06.Evil.Beside.Her.2008 (34 page)

“Are you asking this jury to give you probation?” Easterling concluded.

“Yes,” said Bergstrom. “I am.”

“Who are you crying for?” Rosenthal asked when he took over questioning.”

“I’m crying for everyone involved. It’s a very big tragedy for everyone.”

“Aren’t you crying for yourself? Because you got caught?”

“No, for everyone. The victims, too.”

“Mr. Bergstrom,” Rosenthal continued. “Tell me again about your problem.”

“I have a sexual problem. It’s embarrassing. I don’t understand why this happens,” he answered. “I thank God, I’m not a violent person and I never really hurt anybody.”

“You never really hurt anybody?” Rosenthal said, emphasizing Bergstrom’s denial of responsibility for his victims’ suffering.

“Not physically, no.”

“Was this raping a thrill?”

“I don’t know if I’d describe it as a thrill. It was something that ate away inside me,” Bergstrom said again. “I was very confused about my problem.”

“When you talk about ‘my problem,’ you understand that it’s become society’s problem?” Rosenthal queried, looking straight into Bergstrom’s eyes.

“Yes,” he said, deflecting the prosecutor’s gaze.

“Mr. Bergstrom, are you telling this jury that if they decide to send you to prison, they’d better do it for a long time, because you’ll have the same problem when you get out?”

“That’s up to the jury.”

Throughout his questioning, Kimberly Greenmen and the other victims watched Bergstrom’s every move. Seated with their families, husbands and children, they apprehensively searched the faces of the jurors, wondering how Easterling’s well-honed argument for probation was playing.

As Judge Walker dismissed the jury for the day and announced closing arguments would start the following morning, Greenmen’s gaze fell again on Bergstrom, the man who had tied her up and raped her on a bright, sunny morning eighteen months earlier. “I wanted him to look at me,” she’d say later. “He kept his head down and looked so pathetic. I wanted to ask him, ‘Why me?’ Why did he have to come into my house? Mess up my life?”

Exhausted from the tension, Linda Bergstrom drove home from court, stopping at the baby-sitter’s house to pick up Ashley. Too tired to cook, she detoured through a McDonald’s drive-through and bought her daughter a Happy Meal for dinner. That night in her small apartment, the phone rang continuously, as it had so many nights before, with calls from the county jail.

“They got me and they got me good,” James said, when she finally accepted a call. “If I hadn’t confessed, they never would have gotten me. Those cops lied to me. I thought I’d get treatment. Why didn’t you get me a better lawyer? My parents aren’t getting me a lawyer either. They say they can’t afford it. I didn’t hurt those women. I didn’t even go all the way with them. I didn’t put marks on their bodies, cut them up, or kill them.”

“James, you had to be stopped,” Linda whispered. “You didn’t leave anyone any choice.”

“You realize it was you who turned me in,” he seethed. “If it wasn’t for you, they never would have caught me.”

When the gavel sounded in Judge Walker’s courtroom the following morning, a crowd gathered to hear closing arguments. James Bergstrom’s victims and their families occupied the front row. Rosenthal had suggested they come. He wanted them to be highly visible when Danny Easterling, on Bergstrom’s behalf, tried to diminish the violence and harm they’d suffered. The Bergstroms sat a few rows back. Often Irene Bergstrom covered her eyes with her hands, as if weary and trying to shut out the sights and sounds of the courtroom. James C. appeared resigned, as if he suspected the day before had not gone well. Perhaps he was considering the awesome responsibility of controlling his oldest son if the jury took Easterling’s option and agreed to put James on probation. Surely an electronic monitor would be no match for a man trained in communications on a nuclear submarine.

Detective Frank Fidelibus had also returned. He’d become a part of the case the day he investigated the attack on Sandy Colyard, and he wanted to see it through. He was as worried as Rosenthal that if James Bergstrom somehow managed to escape prison, he would be facing him again someday, another courtroom, more victims.

Linda sat quietly at the far end of the room a few rows ahead of James C. and Irene Bergstrom. She nervously chipped at the remains of her fingernail polish, much of which she’d peeled away during the previous day’s testimony.
She thought of Ashley at the sitter’s house. She thought of the life she had pieced together for her daughter in the six months since her ex-husband’s arrest. There wasn’t a lot of money, but they’d managed. She’d disposed of everything in the apartment that reminded her of James, even the bed in which they’d slept. It was a modest beginning, but given a chance, she was sure she could make it work. If he was free again, she felt certain the nightmare would start all over. She knew the divorce wouldn’t stop James from coming after her.
He blames me,
she thought.

