Nataly Jacob

Nine years ago their daughter was murdered. Finally, the real healing had begun. Then they learned of the killer's release, scheduled for today.

By THOMAS ZUCCO, Times Staff Writer
© St. Petersburg Times
published February 14, 2002

[Times photo: Thomas M. Goethe] Mimi and Manny Jacob learned Friday that Michael J. Holtzman will be released from prison. Holtzman killed their daughter Nataly, 26, in January 1993. He was convicted of second-degree murder and has served about nine years of an 18-year sentence.

CARROLLWOOD -- Mimi Jacob was finally coming around. Finally sleeping through the night, laughing more, finding more time for her daughter, her son and her grandchildren. And for Manny. Especially for Manny. He's her rock, her anchor, her husband of 36 years.

It's been nine years since the night her youngest daughter Nataly was killed, and Mimi was finally, thankfully, letting go.

She remembered that first year after the murder. Mimi and Manny and their two surviving children didn't celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas. When the doorbell rang on Halloween, they didn't answer it.

"I didn't even want the birds to sing," Mimi said, looking down at the Kleenex in her hand. "I thought everything had to die because she died."

"But I was getting better. I really was. Life had meaning again."

And then last Friday, she got a phone call from Baker Correctional Institution, a medium-security prison 50 miles west of Jacksonville. The caller was a woman from the warden's office.

Michael J. Holtzman, the man who murdered Nataly when she was just 26, had, in the eyes of the Florida Department of Corrections, paid his debt to society. He was going to be released from prison.

On Valentine's Day.

"I thought it was a mistake," Mimi said. "I cried. I asked the lady who called, what can I do? I'll give you anything. I want to keep him in jail. Could I speak at the parole hearing? Could I appeal to the governor?"

No, the woman answered. He has done his time.

Was it enough time? Prison officials say Holtzman, who had no previous criminal record, has been a model prisoner. And he didn't write the state sentencing guidelines -- since changed -- that allowed him to get out early; the law was what it was. He has plans to move to Cincinnati and go on with his life.

But it's not his life the Jacobs are thinking of. It's Nataly's. They're asking themselves: What is the life of one daughter worth?

"My life is a mess," Mimi said, sitting next to Manny on their living room sofa.

"Ever since that terrible phone call."

The peacemaker

On Sunday, Jan. 3, 1993, the neighbors on Markland Greens Place held a fish fry. It's a quiet, tree-lined street with well-kept lawns. That Sunday, there was lots of food. And lots of drink.

Early in the evening, Holtzman, a 40-year-old computer programmer who lived four doors down from the Jacobs, got into an argument with several people at the party. According to the police report, Holtzman's wife and 5-year-old daughter left, but Holtzman remained at the party and kept arguing. Mimi Jacob called the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office, but nobody came.

Manny Jacob said Holtzman, as he was heading home, threatened to get his gun and "kill everybody." A little before 10 p.m., Mimi Jacob said, she made her second call to the Sheriff's Office to warn them about Holtzman.

A few moments later, Nataly Jacob went to Holtzman's house to try to calm him down. That was not unusual for her. She was an artist, a regular at St. Paul's Catholic Church in Carrollwood and, around the house, a peacemaker. She would be starting a new job the next day as an airline sales representative.

A witness said Holtzman was randomly waving a handgun as Nataly tried to reason with him. They were standing on Holtzman's front porch. He pointed the gun at her several times, but she brushed it away.

Michael J. Holtzman had no criminal record before he murdered Nataly Jacob.

As deputies arrived at the Jacobs' house, Holtzman shot Nataly in the head at close range. Hearing the shot, the deputies rushed to Holtzman's house and found him standing over the body, holding a 9mm handgun.

The deputies told Holtzman to drop the weapon, but he turned and pointed the gun toward them. Deputy Jeffrey Higgins shot in Holtzman's direction, but missed. Then Holtzman dropped his gun and surrendered.

"She was trying to reason with him," Mimi Jacob said.

"And he was drunk," her husband added.

In June 1993, Holtzman pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and aggravated assault on a law enforcement officer. He was sentenced to 18 years for the murder and 15 years for the assault, the sentences to be served concurrently.

Neither Holtzman nor officials at Baker Correctional Institution would comment for this story. But a Department of Corrections spokeswoman said the only blemish on Holtzman's prison record was a disciplinary report issued in 1997 for "disrespect to officials."

Holtzman's wife divorced him in 1994 and has moved with the couple's daughter to California.

The safety of home

It wasn't supposed to end this way, and the Jacobs don't understand why it has.

It took them several days after the phone call to realize they were powerless to stop Holtzman's release.

"I called every day," Mimi said. "I called everywhere . . . Tallahassee . . . even Jeb Bush.

[Special to the Times] Mimi Jacob, standing, is pictured with her daughters Diane, left, then 26, and Nataly, then 25.

"I can't believe this. Nine years is nothing for the life of an innocent person. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was just trying to help. Only nine years . . .

"If I can't put him back in jail, I'm going to request that he never step foot in Florida. I have a letter. I'm trying to finish it, but my typewriter isn't working."

