Showing posts with label Caitlin's Posts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Caitlin's Posts. Show all posts


For those of you In Cold Blog readers who aren’t familiar with my work, I thought I would share the opening of my latest book, Twisted Triangle, which is hot off the presses. It’s available on Amazon now and will be in bookstores by May 1, if not before.

After the excerpt, I’ll tell you a little about how I came to tell this fascinating story:

Margo Bennett was barely one step inside the lobby at the Prince of Peace United Methodist Church when the door to the sanctuary burst open to her right. A man, dressed in black and a stocking cap with eye holes, leapt in front of her. He was holding a gun.

“Margo, don’t fight me on this,” he commanded.

She recognized the voice instantly. It was her estranged husband, Gene, a former FBI agent, just like her.

Margo reacted instinctively, raising her hand and shooting a stream of pepper spray toward his head. As she saw him stagger backwards, she knew that she’d hit him, she hoped in the face. She also knew she had only a split second to run for cover before he’d come after her.

Racing into the office of her minister, the Reverend Edwin Clever, she dove for his desk in the corner. She landed on her hands and knees, scrambled behind the short end, and turned her body toward the doorway.

Still holding the pepper spray in one hand, she dug frantically in her purse for her gun. Gene, looking for an advantage, poked his head around the door frame several times. Each time he did, she sprayed him—once, twice, three more times.


By the fifth spray, she noticed that the stream had significantly less force. She was scared that Gene had noticed, too. But by then she’d gotten her finger curled around the trigger of her .38.

“You’re not going to kill me, Gene,” she said. “I am not going to let this happen.”

Gene stuck his head around the doorway again. “I don’t want to kill you, I just want to talk to you,” he said, as if he were to sound sincere. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I could have had you any time.”


“If you wanted to talk to me,” she snapped, “you could have called me on the phone. I’m not coming out. You are not going to do this.”

Crouched behind the desk, Margo pointed her gun at the spot where she’d last seen Gene’s head. A stack of letter trays was partially obstructing her view, so she knocked them onto the floor with one swipe.

“What do you want to do, get into a shootout?” Gene asked. The feigned sincerity had evolved into irritation that his ploy wasn’t working. “We can get in a shootout and see who’s the best shot.”

“I don’t care Gene, I am not coming out there.”

“Edwin has got explosives around his waist. I’ll kill us all. Come on, let’s talk, or we’ll all die,” he said, the frustration in his voice rising. “Do you want to die?”

“You want to blow us up, blow us up,” she said. “But I’m not coming out there.”

She could see her minister in his secretary’s office, sitting in a green leather chair with a beige cloth bag over his head, his hands cuffed behind him, shackles around his ankles, and a bulging fanny pack around his waist.

“Edwin, are you all right?”

“I think so,” he replied, his voice quiet and shaky.

Margo’s adrenaline was high, and her fear had been overtaken by a clear focus and the drive to survive. Her choices would not be clouded as they were when Gene had attacked and abducted her three years earlier, in 1993. He could kill her as far as she was concerned, but she wasn’t going to let him break her like he had the last time. She’d rather die than let him touch her again.

That’s just the start of Chapter 1. If you want to read more, Twisted Triangle should be available at your local bookstore, or for those of you who want immediate gratification, here’s the Amazon link. Now, for a little back-story.

The story of Margo and Gene Bennett originally caught my interest when I read about it in Vanity Fair in 1997. At the time, I was working on my first crime novel, (Naked Addiction, which just came out a few months ago, and yes, I know, it took a long time). I was also an avid reader of Patricia Cornwell’s forensic thrillers and, to give you a sense of pop culture history, Ellen DeGeneres had just come out on national TV.

A budding true-crime fan, I enjoyed the Bennett story because it had so many sexy components: Two married FBI agents involved in a love triangle with Cornwell, a best-selling crime novelist who wrote about FBI agents and the serial killers they profiled. And then to find out that Cornwell’s affair was with Margo, the female agent—now that was intriguing.

Margo’s affair with Cornwell became national news after Gene’s divorce papers, detailing the affair, were released to the media only days after was he arrested for trying to kill Margo. Gene, a former undercover agent, spoke to one or two local reporters and then let his lawyers do the talking from there.

Because Margo wasn’t speaking to the media back then – I am the first journalist and author to tell her exclusive story – only Cornwell’s side of the story was disseminated, along with her widely-quoted remark about their romantic involvement: “It wasn’t even two trips over the rug.”

After reading most if not all of Cornwell’s early books, I appreciated learning about the ironic parallels between her fictional and personal lives: Her female protagonist, Dr. Kay Scarpetta, was having an affair with a married FBI agent whose name was Benton Wesley, and Scarpetta’s niece was a lesbian. I wondered whether Cornwell’s real-life affair with an FBI agent preceded Scarpetta’s fictional one. (Bennett, Benton – coincidence?)

But as an investigative reporter, I wanted to know the real story.

Then, in 2005, Poisoned Love, my first book, about the Kristin Rossum murder case, had just come out when my agent called to ask if I’d be interested in writing a book about the Bennett case with another former FBI agent, John Hess. I jumped at the chance.

I started interviewing Margo in October 2005. We spoke on a regular basis for hours at a time until I finished the book in August 2007. This included one particularly long weekend session in my living room, when I plied Margo with Cabernet so she would feel more comfortable telling me about her interactions with Cornwell (I'm being facetious here -- Margo bought the wine so it was a fully voluntary effort), and a particularly difficult morning when she described being kidnapped by her then-estranged husband Gene, moment by moment.

And now here we are.

Twisted Triangle is an inspirational story of one woman’s struggle to survive and her triumph over an abusive husband an internal battle over her own sexuality. The book provides all kinds of new and exclusive information about Gene Bennett’s two court cases and takes you inside the personal life and careers of this FBI couple.

Caitlin Rother, a Pulitzer-nominee who worked as a investigative newspaper reporter for nearly 20 years, is the author of four books, Body Parts, Twisted Triangle, Naked Addiction, and Poisoned Love, and is the co-author of Where Hope Begins.

This post originally appeared on In Cold Blog April 16, 2008

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In 2004, I was sitting at my desk at The San Diego Union Tribune, reading the day's top stories on the news wire when I came across a shocking article about a guy in Fresno, California, who had killed nine of his own children, some of whom he’d fathered with his daughters and nieces. Talk about tragic and twisted.

Marcus Wesson was a scary looking man, not just because he was a hulking 300 pounds, but also because his long frizzy gray dreadlocks made him look even more menacing. He had come out of his house wearing a black T-shirt, drenched in fresh blood, leaving his nine dead children behind, stacked in a pile in the back bedroom. The horror of it all made even the police officers cry.

The details that emerged were pretty bizarre, the kind that stick in your mind for years. Wesson had been running his own mini-cult in that house, controlling his wife, his daughters, sons, and nieces with isolation, abuse, incest, and a brainwashing religious regimen. And now he had ordered his 25-year-old daughter to shoot eight of the younger children, three of whom were still in diapers, and then herself – all so CPS couldn't break up the family. So the family could stay together in heaven.

A year ago, I got an e-mail from my literary agency asking if I'd be interested in working with TV reporter Alysia Sofios to write a book about her own take on this story for Simon & Schuster/Pocket. Only it wouldn't be your basic true crime book.

This one would be more of an inspirational and hopeful memoir, chronicling Alysia's decision to secretly take several female survivors of the Wesson family into her own apartment. In doing so, she put her entire career at risk, casting aside her journalistic objectivity and choosing instead to be a human being, a decision she says she has never regretted for a moment.

The idea of writing a true crime book with such a positive, uplifting twist was a vastly attractive concept to me after I had spent the better part of a year writing about Wayne Adam Ford, a serial killer who had tortured, raped and killed four women before turning himself in to authorities. The only catch was that we had only 11 weeks to turn in a first draft.

I accepted the challenge, and I am truly glad that I did. I dived with enthusiasm into the world that Alysia and the Wesson women had created together over the past four years. Theirs is a story of building a new family with hope, of women helping women, and of healing, recovery and resilience. I found their story to be profoundly inspirational indeed.

Alysia and several of the Wesson family members will be appearing on "Dr. Phil" on Thursday, September 24, to talk about their story in light of the Jaycee Lee Dugard kidnapping by Phillip Garrido. And now, just for ICB readers, is an excerpt from Where Hope Begins, which was just released last week.

-----

Elizabeth Wesson knew something was wrong that Friday afternoon. There was tension in the air.

Yvette kept shooting her furtive glances while whispering into the cordless phone at Ruby’s apartment. Elizabeth didn’t know who her nephew’s girlfriend was talking to, but it felt like she was the topic of conversation. She wanted to go home.

“I need to leave now,” she said, walking toward Yvette on her way to the front door.

“Wait,” Yvette called out. “Here, talk to her,” she said, shoving the phone at Elizabeth.

“Hello?” she said in her soft, childlike voice.

“Aunt Lise, it’s Mary.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

Mary, the girlfriend of a different nephew, sounded anxious and jumpy, immediately confirming Elizabeth’s suspicion that something was going on. Nonetheless, she wasn’t prepared for Mary’s answer.

“We’re all at your house,” Mary said. “The girls came back to get their kids.”

Mary was referring to Elizabeth’s nieces Ruby and Sofia, who had lived with the Wesson family but had left their two children behind several years ago, when Ruby ran away and Marcus kicked Sofia out of the house. A dozen nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends had gathered at Ruby’s just an hour ago. What were they doing at Elizabeth’s?

“They are talking to Marcus right now and –”

“What?” Elizabeth interrupted.

Sofia and Ruby had said they were going to the store to buy food for a barbeque, but it was clear now that they’d left Yvette behind to keep watch over Elizabeth while they snuck off to try and take their 7-year-olds, Jonathan and Aviv, away from Marcus.

“It’s okay, Mary said, trying to reassure her. “Now you can get away from Marcus, too. You’ll be safe now.”

But Elizabeth knew that no one would be safe, not with the whole group of them going toe-to-toe with Marcus.

"What have you done?” Elizabeth said, dropping the cordless phone to the floor and frantically searching through her purse for her keys. “Oh my God, no!”

In her own way, Elizabeth had spent most of her life trying to protect her children from her husband. Although she’d always accepted his claim that the beatings he regularly dealt out were necessary discipline, she tried to intervene when he went too far, begging him to stop before he killed them. Marcus wouldn’t hand the children over to their mothers without a fight. She was the only one who could reason with him. God only knew what he would do without her there.

Elizabeth ran out of the apartment. Her ears were ringing, and she could hear her blood pulsing as her heart pounded. In the parking lot, she finally got ahold of her keys and yanked them out of her purse, scattering tubes of lipstick and loose receipts onto the asphalt. Her hands were so shaky and slippery with sweat, she could barely get the key into her car door.

How could Ruby and Sofia do this? Please God, let me get home in time.

Marcus hadn’t allowed Elizabeth to get her license until she was thirty-one and he was in jail for welfare fraud, so she’d gotten into the driver’s seat later than most. She had never speeded before; in fact, she habitually drove so slowly that motorists glared at her as they passed by.

But this was different. This was about saving the babies.

Never even glancing at the speedometer, she flew home on surface streets, blowing through several red lights. Ruby’s house was only a few miles away, but the trip seemed to take forever.

She made a sharp left turn onto Hammond Avenue, where she could already see about twenty people gathered in front of her house on the corner. She gasped when she saw two patrol cars parked across the street. It was even worse than she’d thought.

The tires of her silver Toyota Echo squealed as she made another sharp turn into the driveway, pulling in next to the yellow school bus Marcus had retrofitted to drive their enormous family around.

When she’d left the house, two hours earlier, everything had seemed so normal. Marcus, Kiani, Sebhrenah and Rosie had been repairing the bus and packing it up for a trip to Seattle, while seventeen-year-old Lise was inside home-schooling the seven little ones.

Their roughly one-thousand-square-foot house had formerly been occupied by a law firm, so it was zoned for commercial use in the middle of an otherwise residential working-class neighborhood, and their driveway was actually a small parking lot in front of the building. The city had left repeated notices on the door about the Wessons’ zoning violations, so Marcus decided it was time to relocate the clan once again. He chose Seattle because his parents still lived there and his father was sick with cancer; no one knew how much time he had left.

Elizabeth looked more closely at the group clustered in the front yard and realized there weren’t any children.

Where are my babies?

