Disturbed Ground (53 page)

"Three people—Mark Anthony, Don Anthony, and Pat Kelley—had to carry him back to the house. He's unconscious. He's blowing bubbles. We can't rouse him. He's unresponsive.

"And who's the last person to be with Bert Montoya?

"Dorothea Puente!"

A chill seemed to pass through the courtroom.

"Now," O'Mara continued, his voice sharp, "if we assume all of that is true, did she make any attempt to get medical aid for Mr. Montoya? Did she call 911? Did she do
anything? No!”

Eyes turned toward her, but Puente remained expressionless.

O'Mara resumed pacing, the jury watching him closely. "When Mr. Clymo closed yesterday, to use a little double entendre, he outfoxed me with his Thoreau tale—the fox and the rabbit, huh? The fox is falsely accused. The circumstantial evidence was strong. Any jury in the world would have convicted the fox if they could have caught him.

"Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, there is no fox. The tracks in the snow do not mislead you, do not trick you. Kevin Clymo misleads and tricks you!"

Clymo objected instantly, and the judge instructed the jurors to disregard O'Mara's comment.

But O'Mara returned to his analogy. "We have nine rabbits that are dead. The tracks in the snow are clear: an unassuming, seemingly innocent old lady—the visual and logical contradiction—in front of the old Victorian house with the lush landscape. It's almost inconceivable in anyone's mind that this could happen. And yet it did.

"Dorothea Puente murdered nine people."

CHAPTER47

For months, the jurors had talked about movies, politics, vacations, and family—anything and everything except this trial. Now, finally, they could open the floodgates. Filing out for deliberations on July 15, 1993, they gave no clue to what images had left the greatest impressions, which witnesses had swayed them.

Could it be John Sharp telling of the thumping, bumping down the stairs in the middle of the night? Brenda Trujillo's description of Dorothea "leaning over the table and breaking open capsules" into a drink? The angry, grief-stricken children of Ruth Munroe? The headless, truncated, blood-drained corpse of Betty Palmer?

Or would they, instead, recall the doctors testifying, again and again, to the lung, heart and liver diseases that plagued most of these people? Would they suspect that James Beede had somehow bungled the toxicology tests so that all the results were questionable? Would the toxicology experts cancel each other out? And would they remember, above all else, how Dorothea Puente had cleaned and cared for society's castoffs?

They had to sift through some 3,500 pieces of evidence, the testimonies of 153 witnesses, months and months of impressions, ultimately distilling the facts down to an essential question: Was Dorothea Puente a kindly but unbalanced woman caught in an unfortunate web of circumstance? Or was she a cunning, manipulative, murderous old crone?

Even if they supposed she was somehow responsible for these deaths, did they feel they had enough evidence to
convict?
Could they find enough evidence in aging documents and faulty memories to find
beyond a reasonable doubt
that these people had been murdered with premeditation?

Or, might they decide this was a case of criminal negligence and opt for the lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter?

At this same time, Dr. Kevorkian was hitting the news with more "assisted suicides" in Michigan, and the Netherlands had just broken new ground by legalizing euthanasia. With these people so weak and ill, had Dorothea really done anything so terrible? They were already living on the edge; hadn't she just nudged them off?

By the end of the first afternoon, it seemed clear that the jury was working fast. Michael Esplin—the sole member to come to court each day in a necktie, who had listened with notably acute attention—was selected jury foreman. Their first request was to hear what Dorothea Puente had told the police about Ruth Munroe's death in 1982.

Next, they wanted to hear the testimony of John Sharp, which touched on a number of issues, especially the disappearances of Bert Montoya and Ben Fink.

After that, the only request from the jury room was for some labeling stickers, which, observers agreed, indicated that they were being methodical

While summer fog clung to the coast of Monterey, there was apparently no fog of confusion in the jury room. At breaks, they seemed just as cheery and good-natured as ever—a good sign.

Four news vans remained parked outside the courthouse, waiting for a verdict, and reporters and cameramen speculated on how long the jury might be out. A week? Two? More? A betting pool went up. But a week passed and the most impatient were quickly disappointed.

As the next week commenced, the all-male television crews awaited a verdict like expectant fathers, querying everyone, seeking reassurance over the progress of something over which they had no control.

Another week went by with hardly a peep of news, so they dug up news of their own.

"The trial has cost one-and-a-half million dollars? Where did you get that figure?" one asked.

"That's the old figure updated," came the answer. "All the costs of the defense, prosecution estimates, witnesses, jury selection, and staff."

Meanwhile, the loitering media started casting the movie, which all agreed should be out soon. For Dorothea, who better than Olympia Dukakis? For Judge Virga, Anthony Quinn. Terry Bradshaw would be well cast as Kevin Clymo. And Michael J. Fox could play Vlautin. O'Mara was tough, but Robert Duvall could do. And, in a bit of whimsy, Cindy Crawford was cast as Mary Corbitt, the attractive court reporter.

July expired, and there was still nothing to do but wait.

Then, on the afternoon of August 2, came the first whisper of activity. The attorneys were summoned, and while they huddled in Virga's chambers, the media swarmed like bees around a disturbed hive.
Rumors and questions buzzed through the air. "It's a hung jury! I hear they're deadlocked!"

