A Mother's Trial

by Wright, Nancy

  Today’s bail hearing afforded Priscilla her first glimpse of Jonathan Purver, her new appellate attorney. Ed had felt he should not handle the appeal for the new trial himself, that he was too close to see the issues clearly any more. In any case, financial expediency had finally forced Priscilla to request a court-appointed lawyer. They had been lucky with Jon Purver, Ed assured her. He was a respected appellate lawyer with considerable experience and some good results. He was studying the four-thousand-page transcript for grounds upon which to appeal.

  “You look terrific, Priscilla! You look like you’ve lost some weight and I like that new hairstyle—it’s softer somehow,” Ed told her.

  “I guess prison agrees with me,” Priscilla tried a feeble joke. Around her, her friends laughed. Only Steve looked grim. Priscilla knew how he felt, how much this meant to him. She could not think beyond the plane ride: if she had to go back in that smelly plane, she didn’t know if she could bear it.

  The bail hearing was short. Josh Thomas appeared and spoke passionately against granting bail pending appeal. He drew attention to all of Priscilla’s supporters in court.

  “She thinks she’s some kind of modern Marin Joan of Arc and a victim of circumstances,” he said scathingly, gesturing around him. “No one who believes her guilty can doubt she is a threat to the community.”

  Ed Caldwell had prepared the application for release pending appeal: a bound document the size of the Marin County phone book. Now he argued that if denied this release, Priscilla would undoubtedly be eligible for parole before the appeal could be decided.

  “In effect, Your Honor, this would deny Mrs. Phillips the right to appeal. In addition, there is new evidence that may find that the formula consumed by Tia and Mindy Phillips was improperly prepared by the manufacturer and not spiked by the defendant.”

  “Mr. Thomas?” Judge Burke turned to the district attorney.

  “While it is true that some of the formula has been recalled by the manufacturer, as Counsel well knows—or should have found out—the lowered chloride content was not instituted until after Mindy’s formula was contaminated,” Josh Thomas argued in rebuttal. [Although early reports indicated that the defective formula had been manufactured solely between March 1978, and August 1979, more recent data suggest that the formula may have lacked sufficient chloride as early as 1968. Syntex resumed sales of Cho-free and Neo-Mull-Soy in January 1980, with the chloride deficiency corrected. A class action suit against Syntex is currently in litigation.]

  When both prosecution and defense had finished their arguments, Judge Burke paused for a moment and the courtroom stilled. Then he rendered his decision. He began by recounting some of the testimony that he said proved Priscilla Phillips had repeatedly poisoned her two daughters.

  “However,” he noted, “there are no infants presently in the Phillips household. Mrs. Phillips has always manifested strong family and community ties, so I cannot believe she is a threat to flee. I have read and strongly relied on a report submitted by the psychiatrist at the California Institution for Women, Dr. Roh. As did many of the psychiatric experts who testified in the trial, Dr. Roh found no evidence of mental illness in Mrs. Phillips.

  “Furthermore, as to the grounds for the appeal, this was a very complex case. I feel the issues are without merit. The jury verdict was sound. But I cannot say the appeal is frivolous. The points raised are seriously argued—they are not simply for purposes of delay. And they are debatable.

  “In the light of these circumstances, I cannot say that she represents at this time a potential danger to society. For that reason I’m going to admit her to bail. Bail is fixed at five thousand dollars. The defendant is remanded to the custody of the sheriff while bail is rendered.”

  Priscilla burst into tears. All about her, people leaned and hugged, surrounding her. Ed’s face split in a monstrous grin. The bail was a token only. They had all expected a much higher bail—perhaps a hundred thousand dollars or more—if the judge agreed to release her at all. It was a demonstration of such leniency in the face of what Priscilla had considered extreme severity at the time of her sentence, that Priscilla was shocked almost into speechlessness.

