at First Sight (2008) (32 page)

A few days later in L
. A
., Chick confessed to Evelyn's murder as well. His status-heavy Cavalli jeans had been trumped by an orange prison jumpsuit.

The story went wide. All the national news outlets picked it up. "Killer of Chandler Heir Arrested."

Two weeks later Chick finally got his feature story in People Magazine.

He made the cover.

Chapter
45

WHAT IS IT THEY ALWAYS SAY ABOUT REAL ESTATE? IT'S Location--Location--Location.

That fact has come crashing home as I sit in my new residence, an eighteen-by-eighteen-foot square box on Death Row at California's Pelican Bay Prison.

The house on Elm had status. It had views of my perfectly landscaped yard. This little box I'm currently residing in has almost no view. The corridor that runs by my cell is less than inspiring. Concrete walls and two colored lines on the floor. The red line leads to the exercise yard, where I rarely go. The green marks what is known around here as The Last Mile. It's not a mile, however; it's more like fifty feet, but you get the idea. It leads to the execution chamber.

While the vistas in this place are far from great, the status attached to being a condemned man is a fucking head trip. They trea
t y
ou like a celebrity, which I guess I finally am. My time is short now. I have only a few days.

This morning I went for my last physical, because for some reason, the state of California doesn't want to kill me and then find out I have a toenail infection or bleeding hemorrhoids. All the way to my physical and back, the guards called out, "Dead man walking:' which is a hell of a lot more respect than I got at bestmarket
. C
om, where I actually was a dead man walking, but nobody had the decency to tell me until it was too late.

I'm sure after reading this, you fully realize that women have always been a huge problem for me, and the events of this journal plainly attest to that fact. I wouldn't be here in the first place if it weren't for a woman. Or two women, if you count Evelyn. Three, if you want to add in Melissa, who, by the way, is no longer a Best. She's a Sheridan now, taking her mother's maiden name.

I always wanted to impress women, and for most of my life, that need only produced a lot of disappointments, along with an occasional head slap.

But now that I can't do anything about it, I'm finally a big deal on the cock market. I get tons of mail from lonely, half-crazed females who want to talk to me. They want to hold my hand. They fantasize about having sex with me. Last week I got two proposals of marriage.

Who are these women? Are they hopeless losers, or is there perhaps a Twinkie cupcake or two in the mix? I've been writing them all back asking for pictures. Most, as you might expect, look like basketballs with ears, but some are what could be loosely described as normal-looking women. They write that they are lonely and want to add some excitement to their otherwise dull lives. The fantasy of screwing a serial killer seems to be just what they're after.

Oh yeah, that's what they call me now. According to the press I'm a serial killer. I looked that term up on the FBI website from the prison library. Technically, in order to qualify for that designation you have to kill three people. I only killed two, with a failed attempt on Paige, but the press, never ones to stand on technicalities, has dubbed me with the label anyway. Status and respect being my Achilles' heel, I've gone along with it because, as I said, being a serial killer makes me pretty damn special around here.

I'm trying to get ready to walk that last mile. Trying to get my courage up. But I really don't want to die. I still think there ought to be a way to cut a deal here. After all, looking at the two deaths I'm responsible for proportionally is almost nothing when compared with the ten people who died yesterday in California traffic accidents, or the hundreds last year in Iraq. Do I really need to shed blood over Chandler Ellis, who was a Boy Scout and a twit, or Evelyn, who was an adulterous whore?

I'm still praying for a reprieve from the governor, but if you saw our governor greasing off carloads of assholes without a second thought in those Terminator movies, you know there probably isn't much hope.

After coming to the end of this journal you may be wondering how I currently feel about Paige Ellis.

The truth is, I no longer feel anything. As a matter of fact, since the trial, I can barely remember what she looks like. I called her my goddess. I said she was put on earth to complete me, but now I think she was just a phase I went through to stifle my endless bouts with self-loathing and boredom.

So here I sit on my metal bunk with my asshole puckered, waiting for my final stroll. I've been told that my execution viewing chamber is sold out. Standing-room only. So, in death, I'm finally a hit. I'm going to try to go out like a starker, live up to my new bad-ass "serial killer" label. But something tells me when they roll up my sleeves and insert the needle, I'm going to snivel and whine, just like always.

We'll find out in two more days. I guess that's it. That's the whole enchilada. I've written my last page and it's time for my afternoon meeting with the prison chaplain, because, strange as it sounds, I've at long last found Jesus. I know, I know, pretty transparent and pathetic. I'm sure St. Peter won't be standing at the pearly gates with my white robe, wings, and a map of the celestial grounds.

But you never know. As P. T. Barnum said, "There's a sucker born every minute?' A sentiment my bullshitting father certainly always endorsed.

And who knows? Maybe I'll get a few points for chutzpa.

Chapter
46

THE DAY CHICK WAS SCHEDULED TO DIE IT WAS RAINY
and cold in Los Angeles. I'd moved here four years ago to run Chandler's foundation. I had fifteen people working for me and was well into my new life. I was happy, or at least as happy as I allowed myself to be.

I woke up that morning feeling angry. I was angry because Chick's death was the final chapter of the worst event of my life, and I knew that no matter how hard I tried to deny it, this would be a day of vengeance for me. I wanted Chick to die for what he did. I hated myself for it, but I had lost so much, it was hard for me not to be vengeful.

I tried not to watch television, but I was drawn to it. Finally, I was sitting in front of the tube, channel surfing, hunting for stories about Chick's upcoming execution. On several of the newscasts, there was B-roll of him being led down a prison corridor. He had lost weight. He looked stoic. His eyes never came up toward the camera.

All day, I listened for Chandler's voice. Maybe he would reach out and find a way to talk to me today, the way he had at the hotel or on the cliff in Big Bear. Maybe he could ease all of this, take away my thirst for revenge, cut through all this self-destructive anger. I waited patiently, but his voice never came. He never whispered in my ear, never told me what to do.

I heard from Robert Butler instead. It was a card. On the front there was a yellow bird sitting on a tree limb with an olive branch in its mouth. Inside, it said:

Under that, he had written in his neat, careful hand:

Avenge not yourselves
,
but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

Romans 12: 19