Disturbed Ground (54 page)

O'Mara knew his workaholism was a problem, so he was trying to reform. He was shedding cases like he was shedding pounds, delegating trials to other attorneys.

But ... a hung jury.

He blamed himself completely. He replayed every mistake, every misstep, every poorly turned phrase. He rethought things he'd brought out, things he hadn't…. "Well O'Mara," he chided himself, "you spent all that money, one-and-a-half million taxpayer dollars, and you didn't get a conviction."

If he lost, he knew it wasn't because Kevin Clymo had done such a great job, but because he'd failed to meet the burden of proof. She was guilty. He knew it. It seemed obvious. But for some reason, he hadn't been able to reach all of the jurors. He'd picked them, he liked them all, but somehow he'd failed to connect.

And worse, even though this would hand the advantage to Clymo, he couldn't retry this case himself. He just couldn't do that to his family. "There are other Dorothea Puentes out there," he thought, "but I only have one son."

He hated to do this to another attorney. It was a complex, burdensome case, which was part of the reason he'd taken it on himself after Williamson left. This wasn't a case that he could just assign to anyone. It was, at bottom, a hardship assignment. It had cost him plenty of sleepless nights, and nearly a year away from his family.

And for what?
A jury deadlocked on all nine counts!

CHAPTER48

Satellite trucks hummed outside the courthouse. Cameras staked out positions on the steps, and reporters roamed the hallways. On August 4, any glimpse of the jurors fueled speculation. How did they look? What if they were still deadlocked? Would the judge declare a mistrial? Questions ticked steadily toward 4:00
p.m.

The attorneys began to arrive, and reporters crowded into the courtroom. Dorothea Puente was brought in, looking cool as ever. The
de
fense   team   calmly   took   their   places,   and   O'Mara   burst   in look
ing… resigned?

Judge Virga appeared and made a polite joke, dispelling tension. Directing his words to jury foreman Michael Esplin, the judge first cautioned, "Please don't tell me how the jury is split in any way." Then he asked, "Has there been any progress since yesterday morning?"

All held their breath.

Esplin answered, "Yes, Your Honor, there's been quite a bit of progress."

A wave of silent congratulations surged toward them. Not just progress, but
quite a bit of progress.

The judge instructed them to resume deliberations the next morning at 9:30, and the courtroom emptied.

The defense contingent remained optimistic. "I’m encouraged that the energy seems to have returned to the jurors," Clymo said. "I do not believe this jury is looking for reasons to convict Dorothea Puente."

And a clearly relieved John O'Mara remarked that
any
verdict would be better than a mistrial. Even if Puente got only second-degree murder (which would put her safely beyond the reach of the death penalty), he believed that Judge Virga would impose a stiff sentence and "bury her into the next century."

The wait resumed, and the bloom of progress was soon buried beneath the steady progression of time. Another week passed without any indication of a verdict. Then another. Not a word, not a request, not a hiccup of change slipped from the jury room.

The media folk grew restless, trying to satisfy their editors' demands for news. They toured the austere holding cell where Puente stayed every afternoon. They pestered the court clerk and interviewed janitors. They filed brief, desperate stories, and kidded and complained about each other.

But still, no verdict. No news.

On August 15, when a full month of jury deliberations had passed, everyone was well past cranky. The judge, the attorneys, and Puente's unofficial entourage anxiously marked the days. Everyone wondered whether the jury's prolonged and ominous silence meant their next note would echo their last: "deadlocked."

"What
can
they be doing in there?" O'Mara groaned.

One juror got the flu. Another came down with pneumonia, further delaying deliberations.

"Stress," the watchers agreed.

The jury tied, then passed, the longest murder trial deliberations in California history. Not an especially happy landmark.

Finally, on the afternoon of August 25, the jury sent Judge Virga a two-line note. It wasn't a verdict, but it was something.

The note was kept secret as the judge huddled with the attorneys in his chambers, crafting a proper response.

The next morning, Judge Virga responded to their questions about "what clearly constitutes poison," and how the various charges could be considered in relation to one another.

Whatever else this meant, it was progress.

At noon came another note, this time asking for additional verdict forms. Definitely progress.

At an afternoon break, a cluster of jurors seemed anxious, saying little but virtually bouncing on the balls of their feet.

Finally, another note:
verdicts.

Word went out over the airwaves, and the tiny courtroom noisily filled to standing room only.

Spectators conferred: "I thought she'd go scot-free."

"People in Sacramento's social services thought she was the best thing around."

"The guy in the box—that's a murder conviction for sure."

The attorneys took their seats, all business. The defendant was brought in looking ghostly pale. She accepted brief assurances from Clymo and Vlautin.

The bailiff announced Judge Virga, and the courtroom froze with anticipation as he assumed the bench. Virga turned toward jury foreman Michael Esplin and said he had received their note, reading, "We have reached the verdicts we will be able to reach."

He then asked, "Mr. Esplin, on how many counts?"