The car was still rolling when she shoved the gearshift into park. Her hands shook as she turned off the ignition, the keys rattling against the steering column. She didn’t take time to remove them before she pushed the door open and jumped out.

As she ran to the house, she could see the imposing bulk of Marcus’s three-hundred-pound body blocking the doorway. Two of her children, Kiani and Serafino, were standing just behind him with Rosie, her sister Rosemary’s daughter. Marcus had trained his sons, daughters and nieces to be soldiers, warning them that this day would come.

Elizabeth ran over to Marcus to ask what was going on, but he spoke before she could get a word out.

“I need the keys, Bee,” Marcus told her calmly, using the pet name he’d given her when she was eight and he was twenty-one. His use of the endearment now struck her as odd, given the circumstances.

“Where are the keys?” he pressed. “I need the keys right now.”

Elizabeth knew it was a bad sign when Marcus was calm in a stressful situation. But after doing his bidding for nearly four decades, she felt she was in no position to stand up to him now. She ran back to the car to retrieve the keys and, clutching them against her chest, she obediently delivered them.

Afterward, she wondered why he would need her car keys and why the house was so quiet inside, but she didn’t dare ask. She didn’t think anything bad had happened – at least not yet.

Rosie, Kiani and Serafino stood tall behind Marcus, their shoulders back, on alert and at attention, their expressions stern. A uniformed police officer stood silently off to the side of the house, a few feet away. There were two more officers across the street.

Elizabeth knew her whole family was in danger. The police presence only made the situation more volatile. Marcus had always said one day they would go to war with the government or Child Protective Services (CPS), but this was as close as they’d ever come.

Marcus remained calm while he made his case for keeping custody of his children. He’d been fooling the police and the social workers for years with that calm exterior of his, but Elizabeth knew what he was truly capable of. She knew the situation could blow up like a powder keg with just the slightest spark of provocation.

Elizabeth burned with anger. She wanted to yell at someone. She knew she couldn’t scream at Marcus, so she decided to confront Ruby and Sofia. She wanted answers, and she knew she wasn’t going to get them from her husband.

Sofia and Ruby had known that Marcus would put up resistance, but they were determined to keep their children from suffering any more of the abuse and incest that had been going on for years. So they brought along a posse of family and friends to surround Marcus while they grabbed Jonathan and Aviv.

But things didn’t go as they’d hoped.

For the first fifteen minutes, the family members argued and called one another names inside and outside the one-story house as Sofia and Ruby demanded that Marcus give up the two children he’d fathered with them.

“I’m not leaving without my baby,” Ruby declared.

When Marcus accused the mothers of trying to kidnap their children, Kiani jumped to her father’s defense.

“You have no rights to these children. You are surrogate mothers,” she said. Marcus had told his daughters and nieces that they should bear his children for the Lord because Elizabeth could no longer do so.

Marcus gave his word to Ruby and Sofia that they could come back and visit the children if they agreed to leave the house peacefully, but they knew the family was moving out of town, so they didn’t believe him. If Marcus took the family away, the two women might never see their son and daughter again.

Around 2:15 p.m., about forty-five minutes after their arrival, Sofia was in the living room talking to Marcus when he whispered something to Rosie, Kiani and Sebhrenah. Sofia grabbed her son’s hand, but started to panic when Rosie took him from her and walked him into the back bedroom, where the older girls had gathered the other children.

Sofia recalled the suicide pact that Marcus had made with them when they were growing up. If the police or CPS tried to bust up their family, they had been given a plan “to go to the Lord.” The older ones were to shoot their younger brothers and sisters, then turn the gun on themselves. Sofia had almost carried out the plan herself when the family was living on a boat in Tomales Bay. She had already loaded twelve bullets into a gun, but Marcus had stopped her just in time.

Sofia and Ruby hadn’t planned to call the police today because they knew Marcus still kept that gun in the house; they didn’t want to risk anyone getting hurt. But as soon as it became clear they needed outside intervention, Sofia desperately called out for someone in their group to get the police.

Mary called 911 and reported the incident as a domestic dispute. When police didn’t show up, she called again, trying to convey to the dispatch operator that this was no ordinary custody dispute; this was a matter of life and death.

The first officers on the scene arrived around 2:30. Marcus stood in the doorway to block them from entering, explaining that he was the children’s biological father. The officers sensed trouble and called for backup.

At first, Ruby and Sofia thought they had the upper hand. They presented the officers with birth certificates for Jonathan and Aviv, and the officers told Marcus he had to give the children back to their mothers or they would have to call CPS.

“A mom’s a mom and that’s the way it stands,” said Officer Frank Nelson.

But apparently, this only fueled Marcus’s need to prove he still controlled the situation. He tried to convince the officers that the women had abandoned their children, leaving them in his care. “They never had the children in their lives,” he said.

The police weren’t buying it. “A handshake,” Nelson retorted, dismissing the informal agreement. “That doesn’t cut it.”

Marcus must have known that the mothers were winning the dispute. As Ruby and Sofia continued to press their claim with the officers, he managed to slip away from his post, darting into the back bedroom around 3:30. No one saw him go, and by the time they noticed, it was too late.

----
Caitlin Rother, a Pulitzer-nominee who worked as a investigative newspaper reporter for nearly 20 years, is the author of four books, Body Parts, Twisted Triangle, Naked Addiction, and Poisoned Love, and is the co-author of Where Hope Begins.

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Reality Bites

August 26, 2009

By Caitlin Rother

If anyone had doubts about whether TV reality contestant Ryan Jenkins was guilty of beating, killing and then dismembering his swimsuit model ex-wife, his suicidal hanging by belt in a Canadian motel closet likely resolves that question.

People who commit suicide are generally not of sane minds, but we will never know whether Jenkins was feeling guilty after murdering Jasmine Fiore, lopping off her fingers and yanking out her teeth to keep her from being identified, or whether he simply realized that he had no chance to live a normal life after his name and photo had been broadcast to everyone on the planet with a computer or television set. His own computer was found open on the bed in his $45-a-night motel room.

Apparently he also should've watched more crime than reality TV shows, because then he might have known that Fiore's breast implants had serial numbers that would help authorities determine her identity – and his. You also have to wonder whether Jenkins saw the news stories saying that the Orange County District Attorney had already agreed not to seek the death penalty against him so as to facilitate his extradition on first-degree murder charges.

I believe this case dominated the nation’s headlines this past week because North Americans are obsessed with watching other people's lives fall apart, particularly when it happens on TV, and even more so on reality TV. It's amazing to me how an accused killer who has been on TV gets so much more attention from the media, especially when that person has done nothing more creative in his 32 years of life than name a boat Midnight Rideher.

Another case in point is convicted killer Skylar Deleon, the subject of many news stories and my current book project, Undeserved, who claimed to have had a starring role on “Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers,” but in fact had only two non-speaking roles. But he surely had far more viewers recently when he was interviewed by “Dateline,” “48 Hours” and “20/20” about tying Tom and Jackie Hawks to an anchor and throwing them over the side of their yacht, the Well Deserved – alive.

Sadly, I also believe that any time two good looking people hurt one another, America cares more about that, too. A book editor once told me that everyone loves to read about an attractive murderer. He was right. Poisoned Love, my book on Kristin Rossum, a beautiful blonde toxicologist who poisoned her husband and then staged a suicide seen by sprinkling red rose petals over his body, is still selling well, and, in fact, Investigation Discovery is running a new show about the years-old case, scheduled to premiere Sept. 24.

I feel sorry for the Fiore and the Jenkins families for having their losses so publicly disclosed, but I do believe something good has come out of all this publicity. The Fiore murder has cast a spotlight on the failure of TV reality dating shows such as "Megan Wants a Millionaire” on VH1 to properly vet contestants’ criminal records before hooking them up with each other. Jenkins, who was sentenced to 15 months probation in 2007 for assaulting a woman in his hometown of Calgary, appeared on three episodes of the show, which VH1 has since pulled off the air in light of this case. The producers clearly fell down on the job, and I'm betting it's because they didn't know how to – or were too lazy to – navigate the criminal justice system in neighboring Canada. Jenkins was also paid to appear in another VH1 show, “I Love Money 3.”

Similar incidents in the recent past – although none that resulted in murder – include the failure to determine that Andre Birleanu, a runner-up on "America's Most Smartest Model" in 2007, had been to prison several times on various charges. Probably the first notable reality TV bad boy, Rick Rockwell of San Diego, was found to have a restraining order against him after he had been on “Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire?” and married fellow contestant Darva Conger in 2000. It also turned out that he was a standup comic, not really a millionaire. That marriage, like Jenkins’ and Fiore's, was annulled.

Unlike Rockwell, Jenkins really was from a wealthy family in Canada. The son of a successful architect in Calgary, Jenkins was earning quite a good living selling real estate and building houses. He was also a pilot and had been looking at aviation as another career option. He and Fiore were married in Las Vegas in March, and allegedly annulled the union several weeks later. Fiore’s biggest mistake, it seems, was to continue to see Jenkins after the breakup and the misdemeanor battery charges that were filed in June after he was accused of hitting her in the arm.

In some photos, Jenkins was quite a good looking man, but he possessed at least one fatal character flaw – an overwhelming sense of narcissism that presumably led him to reality TV in the first place. News reports say that a judge in Calgary had ordered him to get psychological counseling and treatment for sex addiction.

Full disclosure: Other than an embarrassing passing interest in “The Bachelor” and “The Apprentice,” I have never been a reality TV show fan. That’s because I don't think it's all that interesting to watch hoards of narcissistic people fight to gain the nation's attention based on scripted backbiting and ridiculous disingenuous dating behavior that only escalates after producers douse the contestants with barrels of alcohol. You can see for yourself what all this TV attention does to couples in shows such as “Jon & Kate Plus 8,” where grown-ups use their children to further their own narcissism, even as it is ripping their families apart.

All I can say – and I believe the Jenkins-Fiore case only underscores my point – is that no good can come from this. Of course not every reality TV contestant is going to be capable of murder, but murderers, regardless of their method of mayhem, do share narcissism as a common trait. I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but given Fiore’s breast implants, her heavy makeup, her modeling career, her hair styles that went between extremes from blond to black, and her involvement with a guy like Jenkins, it’s entirely possible that she possessed some narcissism of her own. It is not uncommon for two narcissists to be attracted to each other, so my only point in bringing this up is that a tragedy like this could easily happen again.

After Jenkins’ suicide, you might think this case was closed, but it's not. Authorities are still investigating whether Jenkins had an accomplice and where Fiore was actually killed. They have raised the possibility of an accomplice because Fiore's white Mercedes-Benz CLS550 is missing and because Jenkins’ might have had help launching his speedboat from Blaine, Washington, to flee into Canada.

The couple was seen at L'Auberge last Thursday, an upscale hotel in the exclusive coastal community of Del Mar just north of San Diego, the day before Fiore's body was found in a large grey suitcase in a trash can about 90 minutes north of the hotel, in Orange County. The couple also was seen fighting at a poker game Thursday night at the Hilton Hotel in San Diego, where Fiore reportedly taunted, humiliated and lied to Jenkins. Fiore apparently spent quite a bit of time in the bathroom at the Hilton after midnight, which made Jenkins angry and jealous. He was heard screaming at her, “Who are you talking to?” just before the last reported sighting around 1:30 a.m., when they went up to their room at the Hilton.

There may yet be more to this story. Still pending are questions about Fiore's reported romantic involvement a few days before she was killed with an ex-con who had just been released; also, the very pretty blonde woman who drove Jenkins to the motel where his body was found, checked them in for three days, then drove away.

Caitlin Rother, who worked as a Pulitzer-nominated investigative newspaper reporter for nearly 20 years, is the author of four books, Body Parts, Twisted Triangle, Naked Addiction, and Poisoned Love, and the co-author of Where Hope Begins.

Check out her Web site at http://www.caitlinrother.com.

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By Caitlin Rother

San Quentin state prison in northern California, population 5,286, has more residents than some small towns.

And although many of these small towns have daily or weekly newspapers, I was quite surprised to learn that San Quentin has one, too. As a former newspaper reporter of nearly 20 years and now a journalism instructor, I've been watching as many papers across the nation are shrinking their staffs, reducing their news hole, or going into bankruptcy, some shutting down entirely. So, I was even more surprised when I learned that San Quentin's own was launched just last year after a 20-year hiatus, bucking the national trend.

But I'm burying the lede, as we journalists call it, which is that the San Quentin News is written for inmates – by inmates, including some of the nation’s most dangerous murderers who live here on death row. Some of you may share my sense of irony in this tagline under the paper’s logo: “The pulse of San Quentin.”

