Poisoned Love

by Caitlin Rother

  Kristin’s cell also had a metal toilet and a tall, very narrow double-paned window, where she could see out onto a cement patio area that had benches, three pay phones, and one stair-stepper exercise machine. She was allowed to use this “recreation yard” every other day. The other days she took showers. Her two pairs of prison-issued underwear were exchanged for clean ones twice a week, and her dark blue shirt and pants, which looked like medical scrubs, once a week.

  The lieutenant in charge of the unit determined how long each woman got to use the yard during a twelve-hour shift based on how many requested it. Each day, inmate welfare officials provided the ten to twelve inmates on A-2 with one newspaper, and its pages were typically scattered about the patio by day’s end. The deputies were supposed to read it first and cut out stories about a particular inmate for her own protection. Prisoners knew that if they harmed, did favors for, or forged friendships with high-profile inmates, it could bring them notoriety.

  The inmates at Las Colinas were also known for trying to make friends with the occasional affluent prisoner so they could get free snacks from the commissary. Many passed the time playing checkers or cards, often making bets with each other for a commissary goodie. And when such a promise was broken, fights ensued, usually on a Tuesday, which was Commissary Day. In 2004, for example, the jailhouse store sold dandruff shampoo for $1.79, cold medicine for $2.10, pain reliever for $2.31, greeting cards for $1.16, phone cards for $10 and $20, and hot beef jerky for $1.21. After the phone cards, among the most expensive items were tennis shoes for $12.60, perfumed oil for $6.25, and sun block for $5.46.

  When Kristin first got to A-2, she was more reclusive than the others and cried for a day or so, said Lieutenant Mike Barletta, who was in charge of the unit while she was there.

  “She was probably a little more shocked by her place here,” he said. “I don’t think she became very acclimated to the jail.”

  He said Kristin generally didn’t initiate conversations with other inmates through the walls or windows, though other inmates tried to console her, making remarks like, “It’s not that bad” or “You’ll make it.”

  While Kristin was on the patio, Barletta thought she seemed very hyper, dividing her time between talking on the phone, using the stair-stepper, and pacing back and forth. One thing Barletta found unusual was that she often became absorbed with her reflection in the windows, turning to the side and lifting her shirt to look at the shape and contour of her abdomen.

  “We serve a very high carbohydrate diet, to the point where they can’t wear the clothes they were arrested in,” he said.

  Prisoners on A-2 have all their meals delivered to their cells in Styrofoam boxes, starting with breakfast at 6 A.M. On a given day, their first meal of the day might be cereal, milk, egg patties, salsa, pinto beans, flour tortillas, and sliced apple; lunch could be minestrone soup, saltines, turkey bologna sandwiches, sliced cheese, pickle chips, fruit jello salad, cake with icing, and fruit punch; and dinner might be Salisbury steak with brown gravy, scalloped potatoes, sliced carrots, cornbread with margarine, applesauce, gingerbread, and fruit punch.

  Kristin smoked cigarettes on and off during her life, but the days when they allowed smoking anywhere in the jail—to pass the time, calm the nerves, or curb the appetite—were long gone.

  The morning after Kristin’s arrest, the story was all over the news, and her TriLink coworkers were abuzz, talking about what had happened. Becker took the items Kristin had given her and handed them over to Richard Hogrefe, the company president. He told Becker to be careful about what she said to the police detective and not to offer any unnecessary information. He was worried that it might reflect badly on TriLink and also might harm Kristin. Everyone at TriLink was shocked that the perky little blond chemist had been arrested for murder.

  The Union-Tribune ran its first story on the case the next morning. The motive, gleaned when the search warrant was released some time later, was that Kristin was trying to stop Greg from carrying out his threat to report her affair and her renewed meth use to her superiors. In the first story, Lieutenant Ray Sigwalt said only that San Diego police were also looking at Michael as a possible suspect in Greg’s death.

  “The sheer nature of the death was suspicious,” Sigwalt said. “There was no [suicide] note. Rose petals were sprinkled on his body in bed. Most men don’t do those sorts of things. Subsequently, we found out the type of drug in his system, and we got suspicious. It was a controlled substance, illegal without a prescription.”

  The police and officials from the Medical Examiners’ Office would say nothing more. And because of the pending investigation, all other relevant documents that would normally tell more of the story were sealed. But sources revealed to the Union-Tribune that the substance that killed Greg was fentanyl. They also revealed that Kristin had been fired from the Medical Examiner’s Office in December because she had a drug problem, and Michael, her boss and lover, was fired the same day for violating county policy by not reporting his knowledge of Kristin’s drug use to the upper management.

  These juicy new tidbits sent the newspaper and local television stations off and running on one of the sexiest and most fascinating news stories to hit San Diego, a drug-addled love triangle that ended in death.

  Kristin’s former coworkers and professors expressed shock and skepticism that the bright young woman they knew could have done such a thing.

  “It’s a terrible feeling of incredulous disbelief. It’s just one of those things you think won’t happen to the person next to you,” Hogrefe told the Union-Tribune. “Everybody fervently hopes and wishes there is an explanation.”

