Talk about guilt and remorse. Am I worthy or do I deserve such kind and compassionate treatment?
It was March 25th, 2005, the one-year anniversary of the day I cowardly ambushed and murdered my wife of thirteen years, Sharen. I was anxious and restless. Sharen’s family and friends held a memorial in her honor near the place where I took her life. Of all things, the news showed it on their primetime coverage. I freaked out. I told my cellmate that I felt like hurting myself. He immediately went to the guards, who then confronted me. After a short conversation, I was handcuffed. I was taken from the jail’s fifth floor down to the first floor. I had no idea where I was going. I was placed naked in a holding cell. They gave me a green Ferguson gown, better known as a straight jacket. The guards didn’t tie it closed. The cell had a hard rubber floor and walls. There was a six-inch by six-inch metal grate in the middle of the room for urinating and defecating, while very cold arctic air blasted out of a vent on the wall. I mean ice-cold air with swift fury. I was locked in and told that someone would check on me through the small window every half hour.
I was in shock, confused and terrified. I remember walking around the perimeter many times. With nowhere to sit, I found a spot on the floor and uncomfortably leaned against the wall. I was shivering. The thin gown offered little relief. I hoped moving might help. It didn’t. I sat back down. With nothing to do, I began singing songs from various genres. I was a DJ in college, named DJ of the Year in 1974. My repertoire is quite vast. Hours went by. My nose was constantly running, and my body was numb from the frigid chill. Eventually, I turned to Bible verses. My wife’s and children’s faces burned into my memory throughout the ordeal. I remember laughing at times, but mostly there were tears as I asked the Lord Jesus Christ for forgiveness. A whole bag of emotions. I became exhausted and worn out. I removed the gown and tried to use it as a pillow. My entire mortal core trembled uncontrollably. I flashed back to a winter storm I was caught in near Lake Tahoe. Only then had I been colder. I tossed and turned. No luck sleeping. No idea what time it was. I began singing again. Every now and then, I noticed a face peek or glance at me through the window. No one responded to my concerns. Eventually, I heard a familiar voice and recognized my psychologist. She asked me a few questions, and I guess I gave the right answers. The door opened. I was given back my clothes and returned to the fifth floor. I was sick for the next two weeks, having caught a cold. I truly don’t think I would have hurt myself if I had stayed on the fifth floor. I was depressed, troubled, and distraught, filled with extreme guilt. Vivid mental pictures and graphic details still haunt me today.
The relationship I have with my ex Sharen and our children today is a true blessing. Our oldest is pregnant. Because of me, her mother won’t be there to share in the joy. Tears come to my eyes just thinking about the pain and emptiness she feels. I robbed them both of this precious moment. Talk about guilt and remorse. Am I worthy or do I deserve such kind and compassionate treatment? After all, I cowardly ambushed and murdered their mother, my wife Sharen. Their questions are numerous. Their childhood, my drug addiction, favorite activities, their mother, foods, etc. I answer all honestly, completely, and truthfully. Sharen should be here, not me. I am going to be a grandfather. I need to shift gears or this page will be covered with wet tears. Perhaps I should just call it quits now.
