The daily routine in death row can be mind numbingly repetitive. Lights on, breakfast, lunch, exercise, dinner, lights off, and repeat. Day after day, over and over. Most of the time I find myself day dreaming or lost in the memories of my past. Without the mental escapes the monotony of existing here would drive a man insane. I do not claim to be a sane man or even a good one.
Today I find myself on the outside looking in. It was a muggy summer night in Detroit and the cotton shirt clung to my sweaty shoulders. Observing her glistening nude body cross from the hall to the kitchen only entices my pores to increase their production.
The refrigerator light enhances her profile in the semi darkness. With closed eyes she passed a bottle of water across her forehead then down between her breasts to the paunch of her stretch marked stomach. I could tell she had lost at least twenty pounds working out in the evenings. Some would consider it a shame that she had caused herself so many months of starvation and pain only to die before reaching her goal.
Attorney Cathy Mantia had a reputation for reaching her goals. Known throughout the city as the most successful violent criminal defender she was both despised and admired. It was predicted she would be the next Attorney General when she was the top Assistant District Attorney for the City of Detroit. Then came what I can only describe as the great justice.
Douglas Mantia’s son grew up. After seeing his mother beaten one too many times by his father, Doug Junior or DJ as everyone called him, put a nine iron through Doug Seniors skull 15 times. The papers said, according to the police, there was not a wall, fixture or book that blood and brain matter were not oozing off of.
That DJ had laid in wait in his fathers study classified this crime as premeditated. The District Attorney personally prosecuted the case and brought home the verdict, life in prison without the possibility of parole. He also convinced the judge that Cathy had too much inside information from her work within the DA’s office and had her banned from assisting her son.
I was able to get the time off to attend the part of the trial when forensics experts were testifying. It was hard to hide my enthusiasm as they presented the crime scene photos. I was even able to get in for the closing arguments for a second helping of the gore. Former ADA Mantia did not miss a day.
Her resignation was immediate and I enjoyed watching her change from one side of the aisle to the other. Now she acted as if she was the darling of the press and frankly her bullshit was beginning to annoy me. Perhaps after eleven years I could put her out of my misery.
The light went out and I watched her cross to her master bedroom. I had explored the interior of her over five thousand square foot home three times now. I love that rich women believe that if one needs to drive past a guard and though a gate to get to their homes it is secure. I would expect that a woman who solely dealt with murderers and rapists would be much more dedicated to her personal security. Happily I was wrong.
After my six months of research I knew that after another successful trial Cathy would take her usual three-day sabbatical incommunicado. That morning Harold Bison was acquitted of killing his brother for the family inheritance. And the next day I started the first of three days I had arranged off from work. It was the time to introduce myself to the soon to be miserable wretch.
I relocated to a set of French doors and glanced at my watch. I had noted three minutes had passed and she would be entering the en-suite to start the bath water. The noise would keep her from hearing my entry. Listening at a cracked window I heard the water start, followed by an increase in the volume of Abba and glanced at the alarm panel to confirm it was still unarmed. I eased open the one French door that I had disabled the lock on my last visit. Once inside I carefully closed it. Quickly I crossed the infamous study to the locked door eased the bolt I had oiled on my last reconnaissance and turned left up the hall to the open master bedroom doors.
Cathy’s back was to me as she swayed to the song Fernando. In her right hand the water bottle was two thirds consumed. The plush rug absorbed what little noise my Reeboks would have made as I approached to within a single step. Balling my gloved right fist I threw a round house punch that landed directly on her right temple. Like a blow-up Santa losing his air she folded to the floor in a motionless pile.