The Most Dangerous Animal of All (10 page)

When he wasn’t working, Van took her to visit the Catedral Metropolitana, on the Zócalo, where Judy watched in awe as a boys’ choir raised their heavenly voices in praise, emitting the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard. And when Van brought her to see the Teotihuacán pyramids, constructed around
A.D.
300 just north of Mexico City, my mother thought she had never seen anything so amazing.

“Look at the way they are laid out,” Van said, pointing from one pyramid to the next. “The Aztec people who came later believed that the gods were born here. There’s the Pyramid of the Sun, and look, there’s the Pyramid of the Moon. The Teotihuacáno warriors hunted people, sacrificing them to the gods because they thought the end of the world was coming. They hoped their sacrifices would save them from the earthquakes they feared would kill them all.”

“What happened to them?” Judy asked.

“They just disappeared one day. The whole city. No one really knows why.”

“How do you know this?” Judy asked.

“I know lots of things,” Van said, smiling.

The next morning, Van decided it was time to get married.

“Pack your bags,” he told her. “We’re going to Acapulco. There’s a resort there, the Las Brisas, where they pick you up in pink jeeps and take you around the city. You’ll love it. I know a little church nearby where we can get married.”

Judy, enjoying the adventure of it all, quickly packed the few items of clothing Van had bought her and was soon ready to go.

When they got to Acapulco, Van rushed Judy to the church but was disappointed to learn that he could not marry her without parental consent.

“What do we do now?” Judy asked.

Undeterred, Van said, “We go on our honeymoon.”

Because the Las Brisas was fully booked, they had to settle for a high-rise complex nearby on Acapulco Bay. They spent the next few days acting like they were on their honeymoon—sunning on the beach during the day, making love at night.

On May 11, 1962, a slight shaking stirred Van and Judy from their slumber. It was a little more than the usual early-morning rumble of the city buses, to which they were already accustomed, having lived their lives in San Francisco. As Van reached for his glasses on the nightstand, it happened. A 7.1-magnitude earthquake knocked him off balance. Judy screamed as Van fell onto the floor, and the bed began to move on the rolling tile. Pictures on the walls crashed to the floor. Judy tried to reach Van as the building swayed for what seemed like an eternity but was actually less than a minute.

When it was over, they walked onto their balcony and surveyed the damage. Some of the balconies above them swayed dangerously, hanging on by only a piece of rebar. Van hurried Judy back into the room, lighting a candle so she could see. While Van went out again to assess the damage, Judy cleaned broken glass from the floor.

For the next few days, they were forced to stay at the hotel, because the rubble covering the city’s streets made travel impossible. While Van sorted through the documents he had bought in Mexico City, Judy sat on the beach, gazing at the beautiful bodies of the bronzed young men surfing and playing volleyball. There was nothing else to do. Van, distracted by the thought of Judy being alone at the beach, watched jealously from a window high above.

On May 19, an aftershock with a magnitude of 7.0 struck the city. My father decided it was time to return to the States. He needed no more signs from the gods. He and Judy packed their things and boarded a plane, blissfully unaware that the seed of their undoing had been planted in Mexico.

13

Shortly after they arrived in Los Angeles, Van became ill and checked into a hospital for treatment. He was diagnosed with infectious hepatitis, a virus that was common in Mexico and frequently spread through the consumption of contaminated food or water.

“I’ll be okay,” he reassured Judy, who sat by his bedside, refusing to leave.

“Do you want me to call your parents?” she said, worrying.

“No. Absolutely not,” he said. “The doctor said I won’t be here long.”

When Van recovered, they headed back to San Francisco and rented an apartment in a five-story building at 585 Geary Street, on the southern slopes of Nob Hill. The one-bedroom apartment featured a big bay window that overlooked the Hotel California, across the street. A fire escape climbed up all five stories on the front of the building. On either side of the entrance, a circular white light fixture trimmed in black depicted the shape of a cross in the center.

Van didn’t bother to tell Judy that he had lived a block away on Jones Street with his last wife. He simply led his lover through the foyer and up the steps to their new home.