In a very real sense, everything that had happened in the seven years of her marriage to James Bergstrom had led her to this point. Now it was out of her hands. Whether she would be allowed to start the new life she so desperately desired depended on the verdict of twelve strangers—the ten women and two men on the jury.

“As the judge tells you, you must consider the full range of punishment. That includes probation,” Danny Easterling said, as he took the courtroom floor to begin closing arguments. “Let’s talk about what you didn’t see in the defendant. You didn’t see a person who committed aggravated sexual assault and used violent and physical injury. What you didn’t see is someone who is not remorseful. Someone who is uncooperative. Someone who didn’t confess to four felony crimes that never would have been prosecuted but for his confession. What you didn’t see is someone who refused to tell you, ‘I need help.’

“This is a case that boils down to the classic decision. It’s a tough choice. If you order probation and the judge orders treatment, you’re doing something for society. You’re doing something for his problem that will never happen again. If you cage him with other men and don’t give him a realistic, quality chance at treatment, someday…he’s going to get out. You never know exactly what type of person he’s going to be, [if there’s] a reasonable chance that he’s going to repeat his criminal behavior and victimize other women, like these ladies.

“Or you take the chance on the man that [he has] got some good in him. A realistic chance at progressive treatment…This is a sickness we’re dealing with here. The experts told us that…If you think Mr. Bergstrom is going to benefit from prison treatment, you’re kidding yourselves. You have here the classic case of where do you draw the line? Where do you take the chance? This is a defendant who has enough good in him, and he has enough ability and potential to cure his problems with the proper restrictions. Throw him in a cage with other prisoners and he’ll come out a bigger threat, a bitter criminal. Or let’s give hope…probation with certain restrictions. Warehousing is not the answer.”

Then it was assistant DA Chuck Rosenthal’s turn: “Let’s talk a little about the chronology of this thing. We know that when James Bergstrom was between ten and twelve years old, he started sexually abusing [a little girl] and tying her up and having fantasies about doing that with other women. We know that because the doctor told us the family found out and started locking the girls away. [The parents] didn’t tell you that when they got up there and testified.

“James Bergstrom grows up and goes to high school. He marries and goes in the navy. We give him points for that. Then after, he sexually assaults his wife, ties her up, even though she’s been a rape victim herself. He starts his window peeping. He ends up in the psychiatric ward in the navy hospital. He gets released and—our good fortune—this guy moves to our town…

“He enters these houses. A woman at home paying bills, he ties her up at gunpoint, sexually assaults her while she’s terrified for her daughter and herself. Then you’re supposed to give him credit for not beating her up? This guy doesn’t get any points for not beating people up. He went into their homes. He went into their places of refuge, where they had a right to be safe. He walked into their homes and raped them. It still affects them today. He gave them all life sentences. They can’t get rid of it.

“How many rapes would it take before Mr. Easterling agrees this guy needs to go to prison?

“You heard the doctor. He’s a pedophile, a power rapist, a voyeur. He is the kind of guy you put in prison. He’s compulsive and he’s dangerous. He’s obviously one of the sickest people you’ve seen. This guy needs to be locked up for a long, long time. Mr. Easterling told you he’s going to get out someday and do it again. So you better make it the maximum. The only way to protect society from people like him is to lock them up and throw away the key. Let Mother Nature and Father Time cure him.”

After the jury left the room, James Bergstrom was quickly shuffled out of the courtroom to a holding cell to await the jury’s verdict. On the way out, he shot Linda an angry gaze. Instead of the repentant demeanor he’d so carefully cultivated throughout the trial, he now appeared openly defiant and angry.

After he left, the crowd broke into factions. The Bergstroms sat alone, not talking to anyone, even each other. James C. stared down dejectedly at his hands. Frank Fidelibus made his way over to where the victims clustered together. He hadn’t talked to Sandy Colyard since shortly after James Bergstrom’s arrest. The women were giggling, nervously, and Fidelibus suspected they felt exposed in a room where so many knew the intimate details of what James Bergstrom had done to them.