Now, how, you might ask (I know I did), can an inmate report and write a news story while in prison, where he has few, if any, rights or privileges? Where access to a computer, let alone the ability to do Internet research, is virtually nonexistent? And where phone calls can only be made collect from pay phones?

For those of you who have no experience researching or writing a news or feature story, let me explain briefly how I, or any other reporter who is not behind bars, writes a story like the one you're reading. First, I troll the Web on my home office computer, looking for an idea or a tip, which in this case came from reading an Associated Press story. Second, I pick up my phone and call San Quentin to do an interview. Third, employing whatever charm and knowledge I might possess, I try to persuade someone to take a message or transfer me to someone who might actually give me some information. In the prison system, mind you, this is often no easy task. Luckily, however, I finally got a hold of Lt. Rudy Luna, who happens to be the program sponsor for the inmate newspaper, so I was able to get the scoop.

If I had been one of the inmates working on the monthly San Quentin News, Lt. Luna would be my lifeline, my go-to guy.

“They bug me half the time, because I have to do the leg work for them,” he said. “I tell them who’s coming… They have no access to phones. I make calls for them sometimes.”

In other words, he would have to dial the person I wanted to speak to and hand the receiver to me if I needed to interview someone who wasn't on prison grounds; and one of the teachers, prison volunteers, or one of the paper’s five-member advisory council would have to do any necessary Internet research for me. I also would have to depend on Lt. Luna to give me ideas and access to the names of interesting or notable celebrities who will be stopping by – such as Dr. Patch Adams, author Dave Eggers, or former Virginia Attorney General Mark Early – and hopefully will let me interview them while the prison video training crew (also inmates) tapes our dialogue.

“Had I not known they were in prison, they were behaving just like the media, just asking questions,” said Luna, who also reviews the stories before they are published in the four-page, double-sided publication, by the prison print shop.

The San Quentin News has two editors, both inmates, who earn 15 or 20 cents an hour putting out this publication, which reads somewhat like a corporate newsletter. It's actually their full-time, 40-hour-a-week job, for which they had to interview, just like on the outside.

Michael Harris, who is serving a sentence of 28 years to life for murder, landed the job as editor-in-chief. A businessman, formerly in the record business, Harris has been at San Quentin since 1988 and will soon be coming up for parole. Apparently, he just wanted to learn about how to be a newspaper reporter and editor.

“When we first started, a lot of people were real dismissive of the paper," Harris, 47, told the AP. "Once we started printing the paper... you see this prison comes to life in terms of cooperation, in terms of, hey, this is an opportunity to be able to tell the stories from your perspective and also allow the rest of the world to see what's happening here.”

The paper also has two staff writers, although any inmate can submit stories for possible publication. One of staff writers, David Marsh, was actually a reporter before he broke the law and became an inmate. The death row prisoners, who are not allowed to interview anyone, may submit a handwritten poem, a compilation of their thoughts, or some inspirational words of humor, because face it, what else can you do when you know you’re going to be looking at the same four walls for the rest of your life?

Here's a sample of prison humor, written by George Leite: “You know you're a Con When: You wash your clothes in the toilet. You call your mother ‘Dawg’ or ‘Holmes.’ You tell your wife it isn't your draw when she asks you to go to the store. You put things in your sock instead of your pocket. You end your letters with, ‘I send mine.’ You have to remind yourself, ‘She is still a man.’ You use sriracha [hot chile] sauce for everything, including deodorant. You make a spread out of everything on your dinner plate.”

The paper is also put out with the help of the five-member advisory council of former and retired journalists and teachers, who are training interested inmates in a course known as the San Quentin Guild.

“Actually, the inmates are pretty good reporters,” Luna said.

I also had to laugh at the irony of the name “guild,” which in my experience refers to a labor or bargaining group of reporters who are trying to negotiate better benefits and privileges. My humor, however, was lost on Luna, a very affable man whose journalism experience consists of writing for his high school newspaper, after which he worked for more than 20 years in the security forces for the US Air Force before coming to San Quentin.

But his heart seems to be in the right place about this pet project of the former warden, who has since been replaced.

“It sends out a message that here at San Quentin, we’re giving them opportunities to grow,” Luna said, voicing a very different attitude than I heard during the 1990s and early 2000s, when I was covering jails and prisons as a staff writer for The San Diego Union-Tribune. Back then, punishment was the focus and rehabilitation seemed like a foreign, dirty concept to the California Department of Corrections. This is evidenced by the change in the department's name to the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.

But what about balanced reporting, I wondered, and getting both sides of the story? And after visiting San Quentin twice to witness an execution back in the late 1990s (it was stayed the first time, then occurred on my second trip), I knew how many many many rules had to be followed there, even by visitors like us. So, I also wondered, how could these inmates even hope to work as real journalists, whose mission is often to question authority and act as watchdogs?

Chomping at the bit to see the actual product, Luna directed me to the Web site so I could see for myself. Click here for the most current issue, which came out in April, and here for those of you who are curious and would like to see back issues.

You can judge the content for yourself, but if you're like me, you may be surprised to see that inmates have a baseball team, participate in track meets, and attend health fairs – just like the rest of us on the outside. (OK, well, some of us.)

No matter what you might think of this project, suffice it to say that the San Quentin News most definitely offers us all a new and unique insight into today's prison life under Arnold the Governator.

To read about one of San Quentin’s death row prisoners, Wayne Adam Ford, you can check out my new book, Body Parts. Marcus Wesson, a mass murderer and death row prisoner, is described in the book, Where Hope Begins, which I co-authored with Alysia Sofios, and comes out in September. My current book project, which will be released next year, will feature Skylar Deleon, yet another death row inmate. Deleon was recently sent off to the state’s psychiatric facility in nearby Vacaville to recover from a mental breakdown after spending only four days at San Quentin. But he’ll be back.

To learn more or contact me, check my Web site, http://caitlinrother.com/.

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Killer Books

April 28, 2009

By Caitlin Rother

I research and write books about murder cases day in and day out, sticking with one case for years at a time, so I’m often asked how I keep balance in my life and how I sleep at night. Do I have nightmares about the crimes and/or killers I’m studying?

The answer is no, because I’m fascinated, not terrified, by them. I think many other people are, too, or true crime books wouldn’t sell, and we wouldn’t see so many “CSI” and “Law & Order”-type shows on TV. It’s just that most people don’t like to admit they like true crime, so they try to hide it as their dirty little secret.

Well, I admit it. It’s a matter of life and death, something we can all relate to, although, thankfully, few of us meet such a tragic end. I think we can all learn from these cases, many of which seem to stem from bad parenting; sexual, emotional and physical abuse; and a lack of good role models. Drugs and alcohol often play a role, and sometimes genetic factors contribute as well.

Lately, I’ve been following the case of Sunday school teacher Melissa Huckaby with much interest. I haven’t heard any suggestion that she has multiple personalities, but the allegation that she used an object to rape her 8-year-old victim, Sandra Cantu, reminds me of the horrible abuse that resulted in the book Sybil. The victim, dubbed Sybil to protect her identity, was similarly raped as a child by her mother. Sybil’s psyche split because she couldn’t cope with the aftermath.

Sexual abuse is frequently cyclical, and if these allegations against Huckaby are true, I’m waiting to hear which relative or family friend may have raped her with an object. In such cases, the abused will repeat the act later on his/her own victim, using the same type of implement.

Although the FBI’s motives may be completely unrelated, I was not surprised to read that the bureau was talking to Huckaby’s grandfather, a Baptist minister in Idaho (who is ironically named Lane Lawless) and who was questioned years ago about alleged child abuse at his church.

This may change now that a gag order is in place, but the Huckaby case has been getting more intriguing with every new revelation – the X-acto knife blades she reportedly swallowed after little Sandra’s remains were found in a suitcase; the psychiatric meds Huckaby was (or wasn’t) taking; the second little girl who had been with her and later tested positive for muscle relaxants; and the two home fires in Southern California, which occurred after Huckaby moved in. If even some of these are true, then just what was going on with this woman and why wasn’t someone watching her and her own little girl more closely?

Yes, her husband has been interviewed about her depression, but when will he tell us what he really knows? Surely, he must have seen or sensed that something was wrong along the way. I mean, the woman tried to kill herself by swallowing X-acto blades!

I was a psychology major at UC Berkeley, and have always been curious to learn about the motivations of murderers and how their minds work, so I will continue to follow this case very closely.

I’m also intrigued by the “Craig's List Killer” case of Boston University med student Philip Markoff, described by his fiancée as a “loving and caring person.” Markoff recently cautioned his brother that more incriminating information would be coming out; he also advised his brother to forget him and move to California.

After seeing news reports about the masseuse Markoff is accused of killing and a second masseuse he is accused of robbing, a third would-be victim has stepped forward, an unidentified transsexual who says he recognized Markoff as the attractive guy with the “sex addict” screen moniker who was emailing him on Craigslist about getting together. The plot thickens…

Although Huckaby and Markoff seem to be getting convicted in the media, our justice system still rightly considers them innocent at this point. That said, based on what has come out so far, they both seem to have acted recklessly and with compulsion, almost as if they wanted – or felt they needed – to get caught.

To do my job and do it well, I have to compartmentalize and neutralize in my mind the actual details of murder cases like these that I research – including what the victims must have felt in their last moments – just as any prosecutor, defense attorney, or police officer must have to. That is, until I put it on the page.

Until then, I focus on fleshing out the back stories of the killers, trying to determine what, if anything, happened in their childhood and/or what genetic factors may have contributed to their violent behavior. Not to use it as a justification or rationalization for what they’ve done, but rather to find a possible explanation. I put the pieces of their human puzzle together as I go, moving them around until they fit, to show who they are and what went wrong.

That’s because my ultimate goal with these books is to answer what I believe is the readers’ primary question: Why did this person commit such a horrible act?

If anyone has personal information about either of these cases, please contact me through my Web site, http://caitlinrother.com/.

***

Shameless plug: My new book, Body Parts, and the just released paperback of Twisted Triangle are now available!

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read more “Killer Books”

By Caitlin Rother

My book, TWISTED TRIANGLE, gives a whole new meaning to the term “good cop-bad cop.”

To be released in trade paperback in just a few weeks, TWISTED TRIANGLE tells the story of how a young impressionable FBI agent named Margo Bennett falls in love with a maverick undercover agent, Gene Bennett.

As their sexually hot courtship flames into marriage, Gene continues to receive kudos from the bureau's top brass for catching bad guys by the dozen. Problem is, he gets so good at pretending to be one of the bad guys that he starts acting like one even when he isn't working undercover. Gene befriends his criminal informant, goes into a diamond business with him, and then commits fraud against the FBI with the guy – all for a measly $17,000.

When Gene goes bad, so does his marriage to Margo, who by now has become an instructor at Quantico, the FBI academy. Margo, who has slowly been facing the fact that her husband is a crook, turns to novelist Patricia Cornwell for a more soulful connection. Their liaison, which goes from friendship to a romantic affair and back to friendship, prompts Margo to realize that she can no longer stay married to a liar, a cheat and a thief, so she tells Gene she wants a divorce.

Gene, however, does not take the news well, and faced with his psychological terrorist tactics, Margo reports his fraud – also admitting her reluctant complicity – and agrees to testify against her estranged husband in federal court.

But Gene won't go down without a fight. He knows Margo's weaknesses – their two young daughters – so he concocts a crazy story, which she believes after being tasered five times in the head, knocked down, handcuffed, blindfolded, gagged and tossed into the trunk of her own car.

Gene tells Margo that their daughters have been kidnapped by Mexican drug lords who are involved in the fraud scheme and have threatened to kill the two girls if Margo goes ahead with her testimony.

When Margo asks why they can’t call in the authorities, Gene tells her: “If we call the police, they’ll walk away and we’ll never see the kids again.”

Held hostage for two days and forced to have sex with a man who now repulses her, Margo agrees to lie on the stand and retract all of her allegations against him. She also confirms Gene’s suspicions that she had a lesbian affair with Cornwell.

Thankfully, Gene's scheme falls apart, although few of their FBI colleagues believe at the time that he'd actually abducted Margo. He goes to prison for a year, during which time Margo lives in fear, knowing in her gut that he hates her so much he's eventually going to try to kill her.

She is right.

Fifteen months later, Gene concocts an even more bizarre scheme, taking Margo's minister hostage and forcing him to lure Margo to their Methodist Church in Manassas, Virginia.

