Winter of frozen dreams (11 page)

Two months later Transport Life received a request from Gerald Davies for a change of beneficiary form. The documents were sent and returned. On May 10, 1977, Davies officially amended his life insurance policy, designating Barbara Hoffman, his fiancee, as the sole beneficiary.

Though he had vanished from Madison, de Zamacona maintained contact with Davies and Hoffman. He intimated that his personal involvement had been essential in acquiring and continuing the policy with Transport Life. Therefore the second premium had to be paid through him.

On July 26th Davies and Hoffman drove to Chicago's O'Hare Airport. They pulled into the short-term parking area and walked through the heat, humidity, and jet exhaust to the airports international wing. De Zamacona ambled through customs and met them in the lobby. He

accepted a cashiers check for $6,618.30 and issued a receipt. From then on, he explained, the biannual payments could be sent directly to Ft. Worth, Texas. He thanked them, wished them luck on their eventual marriage, and boarded a departing flight for Mexico City.

A week later Barbara Hoffman got a note from Transport Life informing her that her second premium payment had been received.

28

The revelation of a $750,000 life insurance policy on Da-vies, owned by Barbara Hoffman, stunned Doyle and Lulling. Transport Life confirmed that the policy was active. Any charges brought against Ms. Hoffman concerning the Berge homicide would not affect the policy on Davies.

Jerry Davies was questioned about the insurance matter, and though he'd forgotten many details, his story matched the version presented by Pat O'Donohue.

Lulling asked if Davies wished police protection, and the shipping clerk stared, as if the detectives words were a foreign language.

"Protection from who?" he asked.

"From Barbara," answered Doyle.

Davies emitted a weird sound, something caught between a laugh and a sob. Lulling bluntly opined that Davies was in danger. Harry Berge, who had signed over his home and $34,000 in life insurance to Barbara, under an alias of Linda Millar, was now dead. Berge's life was a pittance compared to what Davies was worth.

The wire-rimmed glasses inches down his nose, Davies peered out from over the top of the lenses. A blob of shaving cream stuck to his ear behind his left sideburn. He was adamant about not wanting police protection and insistent that it was unnecessary.

Nonetheless Davies was placed under twenty-four-

hour surveillance. It was conducted without his knowledge or cooperation and with strict instructions for discretion, for Lulling did not want to alarm or antagonize him. Nothing eventful or extraordinary occurred. Davies spent his time at work, at home, at Barbaras apartment, at Pizza Hut. He received no visitors and called on no one other than Barbara.

— 29—

Because Lulling demanded that every resident of 638 State Street be contacted, two cops made their third visit to the building and grumbled about their tedious assignment. No one yet interviewed had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary on the night of December 22nd or 23rd. What had been a hopeful avenue of investigation was becoming hopelessly mundane as they crossed names off their list. They had learned that Barbara Hoffman was a very private and solitary individual. Occasionally she exchanged salutations in the hallway with a neighbor, but she never lingered and conversed, and invitations to coffee and the building Christmas party were politely declined. No one who lived there had been in her apartment.

Her neighbor in apartment 305 was John Hunt, an engineering student who earned his rent by serving as building janitor. The cops were admitted to his tidy apartment on a frigid day in mid-January. Textbooks and monographs were stacked neatly on a desk. A Bible rested in prominent display on a coffee table. Hunt was average in height, with a slender figure and serious gray eyes.

He knew why he was being interviewed, and he knew what he had to tell. It centered on the early morning of December 23rd.

He woke at around 5:00 a.m. on December 23rd, as was his regimen, and began the day with morning devotions. Seated on the couch, he read from the Bible. The door downstairs, which opened to the outside, had a noticeable squeak; it was loud, rusty, and he heard it. A few

seconds later he heard the slam of a car door or trunk. He turned, distracted, and looked out the window, which presented a general view of the parking lot below.

It was dark out. Still and cold. The lot was illumined by the spotlight on a telephone pole. Standing next to the door of a black car with a white top was Barbara Hoffman. Hunt resumed his reading of the Scriptures. The outside door squeaked again. He remembered thinking that he ought to rub the hinges with graphite. There was a jingle of keys, and Barbara reentered her apartment.

