Joseph R. O'Dell, III, Executed in Virginia 7/23/97 - Death Row novel written for Sondra London.


By Joseph R. O'Dell, III

(c) 1997 by S. London.
All rights reserved.

Chapter One


The steel doors suddenly clanged open allowing the death row inmates out of their cells for breakfast. Clayton Randall met his best friend, Joseph Toscano, on the cellblock tier, and they headed towards the food slot to get their breakfast trays.
"Ya'll come get this hogback and grits, boys," said the chew-tobacco guard who was slinging the prison gruel on the trays. Clay told the guard, "Give me a carton of milk and a cup of black coffee."
"What's the mattah, boy, ain't ya got no stomach fo this heah good state chow?"
Clay ignored the ignorant guard and took his carton of milk and the black coffee that was shoved to him through the food slot that was cut into the bars for the death row inmates to receive their food through, and went to the table that he and Joe Toscano ate at.
"Give me a carton of milk," said Joe to the guard.
"Lawdy me, ya'll sho ain't making me feel too good, not eating this heah good food I fixed fo ya," said the guard.
"Good morning, Joe," said Clay.
"Good morning, Clay. Well, another day in this rathole with all these intelligent people... damn."
"Yeah, you are right, Joe, the ignorance in this place never ceases to amaze me. We've got to deal with ignorant guards, and to top it off, we've got to deal with ignorant inmates."
"Do you think that Buddy will get a stay of execution tonight, or do you think these ignorant Virginia hillbilly clodhoppers will fry him?"
"It looks like he will fry. Hell, Buddy is a serial killer and has death sentences in three states. The woman he raped and killed in this state was nine months pregnant, and you know as well as I do that he will not get any sympathy from anyone. These people don't care that Buddy was treated like a dog when he was a kid, or that he has been treated like a dog all his life. They want to kill him to show everyone that killing is wrong! Now tell me, Joe, is that the epitome of ignorance or what? Where is the message to the people, especially the children, that all murder is wrong? There is only one message, my friend: 'We will kill you!'"
"Did you see that ignorant headline in the paper, 'Give Justice to Buddy Justice, execute him!'? I wish that the person that wrote that article and made that silly pun about Justice, would have to witness just one execution. See the eyes explode, blood gush out of the ears, and smell the burning human flesh! The electric chair and killing a human being by frying them to death is a joke to a lot of people. They wouldn't think it was a joke if they would just be a witness to one execution... that's all it would take... one, and they would change their minds."
Clay just nodded his head in agreement. Both men were sipping the acrid prison coffee and looking solemn, their thoughts on Buddy's date with the executioner that night at 11:00 p.m.

A shrill whistle blew. "Awright, lockup time!" the guard yelled. As Clay and Joe got up from their table and headed to their cells, the other inmates were laughing and joking about sporting event that they had watched on television the night before. They were oblivious and apathetic that one of them would die in the electric chair that night. A man they had eaten with, played basketball with, and shared stories with about their past lives, was not even in their thoughts now. They did not care. It was him, not them, that was going to die.
Buddy Justice had become a memory already and he wasn't even dead.