But this time, Margo fights back. Gene later claims he snapped because he couldn't stand the thought of his daughters been raised by a lesbian.

You can read Margo's exclusive story in TWISTED TRIANGLE and find out all the compelling details about the case that made international headlines. It's already available in hardcover, but you can pre-order the paperback now if that is more in your budget.

My latest book, BODY PARTS, which came out this month, takes a psychological look at the life of serial killer Wayne Adam Ford, who killed four women, dismembered two of them, then turned himself in to authorities to keep from killing again. It’s already getting some great reviews, including this one:

“I couldn’t put this excellent book down,” says Don Bauder of the San Diego Reader.


To learn more about me and my other books, or to contact me directly with questions or comments, check my Web site: http://caitlinrother.com/.

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read more “Going to the Dark Side”

By Caitlin Rother

Several years ago, while I was still an investigative reporter at The San Diego Union-Tribune, a serial killer case came across my Google alerts. Although I've always been interested in learning about serial killers, I initially thought I wouldn't want to live in the head of one for the length of time it takes to research and write a book. Too dark, I thought.

But the alerts kept coming as fast as I could kill them out. Finally, I gave in and decided to take an exploratory trip to the death penalty trial of Wayne Adam Ford. It was just a 2-hour drive northeast to San Bernardino. Why not, I thought.

Let's just say the story hooked me and wouldn't let me go. Ford was the only serial killer I'd ever heard of who had turned himself in to authorities when he wasn't even a suspect. Not only that, but he brought one of his victim's breasts in a baggie in his pocket to prove his story. Turned out that he also helped Humboldt County authorities find the body parts of his first victim, which he'd frozen for a year and then buried in a campsite nearby. He also gave tearful interviews to detectives from four counties, confessing how his four victims had died at his hands -- all without an attorney. There's more, of course, but that was enough for me.

BODY PARTS will be in bookstores March 3, but you can pre-order it today. To help persuade you to click over to Amazon or to call your local bookstore now, I'm offering you the chance to read an exclusive excerpt of the prologue. So, here it is:


Rodney Ford had just gotten home after quitting his job on Friday, November 2, 1998, when his brother Wayne called.

“I’m in some real bad trouble and I think the police are looking for me. I need your help,” 36-year-old Wayne said, crying. “I need you to come get me.”

Rodney was nearly two years older than Wayne and had always been stronger emotionally than his little brother. They’d been close since childhood, when they weathered their parents’ divorce and had only each other for company in faraway places like Okinawa, Japan.

As boys, their personalities were as stark contrasts as their hair color. Rodney, who had brown hair, had always been easy-going and outgoing; Wayne, a blond, kept mostly to himself and seemed to have a harder time dealing with life. Much harder.

It was already 7 p.m. when Wayne called, and Rodney was tired after a long, frustrating and final day as a general superintendent for a big construction company, especially after commuting two and a half hours each way to South San Francisco.

He didn’t relish getting back on the road, but he could hear in Wayne’s voice that something was wrong, more wrong than the half dozen times Wayne had asked for help in the past. Wayne needed him. And Rodney wanted to be there for his brother. They were family and family was important to him.

So Rodney quickly threw some things in a bag and hit the highway, heading north to the Ocean Grove Lodge in the seaside town of Trinidad. His destination was a five-hour drive from his house in Vallejo and about a half-hour north of Eureka, the coastal city in Humboldt County where he and Wayne grew up.

* * *

It was after 1 a.m. when Rodney pulled off the coastal Highway 101, headed east and turned into the driveway of the motel, which was surrounded by a commanding stand of redwood trees, some three hundred feet tall.

Immediately to the right was the main motel building, which housed the office, a restaurant and a bar, where Wayne had spent most of the day, drinking and playing pool with the bartender. A giant neon sign on the roof that read “cocktails” in capital letters lit up the night. To the left of the driveway was the rustic cabin where Wayne was staying and the phone booth he’d used to call Rodney.

All told, there were eight of these cabins, most of which were split into two units with queen-size beds. Wayne asked for the cheapest one, which cost only $38.50 and was also the smallest of the lot. They called it Room Zero.

Years earlier, Room Zero had been a barbershop in the same unit known as Room One. When the barbershop closed, the motel owner turned it into another sleeping unit, thus the strange name. Room Zero had two twin beds, a color TV and a shower, but no kitchenette like the bigger rooms. The décor was simple: white walls and gray carpet.

Rodney parked in front of the cabin and walked up the stairs leading to a wooden deck, where Wayne was standing in the open doorway, waiting for him, with the television on.

Wayne looked bad. Unkempt and emotionally ragged. His hair, now brown and straight, was an unruly mess. He was crying as Rodney came up and gave him a hug.

“What’s going on?” Rodney asked, genuinely concerned.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Wayne said through his tears. “I really needed you to be here. I really wanted your help.”

They went into the cabin and closed the door behind them. As they talked for nearly two hours, facing each other on the twin beds, Rodney often couldn’t follow what Wayne was saying. He kept crying as he rambled on, jumping from one topic to another. Talking nonsense, really.

After about fifteen minutes or so, Wayne started settling down a bit and wanted to discuss their troubled past.

“Why did dad treat us the way he did?” Wayne asked. “Why did our mom leave us? Nobody loves me or cares about me.”

“Well, I love you,” Rodney said. “I care about you. I mean, I’m here.”

Rodney was not the crying type, but he was crying now, too. He didn’t like to see his brother so upset. It made him a little emotional.

Then Wayne shifted gears and want to talk about cars, an interest they’d always shared. Rodney restored muscle cars as a hobby, and Wayne wanted to know what kind of motor Rodney put into a certain model, that sort of thing. But that topic lasted only five minutes or so before Wayne started weeping again.

Over the past year, Wayne, who worked as a long-haul truck driver, had come through Vallejo twice a month to see Rodney. Often, they’d meet up for breakfast or Wayne would have a meal with Rodney, Janell and their two daughters at their condo. But Rodney usually couldn’t spend as much time with his brother as Wayne would have liked.

Wayne would always complain that his ex-wife Elizabeth wasn’t letting him see his baby son Max.

“I miss my boy,” Wayne would say. “I can’t see my boy.”

Rodney had told Wayne not to marry Elizabeth in the first place, that she was too young and they weren’t a good match. But Wayne didn’t take his advice.

Rodney had seen Wayne shed a tear or two since the divorce, but nothing like what he saw in the cabin that night.

After a while, the conversation took an unexpected turn. “I hurt some people and I don’t want to hurt anybody anymore,” Wayne said.

“You hurt some people?” Rodney asked, confused.

“Yeah.”

The two of them used to throw punches, wrestle around, and give each other bloody noses as kids, but Rodney always won. As an adult, though, Wayne often got into brawls when he drank. That was nothing new.

“Did you get in a bar fight or did you break a guy’s arm?” Rodney asked.

But Wayne wouldn’t discuss the extent of his actions. He simply said he wanted some help because he didn’t want to hurt people anymore.

“I’m here to help,” Rodney said. “I want to help you.”

“I want to go to the sheriff’s,” Wayne said. “I want to turn myself in.”

After working all day, quitting his job, driving for ten hours, and now having to deal with this, Rodney felt like he couldn’t cope with another single thing.

Despite the surreal feeling that filled Room Zero, Rodney knew why he was there and what they had to do. But for the moment, all he wanted was to close his eyes and shut everything out for a few hours.

“Let’s just go to sleep,” he said. “We’ll wake up in the morning, go get some breakfast and work this out.”

* * *

When they got up around 7:30, Rodney suggested they both shower and get cleaned up before getting something to eat. Wayne, who had been staying at a campground down the road for the past week, clearly hadn’t bathed during that time.

Wayne seemed more like himself that morning. He was in a pretty good mood, in fact. He put on a blue knit cap, a pair of black combat boots, some faded jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a camouflage jacket over his six-feet-two-inch, 200-pound frame.

They decided to go to the Denny’s just off the highway in Eureka, where, over breakfast, Rodney tried broaching the subject again about the people Wayne had hurt.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” Wayne said. “I just want to spend the day with you. Let’s go and look at the apartment where we lived as kids.”

So that’s what they did. Rodney drove them to the zoo and some of their other childhood haunts. They searched for the houses where their aunts and uncles used to live, went into a couple of motorcycle shops and checked out the bikes.

One minute Wayne would be fine, but then he’d start crying again, babbling about things Rodney couldn’t understand. He just wasn’t acting like the Wayne that Rodney knew.

Counting the night before, Wayne must have gone on six or seven of these crying jags, his mood shooting up and down like a yo-yo. Wayne had had a short fuse ever since the bad head injury he’d gotten in 1980, but this was different.

Rodney wondered what Wayne wasn’t telling him.

“How did you hurt some people?” Rodney asked.

“If I tell you, you won’t love me. You’ll hate me.”

“I love you,” Rodney said. “I’m your brother.”

“I hurt some people bad and they don’t have to worry about anything anymore.”

Rodney didn’t like the sound of that at all. Did he mean it was too late to save any of these people from the danger they were in? Was anyone tied up or being held hostage? Or was it something worse? Rodney wondered what the hell his brother had dragged him into.

As they talked some more, they agreed that Rodney shouldn’t be placed in the position where he would get into trouble for whatever Wayne had done. But by the same token, now that Rodney knew what he did, he wasn’t going to let Wayne walk away, especially when Rodney could be viewed as an accomplice after the fact.

Aside from that, the two brothers had forged an unspoken alliance long ago and Rodney intended to carry out his part of the deal.

“He knew that if I was involved, it would get done,” Rodney said later. “He knew I would do what was right, regardless of the consequences.”

This had been going on since Wayne was fourteen, when he broke into a sporting goods store through the skylight and took $1,700 worth of merchandise, including a couple hundred shotgun shells and some fishing rods.

Afterward, he showed Rodney his stash, piled up in his bedroom closet. Wayne knew that Rodney would have to tell their father what he’d done. It was all part of the implicit agreement in their twisted, brotherly version of show and tell.

Wayne even told his brother so later on: “I knew you would make me follow through with it,” he said.

This time, Rodney knew the situation was much worse, and his brother’s emotions were far more complicated. Wayne kept talking about how screwed up his life was and how he was never going to see his son again.

“Why do you think you’re not going to see your son?” Rodney asked.

Rodney was concerned because Wayne had tried to commit suicide a couple of years earlier during the divorce, and had been talking about killing Elizabeth, too. But that morning, Wayne assured him that Elizabeth and Max were okay.

Waynewouldn’t say much more than he already had. He still wanted to turn himself in at the Sheriff’s Department, only he didn’t seem to want to actually go there.

He was distraught, drawing out their day together as long as he could, to make the most of what time he had left with Rodney. Once he gave himself up, he said, he knew wouldn’t see Rodney anymore because he was never going to get out of jail; the only one who could forgive him was God.

“I don’t want to live anymore,” Wayne kept saying. “I don’t want to live with myself. I deserve to die.”

Later that afternoon, Wayne suggested they go to a movie, so they picked a vampire flick, a genre both of them liked.

It was quiet and dark in the theater, which gave Rodney a chance to think for a minute. By the time the movie came on, he was feeling pretty antsy. He knew he was too nervous to sit still for two more hours given their peculiar day and knowing what was to come. He wanted to get this thing over with.

About fifteen minutes into the movie, Rodney leaned over and said, “We need to go to the sheriff’s. It’s getting late.”

“I don’t want to go now,” Wayne said, meaning not right now.

“Well, we’re going.”

Rodney led Wayne out of the theater, then drove them over to their grandmother’s house. It was only a few blocks from the courthouse, which housed the Sheriff’s Department and jail. He figured they could use a calm, relaxing walk before doing the deed, but he also didn’t want the sheriff’s deputies to impound his truck, assuming that it had something to do with Wayne’s crimes.

They were about ten minutes away when Wayne started to change his mind.

“I don’t want to go now,” Wayne said belligerently, meaning he no longer wanted to go, period.

“We have to go,” Rodney said firmly. “There’s no way that we’re not going to go.”

“I’m worried that if I go there, I’ll never come out.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Wayne described an incident that had occurred when he was a teenager, living in Redding with a woman named Melva Ward, a dispatcher for the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department. He told Rodney that Melva came home one day and said a guy had killed someone and then hung himself while in custody.

“I think he had some help,” Melva said, laughing. Wayne took her remark to mean that a correctional officer had killed the guy in his cell.

