The man’s name was Tomas Alvarez. Everybody called him Tommy. He was thirty-one. He drove a delivery route for a bakery supply company and he had two daughters, four and seven, and a wife named Gisela who sat in the second row of that courtroom during my trial every single day and looked at me like I had taken the sun out of the sky.
She was in the second row again that September. Sixty-one years old now. She had not missed a hearing in two decades.
I couldn’t look at her. I still can’t.
Here is how I became the man who killed Tommy Alvarez.
A NOTE FROM BIKERS BYTE
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I was at that Sunoco at 11:40 that night. That part was true. I bought a pack of Marlboro Reds and a blue Gatorade and I walked out and got into a 1991 Buick Century that my uncle had sold me for four hundred dollars, and I drove home.
