The Man in the Monster

by Martha Elliott

  He knew that in this life he would never get what he wanted most—to be forgiven.

  20

  NEW LONDON, CONNECTICUT

  1998–2000

  Judge Thomas Miano rejected the stipulation that Satti and Michael had crafted, saying that it did not meet the requirements for due process. Now Michael needed an attorney, because there would be a full-blown penalty trial. Public defender Barry Butler took the case, and the whole period was deeply distressing for Michael. He even tried to take his own life, saving his antidepressant sleeping pills with the intention to overdose, when he learned that he would have to sit through the horror of another trial. However, guards found him lying on the floor and rushed him to the hospital.

  After the suicide attempt, the defense team asked Dr. James Merikangas, an award-winning neurologist and psychiatrist who at the time was at Yale–New Haven Hospital, to evaluate Michael, because his work concentrated on the evaluation and treatment of disorders that include both a neurological and psychological dysfunction. Dr. Merikangas concluded that Michael had brain abnormalities. The MRI of his brain “revealed a mild prominence of the ventricles and mild generalized volume loss, particularly in the parietal lobes. There were also areas of white matter hypersensitivity, predominantly in a subcortical and periventricular distribution. These findings are diagnostic of brain damage, perhaps on a congenital or developmental basis.” A single-photon emission computerized tomography (SPECT) scan showed an abnormally low blood flow to parts of his brain. Dr. Merikangas said that “the compulsive behaviors that affected Mr. Ross are a consequence of physical biological abnormalities.”

  When I met with Dr. Merikangas, he cautioned, however, that neither he nor anyone else could explain how or if Michael’s particular brain abnormalities led to his murderous behavior. However, he said, the scans did show that his brain was different from a normal brain. “There was something wrong with his brain. I can’t say what was wrong, but there was something wrong. . . . There was an impulse disorder, but impulse disorders are caused by several things. Some are caused by brain damage, some are caused by epilepsy, and some are caused by mental illness.” This diagnosis had been suggested by Dr. Cegalis in his 1984 evaluation for the defense. In his conclusions, Dr. Cegalis said that Michael might have a central nervous system lesion on the right side that “can contribute to the crimes alleged by compromising his ability to control his own actions.”

  In discussing cases like Michael’s, Dr. Merikangas pointed out that many times people are convicted because of what they do after the crime—and certainly Michael’s hiding the bodies fits that pattern. He explained that when coming out of the fugue-like state, people “wake up and they say, ‘What did I do?’ And so they hide the body and [the authorities] take hiding the body as evidence that there was intent . . . but there was no intent when they killed them.” Dr. Merikangas said the prosecution or the Department of Correction had not allowed him full access to Michael, so he couldn’t do a complete examination when he assessed him at Yale. He was not allowed to do many routine tests and there was no confidentiality because guards were posted nearby.

  However, he said it was clear that Michael suffered from “dissociative episodes” in which he went into “some kind of fugue state.” He said that he agreed with Dr. Borden’s conclusions in his 1985 report that negative events in Michael’s life would launch him and lead to a rape and murder. “That’s my opinion. I think he went into an automatic dissociative state. . . . But once it began, he was just an automaton. However, dissociative states are not generally believed by juries.” He compared dissociation with what happens to some people when they take the drug Ambien. They can walk around, drive cars, and appear to be awake, yet actually be unaware of their actions. Michael was not unaware of his actions, but, according to Dr. Merikangas, he didn’t consciously make a decision to commit the rapes or murders.

  After reading Dr. Merikangas’s reports, Michael thought that finally somebody could explain why he had killed. He had something wrong with his brain, and he couldn’t wait for the jury to hear this evidence. Never being totally comfortable with the reality of sexual sadism, Michael was relieved that there was also something physical that you could see on a brain scan.

  • • •

  Sixteen years after he was arrested and thirteen years after his first conviction, his second penalty phase trial began. I had just moved to California the summer before, but I would fly back and forth to attend the trial. The major difference in my relationship with Michael was that I couldn’t visit as often, and his calls came at six on Saturday or Sunday mornings.

