Small Sacrifices (65 page)

Fred Hugi thinks so.

He likens her to a volcano, exploding under the pressure of stress.

The day ends with more words about blood. And the next

day begins with it. We are awash in it, our minds and souls drenched with red. Fred Hugi talks on, his voice still quite soft, empty of emotion, dogged as a marathon runner nearing the tape. He explains to the jury that the long wait to arrest was for Christie--so that she could learn to speak again. And feel safe enough to peel the layers from her memory

Hugi dismisses Jagger's revised time chart peremptorily.

"The re-enactment by Mr. Jagger ... is just wishful thinking, not based on any facts--just trying to reconstruct the evidence in a light that's most favorable to him--that he can live with. Problem is, he can't. Mrs. Downs took too much time to do this. To do the shooting and to wait before going to the hospital. Now, she may have used that time, taken some time to ditch the gun. It could be she may have also taken some time to make sure that, when she got to the hospital, that the kids were not in a state to say, 'My mommy shot me'--that they were sufficiently close to death where that wouldn't happen. She couldn't wait out there an hour--two hours . . . couldn't bring them in cold ..." Fred Hugi is dissecting Diane Downs. Is it wise? She sits before him, her maternity top actually shifting as the unborn baby kicks. Will the female jurors, in the last analysis, think it too much, his relentless pounding on a pregnant woman?

Or will they remember that this child too may be "fungible"?

"... What she is good at is one-night stands and affairs where there are no commitments required on her part. No--no real feeling, genuine feeling. She's quick to express 'deep concerns'

--she's very good at that--expressing deep love, deep feelings, deep emotions, but she's never able to show it. It's just not there

. . . Nobody is as selfish a person . . . She cares for no one but herself . . . We're told that she's such a 'Good Samaritan.' Quite the contrary. Quite the contrary. Diane comes first.

"... When you listen to Mrs. Downs on tape, you notice that she sounds as believable on those tapes as she does in court. She's able to project this same story, the same degree of feeling in whatever she's telling--and that's her problem. You get that with an accomplished liar, and people that are used to it do it all the time . . . You've seen that here. She, in her mind, reconciles everything. There's an explanation for everything. She never ad 452 ANN RULE

mits that she's done anything wrong, no matter if you pin her down. It's just denial, denial, denial."

Hugi suggests that Diane's affairs are only a way of expressing her hatred. "Why do you suppose she preys on married men--there's a lot of men in the world . . . whether in Eugene or Chandler. Why did she try to juggle three, four, five, or more sexual partners in the air at the same time? Is she a person who's into giving love? Seeking love? Does love have any place in her emotions? Does it exist for her at all? She loves herself ..." It is 2:18 on this sunny, Thursday afternoon. Fred Hugi's voice, so long steady and flat, is full of rage. The contrast is shocking.

"We're talking about a child who's not here anymore--for what? For Diane Downs's warped sense of values. Danny won't walk. Christie won't have her arm and her mind to use the way it was . . . Look, lady. For once, you're not gonna lie your way out of this situation. It just doesn't cut it. You're a murderer--a cold-blooded, cruel, vicious, murderer!"

It is very quiet as Hugi returns to his chair.

Judge Foote instructs the jury that they must not be biased as they debate whether Elizabeth Diane Downs is guilty or not guilty of murder, two counts of attempted murder, and two counts of assault with intent to cause serious physical injury--beyond a reasonable doubt--convinced beyond a moral certainty.

Diane is gray-white. As Foote reads his instructions, she rubs, jiggles, and pats her belly with her left hand--as if it is a lucky charm. Diane--who has smiled for six and a half weeks-smiles only once during the instructions, as Judge Foote reminds the jurors not to put the cartridges into the .22 rifle when they examine it.

RW

.CHAPTER 43

c(! wanted to understand how a mother could kill

her child. . . and I wanted to see her get what she

deserves."

"I'm a mother. No mother would be alive if

someone went after her kids. She'd die trying to save

them. No mother would stop for a stranger--or, if

she did, she'd give him her car willingly, if she could

take her kids out safely."