Jack Ripley was serving in Florida for the murders of two young girls in Broward County. Ripley was a cop at the time of the murders, and was using his badge and status as a cop to entice young girls to trust him. He would use his police cruiser to pull over females. He would arrest them, put them in his cruiser, and then take them out to some desolate area and rape them, torture them, and then murder them. He was only convicted of two murders of young females, but he was under suspicion for 34 others.
Jack Ripley had been dubbed by the media as "Jack The Ripper." His crimes were depicted as being heinous and were categorized with Theodore Bundy's atrocious murders and rapes of over two dozen young women. In fact, Jack Ripley and Bundy were friends, and would argue over who had killed the most women!
Up until the last minute before his execution on January 24, 1989, Ted Bundy claimed he was innocent. Then Bundy told law enforcement officials about all of the young women he had killed, and gave them the locations of their bodies. Ironically, Jack Ripley claimed he was innocent too.
Ripley began writing stories about macabre murders that he said were fiction. His high school sweetheart, Sondra French, who owns a publishing firm in Miami, started taking the stories that Ripley wrote and publishing them. The stories were in graphic detail, and contained precise information about unsolved murders, yet Ripley claimed everything he was writing was fiction.
Law enforcement agencies were buying the stories that Ripley was writing to see if they could gather information about the unsolved murders and missing women. Though Ripley claimed to be innocent, the police found a diary in his jail cell that described him picking up a woman in his police car, and the time and place that he described in his diary checked out with records that on the day and time described in the diary; Ripley was on duty, and a woman that had been last seen in that area, was missing.
In Ripley's writings he created characters from real life, but gave them pseudonyms. One of his main characters was Crystal Beavers, a 16-year-old girl that lived on a farm with her father, who raped and abused her. Crystal ran away from the farm and came to the big city, where she met a rogue cop by the name of Dan Kelly. In Ripley's story, Kelly was one of the cops that investigated him for murder, but Dan Kelly was not the real name of the cop who investigated him.
Then there was Starglow, a tabloid reporter in his writings, but in real life his high school sweetheart and the publisher of his books. Crystal was one of the young girls that Ripley murdered, but Beavers was not her last name in real life.
In Ripley's character, he is this monster who enjoys killing females. He describes necrophilia with his victims, and especially enjoys sex with the dead girls when their bodies are in advanced stages of decomposition. He decapitates some of his victims and takes their heads in his hands and has the head perform oral sex on him.
Sondra French told Jack Ripley that his characters needed to be more realistic, especially Crystal Beavers. So, Ripley told Sondra that he was going to test the character of Crystal Beavers to see how real she would be to those who hadn't read any of his writings. Ripley decided to try his character out on death row inmates, so he picked out two Virginia Death Row inmates - Danny Diablo and Joe Toscano.

Ripley got permission from his prison counselor to make a long distance call to Sondra French.
"Sondra, this is Jack Ripley. I am going to type up some letters to various people that are on death row in several states, and I am going to make Crystal Beavers the director of an organization called 'Justice Now.' I want you to remail the letters for me from Miami so that the people that receive them won't see the disclaimer and know that it came from a prison."
"Are you sure you know what you are doing, Jack? I mean couldn't this backfire and cause you problems? Couldn't it cause me problems?"
"No, it's just a harmless test to find out how real Crystal Beavers can be. I want to make sure that she is real to my readers, and if anything needs to be changed to make her more real, I will find out through these letters to the people I told you about."
"OK, you mail the letters to me and the addresses and let me read them first, Jack. I don't want to end up getting in trouble because of your harebrained schemes."


Ray Underwood, an F.B.I. Special Agent, studied serial killers, with the help of a crack team of scientists, psychologists, criminologists and experts in every field of forensic sciences.
Since the unit's name came into existence seven years ago, 22 serial killers had been apprehended who were responsible for close to 600 murders. As each case was solved, more information was emerging about serial killers. Profiles were being developed and entered into the computers.
Jack Ripley was still being investigated by the F.B.I. because of the suspicion that he was responsible for the disappearance of close to three dozen young women. Ray Underwood had visited Jack Ripley on several occasions, but Ripley would not give him any useful information. Ripley was too smart to fall into any of the usual traps that law enforcement pull on the average person to elicit information from them. Psychologists had scored his I.Q. at 145, and his expertise at manipulation, especially with law enforcement, was unsurpassed.
Ray Underwood had interviewed Sondra French, and had been interviewed by her. He interviewed her concerning Jack Ripley - their relationship during high school and their current relationship. She had interviewed Ray Underwood concerning her studies and interest in serial killers, and the criminal justice system in general.


Sondra French, blonde, pretty and shapely, was the high school sweetheart of Jack Ripley. He had deflowered her when she was 17. She broke up with him and moved away from her home in Florida to go to college. She heard no more about Jack until a family member showed her a newspaper article that shocked her. He was charged with two murders of young girls and was suspected of dozens more.
Though it had been many years since she had seen or heard from Jack, she could not believe what the newspapers were saying about him. She contacted him and he told her that he was innocent of the crimes. He gave her a plausible story, but there were pieces of evidence against him that could not be explained away.
From all the information that Sondra could get from the police, psychiatrists, Jack, and other people involved with him, it seemed as though he had a screw loose somewhere, even though outwardly it wasn't apparent. Sondra wondered if her leaving him was in any way instrumental in the way he turned out. She wondered if he felt rejected by her, and if he did, if that caused him to have a hatred towards women. She also wondered if it had ever crossed Jack's mind to kill her when they were being intimate or during their sexual unions. The thoughts she was having made her shudder.


"Awright ya'll, heah's yo mail," the fat guard said around a mouthful of chewing tobacco. "C'mon and git it or it goes in de trash. Randall, yo woman sho puts some nice purfume on hur lettahs... heah's three, boy. Diablo... who's gwan take his lettahs to him? That boy is still locked down, ain't he?
"I'll give Diablo his mail," said Clay Randall.
"Heah's five lettahs and a legal package fo him."
Mail call was over and the death row inmates were reading mail. The ones that didn't get any mail were watching Oprah on the television.
"Danny Diablo, you have five letters and a legal package," Clay said to the pot-bellied old man locked in his cell.
"Thanks a lot, Clay, I appreciate you bringing my mail to me."
"No problem," Clay replied, and went to his cell to read his mail.
"Clay Randall, Joe Toscano, come down here a minute," Danny Diablo hollered.
Clay and Joe came to Danny's cell on the run, and Clay said, "Man, what in the hell is wrong, old man? You sounded like your buddy the devil was after you!"
"Yeah, you old coot, what's up with you?" Joe Toscano smiled.
"Read this crap, man. If I could get to this bitch I would cut her stinking heart out."
Clay took the letter that Danny held out, and Joe read over Clay's shoulder:

Dear Mr. Diablo:

I read your article concerning Capital Punishment printed in the Project Hope Bulletin and would like to comment.
My name is Crystal K. Beavers and I am the chairwoman of Justice Now ,which is an organization that lobbies for the expansion of the death penalty and the abolition of legal appeals by criminals seeking to block their executions. I am sure that you probably would disagree with the aims of my organization, but that is not important.
I would like to say to you that you are missing the point concerning what the death penalty is all about. The idea is to punish criminals who commit crimes. I think that is something that needs to be done quickly if it is to have any meaning at all, and the primary consideration is whether the person is guilty or not. Where there is doubt, executions should not be done.
I am also wanting to comment on your inappropriate remark that the death penalty is inappropriately enforced. You would have your readers believe that capital punishment is selectively enforced against males and that females are exempt. That is not an accurate way to see it. The truth is that females rarely commit a crime that warrants execution. Certainly, a few do, but it is not socially acceptable to execute women except for heinous crimes. Women commit so very few such offenses that they rarely make it to death row. I am sure that such an estimation of a basic truth will offend you, since you are a man, but that is a far more true picture than you present.
I have noticed that all of the items in the Project Hope Bulletin are written, for the most part, by crybaby convicts who after committing murder and God alone knows what other horrible crimes, go to death row and lament their just fate. I find that repulsive and disgusting and unmanly. I would have far more respect for a man if he would go to death row and abandon his appeals and accept his punishment and thus save society a lot of money and legal fees. You probably also disagree with that as well.
I am also interested in seeing the death penalty restored for RAPE. I am a woman who likes to dress fashionably. I wear miniskirts and, at times, no underwear. I feel that to dress in such a manner is my right as a woman and enhances my attraction to men. Like all other women, I am interested in handsome men for both private and professional reasons. Should I choose to attend a club dance or function and display my body in a provocative manner, I do not believe that it gives any man the right to RAPE me or to force me to commit any sexual acts against my will. Those males who are unable to deal emotionally with a sexually liberated woman should not be attending functions where such women may be encountered.
Men who rape women should be executed. My experience has been that Black men are particularly unable to deal with the average sexually liberated female. Such Black males who feel that they must resort to rape deserve to be executed, and historically that was the punishment handed down. There was a lot less rape in the days when the penalty was a quick trip to the gallows. Try to argue around that, mister!
The other tedious argument that I am always hearing is that executions are inhumane - that they are painful and unpleasant. Do tell. I should hope to know that they are all of that and more. I am told that the people who run the prisons do everything possible to make the executions palatable for the witnesses. They coddle the condemned and give them special last meals and last requests and media interviews, and then when it is time to go to the death chamber, they are given a hood and a diaper to make sure that they don't get upset at seeing all that witnessed. And because most convicts are cowards at heart, they have a tendency to wet their pants when it's time to pay the price of their misadventures. If anything, I think that electrocution is too good for most criminals and would like to see some other method employed that would give the criminal a little longer time to suffer his fate.
There are many people out here on the streets who are sick of crime and the people who commit them. I am one of those people and I wanted to write and let you know that many others are like me and that we are not taken in by articles such as yours that whine and cry in print about the injustice of your collective fates. The cry from the streets is JUSTICE NOW! And that means that the prison wardens are going to be firing up their electric chairs or whatever it is that they do to turn them on.
May all death row prisoners rot in hell for their rotten crimes!
Most sincerely yours,

