I needed to know his heart. Charles had told her he was serious, that he wanted to see if he was a match. He wanted to donate because he was asked, and it was good. But should she believe him? The more she examined the question, the simpler it became. She was a minister, a Christian, and there was a life at stake, a guy on Long Island named Ernie.
Cullen could never orchestrate a donation alone from behind bars. He needed her help—they needed her help. How could a compatibility test be a moral dilemma? The hospital sent color-coded tubes for Cullen to bleed into. From what she read on the Internet, a match was an incredible long shot.
But at least everybody could say they tried. Every equinox, Reverend Roney and like-minded Celtic Christians spend a week at a Druid spiritual retreat in Pennsylvania. It was then that she felt the vibration. That was her cell phone—they encourage silence at these things, so she had it on vibrate—and right away, she knew what had happened.
And her prayer group knew, too. In fact, the whole spiritual retreat knew what had happened; they just felt it and started to cry, because they knew. It was September; if she acted fast, the kidney would be like an early Christmas present.
It was so improbable, it was so—then Pat started to scream. The Somerset County jail is a redbrick building conveniently catty-corner to the Somerville courthouse. On the other side of the metal detector is a wall of two-way mirrored plate glass backlit by video surveillance.
Beyond that is the nine-by-five-foot cell where Charles Cullen had spent the past two and a half years of his life. The sergeant buzzes me through a series of doors into a hallway partitioned into stainless-steel booths. Guards escort Charles Cullen onto the opposite stool. We nod mutely to each other across the bulletproof divide, and take a phone. I press the plastic phone hard to my ear, and Cullen notices.
Cullen glances up, reading my expression before retreating to the corners of the glass. He nods once. In pictures taken soon after his arrest, Cullen looks a little like Kevin Costner or a hollowed-out George Clooney—perhaps a bit colder, yet still a handsome guy with a bad haircut. But now, in the mercury vapor lights of the Somerset jail visiting room, Cullen looks chapped and anemic.
Never an eater, he has become skeletal in jail. His face seems to hang from his cheekbones like a wet sail. A crucifix dangles from a chain over his collarbone, mixing with the sprigs of graying chest hairs where his shaven neck meets his prison togs—essentially mustard-yellow versions of hospital scrubs, insulated with a layer of white flannel underwear.
His eyes dart and flash like a man holding his breath, waiting to talk. Cullen was happy, but his years in jail had taught him that nothing would ever be simple. Cullen knew that if word ever got out that he was trying to donate a kidney, the whole thing would probably be over right there. He needed to keep it secret; nobody could know.
The way people think of me, they would think I was trying to do something. But someone leaked it—I think it was the D. The press was having a field day. All those people that you—but the donation was important. The detectives suggested that I offer to go, to speed the donation along.
They said I needed to give them something. The New Jersey office of the Public Defender is two stories of red brick with handicapped spaces and shrub landscaping and pound women in nightgown-size Tweety Bird T-shirts smoking menthols by the double glass doors. In the offices upstairs, there are families in sweatpants waiting under fluorescent lights and a hole in the Plexiglas where you can announce yourself by sticking your mouth in and yelling politely.
The deputy public defender looks something like an Old Testament James Earl Jones—a big man with broad leonine features and a gray Ishmael beard gone grayer over three years defending the biggest serial killer in New Jersey history. More work for me, more expenses for the state—there was no way I was going to let that happen.
But right from the beginning, Mask saw signs that this thing might not go through. Then everyone would be cheated out of their ability to yell and scream at him. Mask was told that the donation was possible only after Cullen was sentenced. We realized that by the time they finished, Ernie might be dead. They were months behind schedule, but, in theory, Cullen was about to be transported to Stony Brook Medical Center and donate his kidney side by side with Peckham.
Cullen in their hospital. By now it was February. Then the old A. We thought it would happen in January. I think [allowing the] donation was always just a big dangling carrot to get Charlie to jump. But this time, Cullen rises to speak—reciting, from memory, statements Cullen believes have been hostile to him that the judge has made to the press. Judge William Platt is not amused. Your honor, you need to step down. Cullen shouts over him.
The high marble walls make this court a beautiful room but a terrible courtroom, amplifying and distorting all sound. Cullen fills this room. The families wait as Cullen gets to speed-shouting his statement ten times, 30, They pull a spit mask over his head—a mesh veil that keeps a prisoner from hawking loogies on his captors—but the noise continues.
They wrap the spit mask with a towel and screw it behind his head and now Cullen sounds like a man screaming into a pillow. The families of the victims try to read. Your honor, you must step down. He is still chanting when the doors close. You indicated that he was a serial offender. Ahora buscamos a un asesino en serie. We are now looking at a serial offender. Parece que tenemos un asesino en serie sheriff.
Looks like we have an encore performer. So we have a serial. Parece que tenemos un asesino en serie , sheriff. Sin Palabras El arte de comer bebes MundoBizarre - 28 de mayo de Historias Asesinos. Juana Barraza la mata viejitas. By MundoBizarre. Mas leido General MundoBizarre - 11 de diciembre de Sin Palabras Mundo-Bizarre - 29 de noviembre de Historias MundoBizarre - 29 de noviembre de Juana Barraza fue detenida por el asesinato de una mujer en Iztapalapa.
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