The Kitchen Readings (17 page)

I don't for a second think that my painting analogy did the trick. I suspect that the grumbling, and putting off the work, eventually became more work than actually doing the work.

“Prisoner of Denver,” by Hunter Thompson and Mark Seal, illustrated by Ralph Steadman, appeared in the June 2004 issue of
Vanity Fair.
Hunter's introduction to the article was a vicious attack on the Denver law enforcement establishment, particularly District Attorney Bill Ritter and the Denver cops. They didn't take kindly to the piece, and at that point I wouldn't have taken a field trip to Denver with Hunter for love or money. At first they tried to be dismissive of the crackpot writer up in Woody Creek, but it was just about impossible to conceal their rage. Denver police chief Gerry Whitman described the piece as a “smear campaign” and said, “Thompson is not letting the facts stand in the way of a sensational attempt at journalism.” But Mark's detailed research and extensive interviews laid bare the facts, and no amount of spin from the cops or the D.A. could change them.

The article gave the Free Lisl campaign a much-needed shot of adrenaline. In 2002 the Colorado Court of Appeals had refused to overturn the conviction, and that had slowed momentum a bit. The article validated people's involvement, particularly the high-profile Hollywood types like Sean Penn, Johnny Depp, and Benecio Del Toro. The next, and possibly last, step was the Colorado Supreme Court. Over the next few months the wheels kept turning at their own pace.

Then Hunter was gone. A month after his death, in March 2005, the Colorado Supreme Court decided that the Auman jury had been improperly instructed on the related burglary charge and ordered a new trial. The district attorney's office was dubious about its chances with another trial: “people's memories fade.”
They agreed to a bargain. On October 17, 2005, Lisl Auman was released to Community Corrections. She spent Christmas with her family for the first time in eight years.

Posted on the Web site www.lisl.com:

It was 7:00
A.M
. I was in the shower when my wife, Louisa, announced that Hunter was on the phone and that he sounded upset. He wanted to talk to me immediately. I asked her to tell him that I would call him back post-shower. Seven in the morning was a very unusual time for a call from Hunter. Two, three, even four in the morning were normal—for Hunter. Most of the time these calls were answered by my voice-mail. Hunter's messages could ramble from five to forty minutes. I wish I had saved them all.

Three minutes later, Louisa came back to the shower and announced that Hunter had called back and was in a panic. He wanted to speak with me RIGHT NOW! While drying off, I
took the portable phone. Our conversation was fast and furious: “Hunter, what's going on?” “I just shot Deborah. Come to Owl Farm now.” “What? You just shot Deb?” “It was an accident. I was trying to scare away a bear. Get over here.” “Where is Deb now?” “She's at the hospital.” “Hunter, I'm going over there first. I'll call you later.”

In Colorado, medical facilities are legally required to report stabbings, gunshot wounds, and dog bites to law enforcement agencies. When I arrived at the emergency room, two deputies were already there. Scott Thompson, patrol director, and Joey DiSalvo, my director of investigations, briefed me and led me to Deborah Fuller, one of my personal heroines. She had been working for Hunter for close to twenty years. Deb was lying on a gurney, and when she saw me she said, “Bobby, how's Hunter?” I told her that he'd called asking me to come to Owl Farm but that her condition was more important right now. She showed me a half-dozen wounds, some with visible birdshot pellets just below the skin. The initial examination and X-rays showed “flesh wounds” with no deep penetration. Deborah's mood was stoic; she was smiling and still had her ironic sense of humor. “Hunter has threatened to shoot me dozens of times, and now the son-of-a-bitch has!” She was laughing.

Deborah asked me to stay when the doctor explained his suggested treatment. Basically, he told Deb that surgical removal of the number six lead pellets would be intrusive and posed a risk of infection and a host of other risks, as with any procedure of that nature. He described the risk of lead poisoning as minimal. Without much hesitation, Deb decided against the scalpel—and, again, asked me how Hunter was handling this event.