Ms. Crystal K. Beavers
2013 Dixie Highway
Miami, Florida

"Holy shit, what kind of woman would write a death row inmate a letter like this. She must be some kind of bug or something... this is one sick puppy Danny," Clay said.
"Man I'm going to write that bitch a letter she will never forget. I'd give anything if I could get my hands on her... I'd show her Justice NOW," said Joe.
"I'm going to have this letter copied and send it to my lawyers. I'll fix her ass... she will wish she had never heard of Danny Diablo. 'Danny the Devil' is my name, and revenge is my game!"
"I'd just forget the letter and not even respond," said Clay. "This broad is obviously some sort of mental case. Hell, she even gave us her address... now tell me, wouldn't she have to be crazy to do something like that? I mean, what's stopping us from putting one of our friends onto her and having her offed?
Word spread fast, and every man on death row was upset to the max! There was talk of contracts being put on Crystal Beavers and having her tortured and raped in every fashion possible.
That night Danny Diablo, Joe Toscano and Clay Randall all wrote letters to Crystal. Danny and Joe wrote vehement letters telling Crystal just what they thought of her. Clay wrote a different type of letter. His tried to appeal to Crystal's reasons for being so bitter, and suggested that she channel her energies into something more constructive.
11:00 p.m. approached slowly. Buddy Justice was about to die in the electric chair. The governor had decided not to commute give Buddy's sentence. Clay watched the clock, thinking about times in the past when he and Buddy had shared their commissary with each other. Clay reached over and touched the radio/tape recorder Buddy had given him.
At 11:13, the news blared out, "Buddy Earl Justice died tonight in Virginia's electric chair. He was convicted of the rape and murder of a pregnant nurse in Williamsburg." The news went on and on about the other murders in Georgia and Florida for which Buddy had been given the death sentence, making him look like the scum of the earth.
Death Row was like a tomb. Not a sound could be heard. Forty-five other men were thinking about Buddy's fate becoming their own.

