Disturbed Ground (8 page)

Having her suspicions meet only with skepticism put Polly Spring in an exasperated funk. Finally, she was moved to send a memo to her supervisor, Phil Goldvarg:

Re: Dorothea Johansen
[sic]
AKA: Dorothea Puente

Date: June 9, 1988

Ms. Puente has surfaced again in the community, furnishing housing and tender-loving, but street-wise, care to vulnerable clients. She is used by Case Management Services and by Peggy Nickerson of the Elderly Homeless program.

Since neither referring agency is aware of Ms. Puente's history, each is enthusiastic about her not requiring money up front and running a good unlicensed facility. Ms. Puente, as this department is aware, poses some dangers to helpless clients, however, and I wonder what our responsibility is.

I knew Dorothea as Ms. Johansen
[sic]
in the '60s and the '70s, located at 21st
It
F St. Her facility was ultimately closed and she was sent to prison then for misusing clients' funds.

Subsequently, there was an allegation (later proved I think) of homicide against the lady, involving an elderly client. I don't know how to document this part of Ms Johansen's
[sic]
history, except to ask Blanche Blizzard and Mildred Ballenger, who were instrumental in the case

Informally, Judy Mollice
[sic]
of Case Management Services and Peggy
Nickerson have been apprised of Ms Johansen's
[sic]
history as far as I remember it.

Is anything more required?

When Goldvarg attempted to act on this memo he was hampered by simple errors, but he shortly spoke with his supervisor, Fran Alberghini
,
who then relayed these concerns to her supervisor, Charlene Silva. The upshot of their discussion was that they should do two things: First, report Puente to Community Care Licensing; and second, ask county counsel whether they could legally share their suspicions about Puente with other agencies
.

Good intentions, lousy follow-through.

Community Care Licensing sent a representative to check out Puente's establishment. For half an hour, she "toured" the upstairs quarters while Puente poured on her old-fashioned charm. Dorothea maintained that she didn't run a board-and-care facility, that she didn't really even have tenants. The downstairs residences, she said, were "separate and unconnected."

Before departing, the gullible representative asked Mrs. Puente to sign a licensing report indicating that complaints against the establishment were unsubstantiated and that no deficiencies were cited. With that, she handed Puente a copy of the report and bid good-bye.

To conclude her investigation, the representative phoned Peggy Nickerson about placements made to Puente's home. Afterward, she filled out a form, which read, in part:

Kmckerson
[sic]
stated approx 2 years ago Dorothea called her to offer her home as temporary shelter. A little less than once a month, Dorothea takes people in who have run out of money.  They stay for 1 to 5 days. Dorothea provides food and shelter for free. The people she takes in are independent but have just run out of money.

Later that day, the representative phoned Goldvarg to report that Puente was not operating the type of facility that required licensing and that everything was "okay."

Step one was completed. As step two, Alberghini spoke with Deputy County Counsel Michelle Bach.

One of the county counsel's functions is to protect county agencies from litigation. Less politely, this job function might be summed up by those three inglorious little words:
Cover your ass.

Bach asked, "Do you have any facts? Any indications that Dorothea Puente is doing something that she shouldn't be doing?"

No, actually, they didn't.

"Do you have a client staying at Puente's home?"

They did not.

No facts, no indications of abuse, and no client. Bach's advice was to avoid any appearance of being alarmist. Rather than risk infringing on Puente's rights, it would be better to keep mum.  All in all, Polly Spring's memo had ignited a chain reaction like a lit string of firecrackers: much noise but little damage.

Mary Ellen Howard got similarly cautious advice when she approached Deputy Sharon Cadigan, stationed at the Department of Social Services, with questions about Dorothea Puente. Howard stood and watched as Cadigan pulled up information on the computer. But Deputy Cadigan didn't tell Howard what she wanted to hear: In essence, she said that Puente was on parole for writing bad checks and for property crimes, that she'd committed no offenses against people, and she had a right to have a business license.

[Cadigan later could not recall this conversation.]

Knowing that she had no official reason for being concerned about the Puente home (since none of her clients resided there), Mary Ellen Howard didn't alert her supervisors. Even if she had, they admitted later, they would have informed Howard that she was venturing "beyond her jurisdiction."

So far, no one had detected any legal violations. No one had stopped Dorothea Puente from carrying on pretty much as she had been before. And apparently, no one had even considered contacting the parole board.

Everyone seemed unanimous about the wisest course of action: Do nothing.

Meanwhile, Judy Moise was awash in emergencies: battered women with broken bones, drunks brandishing firearms, hostile street people having delusional episodes right there in front of Woolworth's. If Dorothea Puente wanted to keep some portions of her life secret, Judy certainly wasn't left with much time to pry.

Still
,
she was troubled by that conversation with Mary Ellen Howard and Polly Spring. Howard had claimed that Dorothea had spitefully cursed her, yet Judy had never even heard Dorothea swear.

