Devil's Defender Read online

  Bundy told Nick and Marlin there’d been a mix-up, a stupid little problem in Utah, he said, a total misunderstanding, and asked if they knew of a good criminal defense attorney. They said they knew just the man, a new up-and-coming defense attorney in Seattle who, like them, recently worked with the governor’s office.

  Then Marlin and Nick offered a warning, one important consideration. Five years earlier in California, they said, the defense lawyer’s twenty-three-year-old girlfriend was murdered. He might be sensitive about defending someone implicated in the homicide of young women.

  Bundy thought about that for just a beat. “That’s the guy I want.”

  2

  “WHERE’D YOU GET

  THOSE SHOES?”

  Marlin called me in October 1975. I knew him and Nick through my former job at the attorney general’s office, and I respected them both, as well as their boss, Governor Dan Evans. Marlin asked if I was aware of the Bundy investigation and if I would be willing to help. I said “Sure” but reminded him I was only three years out of law school. He said Ted had “researched” me and desired my help.

  Coincidentally, on the same day, and unrelated to my conversation with Marlin, the King County Office of Public Defense officially assigned me Bundy’s case. It was their policy at the time to assign an attorney to a case even if it was in the investigation stage and there were no charges.

  Ted, Marlin, Nick, and I convened later that day in my office. News crews had followed Ted to my building, and Marlin and Nick had to slip in through a side door. Ted entered waving and joking with reporters. When he told my receptionist who he was, the lobby cleared out and my receptionist, Brenda, quit on the spot.

  I was immediately struck by Ted’s appearance. He wore a turtleneck sweater under a corduroy jacket, khakis, and Bass Weejun loafers. The look seemed to be an attempt to telegraph “Ivy League law student.” But it was a caricature of an Ivy League law student.

  He referred to the charges in Salt Lake as “this little stupid” case in Utah. I told him there was a much bigger problem. The Seattle newspapers were running headlines such as IS THE UTAH TED THE SEATTLE TED? He scoffed, saying, “If they haven’t put it together by now, they never will.” I found this chilling and, frankly, way too much information.

  The day after my highly publicized meeting with Bundy, detective Robert Keppel, who’d established and co-led the Ted Task Force, called me to say, “In a case of this magnitude the attorney-client privilege should not apply.” He wanted me to provide him with evidence against my client! I laughed and suggested he reread the Bill of Rights.

  Another of the Seattle detectives working the case was Roger Dunn, whom I’d known from previous cases. He was friendly and smart, the kind of person Ted would like. Despite my telling the police Ted would not talk, Roger stopped over at Ted’s house “just to chat.” Ted invited him in and promptly called me. I was polite but told Roger to leave, which he did. He did have time for coffee though, and Ted, as usual, asked the questions and answered none.

  Frustrated with the investigation, Detective Keppel put a tail on Ted, who took to wearing fake beards and moustaches to fool the cops. He would taunt them by making them sandwiches and offering them coffee and advice on how to lie low during stakeouts.

  At one point I arranged for Ted to take a lie detector test, which he failed. He said he was sure he would pass because his “personality type” could fool the machine. I asked why he needed to fool the machine if he was innocent, and he said it was just a game.

  He used my office law library to research arrest and search and seizure laws. He became an expert on the fallibility of eyewitness identification. Experts know well that eyewitness testimony is the weakest form of evidence but is powerful in front of a jury or judge. You know, that “I will never forget that face” kind of stuff. Of course there was not just the identification by DaRonch in Utah; there was also the very odd and sinister stuff found in his car. And his passenger seat was loose and facing backward. This is the kind of circumstantial evidence that is much more powerful than eyewitness testimony. Therefore Ted filed numerous motions to dismiss the case for his “illegal” arrest—denied—and to suppress the evidence found in his car—also denied.

