Disturbed Ground

by NORTON, CARLA

  But Clymo and Vlautin were devastated. Six of nine wasn't good enough. Whoever the holdout was, he or she had buckled when it came to Ben Fink, Dorothy Miller, and Leona Carpenter. And for those three, Dorothea Puente might get the ultimate penalty. She was marked a serial killer, and the state would try to execute her.

  Much as they'd prayed they would never reach this point, they'd prepared mightily for it. They'd investigated every ugly little secret, every tiny act of virtue stretching from Dorothea Montalvo Puente all the way back to Dorothea Helen Gray. "The only way a jury is going to spare anyone's life is, they have to understand them and feel compassion," Vlautin explained.

  Clymo and Vlautin had long ago retained experts to chart the mysterious evolution of Dorothea Puente. She was not a multiple personality, and she was far too organized and controlled to be legally insane. Yet these experts would hold up the lens through which to view her, and now her disorders would be inspected, her tragedies laid bare, her life subjected to a most intense voyeurism.

  Much as she may dislike the process, a heartrending appeal by her attorneys might actually save her life.

  On September 21, 1993, the jurors locked their eyes on Judge Virga and listened as he instructed them that, after this portion of the trial, they must decide whether Dorothea Puente would be sentenced to life imprisonment without parole, or death. With that, the whole legal apparatus swung away from whether she'd committed murder, to why; from the question of the crime, to the question of the criminal.

  As always, the prosecution went first, but the law placed strict limits on the aggravating factors he was permitted to present, so O'Mara's case was kept to a minimum: one prop—a large chart of crimes, dates, victims, and locations—and a transcript of Malcolm MeKenzie's 1982 testimony against Puente. (What more could he do? Call to the stand orphaned children who had become upstanding citizens? Call Dorothea's siblings and ask, "You had the same awful childhood, but you've never murdered anyone, have you?")

  The law gave great leeway to the defense in this phase of trial, however, and they had some powerfully mitigating factors in store. As their first witness, they called Linda Bloom.

  A graceful woman entered wearing a tailored teal suit. She raised a well-manicured hand, swore to tell the truth, and sat down.

  "How do you know Dorothea Puente?" Vlautin asked.

  "She's my mother."

  The room snapped to attention.

  The resemblance was unmistakable. Smoothly styled blonde hair framed a face that—with China-blue eyes, broad cheeks, and small nose—was a younger, prettier version of Dorothea Puente.

  Linda Bloom explained the circumstances of her adoption as she understood them, and as she spoke in clear, dignified tones, her mother plucked out a tissue and dabbed her eyes. "I was born with pneumonia," Bloom was saying. "At the time, pneumonia in children was not something all that common. Shots had to be flown in from St. Louis." It was expensive, Bloom said, adding that she'd been told that Dorothea had gotten in "some trouble for writing bad checks to take care of me."

  In Bloom's understanding, eighteen-year-old Dorothea, pressured by her family, had reluctantly relinquished her baby girl to parents who were more able to handle the medical bills and provide a nurturing, loving home. "My mother always told me that my [biological] mother was a very sweet, concerned person," Bloom said. "She'd stressed how important it was that I receive a college education. That struck my mother as odd at the time." (Daughters didn't often go to college in those days).

  Under questioning, Bloom explained that she had indeed gone to college, earning a master s degree in economics.

  Vlautin asked how she'd become reunited with her biological mother.

  A phone call from Dorothea's eldest brother, James Gray, had come out of the blue in 1982. Bloom then corresponded with various members of the Gray family, but they'd claimed not to know where Dorothea might be. (She was in prison from 1982 to 1985.) Later, Bloom said, her voice cracking, she'd learned that her uncle had lied to her; he'd been in contact with Dorothea all along.

  Dorothea Puente plucked another tissue from the box.

  In 1987, Dorothea had phoned. "She was very warm," Bloom recalled. But when her mother told her that she was a doctor, Bloom knew this couldn't be true, and felt "that maybe she needed to impress me."