  From the first day, it was clear that the only similarities between Michael’s first trial and the second were the defendant and the crimes. Satti could not prosecute the trial because of his negotiations with Michael during the stipulation. Too much had been said in those meetings that would prejudice the case. Kevin Kane’s prosecution of the penalty phase was nothing like Bob Satti’s. There were no theatrics or reenactments of the crimes. This is not to say that Kane didn’t push hard for death and try to take every opportunity to put in information that supported his position. Lera Shelley later characterized the second trial as being “more spiritual” than the first trial. It was certainly less strident.

  To secure a death sentence, Kevin Kane had to prove to the jurors that Michael Ross had committed the murders, rapes, and kidnappings in an especially cruel or heinous manner that constituted aggravation. According to the law, the aggravation had to be beyond the pain or suffering from the killing itself. It had to be intentionally cruel, heinous, or in a depraved manner in each of the murders. Kane also had to convince the jury that Michael had murdered the women to cover up his crimes of rape. He also needed to convince them that Michael didn’t have a mental illness but was merely faking one, because mental illness was a mitigating factor that would rule out the death penalty. Kane relied on the victims’ family members and state troopers to prove the bulk of his case. Missing were any expert psychiatric witnesses. If Kane hired another psychiatrist to examine Michael, he would have to share any exculpatory information with the defense. Since every psychiatrist who had ever examined Michael agreed that he was a sexual sadist, the chances of getting a totally different diagnosis were slim to none, so Kane didn’t take the chance. He would simply try to refute the defense testimony under cross-examination.

  The defense had to convince the jury that Michael suffered from mental illness. If they could do that, they also had to convince the jury that his mental illness rose to the level of mitigation. Juries have a difficult time believing expert psychiatric witnesses when there are multiple victims. It’s up to them to decide whether an expert witness is credible; they can ignore any or all of the scientific evidence. Evidence that should prove that a defendant is mentally ill—such as the number of victims—is sometimes ignored by the jury because of the magnitude of the crimes. They feel the defendant should pay for his many crimes even if the psychiatric evidence suggests that mental illness should mitigate the penalty. This was why Michael Ross felt the system would never be fair to him. This also is why juries have such a hard time when a defendant claims to be mentally ill in death penalty cases.

  Going into the trial, Barry Butler and Karen Goodrow gave the impression that they believed they could convince the jury that Michael should not die. They had a battery of experts who would testify not only that he suffered from mental illness, but also that he had physical brain abnormalities that could help explain his behavior. However, in the end, Dr. Berlin and Dr. Merikangas—the two witnesses who Michael thought were crucial to his case—were never called to testify for technical reasons that involved preserving an issue for appeal. It was a decision by the defense lawyers that frustrated and angered Michael.

  On April 6, 2000, at 4:00 P.M. EST, the jury informed Judge Miano that they had reached a verdict after nine days or 208 hours of deliberation. This jury took its time, m
ethodically going through the testimony of forty-three witnesses and 180 pieces of evidence. As of that morning, the deliberations had set a record, lasting longer than any other capital trial in Connecticut, and even ranked among the longest in the nation. Precisely because the jury took so long, I began thinking that Michael would get life or at least a hung jury.

  Families of the victims, reporters, and Michael’s few friends held a vigil in the hallway of the courthouse, sitting on the hard, uncomfortable benches that line the wall. When the announcement was made summoning everyone back into court, most were taken off guard. It was so late in the day that almost everyone was about to go home. The Shelleys and Roodes, neighbors at home and in the courtroom, had been waiting sixteen years for this day. But as the days dragged on, they, too, had begun to lose hope that this jury would return a verdict of death. They were well aware that the first jury had taken only four hours to make that decision. “This is worse,” Lera Shelley told reporters.

