Originally Posted by
terbo71
I have to say I have always agreed with the death penalty, and I think they need to get more serious about serious crimes. Meaning, I don’t believe it should be three strikes you’re out, it should be dealt with according to the seriousness of the crime and the affect of that crime on other lives. This is more about my life than my opinion, but at the same time it may help sway the opinion of others.
Back in 1991 I was married and had my first son (Kristopher), and in 1992 I was divorced. For the next year I was allowed to visit my son every other weekend, as long as I didn’t get too pissed off or argue too much with my ex about the bruises or the burns he had from her boyfriend. I took pictures and reported it but nothing ever happened, so all I could do was give him the best I had when he was with me. At around 5:00 A.M. on April 24, 1993 I was woke up by my mother barging into my bedroom screaming, “Wake up! Wake up! Kris has been beaten! He’s in the hospital!”
With my little brothers and sister being left at home not knowing what was going on, I spent my next six hours being driven across the state to get to the hospital. Not knowing all the details of what had happened, and hoping the whole way there that maybe, after all this time of seeing him suffer, he was finally going to get to be with me where he was safe. And after the longest six hour drive full of uncertainty and hope, we finally arrived at the hospital. I was immediately escorted by a nurse and two uniformed officers to a private room on the second floor. There I was informed of the details and the fact that because my ex waited several hours to take him to the hospital there was nothing they could do. The pressure on his brain was too severe, and because they lost all those hours that they could have been relieving the pressure, they were getting no brain response. They said that all they could do now is allow me some time with him and wait for me to give the word to turn off the machines that were keeping him alive. So for as long as I could, without pressure from the doctors, I sat with my son, held his little hands for the last time, ran my fingers through his hair, and cried.
My son would be 18 years old on July 15th of this year. Instead of celebrating his birthday I get to take his three little brothers to a cemetery to sit on the grass by his headstone.
The man that killed my son is now 37, and he will be 46 when he is released on parole. That to me is not a punishment; it is an undeserved vacation from the pain of daily life.