Boobytrap

From the notebooks of Donald Michael Latimer

Tues., June 25 — 9:00 P.M.

I finished making the third bomb a few minutes ago.

Except, of course, that it isn’t a bomb. It’s a “destructive device.” That’s the official legal definition in the California Penal Code. Chapter 2.5: Destructive Devices. Section 12303.3: Explosion of Destructive Device. I know that section by heart. It was drummed into my head at the trial. I read it a hundred, two hundred, three hundred times in the prison library.

“Every person who possesses, explodes, ignites, or attempts to explode or ignite any destructive device or any explosive with intent to injure, intimidate, or terrify any person, or with intent to wrongfully injure or destroy any property, is guilty of a felony, and shall be punished by imprisonment in the state prison for a period of three, five, or seven years.”

Point of law, Mr. Latimer.

Ah, but that wasn’t enough for them. The destructive devices I made six years ago, the three destructive devices I’ve manufactured here and now, are more than just destructive devices. They are also Chapter 3.2: Boobytraps. Specifically, Section 12355: Boobytraps — Felony.

“Any person who assembles, maintains, places, or causes to be placed a boobytrap device as described in subdivision (c) is guilty of a felony punishable by imprisonment in the state prison for two, three, or five years.” Subdivision (c) stating in part: “For purposes of this section, ‘boobytrap’ means any concealed or camouflaged device designed to cause great bodily injury when triggered by an action of any unsuspecting person coming across the device.”

Point of law, Mr. Latimer.

Guilty as charged, Mr. Latimer.

Five years of hell in San Quentin, Mr. Latimer.

The rage is in my blood again, pounding, searing. I have the old feeling, old terror, that it will burst my head like the bulb of an overheated thermometer. I can’t write any more now—

Later

Better. Calm again. Washed my face, came back and focused on the bomb, destructive device, boobytrap resting on the table. Such a simple, beautiful, deadly little object. Very soothing, especially when I imagine it in conjunction with the first device. Number one, Douglas Cotter: mission accomplished. Lying dead on his lawn with his self-righteous “You need psychiatric help, Mr. Latimer” four-eyed head blown off. Beautiful image, confirmed by this morning’s newscast. But Cotter is the least hated member of the trio, a minor collaborator in their legal conspiracy. Much more satisfaction when device number three, this little sweetie right here, pretty little surprise package number three right here, makes a pincushion of Judge Norris Turnbull.

And then, ah then, the greatest satisfaction of all, when device number two, already built and installed, the biggest and best for the man I hate most, does its work. Oh, is that going to be a blast! And the best part of that one is, I’ll be there when it happens, maybe even see it blow and his body ripped and torn and bleeding and dead. Riskiest part of the Plan, but I can’t deny myself the pleasure. Thrill of a lifetime. The ultimate high — sky high. A fireworks display to dazzle the eye, soothe the soul, write finish to an enormous injustice.

I’m so eager for it that I wonder if I ought to rethink my schedule, deliver number three to Judge Turnbull tonight. No, better not. The Plan is perfect, the timing is perfect, never tamper with perfection. Anticipation is half the fun. Knowing their miserable lives are in my hands, that I control their fate just as they once controlled mine. I’m the cat and Judge Turnbull is my second mouse. Toy with him one more day, let him live another twenty-four hours, and then — boom! — blow his fuzzy white head off and rip him up into little judicial pieces.

Besides, I’m tired now, and hungry. Nothing to eat since eggs and toast this morning. I need food, rest, a good night’s sleep. I need to be fresh for the work and the pleasures to come.

Vengeance is mine, saith Mr. Latimer.

Boom!

Boom! Boom!

Then off to Indiana and

Boom! some more.