  Within an hour, Priscilla was released. Jim Doudiet put up five hundred dollars and a bondsman the balance. Cyndy Hamilton offered her house as collateral for the bondsman. “We’ll get lunch—”

  “Yeah, McDonald’s—”

  “Right, and meet you at the house,” said Steve. “It’s gonna be the biggest damn party Terra Linda’s ever seen! C’mon, Pris, let’s get the boys. The principal will let them out early!” Later that afternoon, Priscilla called CIW. “I’m out! I’m out!” she cried over and over as her friends came on the line.

  That evening, Steve sat comfortably in the family room with his arm around Priscilla.

  “How do you feel now, honey?” he asked.

  “Like I’m human again,” she said. “After five months, I’m a person.”

  Steve stroked her shoulder and neck, his fingers soft on the scars of her old burn.

  “You’re never gonna go back there, Pris. I can sense it. We’ve turned the corner,” he said.

  5

  Steve shifted slightly, so weak that the movement required an effort of will equal to any he had ever been called upon to make. He opened his small brown eyes beneath their straggly black brows and tried to focus. There was nothing to attract his attention beyond the limp tubing of the IV and the peaks of white sheet stiff beneath his chin.

  Then Priscilla was there, smiling down at him.

  “Are you feeling any better?” she asked. He made an attempt at an answering smile.

  “Now that they know what it is,” he whispered. Then he closed his eyes. He still might die. He was dangerously ill, Dr. Werschky had told him.

  “You’re in here for a month, kiddo, on an IV with a constant drip of antibiotic right to the bloodstream. That’s thirty days and you don’t get out a day sooner,” Werschky had said.

  Steve had accepted this without argument. He was conscious mainly of a feeling of relief. He had started feeling lousy within two weeks of Priscilla’s release on bail, the beginning of December. He could put the pieces together now that he knew what was wrong.

  But for a long time no one had suspected the cause of his worsening health. Steve had attributed it to heavy smoking, poor eating habits, and worry. When his condition deteriorated, everyone assumed he had the flu. So did he. In any case, there were too many other things to worry about after Priscilla was released on bail. Finances continued to be a chronic problem. Priscilla had realized immediately that she needed to find work, but she did not want to leave the boys so soon after her return. And she worried about what sort of job might be available because everyone knew who she was. Problems and tensions continued.

  Steve dragged himself from work to home to work again. There was Christmas to prepare for with its endless rounds of festivities. After the holidays, Priscilla applied for a part-time job at Fotos ‘N’ Films, which had a drive-in booth at the Northgate Mall in Terra Linda. To its advantage, the job offered work during school hours, but the hourly wage of $3.25 was not going to do much to solve their financial problems. Still, it was a start.

  Steve had been damned proud of Pris. She had waltzed into that place, told the woman who was doing the hiring exactly who she was, and the woman had admired her honesty and hired her on the spot.

  The job itself had scarcely been challenging, he knew. But within a few weeks, Priscilla was running the place, training other employees, enjoying the selling and the communication with the public. She had applied for other jobs more consistent with her training; one in particular she was hoping to get was in Social Security. But the application process was long and drawn-out. She continued studying the job openings, sending off applications to the Firemen’s Fund, which was known for a hiring system that did not discriminate against ex-offenders, and to a convalescent home in Mill Valley. She was almost hired at the home, but in
the end her criminal record prevented it.

  On March 7, 1980, Steve finally landed in the hospital. In January his health had deteriorated to such a degree that Priscilla began insisting he see a doctor. By then he had lost thirty-five pounds.

  “Look, they’re going to say I’m doing something to you! I just get home and you start getting sick! You’re looking worse and worse. You’ve got to be checked out,” she said.

  But they didn’t have a doctor. On January first, they had switched from Kaiser to Blue Cross; that had been the earliest they could accomplish the transfer of coverage. But Kaiser had supplied their medical needs since 1968, and they hadn’t needed—nor did they know—a private doctor.

  Finally Nancy Schaefer arranged for Steve to see Dr. Werschky. Because Nancy knew the general practitioner, she obligingly told him about the background of the case, easing the awkwardness of the entire situation. Steve had been frank with Werschky.

