Norco '80

by Peter Houlahan

  On the above date at approx. 0145 Hrs., I was making a security check of North Wing Housing . . . As I got to the area of rooms 6, 7 & 8, I smelled the odor of burning marijuana . . . Both Deputy Clark and myself then started checking the area of rooms 6, 7, & 8 for the smell, we both found that the smell was the strongest in front of room #7 . . . I then opened the door to room #7 and observed Smith flushing a crumpled pack of “Salem” cigarettes down the toilet. As Clark and I entered the room, we were both met with an excessive odor of burning marijuana. Smith then moved from the toilet to the bunk. I then asked Smith if he would explain to me what was going on, and Smith stated “No!”

  The report went on to note that although no marijuana was found in the cell or on Smith, the inmate was “sluggish” to the deputy’s commands, his eyes were “red and bloodshot,” and that he walked with a “staggering gait.” In other words, in the opinion of the deputies, George Smith was baked. The report concluded that “Smith should be rolled-up” to a different module for further discipline and subjected to periodic strip searches.

  Although an accusation of drug use within the jail facility was not as heinous or unusual an infraction as one might think, there was a larger issue of concern to the jailers: Someone was smuggling drugs into the Vista county jail for George Smith. The deputies had a pretty good idea who it was. Although no accusation was made in court that day, a clue as to who the deputies suspected was contained in a seemingly innocuous handwritten note at the end of the formal incident report:

  Reference:

  The previous evening of this incident (11-25-81), inmate Smith had a two-hour visit with J. Painter, an investigator with his attorney.

  15

  THE INVESTIGATOR

  November 26, 1981. Vista, California.

  JEANNE LANE WAS VERY MUCH A SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA CHILD OF THE 1960S. Born in 1948, she came of age at the dawn of everything that the decade came to represent, both good and bad. In addition to a love of the Rolling Stones, she had an affinity for underdogs and outsiders, a healthy distrust of authority, and an understanding that not everyone in America was treated equally. Jeanne was no radical or extremist, but like many girls of the era, she did not feel encumbered by the limitations placed on women of previous generations. Lane was a Riverside girl, born and raised. Although the Inland Empire often tended toward provincial, blue-collar, and close-minded, it was still Southern California, and it was still the 1960s. For a whip-smart, free-spirited young woman determined to make her own way in the world, there were few better places to be.

  Lane was politically aware from a young age, but mostly spent her high school years hanging out with friends, going to rock concerts and escaping the choking heat and smog of Riverside for the beaches of Orange County whenever they could find someone to give them a ride. She was well liked but hung mostly with her own group.

  Staking her claim to what was then every Californian’s birthright to excellent higher education at an astonishingly low cost, Lane entered the University of California, Riverside, in 1966, straight out of high school. After the fleeting optimism of 1967’s Summer of Love culture, the political and social skies quickly darkened into the age of assassinations, race riots, and Charles Manson. According to the dictates of the era, Jeanne became a more serious person. She majored in political science but found many of the electives recently introduced into the curriculum to be a frivolous waste of time. With graduation a semester away and still unsure of what she wanted to do, Lane took an internship with the Riverside Office of the Public Defender.

  From the start, Jeanne was hooked on the high stakes of criminal law. Even though the internship required only eight hours a week, Lane was at the defender’s office every hour she was not in classes. At school, she found herself slogging through required courses such as “Mexican Folk Medicine.” But down at the defender’s office, things could not be more serious. She quickly found herself working side by side with hardened criminal defense attorneys representing the likes of accused murderers, rapists, and armed robbers. The contrast was dizzying for a young college girl from the middle-class suburbs of Riverside County.

  With her bachelor’s degree completed, Lane continued her work with the defender’s office. Already familiar with the job, she charged straight into her duties, first with misdemeanor cases and then felonies. She was known as a fearless investigator, not afraid to pick up a phone or knock on the doors of witnesses, even if they didn’t want to talk. If stonewalled by police or prosecutors on discovery requests, she was more than willing to pester them to comply. Along the way, she got married and became Jeanne Painter and soon had a baby son.

