Winter of frozen dreams (20 page)

"Well, I ain't dead yet," Davies had replied.

The logic was irrefutable.

Exactly one month had passed since Daviess body was discovered in the bathtub. When everyone opined suicide, Lulling knew it was the coldest, most cunning murder he had ever investigated. Without a major miracle, without Curtiss testimony and a mountain of circumstantial evidence, they would never convict Barbara Hoffman.

Earlier in the week Ruth Davies had phoned him. The insurance company had informed her that Barbara Hoffman had filed claim for the money from the policies her son had originally left to his mother but had changed over to Barbara as beneficiary prior to his death. Due to the extenuating circumstances payment was being delayed, but unless Hoffman was charged with a crime she would

be regarded as proper beneficiary. Ruth Davies was outraged. She had consulted a lawyer. Why was she being deprived of the money from Jerry s life insurance policies, and why wasn't Barbara being charged with a crime?

Lulling had tried to explain the intricacies, but she had no patience for the complexities of the matter. It was unfair that her son was dead, and it was unfair that she would not receive the money he had intended for his mother, whom he had always loved and looked after, and she repeated the theme until she had herself so confused and upset that she had to hang up. Lulling entrusted her with his home phone number, which was unlisted, and said she could call again and that Barbara Hoffman, sometime soon, would be charged with killing her son.

His desk had been cleaned out. The paraphernalia and accumulations of eighteen years as a detective—the coffee mug, the manila folders of newspaper clippings, the photographs of his family, the collection of pipes and packs of pipe cleaners and empty tobacco pouches—were dumped into a brown box and tucked under his arm. He remembered that his wife had arranged for a dinner party with family and a couple of friends at Smokey's of University Avenue. He was late. Perhaps the prime rib would put him in a mood to celebrate.

— 31 —

At a hearing on May 10th before Judge P. Charles Jones, Don Eisenberg asked that the allegations that his client had murdered Harry Berge be dismissed. Eisenberg charged that "massive prejudicial publicity has created a tremendous bias in violation of the defendants Fifth Amendment right to due process of the law."

The prosecution countered that the defense attorney himself was the source of much of the media coverage surrounding the case, making inflammatory statements to the press and TV medias.

In the next several weeks Eisenberg filed seven sepa-

rate motions for dismissal of the charges. A medical problem delayed matters. Judge Jones was scheduled for ear surgery, and the motions hearing was postponed until

July.

All motions were finally taken under advisement on July 21st. It was Jones's intention to render a decision by mid-August.

— 32 —

The avuncular tone was absent from Sam Cerro's voice. He recited the morning baseball odds monotonously, as if reading a weather report, and omitted the usual quips and advice he dispersed to his betting customers.

Sam Cerro had other thoughts to occupy his mind, like the fifteen years he faced for the cocaine bust. A probation officer was preparing a presentence report and recommendation, and Cerro feared he'd get slapped with the maximum penalty. He didn't want to serve hard time, not at his age.

Admittedly Cerro had no one to blame but himself. Trying to purchase coke from a couple of federal agents was stupid. He thought he could beat the charges by claiming the government had induced the crime. But Don Eisenberg, his attorney, pleaded him guilty. What mercy would the courts allow? His life was a roster of illegal conduct—little scams like fraud, gambling, selling stolen merchandise, drug manufacture and distribution, tax evasion, loan sharking.

A month ago Sam had called Jim Doyle and suggested that a mutually beneficial exchange could be arranged. The DA said he could discuss matters only with Cerros attorney. Therefore he would write to Eisenberg and propose they confer. Eisenberg denied any contact from the DA's office. Cerro again called Doyle, who insisted it was Eisenberg and not the DA who was stalling.

Sam next discussed the matter with Ken Curtis. His partner noted that Eisenberg represented Hoffman and

that a deal that included Curtiss testimony would seriously injure Hoffman's chances for acquittal. He suggested that Sam fire Eisenberg, who was obviously caught between two clients, and hire someone to negotiate with Doyle. Cerro resisted the idea. A large retainer had been paid to Eisenberg to handle Cerros legal problems. Eisenberg had kept Sam out of jail before. The man owned a reputation as the best.

