”

My anxiety levels spiked. We were told to go to our cars and drive over to Willard-Cybulski Correctional Institution, another prison down the road but within sight of the entrance. The temperature had dropped below zero. I ran to my rental car. I was freezing, but even turning the heater up full blast had little immediate effect. Waiting for the car to warm up, I picked up my cell phone to see if I had any calls. It was so bitterly cold, my phone was a brick of ice. Frozen. Dead.

Our “staging area” was the visiting room, where they had snacks and coffee for us. Barry got on the pay phone to talk to his office. They knew less than we did but were constantly monitoring the television to see what was happening. I paced around the ten-by-ten entryway desperately trying to keep the image of the execution chamber out of my mind. As the time drew nearer, I doubted I could really go through with it. Waves of guilt passed over me when I considered how Michael would feel if I didn't witness the execution. I heard sirens and watched out the window as police car after police car flashed by. It was hard to see what they were doing or where they were going, but presumably they were coming together to block the entrance from the few protestors who had braved the cold, marching from Robinson Correctional Institution
in Somers to the entrance of Osborn and Northern. I counted about twenty-six cars whizzing by, but it was impossible to make an accurate count, because we couldn't see all of them or the entrance—just blue flashing lights dancing on the deep white snow.
If the execution had been called off, would they bring out all this force?
From the look on Barry's face, I could tell he was asking himself the same questions.

Just before 1:00
A.M
., a white van pulled up out front, presumably to take us back to the prison for the execution, and Father Anthony Bruno, the head chaplain for the DOC, got out and rushed toward the lobby. He opened the door, sending in a gust of subzero air. Barry and I shivered, both from the cold and the fact that it looked as though it was really going to happen.

“The execution has been called off. It's officially still on for Monday, but it's not going to happen. They are going to make an announcement in a little while,” he told us. “I've got to get back to the prison, but you all might as well go home.”

“You okay?” Barry asked.

“I'm fine. I'm just happy it's over.”

“It's never over until it's over,” Barry cautioned. He gave me a hug and left. Michael had taken his sleeping pill and gone to bed after we left at eleven, when T. R. told him it was off. He had no idea that we had been in limbo for two more hours.

 • • • 

T
he next morning my cell phone had thawed out, and Michael's counselor called, offering to let me visit before I went back to California. When I got to the prison, Michael had a hangdog look.

“Michael, I don't have that long with you, so let's not dwell on last night. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was God telling you that you should rethink what you were doing.”

“God had nothing to do with it.”

“How convenient,” I said sarcastically. “Whenever things go your way, it's God making things happen, but when it's not
your
will, it is also not
God's
will
.”

“That's not true,” he said, defensively, but I left hoping I had planted a seed of doubt.

 • • • 

I
t took me a few days to settle down. I kept thinking about the Shelleys. I knew they would have been there waiting, so I called them that Sunday afternoon. Ed answered the phone. “I just wanted to call. I've been thinking about you. I can't imagine how painful it must have been for you to go there thinking that there would be an execution and then having it called off.”

“It wasn't too bad for me,” Ed said. “Lera is really taking it tough. I'm trying to stay away from everything else. Larry King wanted me on, but I wouldn't go. Then NBC parked in front of my house. We couldn't go out for days. Lera was really eaten up by it.” He said that he had been “chain chewing” antacids the night of the execution, and his nerves were shot because he had quit smoking seven weeks earlier.

I told him that I didn't think there was a chance that the execution would take place anytime soon, because the court was going to appoint a special counsel to look into Michael's competency, and the state had less than one day remaining until the execution window closed.

Ed was livid. He thought all psychiatric experts were hired guns who would say anything if they were paid enough. “That's what gets me. One gives one diagnosis, and then the other gives the opposite. It's crazy and it's a waste of time and money.”

I later heard that Michael had written to Susan and mailed the letter the day of the scheduled execution. She confided in me that he said he
had been “putting on a brave front for everyone else” but that he was secretly troubled—deeply troubled by “needles, chemicals, seeing the victims' families. I'm terrified inside.” I knew he didn't really want to die, but now I also knew he was afraid. As much as I disagreed with his relationship with Susan, I was hoping that she'd be able to persuade him to change his
mind.

WINTER–SPRING 2005

Because the United States Supreme Court sent the case back to state court, Judge Clifford was to preside over a competency hearing; he set a new execution date of May 11.

“Are you willing to talk to the psychiatrists?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, but . . .”

“I just want some people who are willing to say that I do care about the families. I don't want people twisting the facts and saying half-truths. That's how I got here on death row,” he argued.

“No, you got on death row because you killed eight people,” I corrected.

I spent most days and evenings for the next four months dealing with the psychiatrists and the lawyers who were trying to prove he was incompetent. Michael wanted me to tell them—and the court—that he was competent and that he was dropping his appeals because he didn't want the families to go through another penalty hearing; he wanted to give them closure. Still, there was the suicide issue. There was the fact that he was depressed and that he had told me that he suffered from death row syndrome. I knew he would rather die than go back to Northern. That alone said something about death row in Connecticut. I also knew that he saw his decision to drop any appeals as a noble act of
sacrificing himself. And finally, I knew that he was stubborn and could not bring himself to change his mind once he had announced his decision publicly. It would be too humiliating. Did that prove that he was incompetent to make the decision because he was incapable of changing his mind? I wanted to cooperate, but I knew that telling the whole truth would risk Michael feeling hurt and betrayed.

