Written in Blood

by Diane Fanning

At the end of June, the psychiatrists at Butner released their report: Clayton was fit to stand trial. Plea bargaining negotiations began at once. In September, Clayton admitted that he broke into the building, planted the bomb and left the note. In exchange for a guilty plea for possession of the bomb, prosecutors dropped the other charges.

  Clayton was released to the custody of his parents. He wore an ankle bracelet that confined him to his parents’ home with the exception of a medical emergency. He was ordered to receive psychiatric treatment at Duke’s community clinic. On the advice of his attorney, he did not go.

  At the end of December, Clayton appeared in U.S. District Court in Greensboro, North Carolina. With tears in his eyes, he told Judge William Osteen, “I regret all my actions. I am remorseful. I apologize to everyone, to Duke, to you, to society, to my parents, my friends.”

  The judge had a broad range of options, from a maximum of 10 years to a minimum of 46 months. Osteen told Clayton, “Goodness knows, I know of nobody in this courtroom who possesses more potential than you.”

  24

  While Clayton’s troubles were in full swing, Michael Peterson started work on a new book on the Camp Pendleton “porno” scandal. His nine-page description outlined a creative non-fiction work attacking the military’s denial of rampant homosexual activity and its fear of the threat it posed. He would detail the forty-three discharges and the imprisonment of one Marine, reveal the cult underground of pornographic films and expose “the records of the men who conducted this witch hunt.”

  In the conclusion of his proposal, he asserted that “the fear and prejudice of homosexuals is just another in the long line of bigotry, and eventually, it will be overcome also. There is no question of this. The only question is when. What, after all, is there to fear?”

  In furtherance of his research, Peterson placed an ad in the personals section of the Frontiers News Magazine, a gay-oriented publication in late September 1994. It read: “Well known author, former decorated combat marine officer, doing research for a sympathetic book on the marines involved in the pomo videos shoot near Camp Pendleton. If you were involved or know someone who was please contact me. You need not reveal your identity.”

  The judge then handed down a sentence of 4 years and 1 month in the federal prison. He ordered Clayton to pay $1,712.55 for damage caused to the Allen Building by his break-in. After Clayton’s release, he would be supervised for 3 years and be required to perform 100 hours of community service each year.

  Although the address for a response was a post office box, the phone number listed rang at 1810 Cedar Street.

  By 1995, Peterson had dipped his toe into the local political waters. He blasted the public school system in a letter to the editor published in The Herald-Sun in April. He railed against the principal who saw nothing wrong with all-black schools. He praised re-districting for better racial balance. And he attacked the money spent on perks for school administrators.

  He concluded his piece with a battle cry that foreshadowed his formal entrée into politics: “Now that I know where my taxes go, I also know where my vote is going next election: not to those who allow this kind of grotesque waste.”

  In March of 1996, Peterson’s Peace and Reparations was 405-page hardback novel re-titled A Bitter Peace. The main protagonist was Diplomat Bradley Marshall, who tried to end the conflict in Vietnam in Peterson’s previous novel, A Time of War.

  A Bitter Peace opened in 1972 and involved Marshall in the South Vietnamese peace treaty, the death of the Shah of Iran and the negotiations with the Ayatollah Khomeini. Publishers Weekly wrote: “Peterson seems to be trying to do for recent U.S. history what Alexandre Dumas did for the history of France [ …] It is a mission he performs well, when he sticks to the political; it’s only when the personal takes over that his storytelling falls flat.”

  When interviewed by The Herald-Sun, Michael claimed he had finished 300 pages of his next book, which he described as a techno-thriller. He made no mention of his research into the Camp Pendleton homosexual film scandal.

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  Michael’s marriage to Patty Peterson was legally dissolved in 1996. Patty may have held the papers in her hand, but she did not accept the reality. Although they were separated and divorced, and her husband was living with another woman, Patty was, in her mind, a married woman. She had no plans to pursue any new relationships. “He’s my husband,” she said. “I marry once in life.” She felt the sanctity of the institution outweighed the actions of an individual.

