Pardon me if I’m not jumping for joy at the death penalty verdict for 24-year-old cop killer Ronnel Wilson. As a proud member of the vast right-wing conspiracy, I’m supposed to be pro-death penalty, right?

Well, there’s something very sad about the ending of this young man’s life, because there are so many Ronnel Wilsons in my neighborhood who are headed in the same direction. I’ve even had a few in my house.

Wilson was part of a gang called the Stapleton Crew based in the housing project just blocks from my house. Another member also charged in the cop killings case, Paris Bullock, used to join my husband and my sons in games of touch football in a nearby field. He was only an adolescent then, as were the other neighborhood boys who’d join the fun. My husband was the only father who was ever around, and we learned that many of the boys were being raised without the benefit of a good male role model. I became aware of the prevalence of this situation in Stapleton soon after I moved from Manhattan.

Our peace was shattered one evening when a rock came crashing through our living room window, narrowly missing my infant daughter. Earlier that day, I had reprimanded some passing boys who were harassing my young sons, and I was certain they were involved. Two nights later, the repaired windows were shattered again, and for the next few days we kept a watchful eye and the children away from the front of the house. While walking to church the next Sunday, I recognized one of the boys and confronted him. He immediately gave up the rock-throwing culprit, and even gave me his address.

The young boy, Patrick, who was standing outside his apartment, grew wide-eyed when he saw me. His mother was approaching and asked me why I was speaking to her son. When I explained, she smacked him hard across the face and said, “I ought to send you back to the home.” My mood changed to sympathy for Patrick, and I hastened to tell his mother that I wasn’t looking for damages. Instead, I wanted Patrick to come do some yard work to make up for what he did. She calmed down, and he asked if he could bring some friends.

That Saturday, Patrick and four other boys were raking and bagging up trash under the supervision of my husband. I gave Patrick a little lecture about his behavior, but also offered him some friendly advice. He was only 10 years old. The following winter, he rang my bell and offered to shovel the snow in front of my house. I thanked him but said my son would take care of it. Truth was, I had no cash on hand to pay him. I’ve always regretted not giving him an opportunity to bond further because a few years later, while still a teenager, the Staten Island Advance listed his jail sentencing in its crime report. I was told he was dead by the time he was 22.

Little boys in broken homes are routinely beaten, slapped around, and called names. No matter how late I stay out at some function, it’s no surprise to see these children being dragged around on the Staten Island ferry by partying teenage mothers. Disapproving looks from other riders will only bring forth a maternal deluge of profanity. I look at the sullen faces of the mistreated boys who will grow bigger than their tormentors and can almost predict the road they’ll be traveling.

I once overheard a conversation in which a young man sitting in a restaurant booth behind me was telling his friend that he would probably be sent up soon, but “it’s easy time, man.”

That’s what jail time is to children like Wilson — easy. All the boys I’ve described are blacks growing up without good fathers. When Bill Cosby tries to address this irresponsibility in the black community, he gets blasted as a traitor to his race. But he speaks the truth.

By the time these boys reach Ronnel Wilson’s age, many are stone-cold, unrepentant killers. No one really knows if the death penalty is a deterrent to others, but it may bring pause to the up-andcoming thugs who consider jail to be “easy time.”

An even better deterrent is a good father in the home.