She exited again, for he heard the outside door. The automobile was started a short time after, and Hunt watched as it was backed toward the green Dumpster. Due to his angle of vision, a portion of the car and Barbara Hoffman were now obscured from view. Bible studies were resumed.

Within the hour Hunts devotions were completed and he began his janitorial chores. He was removing cleaning fluids and a mop from a first-floor closet when Barbara walked down the steps lugging a wicker basket filled with dark clothing. She kept her head down and avoided eye contact. No words were exchanged, and she exited.

That was what happened the morning of December 23rd. The cops requestioned the salient aspects of his story. His description of the car matched the colors of Berge's Oldsmobile. They asked about illumination in the lot, and Hunt said the only source of light was a seventy-five-watt bulb. But he was certain of what he saw, regardless of the darkness and the early hour.

The cops asked if he'd be willing to tell a court what he had told them, and Hunt said yes.

— 30 —

Though Madison's newspapers reported the Berge investigation was at a "dead end," Al Mackey reasoned differently. The police might have been short on leads, yet their

attention was focused in a single direction—on Barbara Hoffman.

Mackey didn't know the full extent of Barbaras involvement. It seemed she never told anyone all of anything. The favors she demanded—such as his driving Berge's car back from Park Ridge—indicated that she was in serious trouble. As a friend he told her to seek as good a defense counsel as she could afford to hire, for he feared her problems would exceed his expertise.

Barbara agreed. They made an appointment with Jack McManus.

Barbara had never heard of the attorney Mackey recommended, but he assured her that among peers McManus was regarded as one of the premier lawyers in the state. Because he was effective and efficient, because he did more civil than criminal work, McManus was not the most prominent attorney in town. That honor belonged to Don Eisenberg, who was their next choice should McManus refuse the case.

Jack McManus had a small face. It was wrinkled, leathery, and dotted with feisty eyes. He wore cowboy boots and a string tie. McManus admitted knowing a little about Barbaras predicament. It sounded like a difficult case, both to prosecute and to defend. Then the astute defense attorney got as blunt as a Hank Williams tune. He stared not at Mackey but at Barbara.

He expected her to be charged with first-degree murder, he said. For a case of such importance McManus commanded a retainer of $25,000, payable in advance.

Barbara did not blink. She said the money could be arranged.

McManus had one question before he accepted the case: who was Linda Millar?

Again Barbara showed no reaction. Her brown eyes held steady behind the tortoiseshell glasses. She didn't know anyone named Linda Millar, she said.

Al Mackey was puzzled by the cryptic exchange. With sincerity McManus wished Barbara luck and suggested she look elsewhere for legal representation. Mackey was

stunned and sought an explanation. McManus refused to elaborate.

Barbara thanked McManus for his time, and she exited.

Rejected by McManus, Barbara Hoffman brought her plight to Don Eisenberg. He was a large man, 6'4", 200 pounds, who dressed in tailored silk suits, wore a Rolex on his wrist and diamonds on his fingers. He talked tough and fast and sprinkled his conversation with street jargon. His fiery nature bubbled not far beneath the surface of his year-round tan.

No one disputed Eisenbergs flamboyance and bombast. His efficacy and his ethics, however, were sometimes questioned. Depending on the source, Don Eisenberg was either the ace criminal lawyer in Madison, perhaps one of the best in the country, or merely a facile tongue and a huge ego who often failed to do his homework. A garish style, mercurial courtroom outbursts, and victories in two well-publicized trials had earned Eisenberg his notorious reputation.

In 1969 a Wisconsin Menominee Indian named Keith Deer was charged with the slaying of a white man. Deer pleaded self-defense, claiming the man had attacked him and attempted to crush him with a log. The hunk of timber was admitted as evidence for defense, and during his closing argument Eisenberg lifted the stump of wood and heaved it at the jury box. Startled jurors leaped as the log smashed at their feet, and the reality of Deer's fear was illustrated dramatically. The jury voted for acquittal.