  Jeanne Painter was clear-eyed when it came to her clients, the majority of whom were guilty as charged, often of crimes of an unforgivable nature. However, some were not and others often had excessive or additional bogus charges tacked on. It was obvious to Painter that, once caught up in the machinery of the American judicial system, they didn’t stand a chance, especially the ones without the means to hire a private attorney. In that regard, she could have sympathy for her clients without sympathizing with them. She was no lover of “bad boys,” but grew fond of a few clients after working with them for long stretches of time, slugging it out in the trenches on their behalf.

  When Clayton Adams joined the defender’s office in 1977, the two were frequently paired on cases, chiseling away on often-hopeless causes in search of the best deal possible for their client. She admired his pragmatic and determined approach to defense. The work appealed to Painter’s moral sensibilities on many of the same levels it did to Adams’s. “I don’t think either one of us ever could have prosecuted anyone,” she said.

  After marrying young, Painter was divorced in 1974 and once again single at the age of twenty-five. Carrying herself with confidence, Painter turned plenty of heads and drew the occasional unwanted comment from the men around her. But Jeanne always kept it professional, dating only outside her profession. When she remarried in 1978, to a young man named John Ditsch, few in the defender’s office had any idea. She continued to use the name Painter and never spoke of the man her colleagues would never meet.

  AFTER A DOZEN YEARS WORKING THE RIVERSIDE CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM, Painter had become a fixture around the county jail. She rarely had any trouble with those overseeing the captivity of her clients. But in Vista, Painter was on foreign soil, dealing with San Diego deputies who extended their dislike of cop killers to include those who defended them. Whereas visitor searches at the Riverside County jail had become quick, perfunctory affairs for Painter, they were far more thorough and time-consuming in Vista. She cooled her heels for long stretches in interview rooms waiting for her client and encountered jailers who called “time’s up” on her with a cold finality.

  It did not take long before Painter decided to make a stand against the jailers. Leaving the facility after a visit with Smith, Painter asked the deputy on duty to return a cassette tape player, which she had left with the guards upon entering. Sure, the deputy said, handing her back the recorder. As she headed for the door, Painter noticed that the tape in the recorder was missing. She turned back. “Where’s the tape that was in here?” she asked the man.

  The deputy gave her a smirk and a shrug. “There wasn’t any tape in it when we got it,” he said.

  Painter took a few steps toward the man and fixed him with a determined stare. “Give me back my goddamn tape,” she said.

  The smirk dissolved from the man’s face. “Let me check,” he said. He opened a drawer, took out the tape, and handed it to Painter. She left without another word, but she had drawn her line in the sand. Things did not get much better for her after that, but at least they did not get any worse. For now.

  THE TROUBLE BETWEEN GEORGE SMITH AND THE JAILERS HAD STARTED IMMEDIATELY. Within a week of his arrival at the Vista jail in late May 1981, Smith had penned a handwritten statement to the court complaining about his treatment. “Since I have been in this jail I have been shackled in all
cases but exercise. No other inmate at this facility is treated this way to my personal knowledge except the Harven Brothers.” Smith also complained, “I’ve been told that even when my family visits I’ll be shackled like an animal.” He also protested the jailers were interfering with his visits to the facility church. “I’m rather dismayed at this treatment and request that it stop.”

  With the statement in hand, Clayton Adams dragged the head of the Vista jail, captain Robert DeSteunder, into court to answer accusations of inhumane treatment of his client. The other defense attorneys quickly joined in on the complaint. Adams knew his leverage point with DeSteunder: Any actions that unreasonably interfere with the ability of a defendant to participate in the preparation of his own defense could result in a mistrial. The last thing a jailer wanted to be responsible for was causing a mistrial. Adams focused the complaint on the excessive shackling, especially the jail policy that the defendants have only their writing hands unchained during visits with their attorneys and investigators. Adams also cited the jail’s refusal to provide Smith with a four-foot-high metal filing cabinet for his legal papers, a request DeSteunder dryly characterized as “unreasonable.”