The morning after Buddy's execution, they all came out of their cells for breakfast looking glum. After breakfast some of the men were laughing and joking with each other - the death of Buddy out of their minds. Clay and Joe were were looking sour.
"Can you believe that crap?" Clay said. "Check out those sick bastards. Last night Buddy's executed, and this morning they're laughing and talking about how "Air Jordan" made all those points in a basketball game. I guess they think that it will never happen to them."
"What gets me about those same people, is they will snitch to the same man that is going to kill them, and even call them brother."
"Brother my ass - they're gonna kill 'em!"
"I could write a book on the silly shit we've seen and gone through on death row."
"How about Wilbert? He snitched and snitched, kissed the man's ass all the time, and they killed his big silly ass anyway."
"His last meal was collard greens, pigs feet, and corn bread. Then he helped the man adjust the strap on his leg as they put him in the electric chair. What a sycophant!"
"I mean, he didn't believe they would kill him until they threw the switch, then he said to himself, 'Oh shit!' I tell you, Joe, I've never seen anything like this place in my life."
"Yeah, and I'll tell you something else. The executioner even gave Wilbert some extra voltage to show how much they appreciated all of his snitching."
"The most outrageous thing he did before they killed him was write that poem to the governor telling him that he loved him."
"Loved him!"
"Can you believe that stupid suck-ass would write the person that had just turned down his appeal for commutation and tell him he loved him?"
"Now, that takes a real aberrated mind."
"Out of all the executions since I've been here, Wilbert's had to be the sickest of all."
"Yeah, his eyes exploded out of his head and disintegrated, blood gushed out of his nose and ears."
"I've got a strong stomach, but it made me sick just reading about it."
"I don't know how those witnesses to could keep from throwing up."
"Maybe it turned them on."
"If it did, it's time us all to get scared."
"Talk about sick and depraved, how about those two guys in Florida that cleaned up the death chamber after an execution?"
"The ones that were caught screwing the corpse of that young girl that was executed?"
"Yeah, man. They caught the black guy up her poop chute, and the white guy up her snatch."
"Yeah, that was some real perverted shit."
"I'll tell you, this whole world has gone crazy. These guys on death row trying to suck their own cocks and their backs going out on them..."
"That guy that stuck the toothbrush holder up his ass..."
"Then we have these guys walking around with their chests all puffed up, tattoos all over their bodies, wolfing about how bad they are, and then they get caught with a dick in their mouth and another one in their ass!"
"Tarzan in the daytime and Jane at night!"
"I'll tell you, man, we've got to get out of here some way. Living around all this sick shit is putting something on me that Ajax won't take off."
"I don't know how you've made it this long, Clay. I mean, hell, I killed the guy I'm here for, and I'm sorry I killed him, but you didn't kill the victim in your case, yet you're still here."
"Yup. Still right here."
"That would have done me in."
"I don't know how I've handled it either, Joe, but I plan on doing something about it real soon. I've waited on the courts long enough."
"My partner's getting out of Attica in three weeks."
"Who, Domino?"
"Yeah, he is one crazy dude. He wants to come here and bust me out, and he's just crazy enough to do it too."
"If he has balls, and will do what we tell him to do, I have a plan that will work like a charm. But it has to be done right or it won't work. We could all get killed."
"He'll do what I tell him to do. I mean, he's not wrapped too tight, but he's very intelligent."
"You can contact him through your attorney as soon as he gets out. That way we can tell him what to do without anyone reading what we write."
"That'll work."
"Okay, here's the plan. We get Domino down from New York, and after the warden goes to work in the morning, he captures his wife and kids. He takes them and hides out, and then contacts the warden and tells him if he calls the cops, his family will be killed. Domino tells the warden to call us to his office. We tell the warden just what we want him to do. We tell him to get his to guards transport us on the pretext of taking us to court. The warden goes with us in a car that follows the van we are in. When we get to the spot we've designated, the warden stops the van, takes the guard's guns from them, and releases us from the van. We handcuff the warden and the guards and put them in a safe place until we are long gone. We take the warden's car and ditch it once we meet up with Domino. The guards carry .357 magnums, and they have a M-16 and a 12 gauge shotgun, so we'll have enough fire power if we need it. There will be one more guy with us that you may not agree with, but we both like the old coot, and I don't want to see him die."
"Who's that, Clay?"
"Danny Diablo."
"Hell, yeah, Danny the Devil. He's full of shit, but I like him. He's got connections."
Joe and Clay went down to Danny's cell and told him the plan. Danny Diablo was a mortician on the street. He was always telling us about the dead people he worked on. Just matter-of-fact, he would tell us how he would evacuate a body full of maggots with kerosene. Sometimes his macabre stories would be so lurid that we would turn green. Danny would just cackle that evil laugh of his. He was on death row for hiring a mental retard to kill a man for his insurance. Danny said he was innocent, and he might be, but he would die and go to hell before he let anyone cross him and get away with it. He had his ways of getting back, and everyone knew it.
Danny said, "Yeah, when we bust out of here, we are going to Miami and get that little bitch named Crystal! Justice NOW! I will tell her — as I ram my arm up her cunt! I'm gonna kill that bitch for writing that letter telling me she wished I would burn in hell!"