Eventually I had to give a deposition because I wouldn't be able to attend the hearing. All of the lawyers from both sides were allowed to ask questions about my relationship with Michael. At Michael's lawyer T. R.'s turn, he had just one: “Doesn't Michael regard you as his friend?” I had never had to actually publicly admit to a “friendship” with Michael. However I may have defined my relationship with him, there was no doubt that he thought of me as a friend. “Yes, he does,” I admitted. I was mad at T. R., because that admission took away from my credibility with the judge.

The competency hearing was held in the middle of April. Michael called only a few times, because he left very early in the morning and was emotionally exhausted when he returned to Osborn each day of the weeklong hearing in New London. When he finally did call, he was angry. He had forgotten how much he hated listening to psychiatric testimony about himself. He especially didn't like being called narcissistic.

He was mad at me because of how the doctors interpreted some of what I had said during the interviews.

“You exaggerated a bit.”

“What?”

“That I am not capable of caring for anybody.”

“I
never
said that. They asked me that, and I said I am not a professional, and I cannot say what emotions are real or not real.”

“Well, Dr. [Stuart] Grassian based all his conclusions that I am not
capable of feeling on what you and Ann told him.” Dr. Grassian is an expert on death row syndrome, a depression suffered by some inmates, who was hired to say Michael was incompetent.

“That's his interpretation. In fact, if you listen to my deposition, I said that your number-one stated reason has always been that you were doing it for the families.” Then I went through the litany of other reasons, ending with his pathological stubbornness.

He chuckled. “You said I was narcissistic.”

“I never said that. I said I couldn't diagnose you.”

Dr. Grassian had testified, “Even Michael admits, ‘Martha knows me better than anyone else.' She told me this. She told me that. . . . You were all over the place.”

“Jesus. I had no idea. But who would you want to be the Michael Ross expert—me or Malchik?” He laughed because he knew I was right. He was also confident that he would be found competent and the execution would go as scheduled.

“So you're going to be there? I have to send in my list.” He described the execution chamber and the witness area to me and told me he wasn't sure if he would make a last statement. He also mentioned the controversy over the way Connecticut administers lethal injection—that it could be torture. “But it's not like I don't deserve it.”

“Nobody deserves to be tortured.”

“Tell Mr. Shelley that.”

 • • • 

A
s Michael predicted, on April 22, 2005, Judge Clifford found him competent. The execution was pushed back from May 11 to May 13 to give Michael the legally prescribed time to appeal Clifford's opinion, but he had no intention of doing any such thing. I took the red-eye on May 10 so I could visit Michael on Wednesday and Thursday.
This trip was different from my trip in January, when I was frazzled and unsure about what the courts would do. Now there were no legal decisions pending, and I left California with a sense of resignation. On some level, I knew that this time it was going to happen, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

By eleven on the morning of May 11, I was sitting with Michael. In the past, he had never had a problem using the word
execution
, but as the time got closer, he referred to his execution as “it” or just used the euphemism “going forward.”

“You're not scared?” I asked, realizing he might perceive the question as “going for the emotional jugular.”

“No. Why should I be? I know where I'm going,” he told me with conviction.

“I think I would be scared,” I admitted. “What about what Father John asked you ten years ago?”

“What?”

“About meeting the girls?”

He hesitated. “I'm fine with that. I've worked through that.” He didn't offer to tell me what he would say, and I could tell that he did not want me to ask.

When Michael's father arrived, he immediately asked Michael to call it off. I realized this was also my last chance to persuade him to change his mind. I was feeling desperate and began to cry. “Michael, I've never told you what to do . . .” I began.

“I know,” he said quietly, avoiding my stare.

“But now I'm telling you that you're throwing your life away. Think of what good you could do.” I was sobbing so hard I could barely get the words out. “You could teach inmates and help them get their GEDs. You could counsel men with sexual disorders. You could make a difference.”

“Why'd you bother going to Cornell if you're not going to use your degree, Michael?” Dan asked.

“It's not going to happen. How can a decision be wrong if you're doing it for the right reasons?”

I knew I would ultimately have to answer this question, and I had to do it in a way that wouldn't offend him. I couldn't use the word
narcissistic
. “It could be wrong if it was the product of your mental illness. You know you're incapable of changing your mind. If that's because of your mental illness, then you're sticking to your decision for the wrong reason. I know you don't want to hurt the families, but I also know you don't want to die. Please don't do this,” I said, still sobbing. “I hope you're not mad at me.”

“No, I'm not mad at you.” But I knew that he meant the op-posite.

“But if I didn't try to convince you today, I could never live with myself. If I let you die without telling you what I thought, I would always regret it.”

“I know. I'm not mad.”

“If you change your mind, it will be the most courageous thing that you've ever done. I have always agreed with you that no jury would give you life—but I think you have a chance with appeals. Now you have to try to save yourself.”