"No one believes she's innocent--except in Marcola

where they're still afraid a bushy-haired stranger is

loose!"

'I'm a little embarrassed to be here, a little ashamed

--but it's my town; something like this is so unusual

that I thought I should come."

"She's innocent. They're crucifying her."

--Members of the gallery, waiting for the verdict,

June 14, 1984.

lit is 2:37 p.m. The courtroom has been cleared and locked. But most of the spectators cannot bring themselves to leave the build-Mg. Claudia Langan--who signed the indictment as foreman of Ae grand jury--stays and so does Evelyn Slaven, and most of the

gallery, and all of the press. The corridor lights are dimmed, leaving the long benches in shadow.

At least three dozen women have attended the entire trial. They line up to call home on the lone phone and instruct chil-454 ANN RULE

dren to put TV dinners in, husbands to go out for supper. In the faint light they knit, read papers, and even nap on the long benches, silhouettes in reflected light.

The press corps moves through the double doors to the roof of the third floor. There is a grubby "garden" out here--a giant wooden box full of gray cans holding Oregon Grape bushes, which seem to have been forgotten and are not thriving.

Downtown Eugene is spread out below, cushioned by the

green hills. Sound carries strangely; sirens and the faint clinkclank of flag halyards in the wind have equal volume up on the roof.

The television cameramen are familiar with this rooftop oasis. They have set up their "stingers" days ago. They must have a direct-line-of-sight to transmit their signals. Some aim toward a truck with a micro-dish up on the Coburg Hills north of town; others point toward Skinner's Butte. From the hills, they sight on a relay station south of Salem, and then on to Portland, and then one hundred seventy-five miles north to Seattle. Live television. The Stingers look like giant mosquitoes or deadly weapons aimed in three directions, poised for the moment a verdict comes in.

Inside, in the corridor next to the elevators, a dozen cameras balance on their sticks on the legal side of the silver duct tape on the floor.

As the afternoon lengthens, the wind picks up. The verdict does not come by supper time. The sun is disappearing, the wind is inhospitable, and still there is no sign of verdict.

At 10:15 the jury retires for the night, and a startled gaggle of press check back into the Hilton Hotel.

I There are five pregnant women in the Lane County Jail. Usually, they have their babies at Sacred Heart Hospital. Rumor has it that Diane will deliver there too. No one knows for sure. Captain Ben Sunderiand, director of the Adult Corrections Division, will make that decision. Publicity may force him to send her somewhere else.

Diane has no one to talk to, and she cannot write letters or (, start another journal. She has been denied pens or pencils for a week--ever since she commented obliquely to Chris Rosage,

"Maybe I won't even have this baby ..."

Surely the verdict will come on Friday. It would have been

precipitous for the jury to come back in the first half-day--after a six-week trial. They have so much evidence to look at.

Fred Hugi can be seen occasionally ducking in and out of the DA's office. Jim Jagger turns his face toward the sun as he sits on the low stone wall in front of the courthouse. He grins and waves when we walk by. Doug Welch paces around the courthouse. Welch is edgy; Ray Broderick appears confident.

Doug Welch is worried about the long jury deliberation. He blames himself because this is his first homicide case. If he'd been a seasoned pro, his interrogation would have borne fruit. If the verdict should come back "Not Guilty," Doug Welch will be devastated.

Ten hours. Twenty hours. The court-watchers still wait in the darkened corridor outside the courtoom.

The verdict that seemed imminent no longer does. An almost palpable sense of unrest moves through those who wait. The press corps is subdued. Anybody who has ever covered a trial knows that the longer a jury stays out, the more likely they are to acquit.

It looks as if Diane Downs is going to be found innocent. At 10:40, the jury sends word that they are ready to retire for the night. They have been out twenty-two hours.

The press has found Diane unofficially guilty since the day Christie testified.

"What if she isn't?" somebody asks in the dark lounge.

"What if we only want her to be guilty because she has a rotten personality?"

It is a sobering thought. Is that what the jury is wrestling with?

The courthouse is locked Saturday. The press finds a way in; the civilian spectators are turned away, disappointed. The third day of deliberation is baking hot. Eighth and Oak streets are quiet until a jackhammer breaks the silence, and a compressor somewhere starts to hum.