  The family members seemed apprehensive as the jury filed in. Ellen Roode, sitting in Lera Shelley’s usual seat directly behind Michael, crossed her fingers and held them to her lips as she waited. Lera, across the aisle from Roode, clutched Ed’s arm as the clerk asked for the verdict. I looked around and could not help but notice that none of Michael’s support group was there. He was awaiting his fate with only his legal team and me.

  Juror number ten, the foreman, stood with both hands on the rail of the jury box and announced each decision. Every time they voted yes for aggravation, the prosecution had proven its case. Every time they voted no for mitigation, the defense had failed to prove its case. On each count, the foreman read the decisions: aggravation, yes; mitigation, no. Between each count, he turned to look at Michael, making eye contact. Did he want to see Michael’s reaction or was he trying to make sure that Michael saw his certainty?

  Even though Michael was on trial for the rape and murder of only four of his victims, there were six death sentences in all, because death was imposed for both the kidnapping and the murder of April Brunais and of Leslie Shelley. In the end, either the jury had not believed that Michael Ross was mentally ill, or they ignored the law because they thought Michael Ross should pay for his crimes. It’s also possible that they believed he suffered from sexual sadism but did not believe that his mental illness had limited his ability to control his actions.

  Each of the twelve jurors was individually polled on aggravation and mitigation for all six counts. As each juror answered, Mrs. Shelley wiped away her tears. Across the rail, Michael tried to comfort Barry by squeezing his shoulder. At one point, he gave Barry a gentle punch in the arm, but Barry did not change his sullen expression. Michael had shut down his emotions, but he was devastated.

  As we filed out of the courtroom, Ed Shelley spoke. “When twenty-four people convict a man, I think that’s justice,” he said. “Some might say it’s revenge, but I say it’s justice.”

  • • •

  For the five years I had known him, Michael was not under a sentence of death even though he was housed on death row. I wondered how he would react, what he would say when he finally called me. Mostly I wondered what I could possibly say to him that would have any meaning. What do you say to someone who just got six death sentences? I knew that avoiding the ultimate issue of the verdict and sticking to the details was the best way to subdue Michael. He was much calmer when he ignored the larger picture.

  When he got back to the prison, he called me right away, sobbing. “I thought I had a chance. It took so long. I figured there was a holdout. I was afraid there might be a mistrial if the jury was deadlocked. But they didn’t believe the evidence. They didn’t believe my mental illness; no jury will ever believe me.” He complained about some of the defense decisions and harped on the fact that Dr. Berlin and Dr. Merikangas had not testified. It was clear that despite saying that he didn’t care if he was put to death, he still had held out the hope that the jury would sentence him to life in prison. What he wanted to avoid was the actual trial, but if the state of Connecticut insisted that a trial was necessary, he had hoped that the jury would believe his mental illness and spare his life.

  It was likely that Leslie Shelley’s murder had been the deciding factor; Michael had said that that crime was “going to hang me.” If there ever was a time when he was going to tell me the truth about Leslie Shelley, this was it. “What’s the truth about Leslie? What you said in the tape and in your confession or what you have been saying since 1994?” I needed to know whether he’d raped her anally, as he claimed after 1994, or whether he’d killed her without sex to hide his crime.

  He was sobbing so hard he could hardly talk. “The tape. What’s on the tape. I never tried to rape her.” I didn’t know what to feel. I was relieved that I knew the truth, but also disappointed, even hurt to know that he had lied to me. I didn’t tell him, because I knew the tears were real. He had let himself believe that this jury had accepted the psychiatric evidence and would not recommend death. I didn’t have to tell him how I felt because I was fairly certain that he knew.

  • • •

  I had watched the Shelleys in court for five years, but purposefully had not tried to interview them until the legal proceedings had come to a close—albeit temporarily. Instead of approaching them in the hallway, I wrote them a letter—as I did all of the families—explaining that I wanted to talk to them about their daughters, promising not to hound them if they decided not to speak with me.