  At the same time, Greg’s friends and coworkers said he was not the type to take his own life. They never saw him act depressed or use drugs. He was an ambitious, easygoing guy who was making plans for the future.

  When Melissa Prager heard from her parents that Kristin had been arrested, she was simply baffled. Kristin had no reason to murder Greg, she thought, and the motive police were citing made no sense. Plus, she wondered, why would a highly intelligent person like Kristin choose poison as a murder weapon when it could so easily be traced back to her? It was far too obvious to be true.

  Prager was convinced that Greg killed himself. She didn’t know how exactly, but she thought he did it “because of the control he wanted to have over Kristin’s life.” Prager went to visit Kristin at Las Colinas, still convinced of her innocence. It was awful seeing Kristin in that cold place, on the other side of a pane of glass.

  Kristin’s third diary, like the second one seized by police, contained entries whose timing overlapped with its predecessor. The entries in the bound book were undated but referred to feelings that predated Greg’s memorial service on November 12, 2000.

  She repeated the credo of “Carpe Diem! Seize the day!” and described her need to separate herself from her life with Greg by removing his belongings from the apartment they shared. She wrote that she was unsure, however, whether “it would be considered disrespectful to Greg’s memory” to remove his things before the service, which she saw as a “turning point” in her life.

  “I intend to wait until Greg’s memorial service is over before making any significant changes to ‘our’ home,” she wrote. “But I think that after the service, I will begin to try to reclaim it as my home.”

  The earliest date on the loose pages that were tucked inside the book was November 28, 2000—about a week after her interview with police. The anger Kristin expressed there was even stronger than in the second journal. She’d been starting to feel a little better the previous week, she wrote, “Then, the rug was pulled right out from underneath me. Greg’s death is being investigated as a HOMICIDE!! It’s absolutely ludicrous. I am so angry that anybody could even imagine such a horrible idea.”

  In a six-page undated entry tucked into the diary, she wrote, “God, Greg, why did you do something so selfish and stupid? I don’t know your intention. I believe in my heart that i
t was accidental. You were making me feel responsible for your life and well-being…. I’m sorry for all of the suffering I have caused so many people. But I didn’t make him respond as he did.”

  The other entries reflected many of the same themes as in the previous journals, expressing a paradoxical mix of nostalgia and frustration about her time with Greg. She’d say how much she missed him, but then she’d launch into how frustrated she’d been with his inability or unwillingness to share his deepest feelings with his family and his refusal to take her marital unhappiness seriously.

  “He told me that he thought I was ‘just thinking too much.’ Just relax and be happy,” she wrote. “Well, I’m sorry, but happiness can’t be forced, it comes from within your soul. It begins in your heart.”

  She described her love and passion for Michael, she reiterated her regret about not following her “gut instinct” to call off the wedding, and she expressed her infuriation at “being treated as if I was actually physically responsible for [Greg’s] death,” while she was still coming to terms with it emotionally.

  Perhaps with unknowing foreshadowing, she wrote that she was worried the investigation would harm Michael, whom she called her mentor, and his future.

  “He has achieved so much at such a young age; he has a great deal to lose,” she wrote. “…He is respected by some of the most reputable, famous people in tox. I would be so very crushed to see him lose all that he has achieved over me. He tells me that his career is less important than our relationship.”

  To Agnew, Kristin’s diaries were different from those she’d seized in other homicide cases. Although they were riddled with expressions of blame, sorrow, and later, anger, Agnew thought they were “pretty much devoid of real emotions” and written for others to read.

  “She envisions herself as what she thinks people will see her as,” writing the entries such that “people will see her as something she’s not,” Goldstein said.

  Goldstein and Agnew viewed Kristin and Michael as very intelligent, ambitious, and narcissistic people who shared the same motive in murdering Greg: Their jobs were a central part of their identities, their lives revolved around their careers, and they would do anything to protect them. If Greg carried out his ultimatum, Kristin’s drug use and Michael’s knowledge of it would be revealed, costing them their jobs, their careers, and because Michael’s work visa was tied to his position in San Diego, each other. Ultimately, the two lovers did lose all of those things.

  According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, narcissistic personality disorder is characterized by an exaggerated sense of importance of one’s experiences and feelings; ideas of perfection; a reluctance to accept blame or criticism; a lack of empathy; a grandiose sense of self-importance; feelings of entitlement; a preoccupation with fame, wealth, and achievement; a craving for admiration, attention, and praise; excessive emphasis on displaying beauty and power; the belief that one is special and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people or institutions; a tendency to take advantage of others to achieve one’s own ends; and arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes.

  Chapter 13

  Kristin was brought into court for her arraignment on July 2 on charges of first-degree murder with “special circumstances,” those being that she used poison to kill her husband. Under California law, this made her eligible for the death penalty, which is delivered through a series of lethal injections.

  With her short, dark blond hair tucked behind her ears, she wore her dark blue jailhouse suit and a wide, yellow plastic bracelet, marked with her name and inmate number, 01142131. Her eyes and nose were red and swollen from crying and coming down off meth. A look of terror flashed across her face as she walked in and took her place in front of Judge David Szumowski.