Hunter was an aficionado of firearms. From handguns to shotguns and rifles (both sporting and assault), many targets
have been hit, missed, or blown up at the Woody Creek Rod and Gun Club, also know as Owl Farm. The “club” was incorporated in the early seventies, shortly after Hunter was informed of George Stranahan's plan to open the Aspen Community School next door. The Doc didn't miss many tricks and was aware that certain activities, including the discharge of firearms, were legally verboten anywhere near a school. His lawyers advised him that his “club' would enjoy grandfather status relative to the planned school and would be permitted to coexist with his new neighbor. Over the years, and hundred of thousands of discharged cartridges later, Hunter's safety record was sterling. Until now.

Satisfied with Deb's medical stability, my deputy sheriffs took their notes from an interview with her and left victim/ witness forms to be completed at her convenience. We left the hospital and drove to the “crime scene.” All assaults were considered criminal until they were investigated and underwent prosecutorial review. The three of us arrived at Owl Farm and were greeted by Hunter. Joey requested a consent-to-search, in writing, from Hunter. After inquiring about Deb's condition, Hunter told us that he felt the need to run past one of his many lawyers our request to search the premises. We explained that he had that right, but if he decided to refuse his consent, we would have to swear out an affidavit and application for a search warrant issued by a judge.

Hunter called the office of Abe Hutt, one of Denver's best and brightest in the arena of criminal defense. When Abe's secretary said that Abe was in court, Hunter acquiesced and signed the consent. (Weeks later, Abe, a friend of mine, confided to me that if he had been contacted by Hunter, his advice would have been to require us to get a warrant.) Scott gathered evidence, photographed the scene, took measurements, and documented
the forensic elements. Joey and I, after delivering the required Miranda advisement, asked Hunter what had happened.

Deborah lived in a two-bedroom cabin about thirty yards from Hunter's house. The area had been experiencing a multi-year drought and some late-season frosts, both of which had greatly reduced the natural food supply of the black bear, a regular and long-term resident of Woody Creek. Adapting to changes in their environment, the bears found almost unlimited alternative sources of sustenance, primarily in trash cans and Dumpsters laden with leftovers awaiting removal by garbage trucks. Hunter's domestic trash was in a Dumpster midway between his house and Deborah's cabin. He recounted that on this morning, in the murky light of dawn, he peered out a window and saw a large beast loitering just outside of Deborah's door. He phoned to warn her and got the answering machine. Assuming that she was still sound asleep, he decided to do what he had done in many previous encounters with trespassing wildlife. He loaded a small-gauge shotgun with two shells filled with number-six birdshot. Each piece of shot was somewhere between the size of a BB and a poppy seed. With no desire to wound the animal, Hunter aimed at the gravel on the driveway several feet short of the bear. Generally the noise and the resulting launch of gravel toward the target spooked ursine intruders into a rapid exit.

Hunter labeled this technique the “bounce shot” and expressed pride in his accuracy with it. “Tell that to Deborah,” suggested DiSalvo. That morning, according to Hunter, just as he pulled the trigger, Deborah opened her screen door and ended up directly behind the bear.

Scott, Joey, and I left Owl Farm with cartridges, the shotgun, some pellets dug out of Deborah's door, and photographs. Interview notes to be entered into official reports, ranges and vectors
to be diagrammed and analyzed, and the provision of a witness statement were the job of Scott and Joe.

The media were salivating, and we wrote a preliminary press release that emphasized that the case was open and under investigation. I had been criticized for years by a small minority of citizens for continuing my friendship with a self-proclaimed dope fiend and random brat. My agency had, in the past, investigated certain allegations of Hunter's reckless behavior, dangerous or criminal. In a few of these cases I had called in outside agencies to assume investigative responsibilities. At one point, in frustration, I told Hunter I could be his friend or his sheriff but not always both at the same time. He understood. He always asserted his innocence and never apologized or explained, but he did offer that he didn't do crazy shit unless he could write about it and get paid. This day's incident was an exception. I accepted the risk of the situation and still feel that I was fair to my duties and fair to my friend.