  During these visits to my office, I could see Ted trying to get closer and closer to me. He knew I was only four months older than he was, and the similarity in our ages seemed like a big deal to him. He started asking where I purchased my clothing and what books, movies, and television shows I enjoyed. If I told him I’d bought, say, my penny loafers at The Bon Marché, the next time I saw him, swear to god, he’d be wearing the same penny loafers. I embarrassed him once when he arrived with actual pennies tucked into the shoe creases. I laughed and said, “Ted, that hasn’t been a thing since the early 1960s.”

  He would also call my house at night, which caused me to lose more than one girlfriend. They’d answer my home phone, hear, “This is Ted Bundy. Is John there?” and leave.

  There was so much hysteria surrounding Ted. Women again began getting their hair cut short and dyed so as not to look like one of his potential victims. People saw him behind every tree and bush. On December 5, 1975, I received the following letter from the dean of the University of Washington law school:

  Dear Mr. Browne and Mr. Bundy:

  This is in response to your communication of December 3, 1975, requesting permission to use the Law Library to pursue legal research in which you are engaged.

  By regulation, the Law Library of the University is open to any person having need to use legal maintained in the Library. Hence, I have no basis to purport to either grant or deny you permission to use the Library.

  We have a substantial number of women students and staff regularly in the Library. You may care to consider whether the apprehensions which some of them may entertain as a result of the newspaper stories concerning you, even if unreasonable, might make it more comfortable from their standpoint and yours if you used the County Law Library for your purposes.

  Very truly yours,

  Richard S. L. Roddis

  Dean

  Ted, his parents, and his friends came up with the funds to hire John O’Connell for his Utah defense. O’Connell was brash, aggressive, eccentric, and very, very good—the best criminal defense lawyer in the Beehive State. He put fear into the local police and prosecutors. He made pretrial motions to suppress evidence and motions to exclude alleged statements Ted made to authorities. He motioned to suppress Carol DaRonch’s lineup ID. All the other men in the lineup were obviously cops, and DaRonch had seen Ted’s photo before the lineup. Of course he looked familiar.

  Ted seemed to be drawn to system fighters, and O’Connell, like me, was a system fighter. The three of us met in person and on the phone many times before Ted’s Utah trial. Ted drew the judge everybody felt was the fairest, most courageous, and most honest in Utah. His name was Stewart Hanson, and he was his own man, not a good ole boy. It was John’s idea to waive a jury trial and have a bench trial. This is always risky, as the defendant’s fate is in the hands of one person, the judge, not twelve. All you need for a hung jury is one juror’s vote. But the press had been sensational in both Washington and Utah, which meant it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get a fair jury. So John decided to go with Judge Hanson. The trial began on February 23, 1976.

  The most important decision in any trial, with the possible exception of whether to have a judge or jury trial, is whether the defendant should testify. Thanks to the Fifth Amendment, defendants have the right to not incriminate themselves. Some defendants, particularly those who are sympathetic enough to gain the jury’s and judge’s confidence and goodwill, can help themselves by testifying; but get a defendant who’s clearly lying or whose icy demeanor will turn off the courtroom, and you’ve got a problem. Ted decided to go on the stand, and he did so contrary to O’Connell’s advice. “This fucking idiot wants to go on the stand,” O’Connell said. Then, exasperated, “Oh fuck you, Ted. Do
what you want.” Ted believed he could lie his way out of anything and could charm the judge. He was wrong. He was caught in lies that he had never been to Colorado, that he didn’t possess numerous license plates. He also had to explain why he had such a bizarre collection of items in his car. He should never have testified. There was too much to explain away.

  His family and friends were in attendance on March 1 when Judge Hanson pronounced Ted guilty of attempted kidnapping and remanded him to custody. On June 30 Ted gave an emotional plea for leniency. Judge Hanson was unconvinced, but he did levy a relatively light sentence since Ted was a first-time offender. Under this sentence he could be free within eighteen months.

  I wrote to Ted and warned him not to get attached to his release date, as the investigations in Washington and Colorado were heating up. I had no idea at the time that this was only the beginning of my work with him. He responded in characteristic fashion: there was nothing to worry about because there were no strong cases against him.

