Doc: The Rape of the Town of Lovell (60 page)

By eight thirty the county building was jammed. Two deputies with metal detectors flanked the entrance to the second-floor courtroom. When Judi Cashel walked down the hall toward a side office, a woman put out a foot to trip her. The petite policewoman sidestepped and continued as though she hadn't noticed.

Just before
9 a.m
., a titter went through the crowd. Staffers from the Lovell Behavioral Clinic had arrived, and the crowd wouldn't let them through.

Waiting in Judge Hartman's chambers with Wayne Aarestad and other officers of the court, Terry Tharp was feeling nervous. He didn't like mobs and he dreaded turning his back to some of these characters in court. He cringed as they chanted, "We want Doc.
We want Doc . . . f"
He wondered how much more of this holy-roller display the judge would tolerate.

Two deputies escorted the convicted man into the courtroom. Story was wearing his gray polyester suit, accented by a white armband. He smiled and gave a two-fisted wave like a boxer, and his backers responded with cheers. As he took his seat, a new chant began: "We love Doc!" There were whistles, cheers, war-whoops, high-pitched screams of adulation. Raised fists pumped the air. The grinning Story faced the bench and wigwagged behind his back for silence, but his fans refused to obey.

After four minutes of the din, Judge Hartman told Story's attorneys, "Go out and get those people calmed down. If there's one more outburst, I'll clear that courtroom."

On the drive down from Lovell in Chief Wilcock's car, Terri Lee Timmons had felt her anxiety growing. "Quit worrying," her husband Loyd had told her. "The county building's right next to the sheriff's office."

She'd just been appointed Culture Refinement teacher in her ward's Relief Society, assigned to tutor other women on forgiveness, courage and love. It was an honor, but she didn't think she would last. She still seethed with resentment of males—her ex-fiance, her father, the punk who'd raped someone close to her, any male who'd ever done her an injustice, sometimes even including her beloved Loyd. She'd written in her journal: "I feel so much anger inside of me so much of the time that there isn't much room for love. My heart is full of pain. At this point I am a selfish, ugly person. I need to forgive and repent." Her bitterness was polluting her marriage. The counselor at the Behavioral Clinic had advised her to attend the sentencing as therapy. At least she would see one male get what was coming to him.

The Timmonses arrived a few mintues late and picked their way across a lawn littered with placards. Terri read:
S
alem
M
ass.
1692
—big horn county
1984.

Inside, they were blocked by the crowd at the foot of the staircase. "Excuse us," Loyd said. "We're supposed to be upstairs in court."

"So are we!" someone called out.

Terri saw a face from years back, when she'd washed dishes at the hospital. It was her old boss, Margaret Anselm, a white band on her arm. Terri smiled; she dearly loved the woman. She didn't understand why Margaret turned away.

All around her were Saints she'd known from childhood. She thought about the angel Moroni and his message that God's truth would be manifested through the Holy Ghost; that's what was meant by "a burning in the bosom." Had all these brothers and sisters felt a burning that Story was
not
a rapist? Was that their idea of revealed truth? She'd never felt so confused.

Judi Cashel offered to escort her and Loyd up the stairs to the courtroom. At first the crowd wouldn't part. "Please!" Judi called out.

Someone shouted, "They're no better'n us!"

A woman who resembled Grace Kelly stuck out her elbows and growled, "Hey, we're in line!"

"Please," Judi repeated. "We have to get to the courtroom."

"No!"

Terri and Loyd followed the persistent policewoman inch by inch to the court entrance. Standees were four deep. Furious faces turned to stare. Inside, a female voice said, "You're not sitting by
me\"

They managed to squeeze into standing room space just behind the Nebels. Terri had read some of Rex's letters in the newspapers. She said to herself, He looks just as mean as he sounds.

She heard Mrs. Nebel say, "I brought my sword with me!" Terri clutched her throat, then sighed with relief as the heavyset woman waved a Bible.

A big man in mirrored sunglasses stepped next to Loyd and stared down at his red hair. Terri grabbed Loyd's arm and turned to leave, but the exit was sealed off by folks in armbands. Now she knew why the other victims had stayed home.

She craned her skinny neck to see. Seated close to Story were LaMar Averett and some of his relatives, all wearing armbands. A few seats away sat a bishop who'd written the
Chronicle
that the charges were "filthy lies." Next to him was a pregnant LDS woman who'd asked permission to enter the jail so Dr. Story could deliver her baby. Terri thought, O Lord, what am I doing with these people?
Where are the other victims?

She didn't know what she and Loyd would do if Story were freed on probation. She thought, His people will go wild. They'll carry him oif like a football star. It'll be my worst nightmare come true. As she stood in the back of the courtroom, she kept trying not to scream.

In all his years as a presentence investigator, Paul Sironen had never known a defendant with backing on so many levels, from laborers coughing up bentonite phlegm to fellow physicians in pin-stripped suits.

A friend came out of the judge's chambers with disquieting news. "Somebody from Cheyenne just called the judge to apologize," the friend said.

"For what?" Sironen asked.

"Your report."

The PSI was annoyed but not surprised. There was plenty of support for Story in Cheyenne. The higher-ups had probably been pressured by some heavyweight politico—maybe Cal Taggart, or maybe even Taggart's friend, the governor. Or maybe a Story supporter had threatened a lawsuit. The Wyoming Department of Probation and Parole lived in fear of litigation.

Waiting to testify, Sironen sat on the wooden bench outside the courtroom and wished he were safely home in Cody. He wondered whom the protestors would attack first. Placards, chants, hymns, white armbands, flowers—he was surrounded by the totems and talismen of the basic lynch mob. He wondered who'd orchestrated the performance.