  When Adams challenged DeSteunder to characterize his deputies’ attitudes toward their prisoners, the captain was remarkably frank. “Why are we bothering with a trial?” was the general feeling among the troops, DeSteunder reported. “It’s obvious that these are the people who did it. They were chased from the bank robbery to the point of arrest. Why are we wasting the taxpayers’ money to go ahead with this charade?” DeSteunder went on to add that Smith was only making things worse by repeatedly addressing the deputies as “boy.”

  “Inhumane Treatment of Suspects Charged” ran the headline in the Vista Press the next day. Irked by the press coverage and strongly urged by Judge Hennigan to avoid any conduct that might result in a mistrial, the jail relented on most of the issues except for the filing cabinet.

  Adams then turned his wrath on the San Diego deputies who guarded the courthouse, asking Hennigan to dismiss every last courtroom bailiff for misconduct. While Hennigan rejected the request, he did give stern orders regarding recent conduct. They were to “avoid any overt expression of opinion with facial expression,” and ordered to stop talking to reporters about the defense attorneys. In other words, cease all the smirking and eye rolling in court and quit talking shit about the defense attorneys to reporters in the hallway. And whichever bailiff wrote “Cop Killers” on the court assignment sheet instead of the defendants’ names had better knock that crap off right now, too.

  Michael Lloyd caused the jail a major headache with his successful demand that DeSteunder double the existing visiting hours for Chris Harven, and by extension all other prisoners, to meet the state guideline of two thirty-minute visiting periods a week.

  Chris Harven got an opportunity to put his contempt for the Vista deputies on full display in a dispute involving the confiscation of a notebook after he was accused of passing a note to a fellow inmate without permission. In front of Judge Hennigan, Deputy Rosall stated that Harven had “coerced” an inexperienced trustee to pass the note for him. “May I speak now?” Chris asked impatiently once Rosall was done. “There is not coercion. That’s a lie. The problem is that this man has had an attitude problem toward us.” Chris got his notebook back.

  Not to be left out, Alan Olson made his own demand on behalf of his client after jailers put an end to the backgammon games Russ Harven frequently played with investigator Roger Olson. They warned Olson that he and his brother would get their visitation rights cut down if they brought in any more board games. Olson immediately took his protest to Judge Hennigan.

  “I think I have a right to play Go Fish, Old Maids, or Monopoly with my client.”

  Olson then took his backgammon crusade to reporters standing in the hallway outside, explaining that playing the game was “a relaxant” for his client that allowed him to more effectively participate in trial strategy. “They just don’t want him to have any fun,” he added, without any apparent irony.

  Two days later, DeSteunder relayed Hennigan’s ruling to jail personnel in a departmental correspondence dated February 16, 1982. “As a result of court action today, the following is in effect: Inmate Russell Harven will be allowed to play backgammon and cribbage with his attorney’s investigator in the interview room.” The memo also contained a second instruction from DeSteunder to his staff that had far more serious implications: “Investigator Jeanne Painter has been ordered to leave medication of any kind in her car or elsewhere when entering the jail.”

  AFTER SUFFERING SO MANY HUMILIATING DEFEATS IN THE COURTROOM, THE jailers saw the November 26, 1981, marijuana bust of George Smith as the first clear chance for them to strike back. But it was by no means their last. On January 10, 1982, one week into witness testimony, the deputies at the Vista jail caught George getting high in his cell again, under essentially the same circumstances as the first.

  The report of the incident noted “there is a possibility Smith may be smuggling narcotics into the jail via his contact visits.” The report made no specific mention of Painter, but it didn’t have to; the only “contact visits” George Smith was allowed were with his attorney and investigator.

  A January 30, 1982, incident report titled “Search of Investigator Painter” noted that “While going through her purse I found a prescription bottle containing tablets of Donnatal.” It went on to say that the jailers had checked the Physician’s Desk Reference and “It was found that one of the ingredients contained in Donnatal is phenobarbital.” The jailers held on to the bottle and returned it to Painter when she left but only after she had been given a stern warning. “Miss Painter was again advised not to bring any personal or unnecessary items into the jail.”