Trying to calm his brother’s fears, Rodney said he would stay with Wayne as long as he could once they got to the station, but in the meantime, he would see what he could do.

“I’ll call the FBI,” he said. “I’ll call whoever I need to to make this easy and make you feel better. We have to do this.”

Rodney made a call on his cell phone around 6 p.m. to an 800 number he thought was the FBI’s field office in San Francisco, although he later learned it was a private company known as Federal Prison Industries. He got a recording and left a message, which comforted Wayne enough to continue on to the sheriff’s.

After entering the sheriff’s lobby, Rodney picked up a wall phone that connected to a receptionist sitting behind bulletproof glass. He explained that he and his brother needed to see the sheriff so that his brother could turn himself in.

“Why?” she asked.

“He said he hurt some people and he wants to be off the street.”

The dispatcher ran Wayne’s name and date of birth through the computer system, but nothing came up, so she asked to talk to Wayne. He told her the same thing his brother had.

She asked if he had any weapons and he said no, so she told him to have a seat and said someone would be out to talk to him.

As Rodney and Wayne were waiting on a couple of benches, Wayne said he wanted to go.

“No,” Rodney said. “You’re not leaving.”

They waited for twenty minutes before Deputy Michael Gainey came out.
Memories vary about what transpired in that lobby over the next few minutes, but here is what happened according to law enforcement authorities:

Gainey approached the Ford brothers, then asked Wayne why he was turning himself in.

“I’ve hurt a lot of people,” Wayne said.

Gainey told him that they needed to take one step at a time; he needed some basic information, such as where Wayne lived and what he’d done to warrant this trip to the sheriff’s.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore,” Wayne said.

Sergeant Michael Thomas joined them a couple of minutes later, thinking that Wayne looked anxious and unsettled. As he and Gainey explained that they still needed more specifics, Wayne motioned toward one of his jacket’s front pockets.

“Once you see what I have in my pocket, you’ll know,” he said. “It’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“What’s in there?” Thomas asked cautiously.

When Wayne did not respond, the sergeant asked if he could look inside. Wayne started reaching toward the pocket, but Thomas stopped him.

“No, no, don’t do that,” he commanded. “We’ll do that. Please, just for our safety purposes. We don’t know what you have in there. Is there anything in there that’ll hurt me or hurt us?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Wayne said, raising his arms to signal to Thomas that he could have unfettered and secure access to the pocket.

The sergeant reached down and lifted the external flap of Wayne’s pocket and the deputy pulled it away from Wayne’s chest. Inside, they could see what looked like a plastic zip-lock sandwich bag. So, not knowing what they were going to find, the officers each put on a pair of latex gloves. The deputy pulled out the pocket again while the sergeant reached in to retrieve the baggie.

Wayne looked down at the ground as Thomas examined the bag, which contained something fleshy and was leaking fluid into his palm.

Thomas immediately recognized what he was holding: Some fatty yellow tissue with a brown nipple.

It was a human female breast.

“Things are so screwed up in my head now,” Wayne said. “I just want help.”

* * *

For more information, please check out my Web site: caitlinrother.com.

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read more “My latest book: BODY PARTS, A Killer With a Conscience”

MURDER ON THE HIGH SEAS

September 15, 2008

By Caitlin Rother

The murder of Tom and Jackie Hawks (pictured left) is a quintessential story of good versus evil, where a sympathetic family of law and order falls victim to a sociopathic clan of lawlessness.

The prosecution has a complex but strong case against the clan ringleader, Skylar Deleon, who faces the death penalty for allegedly committing three murders and soliciting two others – his father and cousin – from jail. His wife, who after filing for divorce now goes by her maiden name, Jennifer Henderson, was already sentenced to two consecutive life terms without parole last year in the Hawkses’ murder.

I’ve been following this multi-faceted case since it broke in late 2004, with the intention of writing a book. I’ve interviewed Tom’s son, Ryan Hawks, many times, as well as the attorneys on both sides and Jennifer’s mother. I also attended the Hawkses’ memorial service here in San Diego and have driven up to Orange County for numerous court proceedings. The brutality of this crime is worse than many I’ve written or read about, and its victims so undeserving, that it still makes me shiver.

Now, after a long line of delays that have been very frustrating for the Hawks family, Deleon’s trial is finally about to begin on September 22 and is expected to last anywhere from eight to 14 weeks. Judge Frank Fasel, the same judge who presided over Henderson’s trial, will also preside over this one.

Here’s the gist of the story:

Tom, 57, and Jackie, 47, were an attractive, trusting and unpretentious couple, still in love after 15 years of marriage and living the dream of retiring early on the high seas. Their trouble started in Newport Beach, California, after they decided to sell their 55-foot yacht, the Well Deserved, so they could move closer to their new grandson in Arizona, where they used to live.

Skylar Deleon, then 25, responded to their ad, claiming he was interested in buying the $480,000 trawler with money he’d earned as a child actor on Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. He brought his pregnant wife Jennifer and their 11-month-old daughter on board to woo the couple; Jackie was easily seduced by this ploy after being rendered infertile by a motorcycle accident years earlier.

Despite Tom’s 17 years as a probation officer, he didn’t realize that the Deleons were working a con, scheming to kill him and Jackie, steal their yacht and raid their bank accounts. On November 15, 2004, Deleon showed up with two men for a sea trial: the muscular “Crazy John” F. Kennedy, a former leader in the Long Beach Insane Crips, Snoop Dog’s old gang, and a wispy guy named Alonso Machain, a former jail guard whom Deleon had befriended while serving time for burglary in the Seal Beach city lock-up. Machain would later give up his partners in crime, confessing what happened out on the Well Deserved, to save his own skin.

Once they were out at sea, Machain said, Deleon and his crew separated the Hawkses above and below deck, where Tom’s 185 pounds of body-building brawn proved no match for Deleon and Kennedy, a taser and a pair of handcuffs. Like Jackie, who was being held upstairs by Machain, Tom was told he would live if he signed power-of-attorney documents. But instead, the crew taped the couple’s eyes and mouths shut and tied them, still handcuffed, with Jackie’s back against Tom’s chest, to a 66-pound anchor.

Then, with Catalina Island in the distance, the crew threw the anchor overboard and let its weight drag Tom and Jackie over the side of the boat – alive, with Jackie shaking uncontrollably. They sunk into the depths of the Pacific Ocean, their bodies never to be recovered.

What a horrible, horrible way to die.

Tom and Jackie came from good, honest families who knew something was amiss right away; they’d always stayed in close contact. Tom’s brother, Jim, a retired police chief from Carlsbad in San Diego County, started investigating their disappearance and filed a missing person’s report. The Newport Beach police took it from there.

Ryan, who is model good-looking and could be mistaken for his father at the same age, has been the perfect family spokesman both in print and on various TV crime shows, despite having a pretty rough time of it lately. In 2006, he showed up at Jennifer’s trial in a wheelchair after breaking both legs in a motorcycle accident during a tour of his parents’ favorite spots in Mexico. Then, as if he and his firefighter brother Matt hadn’t suffered enough tragedy already, they subsequently lost their birth mother, a court reporter, to cancer.

Skylar Deleon came from the other side of the tracks than Ryan Hawks, morally and otherwise, and his upbringing cultivated the worst in him. His father went to prison and his mother abandoned him, so he was raised by his stepmother, a massage therapist. After working as a small-time TV actor (he did some commercials, but had only a non-speaking part in two episodes of Power Rangers), he met Jennifer, a hairstylist, on the Internet. According to the prosecution, he joined and got booted from the Marines, then began planning increasingly twisted criminal endeavors for profit. Over time, his unusual sexual proclivities escalated as well.

Even after he married Jennifer, Deleon told a female friend he wanted a sex change operation and bought himself a gay sex machine that was advertised online. (Apparently, Deleon told Jennifer that he needed it to strengthen his anal muscles after a motorcycle injury forced him to wear a diaper.) In July, Deleon tried to slice off his own penis in jail with a razor blade, but didn’t finish the job, so a doctor was able to reattach it the next day.

Jennifer Henderson’s first attorney, Michael Molfetta, described Skylar Deleon as “120 pounds of hermaphrodite evilness.” Before she divorced him, Henderson used to call him “lovebug.” Deleon’s very capable attorney, Gary Pohlson, promises to explain how his client has become the complicated being that he is.

Skylar and Jennifer Deleon were caught as a result of their own greed and arrogance, a series of traceable cell phone calls and some good detective work: The couple stole the Hawkses’ car and drove it to Mexico, paid a notary to forge boat sale documents, then tried unsuccessfully to access the Hawkses’ bank accounts.

During Jennifer’s trial in 2006, Molfetta painted her as another victim of her husband’s manipulation and deception. She even turned down a deal for immunity, refusing to testify against him. A jury, however, believed the argument by charismatic prosecutor Matt Murphy that she was actually the financial mastermind behind Deleon’s felonious activities.

Over the past few years, Deleon has come to court looking increasing thin, pale and feminine, even wearing a women’s jail jumpsuit at one appearance. I have to wonder if he really meant to cut off his penis in such a painful fashion or if this was a calculated ploy to paint himself as mentally unstable just before his trial.

Machain and a fifth defendant, a Crips member named Myron Gardner, made plea bargains to testify at Deleon’s trial. The trial for the Hawkses’ murder is being combined with one for the murders of ex-con Jon Jarvi, 45, who went to Mexico with Deleon in December 2003, while he was out of jail for the day on a work furlough program. Jarvi’s body was found at the side of the road with his throat slashed.

People from around the globe have been following this case closely for several years now. To date, more than 1,300 people have left sympathetic email messages on the “Tom and Jackie Hawks Official Web site,” which Ryan Hawks set up soon after his parents went missing. It will rip your heart out to read through it.

My heart goes out to the Hawks family and also to Jackie’s family back in Ohio.

Opening statements are slated to begin October 1 in a trial that promises to provide emotional testimony and a deeper look at the psychological makeup of Skylar Deleon.

I'd ask anyone who personally knows anyone involved in this case, particularly Skylar Deleon, or has any interesting information to offer about this case, to contact me at crother@flash.net.

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As the author of fiction and nonfiction crime books, I thought that readers might be interested to hear how the writing process differs between the two genres, at least for me, and how I go about choosing the cases I feature in my books.

My true crime titles are Twisted Triangle, which was the #1 true crime book on Amazon in June and in the top 3 for July, Poisoned Love, now in its fifth edition, and Body Parts, which comes out in March; Naked Addiction is my first thriller and I'm currently working on my second one. If you’re interested in learning more about them, you can check out my Web site, http://caitlinrother.com.

Commercial fiction and nonfiction may be geared more toward entertainment purposes than their literary counterparts, but I try to incorporate some deeper messages into the stories I choose to tell. I’ve heard the opinion that true crime writers are “predators,” preying on the tragedy of families or glorifying violence, but those are certainly not my intentions. I believe I have a higher calling.

I choose the true crime stories that let me explore the psychological aspects of the human condition and illustrate the extremely important issues of life and death, and, in some cases, the struggle to survive, that we all share. Violent crimes can cause feelings ranging from betrayal and loss to utter devastation, not just to the victim’s family but to the criminal defendant’s as well. I try to touch on these same psychological issues in my fiction, too. To me, all of this is just as meaningful and relevant to society, if not more so, than other genres that tend to get more respect from reviewers and society at large.

Some of my former newspaper colleagues have told me they don't usually read true crime, as if they didn't think it was worth their time. I also recently met a very nice and highly acclaimed literary fiction writer, who told me, “I love true crime!” I got the feeling that this was his dirty little secret, just as I do when one of my former newspaper colleagues tell me they liked one of my books, almost as if it were a big surprise. The irony is that these books do sell, so somebody must be reading them!

With both kinds of writing, although more for fiction, I find myself in "the zone" if I'm having a good day. By the same token, it is much harder to write fiction in spurts because I lose my train of thought and I can forget where I’m going with the plot or a character's motivation. Both forms of writing require a lot of thinking before I can even sit down at the computer. Deciding how to tell a story – what parts in what order – is always challenging.

Nonfiction can be more challenging because it requires so much research before I can determine the best way to present the information. It helps that I know where the story ends. With fiction, however, I often seem to end up somewhere different than I'd planned – regardless of any outline I might draft – because the characters often take over and go in their own directions. Some of them can be pretty headstrong. That's how I get my twists and turns. Most of the twists aren't planned; they’re as much a surprise to me as they are, hopefully, to the reader.