  After months of phone calls, letters, and Dorothea's characteristic gifts, the two finally met in 1988 when Bloom stopped by with her husband and young son for a visit. (Dorothea Puente, ever the actress, had greeted her in a fancy pink chiffon dress, welcoming her into her home at 1426 F Street on an August day when the weather was warm and the yard was crowded with graves.)

  Forty-six-year-old Linda Bloom hardly knew her biological mother, yet she had flown up from L.A. to sit in court and plead for her life. "I know that she had a horrendous childhood, was neglected and let down every step of her life," she said, looking stricken, "and I'm asking the jury to consider life without parole rather than the death penalty."

  As Linda Bloom stepped from the witness stand, she and her mother—virtual strangers bound by genetics—both wept.

  It was an emotional start to what would be the most tear-stained portion of Puente's trial.

  Having carefully plotted the course of testimony, the defense planned to present the puzzle of Dorothea Puente bit by bit—the impoverished child, the confused teenager, the ill-equipped mother, the reckless hooker, the compulsive caregiver, the battered wife, the Hispanic philanthropist, the disturbed adult—assembling their argument that her life should be spared.

  Next, they called Dr. Mindy Rosenberg, a clinical psychologist from Sausalito, California, the designated expert on Dorothea Puente's childhood. As Dr. Rosenberg spoke to the jury in mellow, serious tones, the murderess before them melted away, replaced by sad, skinny little Dorothy Helen Gray, a bewildered child in a chaotic household.

  It was an ugly scene, a homelife that went from bad to worse, with a father terminally ill and a mother hell-bent on drinking herself to oblivion. They fought constantly, screaming about booze and money and men. Besides being a drunk, Mom was a hooker.

  In the mid-1930s, Jesse James Gray, increasingly incapacitated by TB, nearly succumbed to suicidal depression. One night he climbed a water tower and threatened to jump off. More than once he put a gun to his head while the children pleaded, "Don't do it, Daddy, don't do it!"

  With their mother in and out of jail and their father in and out of the hospital, the eldest children tried to fill the parental void, with uneven success. The two littlest ones, Dorothy and her brother Ray, were frequently unsupervised, always starved for attention.

  In 1936, an aunt finally called the juvenile authorities, who came to investigate. They took statements from all seven children, including Dorothy, who said, "I'm seven and a half. I'm in the first grade and go to San Antonio School. I want to live with Daddy, and if I can't live with him, I want to live with my sister. I don't want to live with Mama, she gets drunk."

  The authorities wrote: "These are exceptionally fine youngsters who are sadly in need of a mother's care." The American Red Cross called the situation "pathetic."

  But this was a time when government was loath to take children from their own parents, and they were subsequently returned to their mother's custody.

  Meanwhile, each time Jesse Gray's health took a downturn, the family bade farewell and braced for his death. When it finally came, Trudie Gray's alcoholism spun out of control. She would simply disappear, leaving the children to fend for themselves. They scavenged for bottles to turn in for coins. They emptied the cupboards and existed on catsup sandwiches, or begged in front of the bakery shop.

  When Trudie Gray was home, it was worse. If Dorothy told anyone that her mother had left them alone, she got whipped.

  And then there were the men, drunken strangers, traipsing in and out of the house at all hours. When a man arrived, whatever the weather, the children were often sent out to ride the trolley cars to nowhere. Or
they would lie in bed and listen to the sounds of brawling and copulation coming from the next room.

  The kids remember their mother riding off on motorcycles. They remember her coming in with two black eyes. They remember cleaning up her vomit.

  One weekend when Dorothy was nine, her siblings were sent to stay with various relatives, but she somehow was left behind. Forgotten.

  On Monday, discovery of this solitary, sobbing child finally prompted action. Juvenile authorities snatched the three youngest children from their neglectful mother and placed Audrey, Dorothy, and Ray in the Church of Christ Home in Ontario, California, in February 1938. At registration, Dorothy was described as very thin, with the beginnings of a potbelly, a sign of malnutrition.

  Though the Gray children were in an orphanage, they weren't real orphans, they told the others, because their mother was still alive. Maybe she would get sober. Maybe she would get a home and come for them.

  But months later, just after Christmas, Trudie Gray was killed in a motorcycle accident.