  Her attorney, Michael Pancer, was still out of town, so Gretchen von Helms filled in for him again. The day before the arraignment, von Helms released a statement from Kristin’s parents: “We love and support our daughter, Kristin. We know she’s innocent of any wrongdoing. We grieve with the de Villerses for the loss of their son and our son-in-law, Greg, and we ask everyone to keep both families in their prayers.”

  During the hearing, Goldstein argued that Kristin was not entitled to bail because the offense with which she was charged “could be punishable by death.” Police found no suicide note in the apartment, he said, and no sign of how the deadly fentanyl got into the body of Greg de Villers, a twenty-six-year-old with no history of psychiatric troubles. Kristin, he said, stole drugs from her lab at the Medical Examiner’s Office and used them to kill her husband.

  Although Kristin did not look her best, those who saw her in the courtroom, in the newspaper, or on TV still thought she was attractive. Some said she resembled Jennifer Aniston, the television and feature film actress who was married to heartthrob Brad Pitt at the time. Talk of the potential for a TV movie of the week started early.

  Ralph Rossum stepped up to the podium and made an impassioned plea to release his daughter from jail on bail. Kristin stood with her hands clasped, her expression changing every few seconds as she stared down at the floor and then up at the judge, the corners of her mouth turned down, like a child about to cry.

  “She is a Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude graduate from San Diego State University,” Ralph said. “She would not jeopardize our love or financial future by [fleeing].”

  He pointed out that during the eight months she’d been under investigation, she’d never tried to run.

  “At no time during that period did she indicate the slightest interest in fleeing,” he said. “Mexico is very close. She could’ve left at any time.”

  But the judge wanted to ensure that Kristin couldn’t go anywhere.

  “She certainly would have incentive to run,” he said. “No bail.”

  The judge appointed the county Public Defender’s Office to represent Kristin since her parents said they couldn’t afford to continue to pay for private counsel. After the hearing, a flock of reporters followed Ralph out of the courtroom and down the hallway, holding television microphones in his face as they walked.

  “The cost of this case is beyond our financial means,” Ralph told them.

  Goldstein had a sound bite on the evening news as well: “This is a compelling case that leaves us with no choice but to charge the defendant, Kristin Rossum, with the murder of her husband,” he said.

  Von Helms spoke with the prosecutor in the hallway, asking what it would take to get the charges against Kristin reduced. Goldstein said he’d be interested in Kristin’s cooperation so he could charge Michael Robertson and get her to testify against him.

  Later, von Helms recalled that she discussed this option with Kristin, but she wouldn’t give specifics about their conversation, citing attorney-client privilege. Goldstein recalled talking to von Helms, but said she had no authority to negotiate a deal because she wasn’t really Kristin’s attorney.

  The Rossums still hadn’t quite decided whether to go with a public defender or stick with private counsel. Von Helms continued to work with them over the next few weeks, handling media inquiries, serving as a liaison for delivering photos for publication, and going through Kristin’s belongings to see what she could find that might support her case at trial.

  The Rossums interviewed a number of reputable criminal defense attorneys in town. A good attorney could charge more than $250,000 to represent a defendant in such a high-profile case, and the Rossums didn’t want their daughter to lose a year of her life in jail, waiting for trial. So, ultimately, they decided to go with the Public Defender’s Office and save their money for bail.

  The case initially went to Superior Court Judge Kenneth So, the presiding judge. On July 9, he assigned it to Judge John Thompson, whose reputation for disliking the media was widely known. Thompson had never allowed cameras of any kind in his courtroom as a Superior Court judge.

  The preliminary hearing, origin
ally scheduled to begin at the end of July, was delayed until October after Kristin’s attorneys said they needed more time to review the thousands of pages of discovery material they’d just received from the prosecution.

  Alex Loebig was in charge of a group of three attorneys in the county Public Defender’s Office, known as the Profile Homicide Team, which handled most of the county’s high-profile murder cases from an office several blocks from the downtown courthouse.

  Based on the large number of television cameras and reporters at Kristin’s arraignment, not to mention the sexy and unusual details about her and her case, it soon became obvious that Loebig’s team should handle it. Loebig decided he needed two attorneys on it, a common approach on a complicated or death penalty case. Typically, one attorney handles the closing argument during the trial, and the other gives the closing in the subsequent death-penalty phase, in case the first attorney had biased the jury in any way.

  Loebig, a polite, carefully groomed, and sometimes inscrutable professional, decided to work the case himself. He asked Vic Eriksen, a solid attorney he could rely on, to help him. Each of them already had two or three cases pending. Both attorneys had the reputation of being very reasonable, believable, and honest, all tough characteristics for a prosecutor to overshadow.

  This was Loebig’s first poisoning case. Eriksen had handled several in which people had been accused of poisoning others, usually by giving them too much heroin, but this was his first involving a death. It was a unique case, but not uniquely difficult.

  Loebig had thirty years’ experience defending people accused of murder, the last twenty of those with the Public Defender’s Office. He started his career in 1971 in private practice with Casa Maravilla, a church-oriented legal assistance group in Los Angeles. From there, he worked for three years with the federal Public Defender’s Office and then moved to Guam, where he spent three years as head of its Public Defender’s Office.