  On February 11, Painter was written up again. “Investigator Painter entered VDF on 02-11-82 (Thur.) at approximately 1917 hours for a visit with Smith,” the incident report read. “During a search of her purse I found a prescription bottle about half full of tablets of Donnatal.” Painter was warned again. Just two days later, George Smith was caught smoking marijuana in his cell for the third time. The fact that Smith’s marijuana incidents all corresponded with visits from his investigator convinced the Vista jailers that Painter was the one smuggling it in.

  Painter vehemently denied any wrongdoing and complained to Adams that the jailers were harassing her, impeding her ability to adequately prepare for Smith’s defense. Within a week, Adams had filed a lawsuit against John Duffy, the sheriff of San Diego County. Adams subpoenaed the jail for a slew of records including “Reports relating to jail visitations to petitioner by Counsel herein or Counsel’s investigator, Jeanne Painter; particularly reports relating to allegations, suggestions, or suspicions of contraband smuggling into the jail facilities by Counsel herein or Counsel’s investigator, Jeanne Painter.” What he received in response to the request included one document Painter would have preferred not to be entered into the court record.

  The incident report dated November 27, 1981, one day after George Smith’s first marijuana bust, stated that when Painter arrived for a visit with Smith, a female deputy was summoned for a routine search. After finding nothing on Painter’s person, the guard wrote:

  I also conducted a security search of her briefcase during which I observed several packages of pictures. Looking through these pictures I found approximately twelve pictures of Miss Painter nude in various positions. Painter stated, “they are for my husband.”

  At that point, the guard returned the photos and “advised Miss Painter not to show the photos to her client and that unnecessary personal effects should not be brought into the jail.”

  Riverside public defender Malcolm MacMillan dispatched his chief investigator, Theron Bursell, to Vista to look into the allegations. Painter fiercely denied that the jailers had ever found such photos and that the accusation was a complete fabrication by vindictive San Diego deputies. According to Painter, the
only photographs she had ever taken into the jail were of her and her son being baptized in Long Beach Harbor. No action was taken against Painter. “There wasn’t anything [Bursell] could come up with that would justify me doing anything about it,” MacMillan said.

  Whether the photos had been of an ocean baptism, herself “nude in various positions,” or both, it said a lot about how far Jeanne Painter had fallen under the spell of George Wayne Smith and the degree of manipulation of which he was capable.

  BY THE TIME THE TRIAL WAS MOVED OUT OF RIVERSIDE, JEANNE PAINTER HAD already spent dozens of hours in small, windowless interview rooms with George Smith. That was just the life of an investigator working on a complicated case involving massive amounts of evidence. But once things got moved to Vista, Painter’s world became upended. In Riverside, Painter was surrounded by personal and professional support systems. No matter how grim and hopeless her caseload might be, no matter how many witnesses might have slammed doors in her face, no matter how grueling the workload, Painter was in an office filled with people who were on her side and with whom she could vent her frustration, get answers to her problems, and share in some gallows humor. Even the “other side,” the prosecutors and Riverside deputies running the jail and courthouse, could usually be counted on for a hello or an occasional joke. And at the end of the day, she could go home to her own apartment and the unconditional love of her son or out for a drink with friends or drop in for dinner with her parents who lived nearby.

  In Vista, all that went away. Painter was in hostile territory. The deputies guarding the jail and courthouse were unrelentingly rude and aggressive. Things had grown so ugly between the defense and prosecution that the best she could hope for with the usually amiable Hanks, Ruddy, and Curfman was cold civility. She knew Michael Lloyd and, to a lesser extent, Alan Olson, but they were drowning in their own workloads; their allegiance was to their own clients, not hers. She was fond of Clayton Adams, where she could still get some sympathy and advice, but Adams was fighting physical pain and too buried under the stress of his own situation to be of much help and support to Painter outside the context of the trial itself.