They spent the next month pretending they were married and hoping Verda would not find them. In July, Judy became ill, too. Worried that she had contracted hepatitis from him, Van brought her to San Francisco General Hospital on July 30.

Judy was diagnosed with hepatitis, but the physician also informed the fourteen-year-old that she was pregnant.

When she was released from the hospital, she nervously called Verda.

“Mother, I have to tell you something,” she said.

“What now?” Verda snapped, irate that Judy had not contacted her since she had run away. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

“We went to Mexico, but there was an earthquake and we had to come back,” Judy said nervously. “And I’m pregnant. Three months. Mother, I’m scared.”

Verda’s tone became reassuring, persuasive, as she asked Judy to come home so they could talk about it. “Bring some things for an overnight stay. We have to figure out what to do.”

“Okay,” Judy said. “I’ll have Van drive me.”

When Judy and Van pulled up to the house at 1245 Seventh Avenue, Verda was waiting. Although Van had scanned the area, he had not seen the police cars hidden around the corner from the house. The officers waited until Van got out of the car before they confronted him.

“Earl Van Best, you are under arrest for child stealing,” one officer said, grabbing Van and pulling his arms behind his back. Judy struggled with the officer as he clamped the handcuffs tightly around my father’s wrists.

Crying, she watched the police take him away.

“How could you do this?” she screamed at her mother as Verda herded her into the house.

“How could
you
?” Verda answered.

My mother was sent back to the Youth Guidance Center.

My father was placed in a cell on the sixth floor of the Hall of Justice. He was sitting on his bunk, contemplating his next move, when a handsome young man walked up.

“Mr. Best, might I have a word with you?”

Van looked at him questioningly, wondering if he was a lawyer. “I’m Paul Avery, with the
San Francisco Chronicle
,” the man said. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Van shook his head.

Avery pulled out his notebook. “Where did you meet Judy?” he asked.

“At Herbert’s Sherbet Shoppe. She was there . . . beautiful and sweet,” Avery would later quote Van as saying.

“But she was only fourteen,” Avery said.

“That didn’t matter.”

Over the next half hour, Van told Avery the whole story.

“He Found Love in Ice Cream Parlor,” read the headline of the
San Francisco Chronicle
on August 1, 1962. Pictures of Van and Judy were splashed across the page, accompanied by an article depicting their romance. “At the moment, several sets of steel bars and more than a mile in distance separate Van and his one-time wife, Judy Chandler,” Avery wrote before describing how the now twenty-eight-year-old man had fallen in love with a teenager.

When Van saw the article, he was furious. He didn’t like the way Avery had portrayed him as if he were some old, balding child molester. Avery would later dub their love affair “The Ice Cream Romance.” Van would never forgive him for mocking his love for Judy.

Other newspapers followed suit.

The
San Francisco Examiner
reported that “the mild-mannered, bespectacled son of a Midwest minister sat in his cell at city prison yesterday and wept for his bride—blonde, 14, and pregnant.”

On August 7, 1962, Van was indicted for child stealing, rape, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

Verda testified before the grand jury first, indignantly telling jury members how Van had taken her daughter to Reno and married her. She stated that she’d had the marriage annulled, but then Van had kidnapped Judy from the Youth Guidance Center.

William Lohmus was called to testify about how he had driven Van and Judy to the airport when they had first eloped.

Judy was also forced to testify, but when she came out of the jury room, she had a big smile on her face.

Those who saw her wondered why.

The whole country would soon know why.

Sitting in the lobby of the courthouse, my grandfather, who had flown to San Francisco as soon as he received Gertrude’s call, bowed his head and prayed for his son when he heard the news that Van had been indicted.

Van had already been released on bail and was unconcerned.

The next day, Judy escaped from the Youth Guidance Center again.

Van was waiting.

On August 9, San Francisco police officers caught up with them, and Judy was sent to the maximum security ward at the Youth Guidance Center. Van was taken in handcuffs to the sixth floor of the Hall of Justice for the third time. This time the charges were more severe: criminal conspiracy, enticing a minor from home, and rape of a female less than eighteen years old.

