I arrived in front of The Lexington Condos around 2:00pm. This place was in the Oakland Hills. A month’s rent could cure homeless in this country. The targets name was Mitch Hoying, some hot-shot ball player.
I stuck the gun underneath my coat as I walked into the lobby. The security guard greeted me with a curious grin, “Can I help you?” he asked. I looked at the pistol hanging from his side holster and figured this might end bad. I also noticed you couldn’t get on the elevator without an electronic key card. I stuck the gun in his face and ordered him to lay his weapon on the ground. At first it looked like he was going to comply with the request but something triggered inside his head. His nostrils flared and his eyebrows grew hard. The fear disappeared. I became worried. I didn’t want to shoot him. Poor son of a bitch probably made minimum wage. I advised him to think about his family. “Don’t be stupid,” I said. This dude starts walking backwards. “Don’t do it,” I kept telling him. He pulled his weapon. Before he had a chance to aim I shot him in the chest. I regretted doing it but I had no choice. He laid on the ground, twitching. I stared, yelling, “Why, why?”
I heard footsteps coming from the rear of the building. A man dressed in a janitor’s uniform stopped cold in his tracks when he saw me. I asked him where Mitch Hoying lived. At first, he played it off like he didn’t understand me so I walked up to him and put the gun to his forehead. I told him I had no intention of harming him but I would if he didn’t tell me what I wanted to know. He coughed up the 20 on Hoying. I grabbed the security guards access key card and jumped on the elevator. I got off on the tenth floor and walked to apartment 608 and knocked on the door. No one answered so I knocked again. A voice shouted, “Who is it?”
My gun hung low to my leg so he wouldn’t be able to see it through the peephole. I heard rumbling inside then the sound of feet stomping. He opened up, cursing, but once he saw the gun in my right hand he shut up. I asked him if his name is Mitch Hoying. His head bobbed forward. His eyes widened. I slapped him across the face, shoving him back inside. I took him to the kitchen. Every appliance from the dishwasher to the refrigerator was made out of stainless steel. The floor was hardwood, spit shine clean. Hoying kept asking “What’s going on, what is this about?” The son of a bitch stood tall for a white boy. At least 6-foot 4. With movie star looks, his bone structure perfect. His hands twitched uncontrollably. I remember reading about how he has some kind of disorder. He had to pop a couple of Xanax pills before each game to relax his nerves. I aimed the gun at his face and asked if the name Charlotte Jacobs rang a bell.
He held up his hands in surrender, telling me he didn’t know anybody by that name. I think he thought I was some jealous husband. He tried to talk his way out, offering me money. I hit him with the butt of the gun then told him how she left behind a child, how his reckless disregard for human decency cost my sister her life. He was speechless. He apologized but that just made me angrier.
I heard sirens coming from the street by the dozen, a high whining pitch. Then his phone rang. I made Hoying answer it. He picked up the receiver and handed it to me. I told whoever was on the line I'm surrendering and I'm unarmed. I stepped back and aimed at his chest. He jumped up and said “I thought you weren’t going to kill me?” I said, “I told the cops I’m surrendering, never said anything about not killing you.” He started to cry, begging me to spare him. I’ve seen this movie play out before. I heard voices in the hallway. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. It didn’t matter.
I shot Mitch Hoying in the chest and the head. As I stood over his lifeless body, I thought of my sister, what she must have thought while she was dying.
I tossed the gun and opened up the door to the waiting swat team. As the handcuffs tightened my wrists, a feeling of relief rushed over me. I would never kill again and that was fine by me.
July 15, 1995
Once you stop caring about dying or going to jail, you can do anything you want. I always thought of the words like a tumor. Here’s the thing. I needed the cancer to survive. It empowered me, possessing an overwhelming hold. I became a vigilante, not by spite but necessity. I can only imagine the thoughts processing in your head. What the fuck is this psychopath talking about? Let me explain. After the death of my wife, one might assume after all this time… I’m sorry, I’m getting off track. You don’t care about my wife. Why would you? You never met her. If you did you would share the heartache I encounter each day. Enough of the sentimental bullshit.