  A car full of relatives came to take the youngsters to "a service." They rode along without explanation. Then, when the car pulled up in front of a funeral parlor, they were told that their mother was dead. Little Audrey screamed hysterically. The eldest daughter, Wilma, fainted. (A little more than a year later, she, too, would die in a motorcycle accident.)

  After the funeral, the three youngest kids were brought back to the orphanage and dropped off as if nothing had happened…. But the Gray children were teased because now they were truly orphans.

  The orphanage was hardly idyllic. The older kids sometimes took the younger ones down to the basement, where they sexually abused them. Ray recounted such an incident; he recalled seeing Dorothy down there too. She was naked.

  More than once, Dorothy ran away. Early on, she became a thief. And she was always, always telling wild stories.

  For a time, Audrey and Dorothy were sent to live with their maternal grandmother, a nasty old woman who left them with more emotional scars. She made sure they felt unwelcome. And she always told fair, blue-eyed Dorothy that she was illegitimate, born of one of her mother's customers. (Jesse Gray was of darker coloring.)

  Her older sister Audrey, who was eventually adopted, said their childhood was "like living in hell," adding, "I always thought there was something wrong with Dorothy."

  Off and on, Dorothy and her little brother lived with their eldest brother, James, and his wife, Louise. The Grays were Seventh Day Adventists of varying conviction, meaning that Dorothy and Ray might be punished today for something that was permitted yesterday. And there was later some suspicion that James had sexually molested his little sister.

  Dr. Rosenberg talked of the damage wrought by pervasive neglect, multiple losses, overwhelming deprivation, and psychological maltreatment. She also explained that, surrounded by so much chaos, by fluctuating rules and an ever-changing cast of characters, Dorothy had had trouble forming a strong sense of who she was. She'd lacked the feedback needed to develop a solid identity.

  Small children often go through a period of fantasizing or "magical thinking," Dr. Rosenberg said. Extremely deprived children might fantasize, for example, that they're adopted, that their "real" family is wealthy, loving, and kind. In this psychologist's view, due to the emotional shocks of losing both parents and a sister at such a young age, Dorothy "got stuck" in this stage. She had a deep-rooted compulsion to distort, an overwhelming need to impress others. The truth, Dr. Rosenberg said, was too painful.

  In fact, Dorothea Puente had even lied in her interviews with Dr. Rosenberg, so the psychologist testified only to information that she'd been able to substantiate. (Family members had agreed to speak to Dr. Rosenberg on the condition that they wouldn’t have to testify. Their child was too awful to talk about, they said.)

  While Dorothea's life was a pastiche of larceny and deception, it was also laced with unselfishness and generosity. She'd become, Dr. Rosenberg said, a "compulsive caregiver." And witnesses were soon streaming into court to testify to this warm, compassionate side of Dorothea Puente.

  One young woman wept continuously as she recalled how Dorothy Johansson had taken her and her sisters under her wing. She told a touching story of impoverished kids dazzled by the kindhearted gestures of a heavy but "beautiful" neighbor. Dorothy had made sure that charity food baskets and clothes were delivered to her family. She'd taught them how to dress, even taking them to restaurants and teaching them manners. At eleven, this little girl had seen her first Santa Claus. "We didn't know Christmas until we knew Dorothy," she sobbed.

  And Dorothea Puente, the cold-blooded killer, wept too. Several now-adult women spoke lovingly of a kind but lonely woman who had made a difference in their lives. Still, it was hard to keep all of Dorothea Puente's identities straight. One well-dressed young woman, describing her own chaotic upbringing and how Dorothea had stepped in to offer guidance and "sanctuary," declared, "I hate to think where I'd be today if it weren't for Sharon Johansson."

  Others spoke just as passionately of “la doctora” Dorothea Puente. An entourage from Sacramento's Mexican-American community marched through the courtroom to recount the good works of la doctora— scholarships, sponsorships, donations—and to declare their enduring affection for the woman they knew as generous and kind.

  Ricardo Ordorica's brother-in-law recalled how they'd sat on her front porch while she taught him English. A radio announcer who owed his first job to Dorothea admitted he still kept a picture of her on his wall. And a Sacramento TV reporter, Rosie Gaytan, recalled a charity dance when Governor Jerry Brown had crossed the room to kiss Puente's cheek, then danced with each of them.