"Awright, you airheads, it's mailcall, so get yer asses up here when I call yer names," the brownshirted guard hollered.
Jack Ripley had received a package from Sondra French containing a letter from her and several other letters. He read Sondra's first. She was telling him to freeze the Crystal letters.

Dear Jack,

Enclosed you will find the letters I received from the death row inmates in Virginia, and a few letters from other places you sent the Crystal letters. As you can see the letters have caused quite a stir. I have received calls from lawyers and from a judge., as well as death threats, and Jack, that was a very stupid move of yours using my address instead of a P.O. box number. Now everyone knows my address, and frankly, I am scared.
I had to call the warden at Mecklenburg and tell him about Danny Diablo, Joe Toscano, and Clay Randall. The warden assured me that I had nothing to worry about, but you know how that goes - I'm worried. So, put a stop RIGHT NOW to the Crystal letters.
You will notice the one from Clay Randall was a nice letter and it looks like he's trying to smooth things out. You can tell from these letters that you have proved your point; i.e., Crystal is VERY REAL.
I wrote Clay Randall and told him that the whole thing was just a joke, that there was no Crystal, and that you were just trying to see how real your literary creation was to the reader. I told him that you were serving life in prison for two murders, and you wrote killer fiction in which Crystal played a major role. I also added that you were accused of being a serial killer, and were a suspect in the deaths or disappearance of 34 females.
Anyway, no more Crystal letters! No more Justice NOW!

As Jack read Sondra's letter, he could hardly control his joy that Crystal had caused such a stir with those assholes on death row in Virginia.
He decided that he wanted to know all about Danny Diablo, Joe Toscano, and Clay Randall, so he went to his prison counselor and told him that he had to make a call to F.B.I. Supervisory Special Agent, Ray Underwood, at the Behaviorial Sciences Unit at the Academy at Quantico, Virginia.
"Hello, Ray, this is Jack Ripley. I need some information on three of death row inmates in Virginia."
"Yeah, I suspect it is the same three that Sondra French is all shook up about. What in the fuck is the matter with you, Jack, writing letters like that? Don't you know those guys are dangerous? Clay Randall served time in Florida, and has all sorts of underworld connections in and out of prison there. Sondra didn't realize it, but she put you in danger by telling Randall where you are."
"I know it was dumb to write those guys about Crystal, but it was sort of Sondra's idea. That was dumb as hell of her telling that guy Randall who I am."
"The whole thing was dumb. Now those guys have Sondra's name and address and your name and address, and there's no telling what they will put into action. Every one of those guys is as dangerous as it gets. Danny Diablo is a mortician, and has a record for everything from murder on down. There's nothing that guy hasn't done or been involved in. They call him "Danny the Devil" for being so retributive. He's as evil as you, Jack."
"What about Toscano?"
"Joe Toscano is involved with the mob in New York, and he has a crazy crime partner named Dominic Santini, who is being released from Attica within a few weeks. They call him Domino. He worships Joe Toscano. This man is suspected of killing over a 100 people, and anyone that fucks with Toscano is in deep shit with this lunatic."
"And Randall?"
"Clay Randall has a felony record that dates back to when he was nine years old. He has been in and out of prison all his life. He has convictions for multiple murders in and out of prison. He was in prison when his wife was found dead. He went off his rocker and he put several guards and inmates in the hospital. His wife, who was a doctor, supposedly committed suicide, but it is suspected that she was murdered. The body was burned, but semen was found in her and evidence of foul play. Just the mention of his wife and he goes off."
"Well, what should I do, Ray? Can you get me transferred from Florida State Prison to Glades? I am sure Randall will have some of his FSP buddies get me if I stay here."
"Yeah, I think I can arrange for you to be transferred. I'll call Tallahassee as soon as we hang up and see what can be done. Glades Correctional Institution, is where you want to go?"
"Yeah, closer to home. Nothin' out there in the cane fields but gators and Haitians."
"Well, I'll tell you, if you get there, you'd better keep a low profile. I'll be down to see you in a couple of weeks."
"Much obliged."
"So until then, see if you can keep your ass out of trouble. You're putting the heat on me with this shit, Jack."
"Okay, I'll keep it clean, and I'll see you in a couple of weeks."