I had a strong urge to seek vengeance. Killing Ray Collins and Lee Carter brought clarity to the soul. They took away the best thing in my life so I sent those pricks on a one-way trip to hell. An eye for an eye. I figured the hate in my heart died with those pieces of shit, but I was mistaken. They were a prelude to a journey I never expected to experience. One is taught from an early age: hard work and a keen discipline to follow the rules, leads to riches. That’s bullshit, a pipe dream, some marketing slogan you sell to suckers stupid enough to buy it. What I believed in and what is reality are two different entities. It’s cool if you think I’m full of shit. A lot of people do. I only ask you peek inside my world and judge for yourself. Don’t expect me to sway you with fancy words and false pretenses. It don’t fit me, partner.
Let’s move on to another topic. Dennis Hays. That piece of shit reminded me folks like him operate under one set of rules. The first is: as long as you have money the law doesn’t apply to you. Parasites such as Hays view the world through black and white binoculars. Good and evil. He is of the mind-set that folks in his click are the foundation of society, the pillars of the community. Us poor slobs are the peasants vying for scraps, hoping to put a little something in the stomach. Killing that bastard made me feel good. I am aware I sound barbaric but fuck it. Honesty is the best policy. Fuck him and his arrogant pollution of thinking.
The thugs from the Bart station had a mind-set of entitlement. Like Dennis Hays, these punks live off terrorizing people. They may have grown up differently, monetarily speaking, but the philosophy is on the same level. Fuck them too. The junkie couple I killed and chopped up were victims of their own stupidity. Truth be told, I didn’t lose a wink of sleep. Why the fuck would I? Why the fuck would you or anybody for that matter. The two dirty cops, Mitch Hoying, each, victims of a keen act of vanity. The world is better off without them.
In total my actions claimed eleven lives. Only one of them haunts me. Mario Cruz was the name of the security guard I murdered. Early twenties, a prospect of light. The kid worked three jobs, to help support his mother, sister and nephew. He was a college student and volunteered at an Animal Shelter on the weekends. Some nights I wake up crying, wishing I could rewrite history. I sit on death row, penning my thoughts, thinking, I’m no better than the scum I’ve killed. Those monsters and I have one thing in common. We’ve butchered innocent people. I turned around and not only destroyed Mario’s life but his mother’s, sister’s, and nephew’s.
I stated before, the parasites I killed meant nothing, but the memory of Mario tugs at the heart. Because of me, Mario Cruz will never see his nephew grow up. Because of me, Mario Cruz’s family will never see him graduate college. Because of me, Mario Cruz will never experience the sacred matrimony of marriage or watch his kids grow up. His talents were wasted the moment I entered his life.
My visceral thirst for revenge robbed him of a future. I hate myself for that.
After the arraignment, I informed my lawyer I wanted to plead out. She talked to the DA and they agreed to life in prison without the possibility of parole. I told her go back and tell them I wanted the death penalty. We forgo the trial. I confess to the murders, I take my punishment and save the good folks of Alameda County a few tax dollars. My attorney looked at me like I had five hands growing out of my chest. Murdering a famous athlete didn’t garner me sympathy from the public. Mitch Hoying was the boy next door. Thin, white, and clean-cut. No one had a clue he murdered my sister, Charlotte Jacobs. Do you think anyone might care if the ne
ws reached the public? Would he still be allowed to play baseball? The short answers are no and yes.
As I stated earlier, there are separate laws for people in the upper echelon of society. You don’t believe me. Click on the television. How many CEO’s or politicians go to jail for a crime they committed? Can’t think of any? That’s because it don’t happen.
The District Attorney was happy to oblige my request. I am to be executed next week. Mario Cruz’s mother requested to meet with me the day of. Not sure what I will say to her. No words are going to bring her son back. Some might refer to me as a tortured soul. Others view me as psychopath. What’s your conclusion? Be honest!