  Just before sentencing day, I received a letter from Lera Shelley. She wrote about how she and Ed had developed a good relationship with Barry and the other attorneys and didn’t blame them for representing “M. Ross.” She said that they hoped I would keep an open mind but wrote, “I am not sure about meeting with you. I did not even plan on talking to you, but I will give you our phone number. I am trusting you, and I hope that you will not give our phone number or address to anyone.”

  Sentencing day was May 12, the anniversary of Michael’s first murder. He felt he deserved to be sentenced to death on that date—especially because it was the only murder for which he had never been prosecuted. He would never serve time in New York because he already was under a death sentence in Connecticut, so the prosecutor in Ithaca declined to pursue the case.

  The media trucks were everywhere, and the courthouse halls were filled with reporters. Five of the jurors and three of the alternates had also come to hear Judge Miano mete out justice. Everyone had to wait in the hallway for the sheriff to unlock the door. Just before the crowd filed into court for the sentencing, Mrs. Shelley came up to me in the hallway.

  “Are you Martha Elliott?”

  “Yes,” I said, hoping that she wasn’t about to scream at me or tell me that my writing to them had been hurtful.

  “How did you get my address?”

  I explained to her how I had gotten it, and she realized that there was nothing unethical about how I had figured it out.

  “You can call me,” she said. “You have my number.”

  Judge Miano gave each victim’s family a chance to speak. Ed and Lera Shelley didn’t speak. All during the trial, it seemed as if Ed was champing at the bit to express himself, to say what he had been feeling for sixteen long years. Later he explained, “I sat there and I thought about saying something, but what can you say? I felt that enough had been said. . . . I had burned myself out, really. I kicked that around for the first five or six, maybe ten years, I would have had plenty to say, but after a while you have to realize that life goes on. You just can’t dwell in the past. I think the jury spoke volumes when they gave the verdict, and I couldn’t have said anything any better.” Lera echoed Ed’s sentiment. “I had something memorized, but then I thought, no, I won’t.”

  Finally, Michael was given the chance to speak. It was his chance to apologize. “I am sorry I was not strong enough to fight the illness in my mind. I am sorry I did not have the co
urage to take my own life at Cornell before I allowed my illness to take the lives of others.” He also repeated his wish to exchange his life for the victims, sobbing as he spoke.

  Judge Miano spent twenty minutes going through the evidence to reiterate that the jurors had made the right decision. He made it clear that he did not believe that Michael Ross was mentally ill, but rather had raped and then murdered to cover his crimes. He set the execution date but explained that the State Supreme Court would stay the execution until it had upheld the jury’s decision.

  21

  THE SHELLEYS’ HOME

  JUNE 6, 2000

  It was a torrentially rainy day when I drove to the Shelleys’ modest home in Griswold, Connecticut. I was more than an hour late, and my anxiety levels were escalating. The rain was causing accidents everywhere, and traffic on the interstate was at a standstill. The Shelleys knew I had been talking to Michael for years, and I didn’t know how they would react to my questions. Very few family members actually agreed to talk to me, so in my mind the Shelleys represented all the families who suffered the excruciating pain of losing a child at the hands of Michael Ross.

  Jumping mud puddles, I ran to the Shelleys’ front door and rang the bell. Within seconds, a cacophony of barking sounds greeted me as the five family dogs scrambled to be first to the door. Inside, I could hear Ed and Lera Shelley trying to get their brood of dogs and endless cats under control. Even before Ed opened the front door, it was obvious that the house was in need of a lot of repairs, but he made no bones about the state of his property. He must have seen my eyes dart around, because he brought it up as soon as I stepped inside. “My house has been falling apart for sixteen years,” he admitted. “I didn’t do squat. I really didn’t. I’ve got so much stuff to do because of the time spent in court and time spent with Jennifer [the Shelleys’ youngest daughter] doing whatever she wanted to do. Dad was there, and it was time that I had set aside. . . . So now my house is falling apart. I’ve got to put siding on. I’ve got to paint it.”