Disturbed Ground (27 page)

Everyone knows that attorneys in private practice can earn truck-loads more than county prosecutors. Raising even one teenager can empty one's bank accounts, and Williamson also had an adopted daughter, Diana, in college. Still, private practice didn't suit his temperament. He'd tried working civil cases for a while and was bored silly. "There were no surprises, the lawyers were only interested in billable hours, even the juries didn't care who won or lost," he complained. He was back in criminal law in five months.

Not everyone has the constitution to be a prosecutor, but George Williamson thrived on it. He was swift and sure in the courtroom, and it was no problem for him to be up at dawn, reading police reports or writing closing arguments. (Luckily, his new wife understood; Jean was a deputy DA herself.)

So here he was, cracking files and referencing case law, trying to marshal Tim Frawley's relinquished caseload into some kind of order. But reading through the Puente file, Williamson saw a lot of problems with this landmark, nine-murder-count case. Big problems.

The second set of toxicology reports had been completed, and though he was relieved to see they'd come back clean—no cocaine contamination this time—the reports still made him wince.

That Puente was a smart old bird. By artifice or accident, she'd apparently chosen an almost perfect poison. Early on, reporters had tagged this "the Arsenic and Old Lace Murders." Williamson shrugged; he should be so lucky. Arsenic is an ugly poison that wrenches through the guts, etching its painful history into fingernails, hair, and bones. Even years later, its telltale trace remains unmistakable to anyone trained to look for heavy metals. But Puente hadn't used arsenic, or any other easily traced toxin. Despite exhaustive studies of all the bodies unearthed from her yard, the coroner couldn't determine the cause of death for even one.

He pondered what they'd discovered, and the elements of the crime began to solidify in his mind: the motive, apparently, was money. The
MO was harder, since no one could determine a clear cause of death. But while sifting through the autopsy reports, the whole scenario began to clear. She'd drugged them, he guessed, serving up dinner and drinks laced with hidden ingredients, smiling her little-old-lady smile, ambiguous as Mona Lisa's… but no one was alive to tell that tale.

Already, Williamson could sense the shape of Puente's defense. He popped out of his chair and paced around his desk. If only Michelle Growl hadn't retracted her story. He'd read the reports, and to his way of thinking, Growl had no motive to concoct lies about Puente. She'd only casually mentioned Puente's conversations to a jailhouse deputy, who'd quietly written up a report. But then Clymo and Vlautin had sent that investigator to check out Growl's story
,
and he'd leaked Growl's name to other inmates. The f——ing investigator could have anticipated the consequences: Growl was instantly branded a "snitch" and threatened. No surprise, she'd recanted.

So what did he have?

The case was essentially circumstantial… not necessarily a bad thing, if he could build a strong enough argument. No cause of death and no material witnesses… except for that 1982 case. What was the woman's name? His finger slid to the bottom of the list: Ruth Munroe. Right. The problem case.

He checked his court calendar and found, as he knew he would, that his schedule was jammed as tight as the freeway at rush hour, with other cases demanding his attention before he could concentrate on Puente. He lit a cigarette and wondered how long it would take to wrap up the Yeoman trial, a death penalty case slated just prior to Puente’s preliminary hearing.

This was going to get complicated. Already, Williamson saw the witness list climbing toward three digits—and this was just for the prelim. Even if things moved quickly, he might be able to squeeze in only a month for preparation. He balanced his cigarette on the lip of an overflowing ashtray and began to flip through police reports and list witnesses, puzzling together testimonies so that he could convey his vision in the courtroom.

CHAPTER29

The district attorney’s office, the public defender’s office, the courthouse, and the jail all coexist within a small downtown quadrant. Kitty-corner to the DA's office, the Sacramento County Courthouse rises six floors above the sidewalk, a ponderous testament to the "cement block" school of architecture, with its inelegant "stacked-ice-cube-trays" motif.

Just around the corner from the courthouse, the new $100-million Sacramento Main Jail dominates a full city block. Its eight-story silhouette weighs heavily against the skyline, yet—with the flow of its curved lines and its dusty pink hue—it resembles a trendy office building more than a jail
.
Inside, cool marble tiles stretch across the floor, sunlight filters through generous windows, and potted fichus trees reach skyward. A huge aquarium tops a partition separating ordinary foot traffic from jail business, with tropical fish gliding through a serene $1000-per-month saltwater environment. (All this in a state that would shortly hand out IOUs to its employees.)

Beyond the guards, beyond the heavy locked doors, the entryway's airy stylishness falls away, replaced by the cool efficiency of modern incarceration. Armed deputies carry out their duties, such as fingerprinting and photographing the newly booked. Simple concrete holding tanks house those unlucky ones in various stages of being "processed." And tireless video monitors oversee it all.

The sturdy elevator has no buttons to push. An unseen eye watches, a disembodied voice asks "What floor?" and a distant hand makes the selection. Then the elevator hums up to the west tower, seventh floor: the women's division.

As soon as the new jail opened in April, Dorothea Puente was transferred here to be the first and only occupant of cell 10 in the 400 pod. Prior to this, she'd been housed at the aging Rio Consumnes Correctional Center. Now she lived in what could be called—with its well-designed "pods," each with an ample "dayroom" with a television plus an-exercise room—-a showcase institution.