A psychiatrist interviewed me after my arrest.. At first, he pitched me the softball lines: Did I experience a normal childhood? Did my father beat me? Was I ever molested by the neighborhood priest? Then he hit me with the million dollar questions. Why did I kill those people? What was the motivation? I looked at him and told him the same thing I’m telling you. Human instincts! Doctors can peek inside the brain, run as many test as they want but they won’t find anything.
People kill for a lot of reasons. Just because you’ve never done it doesn’t mean you won’t. Why did David kill Goliath? Why did Cain kill Abel? Why did the Jews kill Christ? If you don’t know the answer, then you haven’t listened to a damn thing I’ve said.
The date was April 25, 2006. The round clock on the cement wall struck 9:00pm. Two hours until execution time. Mark Jacobs neither felt anxious nor scared. His hands and feet were shackled. He sat in a holding cell watching the beefy guard usher in a short plump Hispanic woman. The name tag read Martha Cruz. She took a seat across from the man who killed her son. The only thing separating them was a squalid table. The air stunk with a touch of nostalgic greed. Mark refused to meet the woman’s dragon eyes. His chin tucked deep into his Adams Apple. His breath quickened. The woman placed three 5x7 pictures, side by side next to Marks ashy hands, “Look,” she said, her index finger stabbing the photos. Mark leaned in and stared at the pictures as if they called his mother a whore, “Where did you… How did you? Who are you?” His face turned white. His lower lip quivered and his right hand shook. Martha Cruz choked up. A thick tear slid down her cheek. “Before you die, I want you to hear the truth.”
April 25, 2006
10:33pm
Amy Cabot walked into the holding cell and shook her head. Her face was puffy from crying. Mark Jacobs’s eyes bowed to his callused fingers. “So you read the manuscripts?” he said.
Amy’s lip puckered. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
Mark stretched his head towards the ceiling and smiled. He couldn’t remember the last time he smiled. Damn, did it feel good, “It’s OK, I understand.”
Amy wiped away the incoming tears on her face. “Is it true? Are you my uncle?”
“Yes, your mother, Charlotte Jacobs was my sister,” said Mark.
Amy sat speechless. The words fighting to fly out of her mouth.
Mark placed a gentle hand on her wrist. “I killed all those people because something inside me snapped, call it injustice, lack of tolerance for vanity, I don’t know. The only thing I do know is I became something I never thought I would be. I stopped caring about everything. Didn’t care if I got caught. I killed Mitch Hoying because he showed no remorse, I mean, yeah, he paid your grandparent’s off to keep quiet…”
She put her hand up. “So, what you’re telling me is the money I used to go to college is blood money? Money, my mother died for?”
“Technically speaking, yes,” answered Mark.
“How come you didn’t tell me before?” Amy asked.
“I figured your grandparents must have put stuff in your head about me, before this whole thing happened.” Mark said. His head hung to his chest.
“They never mentioned you,” Amy said.
“You read the manuscripts; you know I wanted to see you,” Mark said. His face crinkled. His lip hung out. He was trying to keep it together the best he could but the tears were coming.
“I’m sorry I’m just a little shell-shocked right now,” said Amy. Her right hand pressed hard against her cheek.
“Understandable,” Mark said. He forced a smile.
Amy shrugged her shoulders,” Now what?”
“There’s some missing pieces to the puzzle,” said Mark.
“What do you mean?”
“The truth,” said Mark.
Mark’s eyes swelled up, the raindrops flooded the table. “A woman came to see me about an hour and a half ago, I thought she was Mario Cruz’s mother.”
“She wasn’t?” Amy asked.
“In a way, yes. Her name is Martha Cruz, her family came to the United States when she was a teenager. Her father worked as an electrician, her mother, as a maid. They started attending Halcyon church in Hayward California. There they met the Matkins family. Not long after, the two families became close, going to the beach together, having Sunday dinner… and then something happened, not sure all the details, but the mother and father snuck into the country illegally and had to be deported back to Mexico. Before they left, they asked the Matkins if they would watch after Martha… the Matkins agreed and raised her as their own…” A pause.
“I’m not following,” said Amy.