"Three, Your Honor."

The crowd whispered with surprise.

With a calm that was surely felt by no one else, Virga asked the breakdown of the votes on the other six.

Esplin said that four counts were hung eleven-one. The other two were split eight-two-two, and three-six-three.

Virga declared a mistrial on those six counts: Ruth Munroe, Everson Gillmouth, Bert Montoya, James Gallop, Vera Faye Martin, and Betty Palmer.

Shock blew through the courtroom.
How could they fail to convict her of murdering Bert? Or Ruth Munroe? Or Betty Palmer?

The remaining verdict forms were handed to court clerk Barbara Beddow, who read their findings in a clear voice:

"Guilty of the crime of murder in the second degree of Leona Carpenter."

"Guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree of Dorothy Miller."

"Guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree of Ben Fink."

"Special circumstances allegations: Dorothea Montalvo Puente did commit multiple murder."

She could get the death penalty.

Dorothea Puente briefly clasped Peter Vlautin's hand, but showed little emotion until court was adjourned. As she stood to leave, Kevin Clymo put an arm around her and whispered close to her ear. Later, he said, she cried.

Although John O'Mara was relieved simply to get guilty verdicts, plenty of people were less than thrilled with the trial's outcome.

How could the jury possibly believe that Puente had murdered three of the people buried in her yard, but not the others? It made absolutely no sense! And why those three? Ben Fink, okay, there was strong evidence she murdered Ben Fink. But how about Dorothy Miller and Leona Carpenter? Nobody knew anything about those two! Why did they convict on two that no one could remember a thing about, yet didn't convict on Bert Montoya! Or Betty Palmer, the lady with no head! Or Ruth Munroe, who said, "I'm so sick, I feel like I'm going to die!"

Some fumed, some rejoiced, some simply sighed with relief.

When Judy Moise got the news, her first reaction was: "I think it's absolutely wonderful. At least they got convictions!" Yet she was intensely disappointed about Bert, since she'd believed that convicting Puente of Bert's murder was key.

John Sharp concurred. "I can't see how they split on Bert," he said. "His was the most perfectly planned!" He recalled that Puente had said she was going to send Bert to Mexico, and then, a couple of weeks later, she said he'd gone.

Still, Sharp said, "I wouldn't wish the death penalty on her."

When news of the verdict reached Reba Nicklous up in Oregon, she was at first shocked and "quite emotional." But on reflection, she said, "It doesn't bother me she wasn't convicted of Everson's death. I know she did it, and I can't see any sense in a retrial as long as she gets life without parole. A retrial isn't going to bring any of them back, and it's a waste of taxpayers' money. None of us will gain anything by having it rehashed over again. I want to put it behind me."

Not everyone was so sanguine.

Ruth Munroe's son, William Clausen, felt hurt, shocked, and angry. "The jury, I feel, was not educated enough in murder trials. They weren't even listening. What do they call it—blind justice? They're the ones that had blinders on! They didn't see anything! It's so irritating.” He went on to say that he’d watched District Attorney Steve White on saying that he was satisfied. “I'm not. I won't be satisfied. They can't just leave these other six hanging.
Undetermined.
That's bullshit! I need to finalize this. I need to get this taken care of. In my heart, I need it."

And Vera Faye Martin's son, Jerry Hobbs, added his voice to the chorus of frustration. Having learned from O'Mara that his mother had arrived at Dorothea’s on October 2, 1987, her check forged just three days later, on October 5, Hobbs was convinced his mother had been murdered. "My mother would never have relinquished her check to anyone. Ever. Period. She was absolutely fanatical about her check. Her check was never out of her sight. I can say with certainty that she wouldn't have given her check to a perfect stranger."

Hobbs believed that his mother had simply accepted a drug-laced drink from Puente. "She went in there like a lamb to slaughter."

The prospect of Puente getting life in prison did nothing to mollify his anger. "She will adapt. That lady will live just fine in prison," he said bitterly. "She's very popular."

Unable to move the criminal justice system, Hobbs would try the civil route. He decided he and his brother should proceed with their suit against Puente's longtime friend Ricardo Ordorica. "He's either a total idiot, or he's dirty as hell," he said. "You don't let someone hand you these sorts of checks knowing their record. I don't buy it that honest people let this happen. Their dishonesty is what she fed on."

But no civil action would ever resolve this for Vera Faye Martin's family. Unlike the other victims, she was buried fully clothed, which left Jerry Hobbs worrying over a horrific possibility: "Was she buried alive?"

CHAPTER49

Almost everyone thought that Clymo and Vlautin had done an incredible job. Despite that any fool in Sacramento knew that their client was guilty nine times over, despite John O'Mara's months of witnesses and mountains of evidence, they'd managed to get Puente off on six of nine counts. Half a dozen times, they'd heard the word:
mistrial.
It was phenomenal. As one astonished observer put it, "They made something out of nothing."