Not that it was luxurious. Her padded bunk, stainless-steel toilet, and hard floor were standard. But since she was a high-profile inmate in protective custody, the top bunk had been removed: She had the cell to herself. Hers were the only feet pacing the floor. The walls and floor of her cell were a dull yellow. A small faux wood table offered a place to eat or write. Above her bunk, narrow horizontal windows afforded an outside view of other dark, narrow windows—a mirror image across the gap from tower to tower. And a speaker allowed those in the control room to eavesdrop at will.

Those brought here relinquished control over most aspects of their lives—eating, conversing, moving around. Their movements were watched, their contacts limited. Mail was read, contraband was confiscated. It was a hard adjustment for those accustomed to being in control.

Dorothea Puente, used to rising early, had little trouble with the 5:00
a.m.
breakfast call. But now she wasn't the one who rose first, securing those dawning hours for her exclusive use. She wasn't the one selecting the menu and preparing the meals. She wasn't the one circling appointments, collecting the mail, making the rules.

Rather, three times a day, she exited her cell when the door electronically clicked open, retrieved a tray from the dayroom, and returned to her cell for a quiet meal alone (plastic spoons; no forks or knives). And Dorothea Puente—formerly the dispenser of medications—now had pills administered to her daily in disposable paper cups.

Day in and day out, it was the same routine: hot breakfast at 5:00, cold sandwich at 11:00, hot dinner at 5:00, and lights-out at 11:00. It was a monotony that made interruption welcome. The only way to reclaim any sort of control in this sort of environment was to refuse to eat, refuse to take medications, or refuse to come out of your cell
.
Occasionally, that's exactly what Dorothea did.

"She's moody," one deputy put it. "She goes through phases."

Overall, Puente was a cooperative inmate. Not very talkative, but not troublesome either. Some of her jail mates found her downright charming—"a wonderful person," as one gushed—and found it hard to imagine that she could be guilty of murder. And, ever helpful, Puente stepped in "like a den mother," counseling the distraught, showing new inmates the ropes, sharing her sweets and supplies.

Within the jail, there was little change during this torpid period of Puente's life. But the prosecutor, Puente's nemesis, sent "fraud investigators" to take handwriting samples again. And it wasn't as easy as it had been the first time; now they were bossy, telling her to slant her writing this way or that. They took a break for lunch, but for three hours in the morning and another three in the afternoon, she courted writer's cramp by scratching out some five hundred signatures.

Other than the defense team, very few were permitted to visit or even correspond with Dorothea Puente. Clymo and Vlautin were keeping a close watch on their celebrity client, who sometimes sat across from them in the secure visitation room discussing aspects of her case, passing confidential papers through the slot in the glass partition. Outside, others were investing considerable effort into learning about the paths that had brought her here. But locked in her cell, Puente remained an enigma. No public word came from her seventh-story concrete cocoon.

Perhaps her attorneys should have expected the unexpected. Dorothea had a rebellious streak. She didn't like having her actions dictated, her correspondence monitored. She began to complain that she was "too isolated."

No one—not even her own attorneys—could tell her what to do.

It was easy enough for her to place a call from the jail. A phone was available in the dayroom. The deputies in the control room could
listen in, so there was no guarantee of privacy, but it was a simple matter for any inmate to wait until they were distracted by other duties, then place a collect call.

Did she call an old friend for solace? An ex-husband? A minister? A bartender?

No, she impulsively dialed an acquaintance, Daniel Blackburn, who was dashing out a manuscript about her and rushing the book to press. Never mind that Puente hadn't yet been to trial
,
hadn't even had a preliminary hearing to determine if there would be a trial
.
With a provisional nod from Kevin Clymo, who had dictated certain constraints, Blackburn had been granted permission to write to Dorothea in jail. Blackburn was no dummy; he'd included a phone number.

With letter in hand, Dorothea secretly sought out a sympathetic ear, and when Blackburn answered, she quickly established her ground rules: "Promise me you won't tell Kevin that I'm calling."

Headstrong Dorothea, brushing aside her attorney's admonitions, snuck three conversations with Blackburn over a month-long period. For the most part, the calls yielded few surprises, other than that she didn't especially like Peter Vlautin’s halting manner of speech, and that she was in need of shampoo. But Dorothea soon revealed ulterior motives for phoning Blackburn.

It bothered her that others, in her perception, stood to make money from
her
story. She felt entitled to cash in on her celebrity, and she wanted Blackburn's help in lining up an entertainment attorney so she could explore marketing opportunities. She'd even given some thought to exact numbers. At one point, she said she wanted seventy-five percent of revenues. Another time, she declared that she wanted at least sixty thousand dollars before going to trial, claiming she wanted to make restitution: "It's what I need to pay back. It's what I stole—in the checks, you know."

Of course, Puente wasn't about to endanger her case by admitting to murder. She was willful, but she was no fool. In fact, she steadfastly maintained her innocence, declaring, "I didn't kill anyone. Those people were all my friends. How could anybody believe I'd harm them? I couldn't kill anybody.”

Later, Dorothea disclosed, "You know, all of those people were legally dead before, before they were, you know, buried. I wouldn't kill anyone."

What was she saying? That she would admit to illegal burial and theft, but that the individuals buried in her yard had all just happened to drop dead?

Blackburn rapidly scribbled notes, but also surreptitiously recorded two of their three conversations, which happens to be illegal in the state of California.

More than a year had passed since her arrest, but those who were getting antsy for Puente's preliminary hearing were disappointed when the February 20 date was also vacated and the prelim pushed back to April 25, 1990.