Although I have published more true crime books than fiction, fiction was my first passion, and is how I got started writing books in the first place. (It took me 17 years to get my first novel published.) Growing up as an only child, I told myself stories, talked to myself in the mirror as different characters, and read lots of fiction and comic books to keep myself amused. Later, I added movies into the mix. I have always loved stories and storytelling.

I started writing fiction before I became a journalist, but it became more important about two or three years into my newspaper career because it provided a creative and therapeutic outlet by providing some relief from the daily grind of analytical thinking and fact-finding. I thought that after writing as many as four stories in a day I wouldn't have the time or energy to write at night or on weekends. But I was wrong. Writing fiction energized me, kept me up late at night, as the plot for what ultimately became Naked Addiction unfolded on my notepad. It was like a drug. From there, I learned to write narrative nonfiction, which reads like a fictional novel, but is completely factual. After writing lengthy narratives for the newspaper, books were the natural next step.

As a result, the two writing forms have become symbiotic, i.e. my fiction writing has helped improve my nonfiction storytelling and my knowledge about homicide investigations has helped inform my fiction.
I find it fulfilling to explore a true crime case in such depth, to really probe the players about their investigative processes and strategies for trial, to go deep into the family backgrounds of both the victims and the defendant, and best of all, to learn about the evidence in such detail – usually in more detail than the jury ever knew.

Working on a deadline requires me to be extremely organized, planning the sequence of my interviews based on who or who may not want to talk to me and what I need to know before I can interview the next person. Sometimes you only get one shot at someone, and even if they say they'll talk to you again, they may change their mind. That's why documents and investigative reports are so important for me. My home office, my dining room table, and, unfortunately, other nooks and crannies throughout my house become the repository for boxes, files, and stacks of paper. Let's just say I'm very thorough.

When I’m finished, there is nothing quite like the feeling of holding one of my new books, the ones my publisher sends me before they even arrive in the bookstores. And hearing from readers who were touched, moved or inspired by one of these books is the icing on the cake.

This fall, I will come full circle and teach a creative writing workshop and a journalism course at the University of California San Diego Extension so I can pass on what I’ve learned to others.

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Sex is everywhere in our society, and it’s grabbing the attention of young and old, sometimes in a mutual, covert and criminal embrace.

I’ve been reading about a rash of student-teacher sex arrests lately here in San Diego County, including four teachers – three men and a woman – at a single high school. That piqued my curiosity a bit, but I figured it was probably just a coincidence.

The impetus to blog on this topic was finally spurred by a story that said one such arrest – a 38-year-old junior high school teacher who had had a sexual relationship with a 15-year-old student – led to a lockdown at a local high school where the defendant’s wife worked as a teacher. The wife was not on campus that day, but after receiving a threat from her estranged husband, she called the school, where officials immediately called 911. Police officers from two different cities circled the campus and flew overhead in helicopters; parents who'd come to pick up students were turned away, prompting frantic cell phone calls and text messages to their children. All of this turned out to be a false alarm, but it got me thinking.

So, it’s come to this. What the hell is going on here?

Is this a case where more attention is being focused on a problem, which increases awareness and therefore results in more arrests? Or is this trend truly growing because of independent but contributing factors? And if it's the latter, what are the potential causal factors?

San Diego has certainly had its share of crazy crime cases, but I had a feeling that this trend was not geographically unique to my hometown, or even to Southern California. Nonetheless, I did a little Internet research to see if I could identify any demographic patterns.

I found nothing out of the ordinary, but I did read that more teens are having sex with each other at school, in the dark auditorium or some other cubbyhole, between classes. Apparently, it makes them feel rebellious.

I also noticed a couple of other points of interest: Nationally, the media is paying a lot more attention these days to the female teachers who are being arrested for having sex with their teenage male students, and a whole lot of people (including a couple of judges) are discussing whether their 13-, 16-, or 18-year-old male partners are actually "victims" in what was most often described as consensual sexual relations.

Still, the majority of teacher offenders seem to be male, which is not all that surprising because most sexual predators and pedophiles are men.

Now, I've certainly watched my share of "To Catch A Predator" episodes of “Dateline NBC,” fascinated by how many men cannot seem to control their twisted urges to have sex with underage boys and girls as young as 13. It's sad, really, that they need to go online, meet these kids in chat rooms and then drive several hours for a clandestine meeting when the parents are away. Many of these men seem simply, well, lonely. They also seem disconnected, not only from reality, but from the rest of society as well.

Looking for answers, I interviewed criminal psychologist Eric Hickey, the system-wide director of forensic studies at Alliant International University, to get an expert’s take on all of this.

Hickey said he believed teacher-student sex is being reported more because people are paying closer attention to what constitutes sexual activity between teachers and students. Historically, he said, such activity was considered an aberration when it involved a female teacher, if people acknowledged it at all.

Hickey noted that children are also sexualized at a much younger age today, some experimenting with oral sex as early as 10 or 11 years old after hearing from their peers that it’s "kind of a cool thing to do." (I don't know about you, but that little factoid shocked me, although I do recall a recent episode of “The View,” where one of the hosts was complaining about the tiny pairs of low-cut thong underwear that were being manufactured for children wearing tight low-rise jeans, a nauseating image in and of itself.)

Another factor, Hickey said, is that sex is being more openly discussed by society at large, including topics that were pretty much taboo in years past.

For example, he said, more people are talking about paraphilic activity, i.e. aberrant sexual behavior such as pedophilia, sadism and necrophilia. If you have HBO, you can watch documentaries about prostitutes at work. Pornography is also rampant on the Internet, available not only to adults but also to children whose parents are not monitoring their computer activity as closely as they should.

Whether it’s on TV, the movies or the Internet, we’re all more exposed to these topics as barriers and sexual mores have been breaking down and we are constantly focused on aberrant and criminal behavior on highly-rated shows like “CSI” or “Law & Order.”

Hickey points out that when sex is illegal, as it is between an adult and an underage student, it’s a crime and that, for some people, makes it more exciting. I would add that some teens might also see this type of sex as “a cool thing to do,” but unfortunately, they are often unaware of the lasting emotional damage it can cause.

Hickey noted that teachers today have more access to students outside the classroom. Because of the widespread use of text messaging, cell phones, instant messages, emails and chat rooms, he said, teachers are able to communicate with their students in personal and immediate ways they couldn't before. (That’s also how some of their illegal liaisons are exposed.)

“I do believe that pedophiles go into occupations consciously or subconsciously" where they can meet children or teenagers, Hickey said.

But, he added, “the vast majority of school teachers wouldn't even think” of doing this and even if they did, most would not do it again. In general, he said, those who engage in sex with their students clearly don't have the maturity or insight and are willing to cast aside their careers for just a couple minutes of fantasy.

I’ve noticed another trend myself and I’m wondering if it might be related somehow: People seem so overly stimulated these days, so stressed out and overwhelmed. Some seem so lonely and disconnected from other people because so much of our communication these days is done by cell phone or computer.

I read a story recently that acknowledged this trend, saying that people were turning to social networking Web sites to try to feel a greater sense of connection with others. I would point out that this does nothing to provide the touch of another human being.

When I mentioned this to Hickey, he told me I was expressing a similar sentiment to the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, who said that technology is alienating people from society. I have to wonder if, like the predators on “Dateline,” some of these teachers are feeling a deep-seated loneliness and disconnectedness and may be reaching out – inappropriately, of course – to children and teenagers because they are more accessible to them, so much more vulnerable and approachable than adults.

I'm not sure what can be done to fix this complicated set of problems, but I'd be curious to hear what other people think.

It did little to reassure me when Hickey said, in closing, “There's nothing in the water.”

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By Caitlin Rother


When I blogged here last month, I was in the middle of attending what turned into a three-week preliminary hearing for the Bird Rock Bandits case, in which five twenty-something men were accused of murdering Emery Kauanui, a professional surfer in the affluent coastal community of La Jolla, California.

Since then, Kauanui’s surfing buddies at Windansea beach have held a “paddle-out” memorial ceremony to honor the year anniversary of his death. Also, some interesting developments have arisen that have changed the legal case significantly.

But first, a little catch-up for those unfamiliar with the nationally publicized case: Prosecutor Sophia Roach argued that the five defendants committed a fatal group beating of Kauanui as a criminal street gang, whose members had known each other since childhood in the neighborhood of La Jolla known as Bird Rock. This “gang allegation” allowed her to present evidence of an alleged pattern of assaultive group behavior dating back several years before Kauanui’s death.

Only one of the defendants, Seth Cravens, 22, is still behind bars on $1.5 million bail. Cravens has the majority of charges against him, ranging from assault to murder. The other four – Eric House, 21; Orlando Osuna, 23; Matthew Yanke, 21; and Henri "Hank" Hendricks, 22 – are all out on bail.

The San Diego County District Attorney's Office is accusing this group of former La Jolla High School football teammates of terrorizing their community, albeit under the radar of the local police. Angry citizens came unglued by this, saying bad behavior by rich white boys shouldn’t go unchecked by authorities. Curiously, none of the police officers who testified at the prelim said they'd even heard of the Bird Rock Bandits before Kauanui's death.

Today, this question remains: Was this a case of ineffective policing or of overzealous prosecution, as the defendants’ families and Cravens’ attorney, Mary Ellen Attridge, maintains?

Citing the messy prosecution of three Duke University lacrosse team members that ended in the disbarment of the DA Mike Nifong, Attridge of the Alternate Public Defender’s Office said this week that overzealous prosecution seems to be a “national epidemic” these days.

The DA’s Office offered a blanket “no comment” on the case yesterday, saying Roach was not available to speak about it until after sentencing.

The Bandits, a name this self-described party crew gave themselves, are accused of exhibiting some pretty violent behavior: crashing parties in a chartered party bus; intimidating, threatening and drunkenly assaulting men in bars and on the beach; slapping women who got in their way; and breaking facial bones that required surgery to fix.

Then, on a fateful night in May 2007, Kauanui spilled beer on House, a fight was arranged at Kauanui’s house, and after he finished fighting House, Kauanui took a solid punch from Cravens that sent him backwards, cracking his skull on the pavement. He died four days later.

Accounts conflict about whether Cravens sucker-punched Kauanui or was responding to a wild swing that didn’t connect. (Cravens has the reputation for sucker-punching people and starting fights while drunk.) There are also conflicting accounts about whether Kauanui was punched and kicked by the other defendants, although a pathologist testified that Kauanui’s face and body showed no bruising that would indicate he’d taken a group beating. Hendricks admits he pulled Kauanui’s girlfriend off House as she tried to stop the fight, but only because “she didn’t know what the f--- was going on.”

The reason this story got such media attention is that the Bandits aren’t the typical gangsters you see in courtrooms across the nation. Most of them are white and come from nice families who live in one of the country's most exclusive zip codes. After his arrest, Hendricks was suspended from the University of New Hampshire football team, where he’d been playing under the mentorship of Doug Flutie, the retired quarterback for the San Diego Chargers and New England Patriots.

Nonetheless, Roach presented a number of photographs that showed some of the defendants throwing what she said were gang-related hand signs.

Attridge countered with photographs of the President and First Lady throwing similar hand signs that signified their boosterism for their favorite Texas sports team. Attridge also mentioned that surfers at Windansea, a nationally known surfing spot and beach where the Bandits often hung out, made the same sign, as in “Hang Ten.” (I've seen Kauanui's younger brother throwing the same sign down at Windansea.)

But Roach didn't give up. She also presented emails, drawings of “BRB,” swastikas, lightning bolts and other Bandit-related memorabilia that were found in the defendants’ bedrooms along with the lyrics from an Irish song, “drink, drink, drink and fight.”

Well, by the end of the hearing, Roach's case had taken a big hit. Testimony by the defense's gang expert far outshone the prosecutor’s and Superior Court Judge John Einhorn threw out the gang allegation. With a decade of hearing gang cases in his courtroom, Einhorn said he saw no evidence of weapons, tattoos, rival gangs or graffiti marking public territory as BRB’s, all the typical precursors for a true street gang. He did concede, however, that the five men met the sociological definition of a street gang.

Einhorn described the prosecution’s case as a “bootstrap theory,” noting his concern that police designated the Bandits – and these five defendants in particular – as a criminal street gang after Kauanui died.

Einhorn did bind the charge of second-degree murder over for trial, but he made it clear that he was doing so because much of the witness testimony, presented by law enforcement officials as is allowed at a prelim, was contradictory enough that he felt a jury should make up its own mind after hearing from the witnesses directly.