Two days later, Earl posted his son’s bail.

By August 24 Judy was sick again, the hepatitis she had caught from Van causing her to be hospitalized. She was placed in an isolation ward at San Francisco General Hospital.

On August 31, Van was back in a San Francisco courtroom for a hearing on his case. As would later be revealed in a video of the proceedings, Van, dressed in a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow, a beige sweater-vest, and pressed tan pants, confidently walked up to the podium, his face showing no expression as the judge set his trial date.

He left the courthouse and went to Crocker Bank to withdraw all of his money and close his account. Then he paid William an unexpected visit.

“What are you going to do?” William asked. He didn’t like the determined look on Van’s face.

“I can’t tell you,” Van replied, handing William five hundred dollars. “Hold this for me in case I ever come back or if I ever need some money in a hurry.”

“Van, you’ve got to stop this,” William begged. “She’s not worth it.”

“Yes, she is,” Van said. “Please don’t tell anyone I was here. I don’t want you involved.”

That same night, around midnight, my father, disguised as a doctor, walked into San Francisco General Hospital looking for my mother. He was not going to let anyone keep her from him. A few minutes later, doctor and patient walked nonchalantly out of the hospital, without attracting attention. Once outside, Judy and Van ran to the rental car he had waiting.

At 3:40 a.m., the floor nurse noticed Judy’s empty bed and sounded the alarm, notifying Dr. L. N. Swanson of the escape. The doctor telephoned the police, who immediately put out an all-points bulletin for the couple.

“Sundae Bride Hunted,” the headline in the
San Francisco News–Call Bulletin
read the next morning. “Guards on the Mexican border have been alerted to watch for San Francisco’s 14-year-old ice cream bride and interrupt—if possible—her third elopement.”

“The girl vanished early Friday from San Francisco General Hospital, and less than 12 hours later, a blood-stained auto was found abandoned near King City,” reported the
Examiner
.

Newspapers across the country picked up the story, jumping on the illicit romance of it all. A nationwide manhunt ensued, but Judy and Van were long gone.

When they left the hospital, they had driven south on Highway 101, heading for Mexico, but Van had fallen asleep at the wheel and careened off the road.

Judy screamed as the car crashed into a ditch.

Van, jarred awake, jumped out of the car. “Let’s go!” he yelled, ignoring Judy’s concern about the blood covering the spot where his head had hit the steering wheel. “We’ve got to get out of here before the cops come.”

Judy followed him onto the road. “What are we going to do?”

Van stuck out his thumb as a car approached.

It took them only two hitched rides to reach Sacramento. By that evening they were sharing a chocolate milk shake at a root beer stand in Williams, north of Sacramento. They spent the night in a roadside hotel, making plans. Van knew the police would suspect they were going to Mexico, so he decided to head for Canada instead.

The next day, another article appeared in the
Examiner
: “Judy Chandler, the missing 15-year-old ex-bride, was seen sharing a chocolate milkshake with her former husband Friday night in the Sacramento Valley town of Williams.” The newspaper got it wrong—Judy was still fourteen.

The article went on: “When the owner of a root beer stand on Highway 99 and his two employees saw a picture of the missing couple on the front page of
The Examiner
yesterday, they called the newspaper. Police questioned the three last night and said they had positively identified the couple.”

On Sunday morning, my fugitive parents stopped at a diner for breakfast. Van noticed his picture staring back at him from a newsstand and hustled Judy out of there fast. He realized they would not make it to the border without being recognized.

“I’m hungry. Why can’t we eat?” Judy asked him.

Van did not answer as he steered them toward a Longs drugstore behind the diner. He told her to wait outside.

Van headed for the cosmetics aisle, studied the products for a moment, and then slipped a box of women’s hair dye under his sweater. He walked up to the counter and bought a pack of Lucky Strikes. Judy nervously waited outside.

When they got back to the motel, Van insisted that she dye her hair.

“I don’t want to, Van,” Judy cried.