  In protest, she signed papers for Michael once again. This time, it was a quit deed on the Cedar Street home. She signed over any rights she had to that property in exchange for sole ownership of the marital home on University Drive and full ownership of all furniture and other belongings in that home at the time.

  On New Year’s Day of 1997, Kathleen called her brother Steve and his wife, Cynthia, with her good news. Michael proposed to her the night before at the country club. The wedding would be in June.

  Kathleen, with the help of her sister Candace, planned an elegant wedding in the Cedar Street home. Cynthia, Steve and their three children arrived early to help with the final preparations. For three days, Cynthia sat out on the terrace by the pool, creating bouquets, corsages, boutonnières and table displays for the big event. She got only sporadic assistance from friends of the Petersons who drifted in and out of the home. But Cynthia did not mind—Kathleen was more than a sister-in-law, she was a friend.

  The day before the wedding, Steve and Cynthia’s twins, 11-year-old Kim and Jack, spent the day with Michael’s friend and former professor Richard White Adams, twining magnolia leaves and roses around the banister of the curved front stairway. Richard went out of his way to entertain the children while they created their masterpiece.

  1810 Cedar Street was crowded with celebrants: friends, the bride’s and groom’s families—even George Ratliff’s family—were present for the momentous day.

  It was an unusual occasion at this home in that Kathleen did not prepare the food for her guests. One of her friends hosted the rehearsal dinner in her own home. Another came to the house the morning after the wedding and prepared breakfast for everyone staying there.

  On June 21, 1997, Kathleen floated down the front stairway in a beautiful white dress. Caitlin, Margaret and Martha were the bridesmaids. Kim Hunt and Ashley Zamperini were junior bridesmaids. Richard White Adams and Todd were the best men. After Michael and Kathleen exchanged vows, the party began. Kathleen created a special position for little Hadley Zamperini, dubbing her “candy girl.” She handed out bundles of sweet almonds wrapped in tulle and tied with a ribbon to the guests at the reception.

  White tablecloths bedecked tables throughout the garden and around the swimming pool. Heavenly aromas arose from the incredible spread of salmon and other edible delights. Sounds of music and dancing filled the neighborhood.

  At one point, Caitlin, Margaret and Martha crooned the Dixie Cups’ old sixties song, “Chapel of Love.” Kathleen joined in, lifting her voice with theirs—her face filled with smiles, her heart bursting with love for the world.

  Richard White Adams made a toast to the couple. He dubbed his friend “a man of mystery.” Todd followed with a second toast saying that Kathleen was good for Michael—he had never seen his dad so happy.

  Kathleen and Michael did not go on a honeymoon right away—they spent that first night in their home full of guests. They followed a path of rose petals to their bed that Caitlin had strewn earlier that evening.

  In the morning, they shared an elegant breakfast with family and friends. It appeared to be a marriage made in heaven.

  The first indication to Kathleen’s family that the relationship had a dark side arose when Lori saw the new yellow purse that Kathleen brought back from the belated honeymoon trip she and Michael made to London and Paris. Kathleen loved expensive leather goods, but this $2,000 Louis Vuitton piece was a bit extravagant, even for her.

  Kathleen told he
r that it was a gift from Michael. When Lori asked what the occasion was for this atypical generosity on Michael’s part, Kathleen told her about an incident that occurred on their trip.

  She and Michael fell asleep on a subway in Paris. When they awoke they realized they had been robbed. Michael was furious. He screamed. He raved. He grabbed Kathleen’s arms and shook her. In his anger, he left bruises up and down Kathleen’s arms. “He was angry at himself. He lashed out at me and hurt my arm,” Kathleen told her sister. The purse was his way of saying he was sorry.

  Michael Peterson started a new venture in 1997 as a columnist for The Herald-Sun. Peterson knew no sacred cows. He attacked everything that moved.

  One of his first columns raked the district attorney and the police over the coals for wasting their time busting bingo halls. “The DA and cops can’t do anything about those crimes—they can’t catch any real criminals in City Hall, so they go after underage voters and bingo players.”