Jack Ripley, known by everyone as "Jack The Ripper," hung the phone up and laughed. He said to himself, so I have three live wires - Diablo, Toscano and Randall. And Randall goes off when any mention of his wife is made. That night Jack wrote a letter to Clay Randall anonymously, and sent it to a friend of his in Minnesota to remail. This letter would set the man off like nothing else could ever do. Jack laughed uncontrollably at the thought of Clay Randall's reaction.


The shrill whistle blew and the country bumpkin guard yelled out, "Mail call, y'all. Smith, Williams, Saunders, Diablo, Toscano, Randall." As the names were called, the men stepped up to the bars and received their mail. Clay took Danny Diablo's mail to him on the lockup, and then went up to his own cell so he could read his mail in peace.
Fifteen minutes had gone by since mail call, and Clay Randall came out of his cell and went to Joe's, and said, "C'mon Joe, lets go to Danny's and let me read this letter to you that I just received. You aren't going to believe this."
"What's up, Clay? " Joe asked.
"Wait until we get to Danny's cell and you will see," Clay said.
"Hey guys, what's going on?" asked Danny.
"Check this out, Danny, I just received this letter from a woman named Sondra French, who owns a publishing firm, and she says that the letter you received from Crystal Beavers was actually written by a serial killer in Florida by the name of Jack Ripley. Here, I'll read the letter to you."

Dear Mr. Randall:
There is no Crystal Beavers or Justice NOW. The person that wrote the letter to Mr. Diablo is a middle-aged, balding, overweight psychopath and accused serial killer who is doing two life terms in Florida. His name is Jack Ripley, and he writes Killer Fiction, and Crystal with her Justice NOW was just a literary creative exercise. It was sort of a joke.
I own a publishing firm and I have published all of Mr. Ripley's fiction. Don't worry, there will be no more aggravating letters from Crystal. If those who are angry about the letters are still angry, please have them direct their anger at Jack Ripley, and not towards me at this address.
Your letter to Crystal, which I read, was very nice, and different from the angry letters the others wrote, and it was your letter that prompted me to blow the whistle on the whole deal.
Sondra French
Regal Media
Miami, Florida

