I usually don’t make a decision in my own mind on big media cases (save for a certain guy who’s name starts with an O and ends with a J) until I hear the jury’s verdict. At that point, when the verdict is guilty, I feel like I just found out for sure that the person did commit the crime. That was my reaction when I listened to Scott Peterson’s verdict read aloud today. “Oh. My. God. He actually did it.” Then I felt incredible sadness and anger. “I can’t believe he actually did it.”
The evil bastard did it. He planned it, he prepared for it and he followed through with it. This pathetic excuse for a human killed his beautiful pregnant wife and his beautiful baby son in cold blood. Instead of just leaving them like any ::cough:: respectable, cheating, dead-beat dad would, he wanted to be rid of them. For good.
He robbed the Rocha’s of their daughter, who they raised from birth, got up at night with her when she was a baby, taught her how to walk, how to talk, showed her love and support. He robbed the Rocha’s of their grandson they never were allowed to meet. Never allowed to see his smile, see him grow, hear him laugh, see the color of his eyes.
This useless piece of shit threw the body of his wife and son into the ocean to be eaten by fish so that her family could not even recognize her. He had no emotion afterwards, barely a tear. He wasn’t even a good actor. He couldn’t even pretend to be all torn up about it. When his verdict was read, he was stoic.
This is the reason we have the death penalty.
I hope he fries.