"And he refuses to bargain with Doyle, who's hungry for a deal/' Curtis had rebutted.

Sam was left confused.

As the date of his sentencing neared, he felt a panic in his chest, and every day it enlarged, like a rock that grew bigger. Fifteen years! Soon the rock would be so big he wouldn't be able to swallow.

After booking the days baseball action Sam Cerro dialed the DA. Doyle repeated the dilemma: without the cooperation of Cerros lawyer nothing could be arranged, and despite Doyle's efforts Eisenberg had not responded.

Cerro said he understood. He hung up and called a lawyer named Al Corzinski. By noon, after a flurry of phone calls, Cerro had dismissed Eisenberg as his lawyer and hired Corzinski.

Eisenberg was irate. Doyle knew he'd have a deal.

And Sam Cerro relaxed a little. Fifteen years in the joint would be fatal, he surmised. But he could ride out six months. He could hide in the shadows and endure.

— 33 —

The district attorneys arrangement with Sam Cerro was consolidated in a few hours. It proved to be the same deal Chuck Lulling had offered three months earlier.

During negotiations Cerro made it clear that he could not promise Larry Sawyers cooperation. He guessed Sawyer would leave the state to avoid being hit with a subpoena. He did guarantee a full disclosure from Ken Curtis

in exchange for a term of six months, plus two years' probation.

Doyle anticipated criticism for bargaining with Cerro. In a statement to the press he elaborated the rationale for his decision. Murder one was treated as the more serious charge. It was the ultimate breech of the social contract among citizens. The prosecution of this act had to be the foremost priority. Therefore, while drug traffickers deserved the strictest treatment, unique circumstances had forced him to compromise. Cerro would still serve time in jail, Doyle was quick to mention.

What the deal with Cerro implied, and what Doyle evaded in his press conference, was that the state had reached a dead end in its case against Barbara Hoffman. It had been four months since Jerry Davies had died from an overdose of cyanide, and no charges had been filed. The police seemed content to let the death pass as suicide, which could be interpreted as a sign of their inability to dig up any evidence implicating Hoffman. The charges concerning Berge rested on Daviess testimony, and Davies was gone. The edifice of circumstantial evidence stood hollow without Davies to anchor it.

The plea bargain with Cerro was criticized in newspaper and television editorials. The lack of progress in the Berge case was attacked, and questions were raised concerning Daviess mysterious suicide. The DA, normally sensitive to adverse publicity, shrugged his shoulders and sloughed it off. The case was far too complex for him to be worrying about media opinion.

At a John Doe hearing held in early August 1978, before circuit court judge Angela Bartell, Ken Curtis took the witness stand. Over Eisenbergs vehement objections Curtis told of Barbara Hoffman's plans to murder someone—an unnamed shipping clerk at the U.W.—for an enormous insurance payoff. He spoke of confronting Barbara with his knowledge and warning her that she would never succeed. He told of what he had seen written on the blackboard in her apartment. He related that she had confessed the plot to him, including the marriage plans and

honeymoon in Mexico and botulism, and that he had assumed she had abandoned her plans until he'd read about her alleged connection to Harry Berge's death. It was essentially the same story he'd told to Lulling that night at the Embers Restaurant. Now the prosecution had a new anchor to center its case.

34

It was the attitude in those days, Liza said. We were young, and there weren't any rules, and it was fun to experiment. The waitress brought her more hot water for her herbal tea. Liza sat in the Ovens of Brittany Cafe and watched the pedestrian traffic on State Street.

Those days to which she referred were the early seventies, when she had moved to Madison from Viroqua, a small rural community in the Kickapoo River valley. It was like traveling to a different planet. Liza had enrolled as a freshman, class of 1971, with the vague desire to become a veterinarian. Two years later she had dropped out. Madison held too many distractions. There was the antiwar movement and the women's movement and the committee against racism. The 4-H Club in Viroqua had not prepared her for this whirlwind. There were handsome boys with scraggly hair and beards, and drugs and sex, and no thought about the consequences of their actions. Nothing mattered much beyond the immediate moment. There was a carelessness and a nonchalance about things that should have been important. It was easy to lose oneself.