“Matkins was my wife’s maiden name, her family took in Martha, she became like a sister to Kathy, your aunt… somewhere along the line they lost contact.”
“What are you talking about?” said Amy.
“My wife and I met when we were young, couldn’t get enough of each other, but we came from opposite worlds, she was a bookworm, aspirations of going to college, writing poetry. She believed the only way to get ahead in life is having a good education… I on the other hand hated school. I got a job as a truck driver before I had a chance to graduate and never looked back. We tried to make it work but we were just two different people.
We broke up for a year then reconnected, got married, white picket fence, the whole nine. During our little hiatus, she got pregnant, by the time she found out, it was too late, the baby was more than six months along. Funny thing is she didn’t show any signs of pregnancy, her appetite was normal, no morning sickness, no big bump in the stomach, nothing. She knew she couldn’t take care of a kid, I mean, shit, she was still in college, her folks were strict. Her parents would look down on her for having a baby out of wedlock. She gave the baby to Martha and asked her to raise it as her own… and she did. Mario turned out to be great kid.”
Amy’s mouth dropped. “Are you saying you…?”
Mark looked up through red eyes. “Yes, I killed my own son. I bumped into Kathy when we were broken up at some bar in the city. We talked, messed around, one thing led to another. We slept together, a few months later she was pregnant.”
Amy jumped out of her seat as if it was on fire. “Why didn’t your wife ever tell you?”
“Pride, embarrassment. Martha told me she thought about telling me, even giving Mario back but he was stuck to Martha. It would have killed Mario, taking him away from Martha. Martha figured if Kathy told me I might leave her. So, she kept the secret buried. At first I was angry she didn’t tell me but when Martha explained it to me I understood.”
“This is too much to process,” said Amy.
“I know, sweetie. I’m sorry. I basically turned your world upside down.” said Mark.
“More like threw an atomic bomb on it.”
Mark tapped her wrist. “I need a favor.”
“A favor?”
“As part of my agreement with the District Attorney is I get to keep my house, cars, pension… I left all that to you, it’s yours.”
“I don’t want…”
“Please let me finish.”
When my wife died, I collected half a million from the insurance company. Mark’s hand covered his face. “I never spent a dime. I didn’t even want the damn money. But I don’t want it sitting in a bank collecting dust either. I want it to be put to
good use. Make sure the Cruz family gets it, every last dime.”
Amy squeezed her uncle’s hand smiling through watery eyes. “I will.”
She sat back down, leaning close, peaking at the clock, realizing she only had minutes left with her uncle. “What was my mother like?”
“An angel from heaven.” Mark glanced at the clock - 10:50pm. “We were close. I always protected her, even as kids, that was my job. I promised her… to not kill Mitch Hoying would have meant I didn’t keep my promise.”
Now Amy squirted a bucket load of uncontrollable tears. A guard appeared by the door, informing Mark it was time to go. He stood up. Amy walked around the table and into her uncle’s arms for the last time. The two embraced, exchanging kisses on the cheek.
“Take care of yourself,” said Mark.
“There has to be some way to delay the execution, I can make some phone calls...”
“No, I’m OK with this. I’m going home to see my wife and baby sister, and a son that I never knew, hopefully I can tell him I’m sorry in person if God gives me the chance.”
My Uncle the Killer
By: Amy Cabot
To the outside world, Mark Henry Jacobs was a cold-blooded killer. I too shared the same sentiments not long ago. During the past couple of weeks I became acquainted with the person nobody knew. He was a complicated man. A man my mother called brother. A man who shares the same DNA as myself.
As some of you are aware, I am the long-lost niece who released my uncle’s confessions so many are talking about. Since then, I have received numerous emails, both positive and negative, yet the question I get asked the most is: “How does it feel to be related to a murderer?”
At first, I didn’t appreciate the question. As one can imagine, the shock of this ordeal is still sinking in. To understand someone such as Mark Jacobs, one has to dive into the pool of uncertainty and forgo the element of shock, without bias or dogmatic vernacular if one is seeking truth and not epithets.
Confessions of a Vigilante Page 4