"What kind of shit is that? Joke my ass! That motherfucker wrote that letter to me and told me he wished I would burn in hell, and that bitch Sondra, or whatever her name is, was part of it. I'm going to fix both of their asses!" Danny blasted.
"Yeah, that was really cold, man," said Clay. "What kind of sicko would write to people on death row pretending to be a woman, talking about her mini skirts, no panties, how she likes handsome men, and how men on death row deserve to die; how she wants to see the death penalty brought back for rape."
"And to top it off, this sicko is doing two life terms for murder, and is accused of being a serial killer," said Joe.
"This guy likes to play games with people's lives," said Clay.
Word spread fast on death row about the latest development on the Crystal letters, and how it turned out to be a sicko in Florida who was an accused serial killer. Tempers were flaring and threats were voiced towards Jack Ripley, aka Crystal Beavers. A, B and C cellblocks of death Row were humming with the news, and typewriters were already clicking and clacking writing letters to lawyers, organizations, and Sondra French with messages to Jack Ripley. Death threats were made towards Sondra French and Jack Ripley. The letters were signed anonymously and remailed to French and Ripley. Danny and Joe were seething in anger, and Clay was evaluating the situation. This was obviously some sort of game, but it wasn't as transparent as everyone seemed to think.
The next day the hillbilly guard came by with the mail and Clay received a stack. He carried the mail to his cell. He noticed one letter that had a Minnesota postmark but no return address on it, but didn't give it much thought. Probably some sort of advertisement, he thought. He read all of his mail and then turned to the letter with no return address.
"Goddamn stinking motherfucker!" " Clay screamed out. "I'll kill the son-of-a-bitch that wrote this letter!"
Joe came running down to Clay's cell, and all the guys in C-Block were out of their cells looking up at Clay's cell.
"What in the hell is wrong?" Joe asked. "You look like hell, man, what the fuck set you off?"
Tears were running down Clay's face and he was trembling uncontrollably. "Read this sick shit. Read what some sick bastard wrote to me."
Joe took the letter from Clay's hand.

Dear Sucker,
Your old lady didn't commit suicide, she was killed by me and an F.B.I. agent, and it was made to look like suicide. We raped her and made her suck our cocks. That bitch had some good pussy and head. I know you miss that, don't you? Ha ha! She gave us a good fight, and she called your name out, but you weren't there to protect her, were you? Ha ha! You know what, I've jacked my dick many nights with the memory of your wife's cunt and how GOOD it was... I can still smell that sweet pussy. Wow! Hell, that pussy was so good I might go dig her up and fuck her corpse! Ha ha!
You know what, we may just do the same thing to the lady you got now, that is if you have one. If you do, I will find out, and we are going after her and do the same thing... I'll mail you a memento of the event. Ha ha! I'll tell you all about it, Mr. Badass Randall. Me and this F.B.I. agent killed over 150 sweet things together, but we have never done to any of them what we are going to do to your lady... count on it. Again, that was some sweet cunt your wife had... ummm good! Ha ha!

"God almighty! This is some cold crap! I'd like to get at the sicko that wrote this, Clay."
"Don't worry Joe, we will get the sick asshole that wrote it. It had to be that serial killer in Florida that Sondra French said wrote the Crystal letters."
"Clay! Joe! Come down here a minute," Danny yelled from his cell.
Clay and Joe went down the stairs to Danny's cell.
"What's wrong, Clay? I heard you scream," said Danny. "You sounded like you were going crazy."
"Read this."
Danny took the letter and started reading it. Then he started cursing. "What kind of sorry ass would write to a man?"
"That sorry ass is the guy that wrote that letter to you pretending to be a woman," said Clay.
"I'll bet you're right. We will fix him when we make it out of here, which I hope is soon. What is going on with that, Clay?" asked Danny.
"We've got to wait until Joe's partner gets out of Attica in nine days. It will take him about three days to get things set up after we contact him, which will take about a
"Lockup time, fellas," the guard yelled.
All the death row inmates in C-Block started putting up their cards, puzzles, or whatever they were doing, and headed to their cells for the night. It was 7:00 p.m., and they would not get out until the next morning at 8:00 a.m.
In his cell for the night, Clay sat down to his typewriter and typed a letter to Sondra French, including the verbatim words from the letter he had received. He advised her that retributive action would be forthcoming, and she could relay that to the pseudo Crystal, Jack Ripley.


Sondra French had just picked up her mail and noticed the letter from Clay Randall. She opened his letter first. Her mouth fell open and she gasped, "Oh my God, that stupid Jack is trying to get us all killed."
She called Florida State Prison and asked if she could speak to Jack Ripley, adding that it was an emergency. She was informed that Jack Ripley had been transferred to Glades Correctional Institution that very morning. She got the phone number for Glades and placed a call there.


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