Liza drifted, through boyfriends and political ideals and into the parlors. The money was good; the drugs were good. It was an insulated little universe. The women were young runaways, or coeds like her, and almost everyone had a favorite anesthetic to help her slide through the hours at the parlor. Barbara Hoffman liked 'ludes. Liza chose marijuana. Others opted for speed or booze, but

rare was the woman who did a shift straight. The parlor was a gloomy world, not without humor but mostly dull and oppressive. Drugs made it bearable, made it go fast, made it seem as if it were happening to someone else.

Liza stirred honey into her tea. She wanted to talk to someone about those years in the parlor. Although it was in the past, her work as a masseuse still affected her. Normal relations with men were impossible. But what was normal? The men who frequented the parlors seemed normal. Old definitions had lost their meaning. She wondered if she would ever trust a man again, if she would ever look and not try to guess his secret pleasure or his private perversion. After a time Liza could read which men wanted to be caressed, which men wanted all the extras, which men merely wanted thirty-five minutes of companionship, and which men wanted to be serviced and done. For some the times at the parlors were the only moments of intimacy in a lonely existence. For others a visit was strictly mechanical, like getting the oil in the car changed. Liza had pretended this didn't affect her. But she never held a boyfriend for more than two months.

How did she get out? Liza remembered the day exactly. While shopping for groceries at Kohls on Park Street, she saw one of her regular customers. He was pushing a shopping cart, picking up milk and butter, and he walked directly past, within a foot of her, without uttering a word, without so much as a glance or a nod. She was invisible. At first she wanted to say hello. Then she just smiled, and when he ignored her Liza wanted to scream. But she didn't scream. Instead she cried. In Kohl's on Park Street, in the dairy department next to the bins of cheddar cheese, Liza sobbed because she was invisible. A week later she quit the parlors.

Liza finished her tea. The hot water was now cold.

It was the attitude in those days. The drugs and sex had addled her head. Boyfriends came and vanished. Rarely did a relationship last more than a couple of weeks before she invented an excuse to break it off. But Liza was changing. She had a day job. She glanced at her wrist-

watch and realized she had to hurry. She had signed up for a yoga class, and the first session began in fifteen minutes. Liza didn't want to be late. She thought the yoga might help her sort things out, put those days and her life into some kind of perspective.

— 35 —

The courts ruling on dismissal motions, originally scheduled for August 1978, was not issued until September 21st. On that date Judge P. Charles Jones rendered his decision, rejecting all defense motions that the charges against Barbara Hoffman for the murder of Harry Berge be dropped. However, Jones did order a new preliminary hearing, which would be // limited ,/ to considering only the cyanide evidence and Daviess alleged suicide notes.

The hearing on this matter was set for October but was delayed because defense attorney Eisenberg had to argue a fraud case in California and would not have proper time to prepare. Thus the hearing was rescheduled for November 16th.

— 36—

Barbara Hoffman crawled out the passenger door of her attorneys ivory Jaguar XJ6 and fixed an implacable expression on her face. From the sidewalk she peered at the whitecaps that clapped on Lake Monona's waters. Birch trees shivered on Turville Point. The city beaches—B. B. Clarke, Olbrich, Olin—were sandy and deserted and looked like strips of bald skin. Don Eisenberg tugged at her elbow, and together they entered the courthouse building.

It was the afternoon of November 16th. Ten months had elapsed since Hoffman's arrest for the murder of

Harry Berge. The hearings and motions and court dates seemed infinite. Eisenberg insisted that every delay, every postponement, worked to their benefit.

Her case had been sent back to Judge William Byrne by Judge Jones, who had ordered a "limited" preliminary be conducted because of the discovery of new evidence: the thirty-seven times the lethal dose of cyanide that had been found in Berge's body and the letters from Davies exonerating Barbara and implying that he was culpable for the crime. Eisenberg had vigorously protested this change of court but to no avail.

As previously, Barbara Hoffman's appearance prompted an intense excitement in the courthouse. Secretaries stood in the hallway and whispered. Desk clerks pointed fingers from behind glass enclosures as Barbara and Eisenberg waited for an elevator. Television and radio crews labored, wading in a sea of black cable and electrical tape, arranging their equipment for the best vantage from which to record the legal proceedings. Because of a recent Wisconsin Supreme Court ruling, television cameras were permitted, with restrictions, in the courtroom. The court gallery was packed with media people and curious onlookers abuzz with anticipation for the next chapter in the sad, sensational saga, eager for a glimpse of the accused, petite in slacks and sweater, her mouth rigid, her eyes cold and distant behind the tortoiseshell glasses.