Reporters perched in the gallery, preparing stories and comparing notes. A voice said, "What do you think the split is?"

"Ten to two," one guessed.

"Eleven to one," another joked. "And Frost's the holdout."

The truth was no one knew. It could be six to six, any combination.

The attorneys spilled into court and speculation ceased. Dorothea Puente came in dressed in pastel pink and lavender, looking thinner and seeming lighter of step. Vlautin was impassive, but Clymo looked pleased. O'Mara came in grim and tight-lipped.

Judge Virga went on record only long enough to read the jury's note:
We are deadlocked on all nine counts.
We would like further instructions.

Murmurs of surprise rippled through the courtroom.

Virga stated gravely that he would instruct the jury the next morning. Exiting, he muttered, "It's going to be a long night."

O'Mara promptly disappeared, but Puente and her attorneys lingered. Clymo winked at her and gave her a hug, and she slumped against him in apparent relief. Now, after these many, arduous months, some good news. Some hope.

The defense attorneys couldn't even get out of the courtroom before being besieged by reporters. "We're encouraged," Vlautin said. "For all we know, it's leaning toward not guilty. If the jury's hung, the ball will be in the prosecution's court."

Asked about Dorothea's state of mind, Clymo said she was too emotional for words, responding with tears. "She's obviously happy," he said. "The whole world predicted for five years that she'd be convicted in five minutes, and that hasn't happened."

Grinning, Peter Vlautin shared a fortuitous little story
.
Friday night, up in Sacramento, he'd eaten at a Chinese restaurant. "My fortune cookie said 'Good news will come to you from far away.’ I think I got it."  He added, "We just hope the jurors hang in there."

Later, back at their office, Clymo and Vlautin called upon their minions, who left Sacramento and hurried down to Monterey.

Moments later, the news was blistering through the airwaves, and people were calling Judy Moise in Sacramento. "I can't believe it," she cried. "Oh, my God! I just can't get over it. I’m just really, really shocked." Almost wistfully, she recalled, "It looked like such a sharp jury. It really looked like they would be able to come up with a verdict."

Social Worker Mary Ellen Howard had a similar reaction, "It just blows my mind that they could spend that much money and not put that lady away!"

And Mildred Ballenger, who remembered what a slippery character Puente was in 1982, reminded her friends, "I predicted that this would happen."

Meanwhile, the rumormongers were quick to castigate O'Mara for imagined failures, even concocting conspiracy theories around Puente's supposed political connections. But what could he have done differently? Were the toxicology reports too tedious? Had it been a mistake not to call Michelle Growl to the stand? Did the jurors think John McCauley was the real culprit? Had O'Mara lost them during closing arguments?

Ever self-critical, O'Mara was asking himself just these sorts of questions.

Perhaps it just came down to a juror or two who
could not be convinced.
In legal circles, there's an adage that a case is decided from the moment the jury is seated. And at jury selection, the defense had the benefit of Dr. Linda Meza, who had perhaps perceived something about these jurors that the prosecutor had not.

The next morning, Judge Virga swept in looking edgy. He quickly spurned a defense motion for a mistrial, offered by an almost giddy defense.

The jurors entered looking uncharacteristically downcast, features stamped with worry, dismay, disgust. One juror sharply angled her chair toward the back of the room, turning her back on spectators. In the gallery
,
a juror’s wife whispered that her husband had been so stressed that he hadn't been able to sleep and was taking stomach medication. Eleven days of dissension had changed them.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,
"
Judge Virga's voice filled the room, "it has been my experience on more than one occasion that a jury which initially reported it was deadlocked was ultimately able to arrive at verdicts on one or more of the counts before it…. Both the evidence and the issues presented are complex. It is not unexpected, therefore, that it would be a difficult, time-consuming task for you to arrive at verdicts." His words came in an even stream of reason, chastening them, encouraging them, urging them to try once again.

"As I have previously instructed you, you have absolute discretion to conduct your deliberations in any way you deem appropriate. May I suggest, however, that since you have not been able to arrive at verdicts using the methods you have chosen, you consider changing the methods, at least temporarily."

Judge Virga suggested new leaders, reverse role playing, and a rereading of certain instructions, then ordered them to resume deliberations. "If you have not arrived at verdicts on any or all of the nine counts by tomorrow afternoon at 4:00
p.m., I
will reconvene court at that time and inquire whether or not you have made any progress. The answer you give me will determine what further action I will take, if any."

The jurors stood and filed out, exchanging small courtesies, the crowd in the gallery scrutinizing every gesture.

Dorothea Puente, former "Queen of the Bars," now emerged as Queen of the Court, beaming up at her attorneys and accepting congratulations from assembled members of the defense team.

Afterward, Clymo and Vlautin strode out to the waiting barrage of cameras, talking of a mistrial, a hung jury, even acquittal.

But John O'Mara was nowhere to be found.
Rather than fret and do nothing, he threw himself into his car and sped toward home and family—something that had been distinctly absent from his life during the past many months. His twelve-year-old son, Conner, was angry that his father had "chosen" to take on this marathon, out-of-county trial. His daughter, at seventeen, seemed less affected. Still, his wife pointedly opined that the only way he'd pay attention to his children was if they got arrested.