Sentencing a Mass Murderer

The killer did the felon shuffle into the Brooklyn Supreme Court chamber last Friday: head bowed, slow-footed, wearing a false look of remorse. His name was Vincent Johnson, he was 33, and he may once have believed he would be someone. In the summer of 1999 he tried for notoriety as a serial killer. He in fact was a serial killer?but he didn't get much notoriety from it. He choked the life out of five women on the south side of Williamsburg, but the media decided that just wasn't a story. No flash?just another savage stalking el barrio.

Johnson sat at the defendant's table wearing a gray sweatsuit, his hair in neat cornrows. He's a muscular little man, and he looked lost. The assistant DA asked Judge Albert Tomei (who happens to be actor Marisa's uncle) for permission for the families of the murdered victims to make their statements.

The first family member?through a Spanish interpreter?told Johnson how her sister didn't deserve to be strangled to death like an animal. Johnson sat looking down at the floor, with his hands folded. A second woman stood up and smacked the ADA's table as she held up a color photograph and shrieked, "Look! Look at this, monster! Look! This is my sister!" As she broke down crying, even seasoned courthouse veterans were patting tears from their eyes.

A third black woman rose and, in a soft voice, gently cried and told Johnson that by murdering her sister he had destroyed their family. This one got to Johnson. He squirmed in his chair and let out a long sigh. As the quietest woman walked past him she spit out a full gob that landed on Johnson's back. Then she turned and left the courtroom.

Next the ADA stood and rambled on about how Johnson had pleaded guilty and how the sentence?life without parole?was surely the right choice. A blood-curdling scream came from the outer hallway as one of the Latino women collapsed there and started keening in Spanish. The courtroom got real cold. Johnson ducked down in his seat as the door slammed open and a young Latin man stormed in and yelled: "Yo, we gonna get you! You pussy-ass nigger!"

The five court officers moved in the man's direction and he ran back out of the courtroom.

A fat white man two rows behind Johnson began to scream: "Turn around! Yo! Turn around and look at me! Look at me because I'm the one who's going to get you!"

Johnson had strangled this man's wife to death, and you could read sorrow all over him. The court officers politely asked him to quiet down, and he made a peace sign in response.

Finally it was Vincent Johnson's chance to speak. He rose, and explained that the murders happened because he had "issues." He then apologized to the families and sat down.

His young white lawyer stood and ran through Johnson's pedigree. It was the usual lament of the poor ghetto boy: poor schools, rotten family, foster homes, abuse, drugs and mental illness. None of it earned him any mercy. Judge Tomei made his statement: Vincent Johnson would spend the rest of his days?life without the possibility of parole?in jail.

Johnson was led away. The courtroom emptied. Out in the hall, scores of grieving family members walked in circles, muttering to themselves.