The Man in the Monster

by Martha Elliott

  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.”

  • • •

  As 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.”

  • • •

  The 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.”

  • • •

  After 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.”

  • • •

  Ed 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.

  The viewing area is separated from the execution chamber by a large window with a blue drape that is opened after the stage is set and the witnesses are in place and is drawn when it’s all over. In a weird way, as the drape inside the chamber opens and closes, the stage looks like a life-size puppet show. The victims’ families had been given a tour of the area earlier and had been told that the press would go in first, then a purple curtain would be pulled to separate them from the press, and then they would be escorted in. Another curtain would be pulled, and Michael’s witnesses would be brought in. We were last because we would be directly in front of Michael’s head so he could look directly at us. “He’ll be able to see a friendly face at the end,” Brian Garnett, the DOC press spokesman, had explained to me over the phone. A guard was posted with each group to make sure there was no interference or indignity.

  The staff and officials had rehearsed and rehearsed the procedures, but no amount of rehearsal made it easy. One official described the scene as “surreal. We just don’t have it in us to kill people—at least I don’t. But if you are going to have a death penalty, you are going to have executions. It’s going to happen. We’ll see what happens when the next one comes up. It might not be as easy as killing a Michael Ross.”

  Ironically, late in the afternoon, Garnett briefed the press, telling them that Michael had gotten up early, eaten oatmeal and juice, and had not asked for a last meal but had settled on the same fare that the other prisoners were eating—turkey à la king with rice, mixed vegetables, bread and butter, and coffee. Michael didn’t hear Garnett talking about what he had eaten—and of course, Garnett didn’t know the truth and had it all wrong. Lieutenant King had gotten him what he wanted. I’ve omitted it here out of respect for his wishes. In the end, Michael would have chuckled at Garnett’s gaffe. I did.

  It was just after 2:00 A.M. when Michael’s witnesses were finally escorted into the viewing area on the side of the tier opposite the death cell. Instead of turning left after the hallway door was opened, we went to the right and walked all the way down the tier. We were on the mirror side of death row, except this side had a death chamber instead of a death cell. I looked at the draped window leading to the execution chamber. I could see Ed Shelley’s reflection front and center—almost like a ghost. We waited for several minutes, wondering what was causing the delay. Had Michael changed his mind? No. The truth was that they had trouble finding his veins, one of the things he feared most.

  Finally the curtain was drawn, revealing Michael lying on the gurney. His arms were stretched out on either side of him, tied down with four strips of black Velcro and connected to tubes. His fingers were tied together with what looked like ace bandages. I was surprised that his eyes were shut, but I knew why. He didn’t want to look at the anger in Ed Shelley’s eyes or the tears in Lera’s. That was even more frightening than death.

  Warden David Strange took a microphone and stood next to Michael. “Inmate Ross, do you have a final statement?”

  “No, thank you,” Michael said, not opening his eyes. I felt cheated that he didn’t at least look over to say good-bye.

  “He doesn’t have the balls to say anything,” whispered one victim’s family member.

  The warden then went to the red phone on the wall that was connected to Commissioner Theresa Lantz’s red phone. She picked it up and reiterated the well-practiced script. “Chief State’s Attorney Morano, are there any legal impediments to carrying out this execution?”

  Having just checked with his office, he took a deep breath, knowing that this would be as close as he would ever come to ordering an execution. “No, Commissioner, there are no legal impediments.”

  Lantz told the warden to proceed with the execution. The warden then went to the end of the room, where he crossed his arms in front of him, signaling to the executioner—who was behind a one-way mirror—to proceed at 2:13. Seconds later, Michael shuddered. It’s impossible to know whether it was a reflex triggered by the sedative or whether he was reacting to feeling the first solution enter his veins. He also could have been scared.

  “Feeling some pain?” whispered a
female voice. Ed and Lera later told me it was Debbie, Robin Stavinsky’s sister.

  Then a few minutes later, Detective Frank Griffin, one of the arresting officers, whispered, “It’s too peaceful.”

  I watched his chest heave up and down, wondering which breath would be his last. It didn’t take long for his face to turn gray and his arms to be mottled with purple. At 2:21, nine minutes after it had begun, the curtain was drawn. We all stood there silently waiting for the official word. At 2:25 the warden’s announcement came over the loudspeaker.

  Michael Bruce Ross was dead.

  I didn’t cry when the warden made his announcement because I felt as though I was going to be sick. I had been holding everything in all day, and I finally let go. I was numb. I didn’t know what to feel. I just knew I wanted to get out of the prison as soon as possible. The last thing I wanted to do was break down in front of any of the prison officials or staff.

  We were the first to be taken out and led back to the office, where we were to wait until the media and the families had left the prison. Father Bruno was standing outside the viewing area in the hallway. “I don’t know how you did it,” he said. “I don’t know how you got through it.”

  I lost control. Tears welled up in my eyes. I didn’t know how I had gotten through it, but I made it. It was over. I remembered what a lawyer friend told me about how she reacted after witnessing an execution. “I walk around with a hole in me.” Now I knew what she meant. I had watched the state of Connecticut kill a person, deprive someone of his life with a deadly mix of three chemicals. My friend was dead, and I would never be the same.

  We weren’t allowed to leave the prison until after 3:00 A.M. While we waited, Father Bruno said almost apologetically, “You know, I was talking to the commissioner today, and she said, ‘I never thought it would come to this.’ None of us did, and I hope we never have to do it again.”

  “If you have a death penalty, you have executions. What did you think would happen?” I asked incredulously. He had no answer.