The minutes, then hours, clicked off the courtroom clock at a maddeningly slow pace. Linda sat alone. Still under a gag order, she couldn’t discuss the case with anyone, especially not the reporters scattered throughout the room. It was impossible to concentrate on anything other than what might be going on in the jury room. She couldn’t even begin to guess the extent of her ex-husband’s retribution if the jury agreed with Danny Easterling and not Chuck Rosenthal. The hell she’d lived could either end or take a new turn in this courtroom.

It was after four
P.M.
—nearly two hours since the jury began deliberations—when Linda approached her husband’s victims. Kimberly Greenmen hadn’t returned for sentencing, but Sandy Colyard, Jesse Neal, Cindy McKenzie, and Maggie Heller opened their circle to let Linda in as she approached. “I want y’all to know how sorry I am,” she told them. “I wished I could have stopped him sooner. I tried. I’m sorry for what y’all have been through. I was raped once and I know how that felt. I’m sorry. I really wish I could have stopped him sooner.”

The buzzer sounded, indicating the jury was returning, and Linda hurried back toward her seat to await the verdict.

“Who’s that?” asked one of the women as she walked away.

“That’s his wife,” whispered another. “The rapist’s wife.”

Frank Fidelibus, who’d heard the exchange, whispered to the women as Linda walked away. “You’ve got to understand she was a victim, too,” he said. “It wasn’t her fault. She did everything she could. In fact, if it wasn’t for Linda Bergstrom, her husband would still be free. She’s the one who turned him in.”

Reassessing Linda Bergstrom, the women hurried to their seats. When Linda glanced back at them, Maggie Heller gave her a friendly smile. It was a thank you.

Moments later, the bailiff escorted James back into the courtroom. Perhaps knowing their decision had already been reached and his remorse was no longer an issue, he glared openly at them as they took their seats. Danny Easterling stood beside him. He had done his best for his client. He’d reminded the jury that they had to consider the full range of punishment, including probation. Now it was out of his hands.

“Have you, members of the jury, reached a decision?” Judge Walker queried.

“Yes, Your Honor, we have.”

The bailiff took the sheets of paper, typed charges with a sentence indicated after each, from the jury foreman and
handed them to the judge. Linda said a silent prayer,
Please let it end here.

“In case number 628630 on the first charge of burglary,” Walker read in a deep, booming voice that resonated against the brown paneling of the courtroom walls, “we, the jury, sentence James Bergstrom to ten years in the Texas prison system.”

Linda’s hands were shaking. A ten-year sentence could translate to less than a year in prison. James sought her out in the crowd and glared.

“On the second count, aggravated sexual assault, we, the jury, sentence James Bergstrom to ninety-nine years in the Texas prison system…”

Linda slumped against the hard-backed pew, years of tension slipping layer by layer from her shoulders.

“Count three, aggravated sexual assault, ninety-nine years,” the judge continued. “Count four, aggravated sexual assault, ninety-nine years…Count five, aggravated sexual assault, ninety nine years…”

Linda mentally checked off the counts and sentences. Four ninty-nine-year sentences. It would be fifteen years before James Bergstrom could even be considered for parole. That was time enough to raise her daughter and build a new life. Relief flooded through Linda, and she laughed nervously. She could feel James staring at her, his hate boring into her. She smiled back at him, defiant. He could no longer hurt her. She and Ashley would be safe for a very long time.

As Linda walked from the courtroom, she heard Irene Bergstrom sobbing. She looked over and saw James C. sitting stiffly beside his wife, making no effort to comfort her.

Outside the courtroom, in the austere corridor, a pack of reporters clustered around Linda Bergstrom. The bright lights of the television cameras glowed, tape recorders ran, reporters jotted notes on small pads they cupped in their palms.

“Mrs. Bergstrom,” one reporter called out. “How do you feel about the sentence?”

“He got what he deserved,” she said, smiling wearily.

Then, as reporters shouted questions, Linda Bergstrom turned and walked away. She had Ashley to pick up at the baby-sitters’, and she wanted to stop by Colt Hargraves’s home to thank him one more time for believing in her when so few others listened. That done, there was so much else to do. By the following morning, when the sun broke through the clouds, she felt certain she would be ready to tackle even more important business, that of living her new life.