  “You gotta find it, doctor. If I die, they’ll accuse my wife. She’ll be right back in jail.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  But it had taken Werschky two months. Steve had improved at first when an ear infection had been diagnosed and antibiotics prescribed. But as soon as the course of medicine ended, his condition worsened again. Blood tests and an extensive physical were normal. But finally some strep showed up and Werschky hit upon the truth.

  “You’ve got a bicuspid heart valve instead of a tricuspid, Steve,” Werschky had said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Been to the dentist lately?”

  And that had been the solution. Steve’s heart condition had surfaced ten years before; because of it he followed standard routines before visiting the dentist. When his teeth were cleaned all sorts of bacteria were released into his bloodstream and could cause serious heart infections in people with heart abnormalities. Steve always began a course of antibiotics before dental appointments. But apparently the protocol had changed. This time his precautions had been insufficient.

  “You’ve got a heart infection, Steve. We don’t fool around with those.”

  Within a week of hospitalization, Steve was much improved. He began to eat, sit up, and receive visitors. One of the first to come was Jerry Dodson.

  Jerry was one of the best things to happen in a long while: Steve knew that. He was good for Steve and even better for Priscilla. They had met Jerry and his wife at Christ Presbyterian, the church they now attended. They hadn’t seen Jim Hutchison since June, right before Priscilla’s imprisonment, when they had a final parting of the ways. Steve would never understand what motivated that man, what caused him to withdraw his support and then pretend he hadn’t. Marietta had seen through it; Steve admired her for that.

  One day in June, Marietta had gone alone to Aldersgate, where she had been a loyal parishioner for months, and in the portion of the service during which the congregation shared its joys and concerns, she had stood to lambaste the congregation for its lack of support for her daughter.

  “Only God and Priscilla know whether she’s innocent, but that is not the point. You should support her,” she had scolded. Jim Hutchison had not been present, but as always when he missed service, he had listened later to the tape recording that had been made. Then he had written a long letter to Marietta—addressed to her North Carolina home so she would not receive it while she was in Terra Linda—all filled with some sort of mumbo jumbo about the prodigal son. Marietta would never let Steve read it; she was afraid it would set him off. Just hearing about the letter had been enough for Steve. He had called the bishop to complain about Hutchison, and followed his call with a formal letter of complaint. At least—and Steve had been grateful for that small favor—Priscilla was no longer making excuses for Hutchison. She saw him for what he was. Steve had no doubts about what the man was doing: Hutchison wanted that church built up on the hill on Kaiser land; he had always wanted that. He’d do anything for it. As far as Steve was concerned, that was going to be the church that Pris built.

  The congregation and minister at Christ Presbyterian had welcomed Priscilla and Steve. They had even contributed to the defense fund. And Priscilla much preferred Reverend Dave Steele’s style in church. The church, after all, was a congregation and its spirit, not the minister or the building. That was something Priscilla recently had come to realize about Jim Hutchison, that to him the building was paramount. Steve agreed with her. And to his mind, Reverend Steele was less conservative a preacher. You could hear guitar music in his church. The Doudiets attended, and Nancy Dacus—now Nancy Greenfield since her divorce—was talking about joining. And that’s where they had met the Dodsons, who had just returned from Germany. Jerry was an army psychiatrist who had been stationed in Frankfurt.

  “It was absolute hell over there,” he told Priscilla and Steve.

  “I was the only child psychiatrist in the whole region. The pressure was unbelievable. And then when Sue got cancer, I thought I’d go off the deep end. You know the thing that attracted me to you was that you were the only people I could find who had had a worse year than I did!”

  Sometimes it was hard being around the Dodsons, of course. Steve acknowledged that. Jerry and Sue had a daughter just Tia’s age—the memories were bitter. But their friendship was worth that because Jerry offered some invaluable reality testing. He hadn’t known Priscilla before her arrest; he didn’t have any preconceived notions about her. Yet within a few months he was telling her she wasn’t crazy, and she wasn’t a child abuser.

