CONFRONTING THE KILLER

For the four men murdered last week during the gruesome post-office robbery in New Jersey, the suffering was relatively brief. The same cannot be said for the close-knit town of Montclair, which immediately went into mourning and flew its flags at half-staff. For the lone survivor of the attack, who is recovering from three bullet wounds in the head, and for the families of the victims, the horror and grief have barely begun. Long after the funerals are over and the physical injuries have healed, those touched by such crimes are likely to face deep psychological traumas--recurring images of the attack, anger, sleeplessness and a shattering sense of vulnerability.

Is there anything, other than the passage of time, that can ease their pain? Some 30 miles east of Montclair, in a courtroom in Mineola, New York, survivors of another mass killing tried last week to deal with their anger in an unusual way: confronting their attacker. Two dozen people who sustained injuries or lost relatives in the so-called Long Island Rail Road massacre came to have their say at the sentencing of Colin Ferguson, the man convicted of murdering six riders and wounding 19 on a commuter train in December 1993. "The fear and pain I felt I will never forget," said Robert Giugliano, who was shot in the chest. Then, glaring at the manacled Ferguson, Giugliano demanded, "Look at these eyes! You can't! You're nothing but a piece of garbage!" Said Carolyn McCarthy, whose son was partially paralyzed and whose husband was killed by Ferguson's bullets: "You are an evil person. You are not worthy of my time or thoughts or energy. You will be sentenced, and you will be gone from my thoughts forever." When Ferguson received six life terms, the survivors embraced in a bittersweet moment that seemed--finally--to close a terrible chapter of their lives.

Such scenes are fast becoming common: some 40 states have adopted what is commonly known as a "victims' bill of rights," which gives crime victims the right to speak in court during sentencing. As recently as 15 years ago, only three states had such laws. The federal crime bill passed last year contains a similar provision-known as a victim's allocution law--for people who have suffered violent crimes.

Sentencing used to be a solemn affair. But the new let-the-victims-speak policy has produced some dramatic face-offs. In a New York City courtroom last January, Rose Falcone, the mother of an 18-year-old who was murdered during the carjacking of his Jeep, was permitted to address the killer, Edward Summers. "I just want to ask you," said Falcone, her voice taut with rage, "why didn't you just take the Jeep? Why? Why?" Said prosecutor William Mooney: "She seemed like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders."