“I’ve also been in contact with my counterpart in Kansas,” Graves explained, “and [the paperwork] has been filed in the United States District Court in Kansas City, Missouri, and that’s where it will move forward.”
The history behind the interstate kidnapping law and how it was written was not only interesting in itself, but applied to the federal case now building against Lisa Montgomery. The law dated back to the 1930s, when pioneering aviator Charles Lindbergh’s newborn son was kidnapped from his estate. The Federal Kidnapping Act, which became known more commonly as “the Lindbergh Law,” was initiated by Congress shortly after the Lindbergh kidnapping. Its intention was “…to let federal authorities step in and pursue kidnappers once they had crossed a state border with their victim.”
The idea behind the law was to make sure federal law enforcement agencies assisted in state and local law enforcement investigations when a kidnapping ocurred. Local law enforcement didn’t generally have the resources or jurisdiction to pursue kidnappers effectively across state lines. Federal law enforcement officers, such as the FBI and Customs, “have national enforcement authority,” Congress noted. Those agencies could actively and expeditiously pursue any suspect at any time in any state. Congress believed the federal investigators could do a more thorough job during kidnapping investigations than state and local authorities, because of the resources they had at their disposal.
“When there’s a kidnapping and someone dies as a result,” Graves said, continuing to address reporters, “there’s federal jurisdiction.” Kansas City, where Graves worked, was no stranger to these types of federal crimes. “We have a state line that divides our city,” Graves added. “And so, this isn’t the first case that crosses the state line we’ve dealt with.”
The official charge against Lisa was a violation of Title 18, United States Code 1201: kidnapping resulting in death—a fairly straightforward charge, at least from the position of the law.
“And that is a charge that carries a maximum penalty of life in prison without parole, or the possibility of the death penalty in the appropriate case.”
The decision to go forward with the death penalty in a case that warranted it was not one Todd Graves could make by himself, or with his colleagues.
Twenty-four hours hadn’t yet passed since Lisa was arrested, and many were already saying she deserved capital punishment. Bobbie Jo’s body hadn’t even been released from the morgue, pending forensics and an autopsy, nor had her family had the time to prepare for her funeral; yet scores of people in both counties affected by the crime—and around the world, for that matter—were prepared to convict Lisa without a trial and send her to meet her Maker. “Monster” became a term associated with Lisa almost immediately; people weren’t interested in her side of the story.
“[The death penalty] is something,” Graves continued, but then stopped to collect his thoughts, before adding, “We have elaborate procedures. It’s not something that’s taken…lightly. And in the Department of Justice, there’s a deliberative process, and that decision will be made. But we have a history of cases like this in this area. The case certainly is unusual, but the nature of the charge isn’t really anything out of the ordinary for us.”
Almost one year prior to the date of Bobbie Jo’s murder, a crime eerily parallel in detail and substance took place in Lamar, Oklahoma, about four hundred miles south of Skidmore. Thirty-seven-year-old Effie Goodson found herself facing two first-degree murder charges and a kidnapping accusation in the death of a local woman, twenty-one-year-old Carolyn Simpson, who was six months pregnant at the time she was murdered.
On December 23, 2003, a biting-cold morning, a hunter working his way through the thick brush in a remote Lamar field, about one hundred miles east of Oklahoma City, came upon Carolyn Simpson’s mutilated body. Simpson had been shot in the head, her fetus cut from her womb and kidnapped.
Bizarrely enough, in the Simpson case, Goodson chose her victim and put a plan into effect, one could speculate from the evidence left behind, for the sole purpose of tricking the woman weeks and, possibly, even months, before she carried out the crime.
Simpson was last seen a day before her body was found. She had worked at a tribal casino in Okemah, Oklahoma. Effie Goodson was a casino regular and must have, authorities believed, set her sights on Simpson after meeting her one night and realizing she was pregnant. One report claimed the two women were introduced months before by mutual family members and friends.
On the night before a hunter found her body, Goodson and Simpson were reportedly seen leaving the casino together after Simpson’s shift—yet Simpson was never heard from again.
The next day, Effie Goodson showed up at a Holdenville, Oklahoma, hospital with a dead fetus that, the hospital reported, “had reached six months’ gestation.”
“I’m the mother,” Goodson told hospital officials, adding that the baby had died during delivery.
After hospital officials determined with a few basic medical tests that Goodson could not have given birth recently, they became suspicious and called authorities.
Minutes later, Goodson was taken into custody.
What happened prior to the murder of Carolyn Simpson mirrored the details surrounding Lisa Montgomery’s life leading up to Bobbie Jo’s murder. Goodson had “falsely told several people she was pregnant,” law enforcement said, “going back as far as ten months.” Goodson’s own husband, like Kevin Montgomery, believed his wife was expecting. A baby shower had been thrown in Goodson’s honor. Some law enforcement officials even said Goodson “lured Simpson…into a friendship”—similar to what Lisa Montgomery evidently had done to Bobbie Jo—“with…promises of free baby clothes and a crib.” Even more striking, Goodson told her husband, allegedly after murdering Simpson and removing her fetus with a knife, she had given birth to the baby alongside a road near their home.
“I think anybody would agree she wanted a baby,” one investigator involved in the case commented, strikingly in sync to what Ben Espey had said probably a half-dozen times since Lisa’s arrest. “She already had baby items. She was really set up for a baby.”
Despite its gruesome similarity, the Goodson case didn’t garner a fraction of the publicity now erupting in Melvern as Lisa Montgomery was booked for kidnapping resulting in death.
64
Sleep was hard to find for Carl Boman. When he finally wrestled his thoughts together, he had one objective in mind: seeing his children.
Because he couldn’t get hold of his lawyer, James Campbell, the night before, Carl called him first thing in the morning, hoping he would have some advice regarding what to do next.
Campbell, though, still hadn’t returned to his office.
“I’m leaving for Melvern,” Carl told Vanessa.
Carl’s brother drove from Tulsa, where he lived, to Bartlesville, to pick up Carl. Carl wanted his support and company for the long trip to Melvern. As his brother drove, Carl used his cell phone and called James Campbell again.
“Yeah, Carl? What’s happening?”
“I need to have my children here with me,” said Carl, “at home, where they belong.”
“Well, Carl, I heard about everything last night, and actually tried calling you. I’m on my way back to town now,” said Campbell.
Richard Boman, Carl’s father, who had been married to Lisa’s mother at one time, drove up from Tennessee to meet Carl and his brother as they got closer to Melvern. Richard was well aware of the tenuous situation Carl had been in lately with Lisa and the kids. He knew about the pending child custody court case. The hearing, however, was likely to be postponed now, in anticipation of any legal action against Lisa.
“You’re going to get the kids,” his brother and father told him. “Relax.”
James Campbell said he was going to file a temporary custody order as soon as Carl and his brother made it to his office in Burlington, Kansas.
“Let me take care of the paperwork while you’re on your way,” Camp
bell offered.
“Thanks, Jim.”
Campbell, a burly man in his early forties, was an experienced lawyer in probate matters. He was certain the court would grant Carl temporary custody, based solely on the events over the past twenty-four hours—which had proved, at least on the surface, Lisa wasn’t capable of taking care of the children at this point in her life.
“Drop by my office on your way into Melvern,” said Campbell.
“Will do.”
Carl and his brother had left Bartlesville about 7:30 A.M. By the time they got to Campbell’s office two hours later, the paperwork was waiting for Carl to sign.
Campbell’s urgent action was comforting to Carl. “This, of course, I appreciated,” said Carl, “even though I knew the case was now going to make a name for him in town and would help him immensely. He’s been, gosh, whew—James has been great.”
By then, Carl’s name had become synonymous with the case. Good Morning America, the Montel Williams Show, Larry King Live, and many other major media organizations were calling, asking Carl to appear with his children on air. Carl, at present, was not about to speak to the world about his relationship with Lisa; he wanted to make sure his kids were taken care of and the press left them alone.
The previous night had been a blur to Carl. Vanessa didn’t make the trip to Melvern simply because of “all the emotion involved,” recalled Carl. It was too much for her. All the time Carl spent on custody issues and dealing with Lisa and her family had impacted his relationship with Vanessa negatively.
After news of what happened broke, friends stopped by Carl and Vanessa’s and called to see if they could do anything for the family. Carl appreciated the support. But now, with the severity of the crime itself beginning to settle on him as he made his way from Bartlesville to Melvern, the entire situation had taken on a new dimension. It was, he said, as if he were leading someone else’s life, running on pure adrenaline, not thinking about things thoroughly, just trudging along on autopilot.
“It felt like walking through a cloud. I hate to sound clichéd, but it was like a dream. That’s the only way I can describe it.”
The plan was for Carl to pick the kids up at the Montgomerys’ and bring them to where Judy lived in nearby Lyndon. Carl would stay the night at Judy’s and return to Oklahoma the following morning with the kids.
Not long after Carl left Campbell’s office, the attorney called with good news.
“The judge is going to sign the ex parte custody order on Monday,” said Campbell. “Legally, you can bring the kids home with you.”
The long drive to Melvern was cumbersome. Carl and his brother hardly said a word to each other.
“I mean, I had been married to this woman twice and had known her for over twenty years,” explained Carl. “She was the mother of my children. When people say, ‘These things happen to other people,’ we generally take that with a grain of salt. But I know now what that means.”
Carl was nervous about seeing the kids. He fretted over what he was going to say. He realized he couldn’t gloat about being right—having told every one of the Montgomerys over the course of the past year Lisa was not pregnant. Nor could he put a bow on it and tell the children he’d fix it. It wouldn’t be fair to them.
“I was at a loss for what to say and how to handle the situation,” Carl remembered thinking while his brother drove. “My brother, whom I love dearly, wasn’t much help. He did listen to my rantings along the way, but had no answers.”
Carl called Kayla in Georgia. She was a daddy’s girl. They had bonded from day one more than any of the other children, according to both. With Kayla being the youngest, Carl knew it was up to him to try to talk her through the situation.
“You okay?”
“I really don’t want to talk, Dad.”
“Okay, honey. I’m here, though. Let me speak to Auntie M.”
Carl told Mary to watch Kayla closely. Kayla was close to Lisa. As soon as what had taken place truly hit her, she was going to implode emotionally.
Mary agreed. “No problem, Carl. Anything you need.”
65
While Kayla was in school on Saturday morning, finishing up finals, she made a decision that, as bad as she wanted to leave, she was going to stay in Georgia. She saw no sense in going back home and getting involved in a media frenzy. Still, the brutality of what her mother purportedly had done ate at Kayla as she went about her day.
“By the time I was at school,” she said, “I knew my mom had done ‘it.’” Kayla had a hard time speaking about the specifics of what “it” was; the reality of the crime was too hard for her to put into words. “I’d had doubts about whether she was pregnant. I mean, it was just a feeling that kept bugging me. But, when Mary told me that day when I returned home from school…I knew. I didn’t have doubts. I wondered how the person who gave birth to me could do such a thing. You see, sometimes things seem impossible, but they aren’t, really.”
What about Kevin?
“Did I think Kevin was involved? Not for a second! I know my mom could do something like that. But not Kevin. I didn’t think he was involved then, and I still don’t…. He was (and is) devastated. He loved (and still does) my mom…and was really shocked when he found out my mom did it. He really believed Tori Jo was his daughter. I feel bad for him.”
Part of what hurt the most, Kayla said, was that her mother allegedly had murdered someone she had been close to and was just getting to know. Bobbie Jo and Kayla had corresponded via e-mail, in person, and through instant messages more times than she could count.
“She murdered my friend. She left an innocent baby without a mother, a husband without his wife, a mother without her daughter, a little boy without his protective big sister, and a community without a wonderful person. I am still so mad about it all.
“I miss talking to Bobbie Jo.”
As class came to a close, Kayla began thinking about past events.
“I have always wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t gone to live in Georgia. Would my mom still have done what she did? I know that what-ifs aren’t good to focus on. But I can’t help but wonder what would have happened. I know I can’t go back and change things. But I really wish I could.”
66
A crowd of well over three thousand people gathered to witness the first federal execution in America. It was June 25, 1790, somewhere near Portland, Maine. Thomas Bird, a tall fellow with large muttonchop sideburns and rotten teeth, stood at the gallows, his large hands, rough as rawhide, tied behind his back. Bird was pleading for his life with executioner Henry Dearborn, a U.S. Marshal.
Bird had petitioned the court, asking George Washington, the great general and president himself, for a pardon. His request was denied.
The crowd stood staring at Bird, clamoring for his neck. Bird was, essentially, a pirate, a nuisance to the community, which viewed him as nothing more than a ruffian who took what he wanted without much care for what people thought. He had murdered the captain of the ship he worked on. A man had to pay a price for such violence.
At the time of Bird’s landmark execution, maritime law was a major concern for federal courts in America. Bird had violated one of the most cherished laws of the colonies.
Within minutes after he stood at the gallows, the doors below Thomas Bird opened and his feet fell out from underneath him. The fall snapped his neck like a dry twig. In seconds, it was over. History was made: the first federal execution.
Approximately forty crimes recognized by the federal government are punishable by the sentence of death. Most involve murder while in the process of committing a second crime. For example, in Lisa Montgomery’s case, the government was alleging Lisa murdered Bobbie Jo Stinnett with the intention (and in the process) of kidnapping her unborn child.
Since the first federal execution, according to studies conducted by the Capital Punishment Research Project, “336 men and 4 women” have been executed under federal guidelines. Thirty-nine percent
—134—were carried out on whites, and 118—35 percent—on African Americans; along with 63 Native Americans and 25 Hispanics (or persons of an unknown race).
Nearly every execution since Thomas Bird’s in 1790 has been carried out by hanging, electrocution, gas, or lethal injection. A majority of executed inmates were convicted for murder or crimes resulting in murder. Other executions have been carried out for piracy, rape, rioting, kidnapping, and, naturally, espionage.
During the twentieth century, 61 percent of federal executions included minority defendants.
In a sense, these statistics boded well for Lisa Montgomery—if, in fact, the government chose to seek the death penalty against her. Several factors, experts claim, weigh on the side of females facing the death penalty. Number one is that juries sitting on federal cases feel the female murderer is less vicious and more likely to commit a criminal act under extenuating circumstances that ultimately led her to the point where she felt murder was her only option. Another important factor is that most women who face the death penalty are mothers.
“In Missouri,” said one local official, “you get a lotta leg outta that—she would only need one vote.”
The murder of Bobbie Jo Stinnett, however, was unusual in many ways. Lisa Montgomery was a woman who had confessed to killing another female exclusively for the purpose of kidnapping her child; a child, who, the jury in Lisa’s case would no doubt learn, hadn’t even been born. If a woman could cut a baby from another woman’s womb and present the child to the public, her kids, and her husband as her own, what other crimes was she capable of?
Murder in the Heartland Page 18