  He also attacked the city council, whom he referred to as “the thirteen dwarves.” “Floyd McKissick proposed entrance signs—gateways—with flowers and shrubs to make Durham look pretty. And Floyd’s the smart one on the Council. God help us!”

  In another column about the ruling fathers, he condemned proposed tax increases. He wrote, “Your money is not being squandered. It is being stolen.”

  He came down on the police department and raised a stir. He wrote that cops are woefully underpaid and deserving of our appreciation, but the administration—Chief Teresa Chambers in particular—makes poor decisions.

  “As I say repeatedly in this column—stupid is stupid, wrong is wrong, and it doesn’t make any difference who commits the dumbness. He or she needs to be outed.”

  He blamed Chambers for the high rate of unsolved crimes. “The chance of a criminal getting caught is only slightly better than getting hit by lightning.”

  Police Chief Teresa Chambers flipped when she read her morning paper, and fired off a lengthy email to Michael Peterson. “I have spent a great deal of time stroking bruised egos and hurt feelings of employees who have moved this agency light years ahead in the short span of 18 months. Your assistance in getting out the real story will help our employees put this behind them.”

  Peterson did follow up with an apology, but heaped on more cynicism at the same time.

  Another person to express his annoyance with Michael Peterson’s columns was Canine Officer Trent Hall, who would later play an important role at the crime scene. He fired off a few abrasive emails about the dedicated officers who worked hard and were actually catching drug dealers and people breaking into homes in Durham.

  Mike’s responses were positive—encouraging Trent to want to understand Mike’s viewpoint and to have Peterson understand his. After a flurry of emails, Trent asked Mike if he would like to ride with him one night. Mike readily accepted and Trent picked him up at his house at 10 P.M.

  Trent spent about fifteen minutes in the Peterson home meeting Kathleen, Todd and Clayton. He left feeling the warmth of Kathleen’s smile.

  It was not a busy night on patrol. This gave Trent and Mike a lot of time to learn about each other. They had a productive exchange of ideas about Durham, growing up in the town and staff shortages in the department.

  Trent pointed out crack houses and prostitutes as they drove the dark streets. Trent felt that Mike was very responsive and open to being educated about the force. When he dropped Mike off at 4:30 the next morning, they parted as friends and their email correspondence continued. Mike even wrote a glowing column about his experience that night.

  In October of 1998, the Petersons had three bulldogs: Wilbur, Celeste and her brother, Clancey. That month, Celeste gave birth to Portia and Puck, a pair of twins sired by Wilbur. Celeste did not survive the ordeal. Michael assumed her role. He was up all hours of the night, feeding and caring for the two motherless pups.

  On October 23, Mayor Nick Tennyson paid back the jabs of Michael Peterson’s verbal assaults in the newspaper by giving him a singular honor. He named that Saturday “Michael Peterson Day” in honor of the columnist’s fifty-fifth birthday. Beneath all the officious and high-flown language the mayor inserted his dig: “I hereby urge all of my fellow citizens [ …] to give thanks that he has been limited to one column per week.”

  While Mike was irritating the city government with his caustic column, Kathleen was charming its citizens with her competence and grace. At Nortel, a conference room was named in her honor—something that had not been done for any employee before her. She was now in charge of 3,000 employees at offices in Dallas, Ottawa, Toronto and Research Triangle Park. She was amassing stock options like a bandit. And her financial worth on paper skyrocketed as Nortel’s stock went up.

  At home, her relationship with Caitlin had blossomed. Unlike many girls her age, Caitlin was comfortable seeking her mother’s advice about guys, drinking and other personal issues. Kathleen shared with her the life lessons she’d learned from her own faults and errors in judgment.

  Caitlin felt that they had developed a mother-daughter respect that allowed Kathleen to trust that her daughter would be honest with her. That gave Caitlin a lot more freedom in her senior year in high school.

  When Caitlin succumbed to senioritis, her mother was there to help her get her act together and get back on her feet. Their camaraderie was enhanced by the bottomless sense of humor they shared. The two could be seen giggling together everywhere.