  It amazed me that any sane person would believe he could overcome the mountain of evidence the state had presented. Ted was perceptive when it came to everything but his self-image.

  It was that same blind spot that caused him to misapprehend our relationship. He thought we were friends. He thought that because we dressed alike and had similar interests—women, cars, the law—we were cut from the same cloth.

  But really Ted Bundy knew nothing about me. He didn’t know who my family was. He didn’t know where I was from. And he sure as shit didn’t know anything about the events that led me to where I was.

  3

  THE SHADOWS OF SECRET CITIES

  Harry Browne was always in motion. Hell, as a member of the New York State Corps of Engineers, the man studied motion. So he surprised no one that bright morning in June 1943 when he bolted from the Syracuse hospital where his wife had just given birth to their first child. He was headed home for a quick shower. He’d done the calculations. Said he’d be back before his wife woke up.

  A decade earlier, at Staten Island’s Curtis High School, he’d fallen hard for Helen Brightsen, daughter of Arnt Brightsen, a Norwegian merchant marine captain who jumped ship only to captain janitors for a local school district. Harry was smart. Helen was smarter. A National Merit Scholar, she read multiple newspapers every day and could understand any math equation, no matter how complex. Her father was unimpressed; he said a woman didn’t belong where men were. Said he’d only pay for college if she applied herself to be a nurse or teacher. Harry, whose father was a Staten Island dock worker, was different. Harry loved Helen’s mind. They dated all through high school and married in 1937. He enrolled at Manhattan College and studied engineering—his heart set on building roads and bridges—and soon landed a job with New York State. Now he and Helen had a family: a daughter, Bonnie, just hours old.

  At home Harry stepped out of the shower in time to hear the phone ring. Figured it was either a family friend calling to congratulate him or family back at the hospital announcing that Helen was awake.

  The man on the other end of the line introduced himself as Col. James C. Marshall, the military lead on a new government-funded engineering program. What exactly the program was, the colonel couldn’t say. It was secret. But it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a twenty-two-year-old man with a new family. Would Harry be interested? Yes? Good. See you in Tennessee in three days.

  And so Harry, Helen, and baby Bonnie were on the move—from New York down through Pennsylvania, across Virginia, through Knoxville, and into Oak Ridge, population three thousand and growing by the hundreds every day.

  Guard towers surrounded the town, as did several miles of chain-link and barbwire fence. Harry and Helen rolled up to one of seven entry gates, where soldiers searched their car before waving them in. Children played in the streets. Folks lined up outside a movie theater, just like in Anywhere, USA, in the 1940s. But when Harry and Helen looked closer they noticed that nearly every adult wore a name badge. The houses (white, Spartan, brand new) were nearly identical. They spotted a billboard on which a cartoonish Uncle Sam rolled up his sleeves; below him were three monkeys, one covering its eyes, another its ears, and a third its lips. Underneath were the words WHAT YOU SEE HERE, WHAT YOU DO HERE, WHAT YOU HEAR HERE, WHEN YOU LEAVE HERE, LET IT STAY HERE. Another billboard read THE ENEMY IS LOOKING FOR INFORMATION. GUARD YOUR TALK.

  The Brownes settled into one of the small houses, and Harry reported to Colonel Marshall. Oak Ridge, Harry had learned, was conceived shortly after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and the United States declared war on Japan and Germany. Harry and a team of physicists and chemists would be developing methods for enriching uranium to create a weapon like no other.

  I was born three years later, on August 11, 1946. By then the work at Oak Ridge—the combined efforts of some twenty-two thousand employees—had come to fruition. With the enriched uranium from Oak Ridge and other locations, J. Robert Oppenheimer developed an atomic bomb, and the United States dropped two such weapons on Japan, in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in 1945, killing as many as 246,000 people, effectively ending the war.