Fred Hugi is home--out in the coolness of his trees and the breeze off the McKenzie River, working around his place. He has no particular plans to come into Eugene. After more than a year of tension, he is very relaxed. Jagger's final arguments only temporarily unnerved Hugi. He senses he has done what he set out to

do. "When it was all over--after closing arguments--I looked at the jury. At that point in time--whether because of my final argument, or more likely, in spite of it--I saw six or seven jurors 456 ANN RULE

who wouldn't have voted Not Guilty if you held a gun to their heads. I knew the worst that could happen was a hung jury." Back in Eugene, the jurors have not asked a single question of Judge Foote. They can acquit Diane of murder by voting ten to twelve, but to convict, all twelve must agree. Perhaps it is the unanimous vote on a murder conviction that's holding them up ...

At 1:00 p.m. on Saturday, there is a ripple of excitement. The court clerk has been spotted in the hallway. But she is only carrying in four large pizzas for the jurors' lunch.

At least they have agreed on something.

Fred Hugi watches TV; the White Sox play the Oakland A's. At 4:45 p.m., the jury sends word out. But it is not a verdict. They ask Judge Foote for a legal definition of "reasonable doubt." For the third day, the five o'clock news for seven channels goes out: "There is no verdict yet in the jury deliberations in the Diane Downs case ..."

No verdict. No baby. Everyone waiting is caught in some

stasis of time.

Midnight, Saturday. Thirty-six hours. The jurors have not retired, nor have they sent any more messages. Fred Hugi has spent the evening watching another ball game.

The media fully expects an acquittal. The story leads will be

"Why?"—why the jury believed Diane Downs and not Fred Hugi. And how soon will Diane Downs regain custody of Danny and Christie? With the new baby, she will have three children again.

And then, at 12:20 a.m., the lights suddenly go on in one of •

the courtrooms.

The verdict is in. ;»^

The principals reach the courthouse quickly—Fred Hugi from up along the river, Diane from jail. How the public knew is anybody's guess. Almost a hundred people wait in the line that has formed outside the courtroom. The cameramen stand ready. I. Diane, accompanied as always by Chris Rosage, sweeps in. She is wearing the royal blue dress with the white seagulls, and she looks wonderful. Her hair is done; she has been allowed make-up. At almost 1:00 a.m., after waiting more than three full

days, Diane walks head up—proud. And smiling. Rosage and Jagger hurry her past the press cameras.

Paula Krogdahl is here—for the first time—standing with

Doug Welch.

Inside the courtroom, Diane continues to smile, as if she knows that she is about to be freed. Jim Jagger seems nervous for the first time; he actually wrings his hands. Fred Hugi looks as calm as anyone has ever seen him.

There are three uniformed sheriffs officers in the courtroom, and one in mufti. A demonstration, even an attack, is not outside the realm of possibility.

A door creaks and everyone jumps, but it is only Judge

Foote. He warns that there is to be no demonstration of any kind when the verdict is announced.

Diane bites her lip. A gesture new to her.

Judge foreman Daniel Bendt—the tall, young engineer—stands to say that they have reached a verdict.

For an instant, no one breathes.

And then Judge Foote reads the verdicts aloud:

Guilty of attempted murder in the first degree.

Guilty of a second count of attempted murder in the first degree.

Guilty of first degree assault.

Guilty of first degree assault.

Guilty of murder.

For a beat, no one moves. Then a reporter—a kid who hasn't been here until tonight—breaks and runs for the door and crashes through it. He will be the first to the phone, the first to break a scoop others have earned.

Diane is white as paper and finally she, too, trembles. But^

she will not break. Not in front of the crowd.

Judge Foote orders a pre-sentence investigation and remands Diane for sentencing.

The spell is broken. Reporters race for the basement where Diane must pass through the sally port on her way back to jail. Diane and Chris Rosage emerge down below, hurrying toward Ae light so they can move through it and escape the cameras. It is too late.

Sandy Poole, a Portland reporter, watches Diane the moment before she must walk out into the photographers' strobes. 458 ANN RULE