  Kathleen was also brightening her neighborhood. On Christmas Eve, she delivered homemade croissants up one street and down the other. She hosted the community Easter egg hunts on her property and first-day-of school parties in her home.

  And Kathleen loved roses. She pampered the three dozen rose bushes with their brilliant multi-colored blooms that grew her garden. On the surface, Kathleen Peterson appeared to be a woman who had it all.

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  Calling himself the Jesse Ventura of Durham politics, Michael Peterson paid a filing fee of $156.70 and became a candidate for the office of mayor on August 5, 1999. Peterson was one of five contenders on the ballot vying for the position in an October 5 primary. The two top vote-getters would then go head-to-head in a general election on November 2.

  The leader of the pack was 48-year-old Nick Tennyson, the incumbent mayor. He had won the seat in 1997 against four other candidates. In addition to serving as mayor, he was the executive vice president of the Home Builders Association of Durham and Orange Counties.

  Brenda Burnette, a city councilwoman representing Ward I was the first person to file on July 2. The 50-year-old single African-American mother had announced her intentions to run in January soon after she had been evicted from her publicly subsidized housing for failure to pay rent. When it came to her fellow candidate, Michael Peterson, she carried a big chip on her shoulder. He often referred to her and her fellow city councilmen as “dwarfs” in his columns. And he singled her out as “brain challenged.”

  58-year-old Ralph McKinney, Jr., filed the same day as Peterson. He was a familiar face at the meetings of the city council and the county commissioners. Although he had never held public office, this was not his first foray into a political race. He finished third in the Democratic primary for U.S. Senate in 1996 and garnered 520 votes in the mayoral primary race in 1997. He was vocal on issues of racism and sexism—even calling out NBA star Michael Jordan on accusations of discrimination against black customers at his automobile dealerships.

  Floyd McKissick, a self-employed attorney, rounded out the list of choices for mayor. The 43-year-old African-American had served on the city council since 1993. His current term was set to expire in 2001. That summer, he had come under fire for a trip he had taken to his alma mater in New England at city expense. With degrees from Duke, Harvard and the University of North Carolina, coupled with his political experience, this Durham native sold himself as the most experienced candidate.

  It was a lot of competition for a demanding part-time job
that paid only $15,362 per year. At least three of the candidates spent more than twice the annual salary for this two-year job during their campaigns.

  To avoid any conflicts of interest The Herald-Sun pulled Michael Peterson’s columns from their pages after his announcement to run. The candidate responded by purchasing ad space to run his column on Friday each week in the Durham section of the paper. He also posted the weekly column on his Web site.

  The site was designed and maintained by a Durham newcorner, Guy Seaberg, a former federal prosecutor and private attorney in Maine. He came to North Carolina in July 1999 after suffering a major setback in court the month before.

  Seaberg took on a civil case for Lori D’Amico. He missed key filing dates and, despite numerous warnings from the court, continued to tell his client that all was well. D’Amico’s case was thrown out of court because of these late filings and she sued Seaberg.

  Maine Superior Court Judge Thomas R. Warren found Seaberg liable for breach of contract, professional negligence and breach of fiduciary responsibility. He awarded Lori D’Amico $1.1 million in actual damages and punitive damages of $25,000. D’Amico said that Seaberg moved to North Carolina where his wages could not be garnished on this judgment.

  Peterson ran a tough, no-nonsense campaign, gathering new supporters every day. Fifty-nine percent of his campaign coffer of over $37,000 came from small donors who made contributions of $100 or less. In contrast, the incumbent Tennyson garnered 61 percent of his funding from larger gifts, many of which came from real estate developers and builders.

  In the fliers Peterson distributed throughout the city, he proclaimed he’d be a full-time mayor and promised “every citizen will be my special interest.” His four-point platform promised that he would stand up against drugs, gangs and illegal weapons, promote racial harmony, merge city and county governments and return the power to the people. He declared that his 120 columns demonstrated that he always told the truth.