As he listens to his wife, Manny Jacob, 63, buries his face in his hands. He has been a pipelayer most of his life, and he has the weathered face and calloused, meaty hands to prove it.

"What can I do? I'm only a worker," he said. "A construction worker. I can't go in there and say change the law and don't let him go. They say he paid his dues. You get sentenced to 18 years and you get out in eight? What kind of thing is that? I don't understand that."

They admit they are afraid. Manny never worried about checking the outdoor lights and making sure the doors are locked. Now he double-checks them. But they aren't going to move. "Too many memories," Mimi said.

"And if you keep running away," Manny added, "they follow you. Everywhere you go. I belong here. In my house. My house."

Mimi said she wants Holtzman's picture to appear in the newspaper. "My daughter's picture was in the paper, but this guy . . . I've never seen his picture," she said. "I need to get a picture of him, so people know who we're talking about."

She is shown a black and white photo of Holtzman taken from the DOC Web site. Did she want to keep it?

"Yes. I didn't remember what he looks like."

She takes the photo, looks at it for a few seconds, and then abruptly folds it in half and drops it on the coffee table.

"No, no," she says. "You take it. I don't want him in my house."

[Times photo: Thomas M. Goethe] Mimi Jacob holds a trophy her daughter Nataly won in high school. Mimi and her husband, Manny, tried to prevent Holtzman’s release. “I can’t believe this,” Mimi Jacob said. “Nine years is nothing for the life of an innocent person.”

Gain time

Hillsborough State Attorney Chris Watson met with the Jacobs the night of the murder and prosecuted the case. He tried to explain at the time of sentencing that Holtzman would not serve all 18 years of his sentence.

"It was back in the time when we unfortunately did not know how long people would serve," he said. "It was at the discretion of the Department of Corrections and how they gave out gain time.

"It's really frustrating to see how little time somebody does for second-degree murder. If he had done it 21/2 years later, he'd have to do at least 85 percent of his sentence. The new sentencing guidelines took effect Oct. 1, 1995. But this was before the 85 percent law.

"Now there's much more of a feeling of comfort. But then, you couldn't sit there and tell victims, 'This is how long this person will serve.' People got a 20-year sentence and did maybe two years. They did basically 30 percent of their sentence. But for nonviolent crimes, they did about 10 percent.

"It was insane. But it was also insane that you couldn't look people in the eye and tell them this is what the sentence means.

"This was one of those cases."

Holtzman has been working as a law clerk in prison and has informed prison officials that upon his release, he will live with his brother in Cincinnati.

"But I don't think there's any requirement that he actually do that," Watson said, "because he doesn't have any kind of conditional release or probation.

"It would be different now because with the punishment code we're under, if you give somebody convicted of second-degree murder, which is a life offense when it's done with a firearm, if you gave them 18 years in prison and, say, five years' probation to follow, if they violated the probation, they could be sentenced to life."

Watson said he considered seeking a first-degree murder conviction but didn't think he had a strong enough case.

"The facts were that they were having this neighborhood fish fry," Watson said. "Everybody's been drinking all day. Everybody's BAC (blood alcohol content) is way up. This was back when intoxication was a defense to first-degree murder, although it's not now. We had a great witness who was across the street. But unfortunately, at the moment of the shooting, he wasn't watching.

"He was looking out his front window, sees the two of them sitting on the front porch, doesn't see the gun and just turns away. And then he hears a gunshot, and when he turns back, Nataly's falling.

[Times photo: Thomas M. Goethe] The Jacobs have built a shrine in their back yard with a statue of the Virgin Mary and the ashes of their daughter.

"Did he point the gun at her and she tried to push it away and it went off? Was he just joking around? We don't know the circumstances of the shooting, and to go to trial on first-degree murder, the chances of getting a conviction are not good. And you want to try to do something better than manslaughter."

So there is nothing prosecutors or the state can do now.

"It's not that he was paroled and had to impress people," Watson said. "He EOSed . . . expiration of sentence. By the DOC's logic, he's done his sentence and can't be required to do anything more. Those were the rules in effect at the time of his offense."

Because of changes in sentencing guidelines, cases like the Jacobs' are becoming increasingly rare. But those remaining cases can be agonizing for the victims' families.

"Mrs. Jacob is concerned that he'll show up on her street," Watson said. "Our history with that is that it's very rare. People don't go back and bother the victim's family."

The Jacobs' only possible recourse, Watson said, would be to sue Holtzman, something they don't want to do.

"This isn't somebody who had a history of mental illness before or some reason to think if he gets out is likely to do something crazy," Watson said. "For the most part, you would assume he's going to get on with his life.

"He's just fortunate in that he committed his murder before Oct. 1, 1995, and before the sentencing guidelines changed. Now, if you do an armed robbery, on your very first offense, you could go to prison for life."

Manny Jacob is pacing in his kitchen. Does he want another cigarette? Maybe later.

"This will never end," he says. "I wish they could let us know if he leaves Cincinnati. But there's no way they're going to do that. He's free. He can go anywhere. He knows where we live.

"We were trying to forget.

"Now we can't."

© St. Petersburg Times. All rights reserved.