The whole story seemed outlandish, but Judy had promised to try to ascertain whether the landlady she and Beth so ardently defended could possibly be the vile character that Howard and Spring suspected her to be. So, quite deliberately, Judy and Beth went to Puente's to ask questions.

Ostensibly, they went to see Bert. Soon enough, however, they managed to end up chatting with Dorothea in the parlor. Ever so casually, Judy remarked, "You know, you're so fair-skinned, Dorothea, you sure don't look Mexican. What was your name before it was Puente?"

"Montalvo," she replied.

"But that was your previous husband's name, wasn't it?" Judy persisted. "I mean, what was your name before you were married?"

Dorothea paused, turning upon her a most peculiar look, as if weighing the question before replying. She finally said, "It was Johansson," and the words crackled through the air like static.

CHAPTER 7

Whispers of suspicion had breathed through the air, memos had ricocheted from office to office, but so far Dorothea Puente had no cause to worry. All the heat generated by Mary Ellen Howard and Polly Spring had amounted to only so much smoke. The landlady suffered no provocations, threats, or accusations. Her daily routine at 1426 F Street went on as unruffled as a cat's nap on a warm windowsill.

But Judy Moise had been knocked off-balance by the realization that Dorothea Puente was truly Dorothea Johansson. By nature a curious person—some would say just plain nosy—Judy wondered just what sorts of skeletons Dorothea Puente might have rattling about in her closet. Now the magazine article that Mary Ellen Howard had mentioned was nagging at her. She and Beth had agreed they ought to read this supposedly scandalous article, but Mary Ellen was in the process of moving, and they were having some trouble connecting.

Finally, arrangements were made. Mary Ellen would photocopy the article and leave it in her out box at work. They could come by and pick it up. Fine.

That day the VOA workers were in a rush, as usual, on their way to some emergency or other. Judy was driving, so Beth jumped out, fetched the article, and hopped back in. Popping the van into gear, Judy asked Beth to read the article aloud. While Judy wheeled through traffic, Beth skimmed the two photocopied pages.

It was confusing. The first page was apparently missing, and the first paragraph began in midsentence; ". . . son (not her real name) was sentenced to a maximum of five years in prison on charges of forgery, grand theft, and administering stupefying drugs. But she was never, some feel, convicted of her worst crimes."

Beth flipped from one page to the other. There was no photograph of Mildred Ballenger, Dorothea Johansson, or anyone they recognized. Instead, there was an American Indian pictured and quoted, as well as a heavy boy working in a kitchen
,
both apparently unrelated to the article. Odd.

Beth quickly skimmed until she came to parts she thought relevant:

Everybody trusted Eleanora Anderson, even Mildred Ballenger. A longtime Sacramento health care attendant, Eleanora had references that included some of the city's most prominent citizens and famous politicians…. About four years ago a client of Mildred's, a woman in her eighties, developed a mysterious illness and kept bouncing back and forth between her home and the hospital like a rubber ball. Her doctor was completely puzzled. Mildred was concerned. Only the woman's home attendant took the situation in stride. Her name was Eleanora Anderson, and when she visited her sick employer in the hospital she always made sure to bring a sandwich. “Here, eat this," she said. “I know you don't like the hospital food."

The article went on to explain that Eleanora Anderson, the villain of this story, was apparently poisoning this elderly woman, then stealing from her. Beth continued reading:
Several more of Eleanora’s victims came through Mildred's office reporting things missing….
Four other clients reported having health problems while under her care…..

The story seemed so incredible that Judy and Beth couldn't help but punctuate the reading with exclamations: "Oh, isn't that ridiculous?" "That just seems absurd!" "This can't possibly be Dorothea!"

But Puente had already admitted that her name used to be Johansson.

Judy mused, "If Eleanora Anderson is really this same Johansson character that Mary Ellen is so worried about—"

"It's hard to believe," Beth interjected.

"That's just it. Dorothea seems so unlike that…. Maybe she's changed."

"Well, right. Even if she made a mistake once, don't we owe her another chance? Because now she's paid her debt to society."

"That's true. Besides, we don't really know the circumstances."

"Right. For one thing, she could have been desperate at the time. For another, she could have been framed."

Judy sighed. "It's really impossible for us to know exactly what did happen."

"Yeah. And you know how the press always sensationalizes anything having to do with social services."

Judy paused, mentally reviewing everything she knew about Dorothea Puente. Beyond those conversations with Mary Ellen Howard and Polly Spring, she'd neither seen nor heard anything negative about Dorothea. Nothing. On the contrary, Dorothea's boardinghouse was among the best in town, the tenants seemed utterly content, and Bert had flourished beyond all expectation since moving there in February.

"So what are we supposed to do?" Judy wondered aloud. "Even if Dorothea broke the law some years ago, she hasn't done anything wrong now. And Bert is the only one we've placed in her boardinghouse. What would be the point of moving him elsewhere?"