Dennis Dechaine's latest bid to overturn his rightful punishment was shot down by the Maine Law Court this week. That is, as it should be. There is no more guilty man doing time hereabouts than him.

He most certainly kidnapped, brutalized and murdered 12 year-old Sarah Cherry on that long-ago July day and though I'm not an advocate of capital punishment, in his case I would personally rough the needle up on the sole of my shoe and then applaud his life leaving him.

There's no need to re-stack the evidence against him here, suffice to say it is overwhelmingly overwhelming. That's not just my well-informed opinion — and my opinion is, well informed. No single case in the history of Maine jurisprudence has undergone such a rigorous review and frankly, no case deserved it less. And his decades-long manipulation of the appeal process has grown stale, boring and cruel, no matter what his execrable Fan Club says.

I've always found it a sad fact, that in the face of the evidence against him, the fundamental rationale for belief in his innocence is based solely on his looks. It's true. I have heard with my own ears, adult human beings opining how he couldn't possibly be a murderer because he was too handsome and articulate. Ugh.

Anyway, let me say that I wasn't really concerned with his looks when we strip-searched him in the segregation unit of the old state prison, after he'd been shipped down from the Kennebec County Jail for his own protection.

I was focused more on that perfect bite mark on the underside of his arm — the one his supporters never talk about — and how I'd been bitten in the exact same place once, brawling with a kid named Ralphie Richards, who was desperate to get out from underneath me. Bites like that, you remember.

Later, I wasn't too concerned with how well-spoken he was when I was assigned to monitor his first meeting with his second lawyer, who coincidentally became a mentor/hero of mine, although we part ways when it comes to Dennis. To this day, I've never repeated what I heard except to say it has done nothing to change my opinion.

I was long gone from the prison and owned a successful litigation support practice when I got involved in Dechaine's first post-trial rodeo. By then, I knew my way around.

And that's not all I knew.

I knew the case of State of Maine vs. Dennis Dechaine up and down and front to back, every single bit, because I owed it to myself, the other professionals inside the bar and as far as it goes, the citizenry of the State of Maine. I believed then, as now, that if you're going to be the weak link in a strong chain it's better to just stay home and not embarrass yourself.

And that would be my message to all those misguided souls who believe that Dennis Dechaine was wrongfully convicted.

Just stay home.

You're backing a monster. Seriously. Dennis Dechaine deserves nothing but our eternal contempt. His very existence should be forgotten and salted over.

You owe it to the memory of Sarah Cherry.

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Speaking of monsters: One of the many jobs I had in film, particularly early on in my career, was the care and feeding of actors and directors. You know, drive them around, see to their needs, roll their joints and help them muscle through their daily insecurities when called upon. Stuff like that. Whatever it took. It's all about the camera.

Anyway, I get booked to drive for an icon who's in Boston to do a show. A Serious Icon. Wicked big.

People are aghast. No, no, they say. Run away! Desert the gig! The dude's a racist and you're the wrong hue. He loves bleeping with people. That avuncular front is just that, a front. Plus, the Teamsters will murder you and bury you under an onramp somewhere for sneaking rice outta their bowl!

You'll be sorry!

Of course I took the gig. Fifteen minutes into it, the two of us are stuck in traffic on the Prison Point Bridge. Red Sox traffic. A cab adorned with shamrocks and stuffed with boyos sidles up. They recognize him instantly, as you would, as any sentient being would, and they start yelling and making a big Mcfuss. He just sat there, puffing on his authentic Cuban cigar and when he finally gave them a little beauty queen wave, the fuss doubled. He looked at me.

I said, "Do you think they're yelling at you, or are they yelling at me."

That broke the ice. We got along swell after that.

A few days later, we're in Harvard Square. I'm double parked outside the Coop. His assistant — a very nice, very earnest young lady — jumps out to get a bunch of stuff they're holding for him.

When she goes inside, he leans over to me and says, "You oughta get yourself some of that," like we're a couple of sailors choosing up in a bordello.

Wait. What? No. He didn't just say that. This has got to be a test. The bleeping guy is America's favorite dad. This is a test to see how I'd respond. What else could it be?

And to my shame, I demurred and laughed it off. Who, me? Nah.

Today, as the news details more and more lurid details about him and his alleged predation of so many, many women, I think of her and I worry so much you just wouldn't believe it....

(Big) Pete McDonald, formerly of Camden is associated with a number of the most historic and notorious criminal trials in the history of Maine. He's currently retired from the commercial/feature film industry.