Congratulations on making People Magazine yet again! It's a shame your handsome mug wasn't on the cover, but you've appeared in those pages more times than any other murderer by now, and that's totally awesome. Well done! This will finally prove to my best friend who insists the dead serial killer she still has the hots for, Ted Bundy, was more famous and photogenic than you that she's speaking out of her asshole. Rock on!
Sitting in a 4-by-9-foot cell on San Quentin's Death Row, Scott Peterson doesn't have a lot of choices in life, but he can decide how to decorate his wall.
While many cons plaster their cells with pictorial collages, Peterson has only one photo hanging across from his bunk: a smiling shot of him and his wife, Laci.
Peterson, 36, was sentenced to death by lethal injection in March of 2005 after being convicted of murdering Laci and their unborn son, Conner, and tossing them in the San Francisco Bay on Christmas Eve day of 2002. His case is on appeal, which means he isn't likely to face execution for two decades.
Peterson now spends five hours a day shooting hoops, doing pull-ups and playing cards with other inmates like William Noguera, a prison artist who was convicted of murder for financial gain in 1983. "There are a group of guys that he hangs with," Robinson tells PEOPLE, "but it's not anyone of any (criminal) notoriety."
Robinson says Peterson still gets regular visits – several each month – from family and friends. He also receives numerous letters from female admirers who send him checks for his commissary account. "He has a significant amount of money in his account from people all over the world," says Robinson. Peterson can spend $180 a month on items such as soda, candy, cookies, toothpaste and deodorant.
Despite being locked in a cell for 19 hours a day, Robinson believes Peterson has adjusted well to his confinement. "You're still able to forge relationships with people who live around you and you try to make the most of your condition," says Robinson. "I think that's what Scotty is doing."
Hey, you! So I figured out how we can finally be together. Right now I'm living in Canton, Ohio and waitressing at Denny's, saving my tips to pay for modeling headshots. The only thing holding me back from moving to New York City and pursuing my dream of becoming a famous supermodel is my mom. See, since OJ stopped writing her back, she's been kind of down. I think she's worried that becoming a famous celebrity like you are will go to my head, and I'll abandon her. So I came up with this great plan to cure her loneliness: fix her up with media darling, Drew Peterson! Awesome plan, right? Okay, he's not as famous a wife killer as you are which is definitely a drawback, but hopefully, that will change one day, since he's already been on TV lots of times, including The Larry King Show. And even though he isn't a hottie, he has those distinguished good looks that my mom goes apeshit for. But most importantly, he shares your beautiful last name. How special is that? It's totally awesome! To me, that's a sign from the Universe that my mom and him are meant to be together, just like we are, and I can't wait until the four of us double date! I found out where Drew lives, and she already sent off her first letter. She was a little nervous, since she hadn't written a murderer since her OJ days and understandably felt out of practice, but fortunately, expressing innermost feelings to hardened criminals is like riding a bicycle and came right back to her. Cross your fingers that he answers her soon, okay? Because when those two hook-up, then I'll be free to move to New York City to become a famous supermodel, and when the big bucks start rolling in, I'll immediately fly out to California to be with you! Oh, and best of all, Drew is single like you are. Both my mom and I believe that it's wrong to date married men.
I'm not mad just disappointed. Why haven't you written back? I mean, I know that you're busier than a bee on Death Row protecting yourself from other inmates who think you're a hottie like I do, and are trying to have sex with you up the butthole, but could you take a time-out to let me know if you've received my letters? I sure would appreciate it! I also sent you a care package with a metal nail file hidden inside a Twinkie, and hope the prison guards didn't steal that delicious snack food for themselves. Oh, and fancy stationary isn't necessary, even a word or two hurriedly scribbled on a piece of toilet paper would suit me just fine. And I promise I won't sell it to the National Enquirer, even though I could definitely use the money for modeling headshots, I would never exploit our relationship like that.
Congratulations on making People Magazine yet again! It's a shame your handsome mug wasn't on the cover, but you've appeared in those pages more times than any other murderer by now, and that's totally awesome. Well done! This will finally prove to my best friend who insists the dead serial killer she still has the hots for, Ted Bundy, was more famous and photogenic than you that she's speaking out of her asshole. Rock on!