  “Look, the more I get to know you, Priscilla, the more certain I am that you don’t have this Munchausen’s,” he said one day in his whispery Texas drawl. “I’ve really started reading up on the syndrome. Frankly I’m intrigued. But nothing I’ve read leads me to conclude you’ve got it. The literature I’ve read indicates that once a Munchausen loses the proxy, she starts showing the symptoms herself—and you haven’t done that. You’re sound as a bell! The only thing I can possibly imagine is some sort of multiple personality, but there’s absolutely no evidence of that. And the people around you would know that even if you didn’t. There’s just no way to disguise that sort of a thing.”

  It had been damn reassuring, Steve thought. For Pris, too. Dodson knew what he was talking about: he treated adults as well as children. And he was young and sensitive and kept assuring Priscilla that he wasn’t likely to be attracted to child killers. He had been a big help while Steve was in the hospital, too.

  Dr. Werschky released Steve from Marin General the first week in April.

  “Try not to put that weight back on, Steve. You’re right where you should be. And no more cigarettes.”

  “Right, Doc. I don’t need the damn things anymore anyway. We’re gonna take care of business now.”

  “You know I got a call from a doctor who had been asked to call me by a Detective Lindquist,” he said. “He just thought he’d fill me in on who you all were, in case it affected my diagnosis.”

  Steve gave a bitter laugh. “Lindquist thought Pris was poisoning me, right?”

  “I guess he thought it was a possibility. I told the doctor we had it under control.”

  “Pris calls that sucker an avenging angel. Lindquist seems to have made us his personal little vendetta. He got what he wanted; you’d think he’d leave us alone to live our life—what’s left of it.”

  “What’s the status of the appeal?”

  “No news.”

  “What about the Syntex thing? I saw 20/20 just had something on it.”

  “Yeah. Our lawyer’s following up on it. The family that’s got our little girl now, the mother wrote in for a transcript of the program. Her older adopted boy was on that formula, too, and she thinks they may have some cause for a lawsuit. There’s some kind of class action suit being filed by a lawyer in Chicago. She’s investigating that for Mindy, too.”

  “What about you? Did you ever consider a suit against Kaiser for malpractice?”

  “Yeah, we talked about it on
ce. But what do we sue them for? Failure to spot sodium poisoning? That would be admitting Pris had done it, and of course she didn’t. Our lawyer or somebody said they’d just turn around and countersue us for the money they spent on Tia and Mindy. I heard one estimate that Tia’s treatment cost Kaiser half a million dollars. He shook his head.

  “And for what?” he added softly.

  6

  Nine and a half months later, on a cold and rainy January day, Priscilla’s case came up for oral argument at the state court of appeal in San Francisco.

  Priscilla dressed carefully for the session. The judges would not know she was there, Ed had told her. It was unusual for the appellant to be in the courtroom; most convicted murders were in jail during the appellate process. They were to meet Ed there, but Al Collins would not attend. Ed had told Priscilla that the two attorneys were no longer on speaking terms: their friendship a casualty of the case. But he would never tell her the details of the schism.

  Priscilla was shocked to see Josh Thomas and Ted Lindquist in the courtroom. The district attorney had no say at the appellate level, as it was the state attorney general who handled the respondent’s brief and court appearance. And the only reason for Lindquist’s appearance could be personal interest.

  “They just can’t stay away,” Steve muttered when he saw the two seated in the rows of spectator seats. “They’ll be at our funerals if they live that long.”

  Priscilla knew that the court’s request for oral argument was a positive sign. In most cases the panel relied solely on the briefs prepared by the attorneys for appellant and respondent. But if a case interested the justices—or if they were sharply divided in their initial impressions—they called for oral argument. At that time the two attorneys who had prepared the briefs appeared before the three-judge panel and were given strictly regimented periods of time to present and rebut arguments. In Priscilla’s case, the judges had requested that argument be focused on one of the three grounds of appeal: Judge Burke’s failure to present diminished capacity instructions to the jury sua sponte, even though the defense had not requested such instructions and had, in fact, actively opposed any motion that they be given. The defense, after all, had been based on the supposition that Priscilla was completely sane.