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The metal that pierced his heart was 5.6mm, more commonly referred to as a “22.” I pulled the trigger. We were 9.7 feet apart. The last thing he said was: “I’m going to rape your wife and daughter when I’m done with you.”


His brother had been sent to jail that morning on trumped-up charges. The judge had wanted to “make an example” (his words) upon sentencing. The prosecutor had pulled the kind of legal jujitsu not often achieved on the public dime.


Our whole relationship lasted 37.8 seconds from the time I heard the broken glass downstairs until he stopped breathing. A small blood stain remains in the grout between the kitchen tiles where he expired. No chemical known to man will remove it.


He had a son who is 4 years old and called his father by the name, Papsy. The mother is “no longer in the picture.” I believe the child now lives with his grandparents.


It was the first time I’ve shot someone. The first time I’ve killed someone. The state and the justice system called it “self defense.”


His brother is 17, but was tried as an adult. Basically, he took the fall for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not even an accomplice so much as the right look for the part.


My neighbor is a prosecutor. We have the same last name.