Attridge says Roach is now precluded from even mentioning the gang allegation in court if the case ever gets to trial, although it's looking like it won't even get that far for several of the defendants, who are apparently discussing plea bargains with the DA’s office. There is talk that a couple of them can no longer afford private attorneys and may have to switch to public defenders.

At a short press conference after the hearing, Roach said she was disappointed by the judge’s ruling, but she wouldn’t answer my question about whether she felt the judge's decision had weakened her case.

“I’m not going to comment on the facts of the case,” she said before walking away.

Actions speak louder than words.

In a related side issue, Cravens’ family has sued the Pacific Law Center for fraud after paying the firm a $175,000 retainer and being told the case would be “thrown out,” all before Attridge took over in January. Co-defendant Yanke is represented by Kerry Steigerwalt, who purchased the firm in March.

Cravens may be the only defendant to go to trial, possibly in late August, according to Attridge who is ready, if not eager, to go to court to dispute the murder charge.

“I’m going to lock and load,” Attridge said this week. “This is a voluntary manslaughter soaking wet.”


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Bird Rock Bandits

May 15, 2008

By Caitlin Rother

America loves to watch when the rich misbehave, especially when the setting is the idyllic community of La Jolla, a world-renowned vacation and surfing spot where the “Beach Blanket Bingo” beauties went to high school and came home to retire.

Just like the actresses who starred in the Beach movies of the 1960s, I, too, went to La Jolla High School. And so did a group of five young men who have been charged with first-degree murder in the death of another LJHS alum who died last May from a skull fracture he suffered after a night of drinking and fighting with these five defendants.

For the past week or so, I’ve been sitting in the San Diego County courthouse watching the preliminary hearing for these five young men play out in Judge John Einhorn’s courtroom. In addition to the murder charge they all share, the District Attorney’s Office has filed 13 counts of felony assault against one or more of them, 16 counts in all.

The rest of the nation is watching, too. This week, the “Today” show and the New York Times both ran stories on the case and “Dateline” is working one up as well. Yesterday the British media began making calls.

I’ve been following the case with great curiosity since it broke a year ago with the death of Emery Kauanui, a professional surfer who had partied over the years with these five young men who are allegedly part of a larger group of twenty-something men who called themselves the “Bird Rock Bandits.” Bird Rock is a neighborhood at the southern end of La Jolla, where these young men, who range in age from 21 to 23, grew up together.

In my day, the venerable institution from which we all graduated was nicknamed “La Jolla Get High School” because someone had spray-painted the word “Get” over the school sign. So, clearly, partying is nothing new to La Jolla High School students, many of whom are the children of well-educated and affluent professionals. The school is conveniently located only a few blocks from Windansea, a beautiful beach where some of these defendants have been known to hang out. The five co-defendants also played football together back in the day.

More recently, according to the prosecution witnesses who have testified so far, the Bird Rock Bandits liked to drink together – and then start fights with other people.

On the night that Kauanui was dealt the blow that proved fatal four days later, he spilled beer on Eric House at a La Jolla bar, then the two decided to fight later that night at Kauanui’s house. Kauanui called up some friends to back him up because he thought he was going to get jumped, and, as he anticipated, all five defendants showed up together in one car.

Kauanui was kicked and punched by the group as he fought House, but he won the primary fight against House nonetheless. Then, as he was arguing with Seth Cravens, the prosecution claims Cravens sucker-punched Kauanui (Cravens had a reputation for taking such shots), causing the surfer to fall backward on the pavement and crack his skull open. All but House ran or drove away before police arrived.

It’s unclear how the name “Bird Rock Bandits,” aka BRB, came about. Perhaps it was a playful imitation of the monikers the FBI give bank robbers that often run in the newspaper. But as the prosecution contends, this group has morphed into a gang with an increasingly violent pattern of criminal behavior that dates back at least three years before Kauanui’s death.

The other defendants are Matthew Yanke, Orlando Osuna, and Henri “Hank” Hendricks, the latter of whom had been away at college in New Hampshire for much of that time, playing football under the mentorship of retired Chargers and New England Patriots quarterback Doug Flutie, now a close friend. Hendricks was suspended after charges were filed against him.

To back up the gang allegation, prosecutor Sophia Roach has presented exhibits of drawings seized in searches of at least one defendant’s home, showing Nazi swastikas, Hells Angel stickers, a creature with goat-like horns wearing a red scarf over the lower portion of his face like a bandit, and the motto, “It’s a pirate’s life for me.”

This gang allegation is pivotal for this case because under California law, it raises the stakes in the form of an “enhancement.” Essentially, this is an added layer of legal gobbledygook that means more evidence of prior bad acts can be presented in court against these defendants and that additional years will be tacked onto their sentences if they are convicted.

Clearly, this case is creating so much buzz because these defendants are aren’t the typical gang members you’d expect to see in court; the defense attorneys claim that the DA’s office is stretching the gang law to fit this case.

The $64,000 question is whether this gang enhancement will hold up in Judge Einhorn’s courtroom. Without it, the prosecution’s case would appear to be much weaker. Some believe that involuntary manslaughter may be a more appropriate charge than homicide.

“It’s not a murder,” said Cravens’ sharp-tongued attorney, Mary Ellen Attridge, who works for the Alternate Public Defender’s Office.

I’d only planned to come for a day or two, but I’ve found myself returning every day so far, becoming a familiar fixture to the defendants’ family members who also have attended faithfully day after day – watching in disbelief as their young, handsome and athletic brothers, sons, grandsons, or nephews are accused of such horrors.

The prosecution has put on a parade of witnesses who have described actions by one or more of these defendants, as well as by other La Jolla High alums (i.e. Bandits) who have not been charged, at least in this case. Accusations include throwing punches that break facial bones, requiring surgery; intimidating people with violence and threatening to kill them; accosting beachgoers; crashing parties in a chartered bus, beating up guests and even hitting young women who get in their way.

Still, one after another, these young men’s parents have approached me to say they hope that I will write “the truth” about their sons. There seems to be a pervasive sense among these families that this is an overblown prosecutorial attack on what is essentially a bunch of good kids whose bright futures are at stake.

Cravens is the 13th child in a Mormon family of 14. He’s the only one of the five defendants who is still in jail – the others are out on bail – and has more charges against him than any of the others. Attridge, his attorney, has described Kauanui’s death as the result of a “fight gone bad.” She said she doesn’t even know what Hendricks is even doing in court, calling him “Joe College.” His primary role in the fatal fight, it seems, is that he pulled Kauanui’s girlfriend off House, who was on top of Kauanui at the time, then fled the scene with his friends.

“I think he’ll walk out after the prelim,” Attridge said.

Yesterday in court, Attridge admitted to the judge that she was attempting to impeach the case out of existence. She has contended that virtually all the assault charges were only filed after Kauanui died because a number of angry La Jollans complained that they or their children had been attacked by the hooligans they read about in the paper and the police had done nothing.

Attridge created quite a stir when she said Kauanui called a friend before the fatal fight and, quoting from a prosecution witness statement that her office transcribed from a CD, she said, “I’ve got people at my house, I’m going to kill ‘em.”

When she learned from the investigator testifying on the stand that this statement was not reflected on the DA’s transcript of the same witness interview, Attridge raised the question with the judge why it wasn’t. I think it’s safe to assume we were all wondering the same thing.

Roach said she isn’t really allowed to speak about the case outside of court, where she has been trying to persuade the judge that Kauanui’s death occurred as a result of a plan by these young men to gang up on the guy and beat him to a pulp. Ironically, in the cozy courtroom, Roach stands at a table, surrounded by the gang of five defense attorneys and their second chairs, who often times call out “objection” simultaneously as she is questioning witnesses.

For the past week, the prelim has been fraught with conflicting stories from various witnesses who saw or heard the fight at different times and from various vantage points; some are friends or neighbors of the victim, others are friends of the defendants, or both.

Let’s just say there are quite a few variations on what happened the night Kauanui was dealt his fatal blow and no shortage of “I don’t recall” and “I don’t know” statements by the various police detectives and investigators who have taken the stand.

It seems that the judge, whose voice at times has seemed to reflect irritation by how long the proceedings are taking as the number of exhibits reached 99 yesterday, has his work cut out for him.


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****By Caitlin Rother *** *

Many people turn a blind eye to certain members of our society such as prostitutes and the homeless because they are, for whatever reason, uncomfortable to deal with. But there are others who prey on these vulnerable types, perhaps thinking that no one will notice or care if they go missing.

That presumption seems to be faulty, at least when the final outcome is death.

As I've been finishing up my latest true crime book, Body Parts (Kensington/Pinnacle, March 2009), I've been focusing on a serial killer whose victims were in one or both of these vulnerable groups.

Wayne Adam Ford said he picked up dozens of women – he claimed as many as 50 were prostitutes – with whom he engaged in erotic asphyxia. He said he cut off the blood to their brains by squeezing their necks at the carotid arteries to enhance their orgasms. When they fell unconscious, he revived them with CPR, sometimes three or four times while he continued to have sex with them. He claimed that only four of these women, two of whom were known prostitutes, died; the others he let go, often tied up but loosely enough to get free.

After turning himself in, Ford admitted to dismembering two of his victims and leaving all four of them (and/or their parts) in water. One of them, whose head was never recovered, remains unidentified. The other three were Tina Gibbs, Lanett White, and Patricia Tamez. Ford claimed these women's deaths were accidental, but a jury did not believe him. He is on Death Row in California.

If Ford chose these particular victims because he thought no one would miss them, he was wrong. They had families who loved them and suffered their loss.

I've noticed a couple of other cases in the news lately involving male victims who were also vulnerable to predators because they were homeless.

One case that was just tried in San Diego was the murder and dismemberment of Allen Burton Hawes, 57, in February 2007. Gerald Nash, 62, was convicted of his murder last week and now faces a sentence of 50 years to life.

Hawes' body parts were found scattered around San Diego County – his torso on a riverbank, his head in a trash bag along Interstate 5, his left hand on a freeway ramp and his legs in some brush in a canyon.

Nash denied killing Hawes, who used to frequent The Ever So Naughty adult bookstore, where Nash worked and where Hawes used to sleep in the theater. A search of Nash's home, the bookstore and his vehicles turned up several handguns and notes in his own handwriting on how to abduct, torture and kill a person, then get rid of the evidence.

A second case, now being tried in Los Angeles, is being compared in the media to “Arsenic and Old Lace.”

Olga Rutterschmidt and Helen Golay, ages 75 and 77, are accused of befriending two homeless men and getting them to sign life insurance policies with the two women as beneficiaries, then drugging the men and staging hit-and-run "accidents" to collect about $2.3 million in insurance benefits. Rutterschmidt and Golay face two counts of murder and two counts of conspiracy to commit murder for financial gain in the deaths of Paul Vados and Kenneth McDavid, ages 73 and 51.

These three murder cases have all gone to court, but there is one other tragic death case that has stuck in my mind, maybe because it just … faded … away.

While I was still working as a reporter for The San Diego Union-Tribune, I wrote a story about a 54-year-old homeless man who was hit by a red Ferrari while crossing the street in a residential area on a Friday evening in October 2005.

The impact threw the man's 195-pound body more than 80 feet – shattering the car’s right headlight – and yet the Ferrari kept on going, apparently at a speed of 40 mph, or 15 mph above the posted limit.

The driver, a business attorney who lived nearby, turned himself in at the sheriff's station the next morning, where his car was impounded. But to my knowledge, he was never arrested. Several months before I left the paper to write books full-time in September 2006, the prosecutor on the case stopped returning my calls and, when I did an Internet search this weekend, I couldn’t find any subsequent news report of any arrest.

At the time I wrote the story, some area residents were questioning whether the driver got off the hook because he had money – enough to pay for a $100,000 restoration of his Ferrari and to live in a townhouse in the seaside community of Cardiff – while the hit-and-run victim had little more than a pager and two phone numbers of men he’d met a couple times at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.

The prosecutor said that the disparity of wealth was irrelevant. She explained that under California law, a driver who knowingly leaves the scene of an accident in which someone has been killed or severely injured can only be charged with felony hit-and-run if it can be proved that the driver knew he had hit a person and kept on going.

In this case, the driver, whose attorney would not discuss whether his client had been drinking alcohol that evening, claimed he was unaware that he had hit a human being.

The sheriff’s sergeant who investigated the case had recommended that charges be filed against the driver, but I’m assuming that the prosecutor believed she didn’t have enough evidence to convince a jury and the case was dropped.