“It's not going to happen.”

I felt helpless. “Why? What's wrong with trying? No one else believes that you're doing this for any moral reasons. What do you accomplish? You aren't being noble, just dumb.”

He kept staring at the floor. I knew he was angry. I knew he didn't want to hear it, but I had to press him.

“Look me in the eye and tell me why you're so convinced that you have to do this.”

After a long silence, he looked up. “You
know
why. It ain't going to happen. I'm not changing my mind. This is going forward.”

 • • • 

T
he mood at the prison on May 12 was different than on the first execution date, which had cost the state more than $250,000. There were fewer guards and less tension.

Dan Ross arrived, and we talked for a long while. By this time, he could speak freely, not seeing me as the enemy. After an hour or so, I left the death cell to give them time alone together, because it was likely to be Dan's last chance to speak with his son. I tried to fathom what Dan must be feeling—about to lose a son who was basically letting the state execute him. It must have been excruciating as a parent to be helpless, unable to do anything to stop it.

When Dan came out, I asked him about his talk with Michael. “It was good. We said some things that we both needed to say, and I feel better that we were able to talk.”

“I hope you understand now that Michael is my friend.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he said. “It's just that none of us wanted you writing about all of this. I was afraid it would make it never go away. When it's down on paper, it's permanent.”

“It's already permanent, but I think it's important for people to understand Michael.”

“Maybe. I do appreciate your being a friend to him. I'm depending on you to convince him to change his mind.”

I let out a deep sigh. “He's too damn stubborn. I'll try, but I can't promise.”

“I know. I've said my piece. Now it's up to him.”

I sat in the waiting room for hours as others visited him. At 9:00
P.M.
, I was told it was finally time to have my last meeting with Michael.

“Finally,” I said showing my exasperation.

“What?”

“I've been sitting in the waiting room for hours.”

“Really? The time is going so fast. I didn't realize.”

“When your dad left, he told me he was counting on me to change your mind.”

“Oh great. Here we go again.”

I tried to keep the conversation light, but inside I was repeating a prayer, “Please God, make him change his mind.” I knew it was a useless and perhaps selfish mantra, but I hoped that there was something I could say or do. “So what should I be asking you, assuming this is my last chance?”

“You've already asked me all the important things—the hard things.”

“Have I? You didn't always feel that way.”

“Yeah, well that was then. I think we've covered everything.”

“Michael, I know tomorrow and all the days after that I'm going to have questions—ones that I'll never be able to ask. I don't know what to say. I feel like I should have done more. I'm going to miss you, even though you're a royal pain in the butt.”

“Me too.”

I put my hand on the Plexiglas. “I wish I could give you a hug,” I said. He nodded. Tears welled up in our eyes because we knew it was the last time we'd ever talk to each other. “Good-bye,” I finally said, choking back the tears.

“See you in the next life.”

“No comment,” I said, chuckling. “I'm not getting into a discussion of the existence of heaven with you now. . . . I'll miss you.”

“Good-bye. I'll miss you, too. Thanks for everything. You've been a true friend. Tell the twins . . .”

“What?”

“Tell them to keep reading
Ferdinand
and think of me.”

“We'll read it together. So long, my friend.”

 • • • 

A
fter Father Gilmartin arrived, we chatted for a while about Michael's frame of mind. I lost track of the time and was surprised when we were told it was time for the priests to go be with Michael and for me to leave the waiting room and go to the staging area.

One other witness and I were escorted from the visiting area to a small office off the main corridor. Father John Gilmartin and Father John Giuliani joined us after sharing a final Mass with Michael and offering any support they could until it was time to take him into the execution chamber. They had also given Michael his last rites. “He seemed very calm, and he was extremely insightful about the lesson. He seems at peace. He's doing what he thinks he has to do,” reported Father John Gilmartin. “Ten years, Martha, ten years. You've stood by him for all that time. You're the only one,” he said.

“We all did what we had to do,” I said. “But I'm going to miss my six
A.M
. weekend calls,” I admitted.

“We're all going to miss him.”

 • • • 

E
d and Lera Shelley and their daughter Robin had been picked up by a state trooper to come to the prison. Troopers also picked up Wendy Baribeault's three sisters—Debbie, Cindy, and Joanne. The three Stavinsky children—Debbie, David, and Jennifer—drove themselves to the prison. This time when the families arrived at the safe house, there were only three or four troopers and a few guards. “It wasn't as intense as before,” Ed Shelley commented. “I think it was more relaxed because they knew that it was going to happen.”

Around 1:00
A.M
., the victims' families were driven by van from the safe house to the prison and taken into the parole hearing room—a long room on the left side of the corridor, just past the guard station situated across the hall from where we were waiting.

Malchik and Frank Griffin, the other officer who interrogated Michael after his arrest, were allowed to watch the execution with the families. Ed Shelley explained that the DOC had asked if the two troopers could witness the execution. “We could have said no, but we didn't.” Just before 2:00
A.M
. the victims' families and the two troopers were escorted into the viewing area of the execution chamber.