  I have no memory of Oak Ridge, but there is a photo of me from that time. I’ve just turned one, and I’m sitting outside in a high chair eating birthday cake with my hands. Behind me the identical barracks of the compound line the street. We were gone within months.

  Harry was on the move again. The Atomic Energy Commission had big plans for my dad. So we yo-yoed around the country: Oak Ridge, Tennessee, to Washington, DC, to Palo Alto, California, to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to Cleveland, Ohio, to La Jolla, California, and back to Palo Alto.

  It was in Albuquerque where some of my earliest (and fondest) memories formed. We lived at the very edge of the city, near the foothills of the Sandia Mountains. What a gift to be young and in the middle of Wonderland. I had reptile friends—toads, lizards, and snakes. I’d hold them and wonder at their ability to live and thrive in the desert, then let them go. Trapdoor spiders intrigued me for hours as I would discover their well-hidden homes and wait for them to emerge and close the door. I remember feeling I was a small part of the universe, sharing the privilege of life with these creatures.

  The foothills were full of natural caves, some burrowed into the Sandias themselves. I discovered Native American pottery remnants (I still have one), smoke-stained walls, and lots of old stuff. A faded magazine, something like Soldier of Fortune, extolled the virtues of justice, Saudi Arabia style: a photo of a beheading and an alleged thief’s hand cut off. It made me sick to my stomach and cry. I had heard what the Nazis did and seen some TV about the Holocaust, but their brutality was not as clear to me as these images in the magazine. How could I be in rapture in New Mexico while across the world people were cutting off heads and hands?

  I also found shell casings, old newspapers, a quill pen, the top of a silver train conductor’s watch, and pictures of nude women. I was ten or eleven years old and very unworldly. The porn was lightweight by today’s standards but piqued my interest. I brought one of the photos home to show my sister, three years my senior, to ask for an explanation. She tore it up and told me to ask our dad about it.

  I loved my dad, but he was hard to talk to and had all kinds of rigid rules. If I used a screwdriver and didn’t put it back in the exact specified spot and he noticed, I was no longer allowed to use any tool, ever. Once on a road trip in the family’s ’54 Bel Air I got motion sickness and puked so hard it splashed onto the turquoise felt ceiling. (Because we lived in the Southwest, he insisted the automobile he drove be white and turquoise.) He stopped the car to inspect the damage: a big splatter he tried to clean but that left a stain for years. He stayed angry just as long.

  So no, I wasn’t going to ask him about a naked woman’s photo I’d found in a weird desert cave. He never did speak to me about sex and instead left me to learn about it at school and through the gossip of my male classmates.

  New Mexico is also where
I began my lifelong love affair with shadows. The long, distinct shadows of late afternoon are my favorite, full of power and beauty. Seeing yourself in a shadow is nothing like seeing yourself in a mirror. The smallest twig sticking up from the sand in a New Mexico late afternoon casts a long shadow and, to me, reveals the true power of the twig. The same was true when I viewed my own dark image elongated in the warm sand.

  Later I read about Hiroshima and the bomb we dropped—the bomb that my own father had a hand in developing. I learned that the nuclear explosion left shadows cast by its light, that the silhouettes of nuked Japanese people were discovered on walls days after the detonation.

  When I asked my dad about Hiroshima he gave me a look, a We don’t talk about that look. But I’ve never been able to get those shadows out of my mind, not the benevolent shadows of my New Mexico desert or the shadows of the Japanese whom we, as a country, killed in a flash of light.

  By the time I turned twelve we had moved to La Jolla, California. To my surprise, I was popular with the other kids. This corresponded with my budding interest in politics, ignited when I met Senator John Kennedy, then a candidate for president. My father was a delegate to the Democratic Convention in Los Angeles, and I got to shake the senator’s hand. He also gave me a signed business card. Our family became instant Kennedy junkies. We loved him and his Camelot. My sister wore her hair like Jackie’s, and I affected a Boston accent. We thought the world would be safe and kind, just as long as the Kennedys were in charge.