In 1974 a University of Wisconsin professor, Dr. Marion Brown, was accused by the federal government of smuggling a quarter of a million dollars 7 worth of narcotics into the United States from Chile, where Dr. Brown was working on agrarian land use. The trial was held in New York City, and Brown was given no chance by New York observers, who presumed Eisenberg was a hayseed from the Midwest. The hayseed cross-examined ferociously. A government witness testified he had driven

from Madison to Milwaukee to complete a drug deal with Dr. Brown. Eisenberg asked how long the trip took and was told four to five hours. Eisenberg hauled out a map and showed the jury that the distance was seventy-two miles and normally takes one-and-a-half hours. Someone was lying. Brown was acquitted on all charges.

These triumphs notwithstanding, Eisenberg did not always win. No defense attorney does. But, according to many courthouse observers, Eisenberg preferred to battle a case in court rather than pursue the plea bargain route, even if it meant arguing a weak defense. Perhaps faith in his verbal virtuosity and courtroom theatrics led him to assume greater risks and to lose cases that more conservative lawyers might have settled out of court.

Undertaking the defense of Barbara Hoffman promised enormous challenges and rewards. Like McManus, Eisenberg had been following the Berge investigation, and his sources predicted she'd be hit with murder one. Already the media had sensationalized the case. The courtroom drama would be intense, the publicity would be fantastic, and Eisenberg seemed to thrive in that kind of charged atmosphere. Press conferences, television interviews, trial pyrotechnics brought out his best. It was as if he relished the pressure as well as the publicity.

After a brief discussion Eisenberg agreed to defend Barbara Hoffman should charges be leveled against her. If he had known he was second choice, a bruised ego might have prevented him from accepting the case.

— 31 —

In early January the DA got a phone call from Charles Geisen, a junior partner in Madison's most renowned law firm—Eisenberg, Geisen, Ewers, and Hayes. Doyle's contact with Geisen had been limited. He knew the lawyer was young, aggressive, and represented Ken Curtis.

The conversation lasted barely five minutes. Geisen

QO Winter oi Frozen Dreams

wanted to bargain. He said a client had information that might aid the Berge homicide investigation and that for the proper consideration the client would come forward and tell what he knew. Specifically, Geisen said, the client would provide the name of the last person to see Harry Berge alive and the first to see him dead, the whereabouts of Berge's car between the murder and its discovery by police several days later, several possible motives for the murder, prior aborted conspiracies, and corroborating statements from other individuals.

Geisen sold the package hard. In return for the testimony he wanted the dismissal of a misdemeanor charge— unregistered possession of a firearm—against Ken Curtis. He wanted dismissal of gambling charges that had been brought against Adele Schultz and Leo Hahn, two of Sam Cerro's notorious associates. He also wanted a suspended sentence for Cerro on the cocaine bust last August.

The DA did not hesitate. Geisen's partner, Don Eisen-berg, had taken Ms. Hoffman as a client. Any negotiations to benefit another client, for information that might incriminate Hoffman, constituted conflict of interest. As long as Sam Cerro and Ken Curtis and Barbara Hoffman were all represented by the same law firm, there could be no deal. Doyle thanked Geisen for his civic concern and hung up.

— 32 —

It was snowing, and the flakes tumbled thick and vigorous. Students hurried to class, their faces concealed by hoods, knit hats, and scarves, their coat collars laden with the white debris, their boots stomping through the accumulation, slick underfoot. They carted books and backpacks, slide rules and Styrofoam cups of coffee, and they swapped stories of Christmas vacation.

A woman in a green beret and orange earmuffs pedaled a single-speed Schwinn whose fat-tread tires bucked

the curb onto the Library Mall. A Caribbean sun beamed from a poster in a travel agents window. The rays didn't reach Madison.

Ice glazed the windowpanes of Barbara Hoffman's apartment. There was no reason to peer outside. What was out there loomed cold and forbidding. Earlier in the morning she had called her office and said she was sick.

If January 18th was like most other days, Barbara fixed herself a glass of juice and stirred in a tablespoon of vitamin C crystals. She was a sincere believer in vitamin and health supplements and regularly ingested a variety of these products. Her kitchen cupboard was stocked with vials of supplements.

On the kitchen table rested a mimeograph regarding breast implants and silicone injections. Techniques for breast enlargement were compared and contrasted. Barbara had contemplated treatment for years, and now that her employment supplied a comprehensive health insurance plan the old concern was revived. Her small breasts embarrassed her. Ken Curtis had teased that she had tits like a twelve-year-old boy.