The San Diego County Medical Examiner's Office was able to trace the victim's origins to Hornchurch, England, but could not locate any relatives, so his body was cremated and his ashes were scattered at sea.

Nonetheless, this human being had a name – Patrick Joseph Fischer – and it seems only right that he should be remembered by somebody somewhere.

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Revenge on The Cable Guy

February 25, 2008

It’s happened to all of us.

The cable guy says he's coming during that tricky window of time – tricky in that you don't know whether he really might show up at the beginning of the window or whether he’ll show up five minutes before the window closes so he doesn't have to give you a discount.

Tricky in that you don't know whether it's really his fault when he shows up late and says someone in the office screwed up. Or a water main broke. Or he accidentally ran over a cat.

And tricky in that it can really screw up your whole day, waiting and wondering if the cable guy will even get the job done properly, forcing you to go through this routine all over again.

Well, 62-year-old Gary Thompson apparently hasn’t learned the required tricks in this area.

A Dish Network repair man was supposed to come and fix his television one morning, but kept Gary waiting all afternoon. When he finally showed up at Gary’s house in Vista, California, Gary allegedly threatened his life.

Gary, who was arrested on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon, among other crimes, pleaded not guilty to the charges and is out on bail, according to The San Diego Union-Tribune.

His attorney, James Dicks, denies that Gary welcomed the repair guy from the garage with the barrel of a shotgun. He said Gary was just cleaning his weapon and couldn’t have shot the guy anyway – he was out of shells.

Technology can be maddening, I know, and customer service seems to be at an all-time low, especially when you get lost in voice mail hell. I often find that I know more than the customer service representative I call for answers. And they always seem to be rude. I can't help it if they hate their jobs.

Even though I personally wouldn’t pick up a shotgun, I think I know how Thompson must have felt. I think all of us do.

Mona Shaw (pictured above) certainly does. A few months ago, 75-year-old Mona, nicknamed "the Hammer" by the Washington Post, had a meltdown after getting less than satisfactory service from her local Comcast office in Manassas, Virginia. (Coincidentally, Manassas is the same city where my upcoming true crime book, Twisted Triangle, takes place. I’m wondering if there’s something in the water.)

Mona and her husband, Don, had scheduled installation on a Monday for one of those reportedly nifty combination deals on digital phone, cable and Internet services, but the cable guy didn’t come. It was Wednesday before he finally showed up, and even then he didn't finish the job. Finally, on Friday, Comcast cut off all service to the Shaws' house.

The couple was understandably upset. Who wouldn't be? Especially when Mona had a heart condition and didn't have any neighbors close by.

So, after going the whole weekend with no service and getting the runaround most of Monday, the Shaws drove over to the Comcast office, where Mona asked to speak to a manager. A customer service representative promised that someone would come help them, but told them that in the meantime they should sit on a bench outside.

After waiting there for two hours, the same representative told the Shaws that the manager wouldn't be coming out after all. She'd gone. Left the building.

That's when Mona lost it.

Lucky she brought a hammer in her purse. It was the perfect tool to bang the hell out of the customer service rep’s computer keyboard.

“Now do I have your attention?" Mona asked.

In case you’re wondering, I’m not advocating vigilantism. But I have to say, doesn’t that sound like fun?

Mona didn't stop there. She knocked over the monitor and smacked the you-know-what out of the telephone.

The lesson here is that becoming a vigilante may look like a good idea when someone like Denzel Washington does it in the movies, but apparently, you have to be in prime health to be one. During Hammer Time with Mona, her blood pressure skyrocketed, she started hyperventilating, and Comcast had to call an ambulance.

Lucky the other office phones still worked.

Mona ended up with a three-month suspended jail sentence for disorderly conduct, a $345 fine, and a restraining order against her.

That's okay with the Shaws, though.

"What the hell, I'm 75," Mona Shaw told InsideNoVA.com.

After all that bad blood, she and her husband, both of whom are church-going and otherwise law-abiding Air Force retirees, decided to get phone service from a different carrier: Verizon.

According to The Washington Post, "Police gave her the hammer back, though she swears she's content to ride off into the sunset of True Crime Stories in America, never again to go Com-smash-tic on her local cable provider."

I just thought I’d make sure Mona and Gary made it into the archives.

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Life or Death

January 28, 2008

By Caitlin Rother

They opened the curtain in the former gas chamber at San Quentin state prison and announced that the execution had begun. It took five minutes to kill Tommy Thompson, a man who proclaimed his innocence to the end.

During those grueling five minutes, as I craned my neck to see from the bleachers where I stood with the other reporters, the only sound in the room was the shwooshing of the air-conditioning and the heart-wrenching sobs of a blonde woman Thompson had asked to come witness his death. The brother of the 21-year-old nanny Thompson had been convicted of raping and killing was there, too. He’d been waiting 17 years to get justice for his sister’s death.

It's been 10 years since I witnessed that execution, but I will never forget watching Thompson repeatedly raise his head up to communicate with the blonde woman, straining against the straps that were supposed to be holding him down on the table.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he mouthed to her.

"I love you," she replied, blowing him a kiss through the glass walls of the chamber.

"I know," he mouthed back, smiling. "Be brave."

I remember wondering at the time how he was able to move around like that, considering he was hooked up to intravenous lines that were feeding him a fatal three-drug cocktail. (The people injecting the drugs were on the other side of a wall, hidden from view.)

I had forgotten his last words to the warden until I pulled out my old story this week: “For 17 years, the attorney general has been pursuing the wrong man. In time, he will come to know this. I do not want anyone to avenge my death. Instead, I want you to stop killing people. God bless.”

Now, I am not writing this to take a position for or against the death penalty. This issue has become more relevant to me of late, but, perhaps more importantly, it’s become increasingly topical for the nation as well.

As the US Supreme Court considers the constitutionality of executions by lethal injection, i.e. whether that method is cruel and unusually painful, the California Commission on the Fair Administration of Justice is also considering whether to narrow the definition of what constitutes a capital crime, which now includes 33 “special circumstance” allegations.

My renewed interest developed when I started writing my third true crime book, Killer with a Conscience, which is scheduled to be published by Kensington/Pinnacle in April 2009. The book chronicles the case of the long-haul trucker and serial killer Wayne Adam Ford (pictured above), who was convicted of murdering four women in California, two of whom he dismembered, and then dumping them in waterways. After being sentenced last March, he is now one of the 660-plus prisoners on Death Row at San Quentin.

I write crime fiction, too, but my first true crime book, Poisoned Love, was about the murder case of Kristin Rossum, an attractive young toxicologist who was convicted of fatally poisoning her husband with the powerful narcotic painkiller fentanyl. Prosecutors said she stole the drug from her lab at the San Diego County Medical Examiner’s Office; Rossum claimed her husband obtained it himself and committed suicide. She, too, was eligible for the death penalty, but the district attorney only sought a life sentence without the possibility of parole (LWOP), so that's what the jury gave her. (Some legal experts speculated that the DA didn’t think he could win a death sentence for such a pretty defendant, and that it may not be a good idea to try in an election year.)

Rossum was arrested for murder by poison and still proclaims her innocence. Ford turned himself in with a woman’s breast in his pocket and cooperated with authorities to help give his victims’ families some closure. He claimed the deaths were accidental during rough sex and erotic asphyxiation. Although he tried to revive them with CPR, he said, he was unsuccessful. During sentencing, however, the judge indicated that four accidents was two or three too many for that rationalization to hold up, so he confirmed the jury’s recommendation for a death sentence.

If things continue as they are, Ford’s appeals will wind their way through the justice system for at least the next 15 years. If he loses those appeals, he may still die in prison of natural causes before he is executed.

California not only has the biggest backlog of death penalty cases, it also has the largest Death Row population. The amount of time prisoners wait to be executed after being convicted is double the national average.

No one has been executed in California for two years. The state’s three-drug protocol was halted at San Quentin in February 2006, just before the scheduled execution of Michael Morales, when a federal district court judge, Jeremy Fogel, decided that the protocol needed to be changed.

Fogel ordered that the three drugs, which had been administered one at a time in succession, be replaced with barbiturates so inmates wouldn’t feel any pain. The first drug in the cocktail had been an analgesic, sodium pentothal. The second was pancuronium bromide, which paralyzes all muscles in the body, including the diaphragm, and stops a person from breathing. And the third was potassium chloride, which stops the heart from beating and, without sufficient anesthetic, apparently causes a person to feel as though his veins are on fire. Opponents have argued that six out of the 11 prisoners given lethal injections in California may not have been sufficiently anesthetized.

Fogel also ordered that a medical professional monitor the execution. It was this order that stopped the execution, because no doctor would cross the ethical line of participating, even as an observer, in killing a human being because it violated the Hippocratic Oath.

I actually went to San Quentin twice to witness the Thompson execution as a staff writer for The San Diego Union-Tribune, where I covered jails and prisons at the time. The first time, in 1997, the execution was stayed only hours before it was scheduled to happen. It finally proceeded in July 1998.

This was something I felt I should do – just once – so that I was knowledgeable about the issue of capital punishment. If I was going to write about murderers, I felt it was important to actually see the ramifications of delivering a death sentence and I did not take that responsibility lightly.

Nonetheless, it was not easy to watch another human being be killed, regardless of the circumstances. I had learned through my research that Thompson’s codefendant told the state parole board many years after Thompson was convicted that the rape prosecutors cited as Thompson’s motive for murder, which also made him eligible for a death sentence, had looked more like consensual sex. The codefendant’s family was wealthy enough to hire a private attorney and he did not get the death penalty.

Advocates say the death penalty is a deterrent and provides necessary justice for the victims and their families. It makes them feel that society is safer, having the death penalty in place. Some believe in the Biblical “eye for an eye,” while others say, “some people just have to die” because they are too evil to remain living. Some believe the death penalty is only appropriate for those who commit the most heinous crimes such as serial killers, mass murderers or people who molest and kill children.

Opponents counter that the death penalty kills with a disproportionate ethnic and socioeconomic bias, executing more blacks than whites. (To my knowledge, no one is making a big deal about this, but it also kills far more men than women.) They also say that given the number of people who have been executed and later found innocent, the system is fatally flawed.

As I have been doing research on the Ford case – and this has always been one of my favorite parts about being a journalist and now an author – I've learned a few things about the death penalty.

I learned that 36 of the 50 states use capital punishment, that New Jersey just eliminated it and Colorado and Maryland are looking at abolishing it.

I was aware that death penalty cases were more expensive than those culminating with life sentences, but I was surprised to learn just how much more:

--It costs California taxpayers more than $114 million a year to maintain the death penalty system over and above the cost of administering LWOP sentences and that figure doesn't even count the costs of prosecution. (This is according to a 2005 story in the Los Angeles Times. A Sacramento Bee story said the state could save $90 million by abolishing the death penalty.)

--In North Carolina, according to a Duke University study, capital cases cost at least an extra $2.16 million per execution, compared to the cost of prosecuting and sentencing defendants for LWOP.

--Florida spends $3.2 million per capital case, according to the Miami Herald.

--And Texas spends $2.3 million per capital case – about three times the cost of imprisoning someone in a single cell in maximum security for 40 years, according to a story in the Dallas Morning News from 1992.

California has executed only 13 of its Death Row prisoners since the death penalty was reinstated in 1976. The state would have to execute one inmate a day for almost two years to clear the decks.

In all likelihood, a good number of these inmates won’t be executed before they die of natural causes, so taxpayers will have to pay to house them for life terms anyway – after also paying the higher cost of prosecuting them as death cases and subsidizing the appeals that go along with that. (It costs an annual $34,000 to house just one prisoner, and presumably even more for each inmate on Death Row, where security is higher.)

“That is the most expensive possible system imaginable,” said Richard Dieter, executive director of The Death Penalty Information Center, an organization that says it is critical of the death penalty but not on moral grounds. “It’s the worst of both worlds.”

Meanwhile, California Gov. Schwarzenegger has just proposed the release of 22,000 nonviolent prisoners because of the state’s budget problems, while the state builds a new execution chamber and adds more capacity to Death Row, which is comprised of all single cells, at a cost of hundreds of millions of dollars.

I have to wonder – if more of the general population was more aware of all these costs, would people still choose to maintain this measure of safety?

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In Cold Blog is a true crime blog founded by best selling author Corey Mitchell, and is written by award winning journalists, authors, criminal justice professionals and others.

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