While those deputies qualified to put together the evidence and statements were doing their work, the wire services and print media, as well as the TV news hounds, were already beating their drums. “Thompson shoots long-time assistant” was the headline in America and many foreign countries. I needed advice from the district attorney.

Over the years, Hunter had been investigated by the current DA, Mac Myers, and by Mac's predecessor. Mac had worked for the previous DA, Milt Blakey, who loathed Hunter. At one point, Mac had decided to enter private practice as a defense attorney and resigned as deputy DA. As a career prosecutor, he wanted to look at his life's profession from the other side of the street. Eventually he made the decision to represent the people of the State of Colorado and challenged his former boss in the 1996
election. Mac, a Democrat, defeated Blakey in a largely right-wing Republican district.

At noon on the day of the Fuller shooting, I called Mac, who had not heard anything of the morning's events. “Mac, Braudis here. Got a minute?” “Sure, what's up?” “Let me run a hypothetical by you.” “Sure, go ahead.” “Okay, a guy looks out of his house and sees a black bear hanging around just outside of the door of his guest house. He attempts to warn the guest but gets the answering machine. He assumes that the guest is still asleep and, concerned for her safety, decides to use a technique to run off the bear that has been successful in the past.” I described the elements of the “bounce shot.” “Just as he fired the shotgun,” I continued, “the guest opens the door and is hit by some of the birdshot. Her injuries are minor. She has unequivocally asserted her desire not to prosecute or even sue for negligent behavior. We have conducted a complete investigation including statements, a signed consent-to-search, and all the physical evidence. Mac, crime or no crime?” I asked.

“Well, it could be marginal, and I emphasize marginal, criminal endangerment. But given what you have told me, and assuming that it is true, I call it an accident. Sort of like falling off the roof.”

“Okay Mac, here's the kicker,” I said. “The bounce shot defender of guests is Hunter.”

“Oh, shit,” Mac responded. “Can you get down to my office with all the reports, photos, diagrams, evidence, and Joey later today?”

Joey and I met with Mac that afternoon and we exchanged expressions of exasperation mixed with humor and relief that a very good friend had escaped serious injury. Mac agreed to review the case and touch base with Deborah as soon as possible.
He said that he would issue a press release when he had reached a decision. At noon the following day, the office of the Ninth Judicial District Attorney issued a press release that exonerated the Doc from any criminal charges. The tabloids and sensational journalists got a few more days' play. Hunter got a lecture from me, ranging from condemning cavalier reliance upon firearms to suggesting alternatives to “bounce-shooting” in the interest of bear mitigation. Cables and locking snaps were added to the Dumpster. Hunter remained my friend, and I remained his sheriff. I gained even more respect for Deborah, for her class and loyalty, which formed part of the currency in the constant potential for nightmare in her relationship with HST.

I remained his sheriff.

P.S. CLEVERLY

Of course all of this was big news in Woody Creek, the talk of the Tavern. I don't think it was a coincidence that Hunter stayed away for several days. I doubt that he would ever have admitted it, but I suspect he was embarrassed. We all loved Deborah, and even Hunter wasn't immune to the Tavern sense of humor.

A couple nights after the “incident,” I heard a commotion in my backyard. I opened the door to find a small black bear; I hollered and shooed him off. I called Owl Farm. I didn't know how the legal situation was evolving with the Sheriff's Department, or even Fish and Game. Since my cabin is less than a mile from Hunter's I wanted to be able to back his play regarding the actual existence of a marauding bear. Hunter answered, and I told him all of this. “Where's the bear now?” he asked. “Gone” I said, “and no one got hurt.” Hunter was pissed at me for a while.