Barbaras gaze didn't vary from straight ahead. It didn't scan the crowd for friends or supporters. If she had any supporters, they were not in attendance. Spectators who couldn't squeeze into the aisles listened from the hall. Even Judge Byrne was stunned by the attention. This was a prelim hearing, not a trial, and his courtroom was jammed. The monocular lenses of the TV cameras swiv-eled from the bench to Barbara Hoffman and back to the bench. Microphones, felt-covered and bulbous, picked up the judges cough, the rustle of papers, the stenographers sneeze.

Eisenberg was first to address the court, and he assumed the offense. The defense counsel proclaimed that

the case ought to be argued before Judge Jones, that the defense refused to recognize the jurisdiction of Byrnes court and would not introduce any motions until this matter was rectified satisfactorily. Moreover, if a change was not forthcoming, the defense would be forced to appeal.

Byrne and Eisenberg bickered.

Assistant DA Chris Spencer interjected. The prosecution wished to introduce a motion that might render the conflict moot, said Spencer. The prosecution wished to dismiss the charges against the defendant.

Byrne blinked. Spectators clamored. TV cameras pivoted madly from Spencer to the bench to the defense table and caught Barbara Hoffman slumped in her chair. Her face had not cracked its icy composure, but her eyes had widened in disbelief. Had she heard correctly, or was this a wild, spinning fantasy?

Her lawyer clasped her hand. Things progressed swiftly. The judge asked if the defense objected to the motion for dismissal.

Suspicious, his mind racing to detect a trap, perhaps flirting with the egotistical notion that Burr and Spencer were afraid to challenge him on purely circumstantial evidence, Eisenberg replied, unable to conceal the jubilation in his voice. The defense had no problems with the motion, he said, showing the flicker of a victorious smile.

Byrne commanded the gallery to order. He pronounced that the murder charge lodged against Ms. Hoffman was dismissed. The court adjourned.

The merry defense lawyer hugged his client, who had yet to comprehend that the ordeal was over and they had won.

Reporters hustled from the gallery to phone their stations and papers with the dramatic news, but the rest of the crowd lingered, stunned, still waiting for something to happen. Anita Clark approached Barbara for a comment on the startling development. Eisenberg interceded. He helped Barbara into her wool coat and slipped into his

leather jacket. They exited without remark to the press, spectators following, flashbulbs popping in gasps of blue, Eisenberg happily accepting congratulations.

The assemblage in the corridor jostled for a view. The scene got noisy, almost boisterous, with a cacophony of bailiffs calling for order, with questions, and curiosity, and the rampant gurgle of speculation. Despite the din and congestion Barbaras first step outside the courtroom, free of the charge of willfully and knowingly causing the death of Harry Berge, seemed light, effortless.

On the second step she was ambushed by two Madison cops.

George Croal and Kathy Frisch pushed to the front of the tumult and intercepted her. They shoved a criminal complaint in Barbaras face, accusing her of the first-degree murders of both Harry Berge and Jerry Davies. Amid the commotion Croal shouted that she was under arrest.

A momentary panic seized Barbara Hoffman. She grabbed desperately for her lawyer. Eisenbergs triumphant grin disintegrated. He turned and beckoned for Judge Byrne, hollered for the bench's intervention. Byrne was gone. Croal latched onto Barbaras arm and steered her across the hall to the courtroom of the Judicial Court Commissioner George Northrup. Eisenberg fumed. His victory was collapsing into chaos.

"Get your hands off her!" he bellowed at the cop. "This is an illegal arrest."

Croal scowled and ignored the warning. Eisenberg charged forward and blocked the path. The hallway reverberated with invective and threat. The two men postured and challenged with clenched fists, behaving like feisty schoolboys begging for a brawl, each egging the other to throw the first punch. Before blows were hurled, bailiffs separated the combatants. Eisenberg, pugnacious, irate, had to be restrained from obstructing the arrest.