The PSI was relieved when a deputy stuck his head out of the courtroom and said, "Mr. Sironen?"

He squeezed through the massed bodies, held up his hand and swore to tell the truth, then gazed into the somber face of Wayne Aarestad. The tall blond defense lawyer went through a few preliminary questions, then asked with exaggerated courtesy, "Could you tell me whether or not you interviewed any of those alleged girls or ladies who you claim were mistreated sexually in Crawford?"

"No," Sironen said. "I did not."

The audience gasped.

Aarestad went on. "And then let me ask you what the source of your information is then that enabled you to make these statements?"

"An individual in Crawford who wished not to be identified."

"Hoo-boy!" someone stage-whispered. Groans went up, soft whoops of derision, outright laughter.

The judge slammed his gavel. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "let me tell you, we will not tolerate any type of outburst in the courtroom. If we have any additional outbursts, we will clear the courtroom. I don't want to do that. You are entitled to stay. We want you to be here. But we can't tolerate this."

He stared hard from one face to another, then said softly, "Proceed, Mr. Aarestad."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

Q I assume that as you sit here today you are going to continue to honor that request for anonymity on the part of this individual?

A Yes, sir.

Q At this particular time, Dr. Bishop is deceased, is he not?

A As I understand it, yes.

Q In the course of your investigation, did you ever learn that this Dr. Bishop, after Dr. Story had left Crawford and came back to Lovell where he set up his practice, asked Dr. Story to return in the practice with him in Crawford?

A I was not advised of that, no.

Q Okay. If you had that knowledge at that time, would that, in your opinion, have influenced some of the comments you made under "Prior Offenses" relative to Crawford?

A No, sir.

Aarestad asked how many of the twenty-two confirmed victims and seventy-five unconfirmed victims had been interviewed. Sironen acknowledged that he'd talked to none. His sources had been police records.

The lawyer asked, "For my own edification, why did you not obtain any other statements from either Dr. Story's family or anybody else relative to their attitudes towards sentencing? In other words, why did you just concentrate on them?"

"On the victims?" Sironen asked.

"Yes."

"Because they are victims."

Aarestad turned to the judge and asked if he'd read the PSI's report. The gray-haired jurist said slowly, "The Court has."

The lawyer moved that Hartman disqualify himself from the sentencing, since major portions of the presentencing report were
"totally
hearsay," their prejudicial effect was "obvious," and now that His Honor had read them, he could no longer be fair or impartial.

The county attorney took issue. "This Court sat through the trial," Terrill Tharp argued. "This Court is in as good a position or better position than any other court or judge to decide what happens to this defendant. And I think that the Court can take cognizance of the things that went on at trial, and I think if there is any hearsay or anything in that that Mr. Aarestad complains about, I think the Court is perfectly capable of separating that from what went on at trial, and sentence accordingly."

The judge declined to remove himself but promised to ignore the hearsay portions in determining the sentence. Sironen was free to return to Cody.

There was a stirring in the courtroom as the young prosecutor called for sentences of six to ten years each on the three counts of assault and battery with intent to commit rape, and fifteen to twenty-five years each on the single count of second-degree sexual assault and the two counts of forcible rape, all to run concurrently. "I think this is just," he said. "I think it is fair. Twelve people convicted him. That is as close as we can come in this society to the truth."

The judge asked for Aarestad's recommendations. "We would reserve our judgment," the big lawyer said, "until we have had an opportunity to put on a few witnesses." He called the defendant's mother.

The tiny woman walked to the witness box with steady steps. At eighty-five, she looked like a healthy woman of sixty. She had lively brown eyes like her son's, and her gray hair was arranged in neat waves and intertwined with dark strands. Her voice was strong as she stated her name, "Inez Story, with the accent on the first syllable: EYE-nez.

Aarestad asked if she knew the defendant, and she said briskly, "That's my son. I know him very well." The spectators smiled as she added. "He is very mild and kind and good and never an evil thought about anyone. Always bent on doing the best he could for his companions, his fellow man."

The lawyer asked if she'd seen him display violent tendencies. "None whatever," she said.

"Do you believe even today that in any shape or form he poses a safety hazard to society?"

"Of course not!"

When Aarestad turned to the happenings in Crawford, the testimony took a less predictable turn:

Q Do you have any knowledge that you would like to share with this court relative to what Dr. Bishop's attitude towards your son was?

A It was very good. And he—may I speak more?

Q Yes.

A After John had left there several years to come to Lovell, Dr. Bishop called in my home by telephone to ask where John was —Dr. Story. And I told him that he was right there in my home on vacation. And he asked to talk to him and he wanted him to return to Crawford to practice there. As he said, they needed another good doctor. . . .

Q The information that you have just relayed—is that a result of what? Your conversations with your son?

A Partly. And partly with Dr. Bishop.

The old woman's testimony finished with a ringing rebuke: "I think men so interested in the welfare of others, that has given the best of his life to the people up here, to the good of the community, that it would seem almost impossible that they would want to destroy his life. But they
have
ruined it and that of his family, and ruined him financially and his medical practice and disrupted his home. It is time for justice in this community! I believe many lies have been told here that would destroy him. Full of lies." She asked that the court suspend her son's sentence "by all means, in justice."

Another small woman identified herself as Gretchen Story Stevens of Wheaton, Illinois, a fourth-grade teacher at Wheaton Christian Grammar School. Her brother, she testified, "has always been very self-disciplined. He has high moral standards. He has never had the outward display that some adolescents have had. And he has always been courteous, kind. ... He is a well-balanced person. He played football, went out for track." She said he'd been the role model for her family, and "Society is the loser if he is not present."