  At about this same time, Puente was dating Mr. Avila, of the attorney general's office, and writing up a generous will to bequeath all kinds of things that she did not own. Her attorney, Don Dorfman, recalled that she would bring in young women (usually "adopted daughters") in need of legal services, and she would pay the fees.

  Many who knew la doctora during this period could not accept that she'd been convicted of multiple murder. One Mexican-American man hotly declared outside court, "We know the real story. We know the real Dorothea."

  Perhaps. But more likely, they knew just one version, a public persona subsidized by secrets.

  What had happened? What had made this maven of good works turn from the light to the shadows?

  Answers flowed from a forensic psychiatrist with sterling credentials, a graduate of Harvard Law School and University of Southern California Medical School, Dr. William Vicary. Having studied Puente's massive file, having administered psychological tests, having scanned for brain damage, Dr. Vicary concluded that Dorothea Puente was a woman of normal IQ, with normal brain function, who suffered from "antisocial personality disorder."

  In less polite terms, she was a sociopath.

  Speaking compassionately of Mrs. Puente's predicament, Dr. Vicary said, "She's in a very bad situation here. She's a very sick lady. She's got one foot on a banana peel and the other in the gas chamber."

  Citing some of her more outrageous stories—that she was a doctor of psychiatry, had a villa in Mexico, was on a committee formed by Governor Brown—Dr. Vicary called her lies "symptoms" of a "sad person that has a lot of pain inside. They make up a reality in which they're special. They invent a wonderful, dreamlike world, and others are fascinated.”

  In Dr. Vicary's view, Dorothea's problems were rooted in a childhood that was nasty, brutish, and short.

  He interpreted her nurturing of little girls as an attempt not only to right the wrong in her own upbringing, but as an expression of remorse over having given up her own daughters. Further, he said, it was no accident that she'd ended up taking care of alcoholics, just as she'd taken care of her own parents. These were the types of people she was accustomed to, the types she'd cleaned up after, even the types she'd married.

  Anyone remotely familiar with psychology could spot Dorothea Puente's repetitive attemp
ts to resolve the problems within her own past. But she wasn't just another adult child of alcoholics in need of a twelve-step program. The psychiatrist observed, "Over time, she seems to be getting worse, not better."

  Defense attorney Vlautin asked the pivotal question, "How can someone like Dorothea Puente do so much good, yet stand convicted of these crimes?"

  "In a way, her greatest strength turned out to be her greatest weakness," Dr. Vicary replied. "She had some empathy, some positive feelings, [a talent for] taking people quite broken and trying to fix them. She had a need to help. On the other side of that, there's a lot of pain, resentment, hostility, even hatred."

  In Dr. Vicary's view, the tenants at 1426 F Street were a step down from the boarders at 2100 F Street. And dealing with these skid-row alcoholics put her in such a stressful situation that she "unraveled." As he put it, "Who are the people who are missing? Very difficult, exasperating people. And inside this woman is a lot of anger and pain against these people—just like the people who abused and neglected her."

  He continued, his voice dramatically low, "Inside, there's this thing that's eating her. It festered, and festered, and finally erupted. It had to come out somewhere. It came out with all these missing people. That is the bridge between her traumatic past and these horrible crimes."

  John O'Mara had declined the opportunity to cross-examine most of the witnesses—there was nothing to be gained by arguing over Puente's childhood or belittling her good deeds—but Dr. Vicary had voiced opinions on her criminal nature, and this, in O'Mara's view, demanded some response.

  In a trial, psychiatrists are the ultimate spin doctors. Now, under questioning by O'Mara, the jury would get a slightly different spin on Puente's past.

  For instance, while all of her husbands had been painted as abusive drunks who took advantage of kindhearted Dorothea, the jury now learned that Pedro Montalvo, her fourth husband, had come through for her when she was arrested for forgery in 1978. He'd posted a bond to get his former wife out of jail. And a hefty portion of the more than four thousand dollars she was ordered to pay in restitution came from a thousand-dollar Social Security check made out to him.