by Edward Humes
This was somewhat more significant than the nightgowns, but still, the problem with these “new” pieces of evidence was that they weren’t really new, for the defense had access to the mechanic and Jennifer before and during the trial. Pat’s team simply failed to ask the right questions. The judge would almost certainly reject appeals focusing on the nightgowns and auto repairs out of hand for that reason alone.
There was, however, a new witness. Donald Dean Unsell, a self-described “Dumpster diver,” recalled picking “treasures” from trash bins at the College Center mall in July 1992, looking for things to sell at garage sales, his primary source of income. One night while Unsell was at work, a man came by the mall between one and three in the morning, identified himself as Pat Dunn, and asked Unsell if he had seen his wife walking around. While awaiting trial, Pat had recalled such an encounter with an unidentified trash-picker, and the defense team had looked for the man, hoping to use him as a witness at trial to show that Pat really had searched for his missing wife. But they had been unable to find him: Unsell, it seems, had been incarcerated himself, and hadn’t been around the mall for many months. He had not heard or read anything about the Dunn case, and so hadn’t given another thought to his encounter with a man looking for his wife.
After the trial, Pat’s brother Mike renewed the search for the Dumpster diver, posting flyers at the mall asking for information. Unsell spotted one of the flyers, remembered seeing Pat that night about a year earlier, and called. After puzzling over exactly when this had happened and discussing it with his wife, who was also picking trash that night, Unsell decided that the encounter with Pat had been in the early morning hours of July 1—a date he said he remembered because he and his wife had purchased a car the day before, and had taken it to the mall for the first time that night he ran into Pat. The pink slip, which he still had in his possession, had given him the date.
This really was “new evidence” in the legal sense, and the significance of it was twofold. First, it corroborated Pat’s account of searching for his wife on the night that she disappeared, and, second, it had him doing it at a time when, according to the prosecution, he was supposed to be burying her corpse sixty miles away, on a tight timetable that left no room for visits to the mall.
The problem here, though, was the somewhat incredible nature of the testimony. Nearly a year after this chance, two-minute meeting in a mall parking lot with Pat Dunn, Donald Unsell claimed to know the exact date of the encounter—even though he hadn’t given it a thought since it happened. This seemed unlikely at best. Indeed, Gary Pohlson had attacked similarly specific recollections by prosecution witnesses who had claimed to remember minute details of conversations with Pat Dunn many months after the fact.
“No one’s going to believe this guy,” Laura told herself after interviewing Unsell. Yet, even while remaining skeptical, she was satisfied that the man was telling the truth as he remembered it. Indeed, her initial concern was that someone might have bribed or cajoled the impoverished man to come forward. Laura addressed this head-on, asking Unsell flat out if Mike Dunn or anyone else had offered him money for his testimony. The man’s faded blue eyes lit up at the very suggestion. “No,” he said eagerly. “Should they have?” That flash of unabashed and unrequited greed convinced Laura that Unsell was the genuine article.
Convincing anyone else was another matter. When it came time to hear the new evidence at a hearing on June 14, 1993, the defense team knew that they had a long shot at best. Judge Baca patiently listened, but the lawyers could tell where things were headed. They spent most of their time apologizing to the court, because one of their main arguments, aside from the new evidence, was that Judge Baca had committed a grievous error by allowing the real estate attorney Teri Bjorn to testify, and that this alone warranted a new trial.
Baca, though, said that he was more certain than ever that he made the right call on Teri Bjorn. “The defendant . . . wanted to know how he could go about getting a power of attorney,” the judge stated, once more misquoting the testimony in the case. Significantly, this misinterpretation of Bjorn’s words affected more than just the hearing before Baca. It continued to be cited in appeals briefs and by appeals courts themselves, the error taking on a life of its own as the system dutifully followed its rule of always deferring to lower courts’ findings of fact—even when they are wrong. Likewise, other omissions and misstatements of the evidence in the Dunn case were allowed to stand: the information contained in John Somers’ big chart of Pat’s lies, errors and all, played a major role in future appeals decisions as well.
As for the new witnesses and evidence Laura had uncovered, Somers argued that even if anyone believed them, which he didn’t, their appearance in the trial wouldn’t have altered the verdict. For instance, Somers stated, if Donald Unsell really did see Pat early that morning, it contradicted nothing—there still would have been ample time for Pat to kill Sandy, bury the body and return to conduct a phony search for his wife. In making this argument, Somers told the court that Jerry Coble had seen Pat dispose of the body at 12:15 A.M.—a clear misstatement of the evidence. Coble actually testified that he last observed the body in the truck at 1:24 A.M., which would not have provided the amount of time Somers needed for his scenario.67
Nevertheless, Judge Baca agreed with Somers. And when Pat’s lawyers tried to argue that, regardless of the significance of any new evidence, the prosecution case itself was insufficient, that Jerry Coble was unbelievable, and that without Coble, there was no case, Somers replied that there was plenty of evidence to convict Pat Dunn without Coble, a position that baffled the defense.68 Furthermore, Somers explained, the defense team’s latest attacks on Jerry Lee Coble’s veracity were just going over old ground that had been visited time and again during the trial. The defense had “ample opportunity” to explore Jerry Coble’s criminal history, his plea bargain, and his credibility, Somers assured the judge, and nothing new had occurred since then that would justify a new trial.
“All of that was presented to the jury,” the prosecutor said. “They had a chance to evaluate it.”69
Judge Baca agreed once more with every one of Somers’ points. He dismissed the Dumpster diver’s testimony as incredible and the other new information as minor points that would not have changed the verdict had they been introduced at trial. New evidence warrants a new trial only when it is of sufficient magnitude that a different verdict was probable, Baca said. Clearly, that was not the case here. The defense was wrong about Teri Bjorn, and had nothing new to offer about Jerry Lee Coble.
The conviction would stand.
But, of course, neither Judge Baca nor the jury had heard all the facts, despite what John Somers avowed. Unbeknownst to Baca, by the time this hearing took place, the Kern County District Attorney’s Office had filed new charges against Jerry Coble, and, in addition, had information in hand that its star witness in the Dunn case had violated his plea agreement and the conditions of his probation. The DA’s office also had information demonstrating that Jerry Coble had given false testimony in the Dunn case, in that he claimed to have been crime free since the preliminary hearing in December, when in fact he had just been charged with attempting to pass a stolen and counterfeit check using stolen and false ID.
When John Somers told the judge that there was nothing new with which to challenge Jerry Coble’s credibility, when he argued that there was no real new evidence in the case, that Jerry Coble was a truthful witness, and that the defense and the jury had been able to evaluate all the available information on Coble, his own office had information showing each of these points to be untrue.70
J. E. Taylor, the Bakersfield police detective who had identified Coble in January as the offender in the check-forgery case—then reported no activity on the case until after Pat’s trial and conviction in March—had finally forwarded the case to the district attorney’s office for prosecution on May 11. Though too late to play a role in Pat’s trial, this was more than a month bef
ore the hearing in which Pat sought a new trial. Then, on May 25, still weeks before Pat’s hearing, the DA’s office filed a felony complaint against Coble. Despite the new charge, no attempt was made to revoke Coble’s probation or plea agreement, though this would normally be routine in such a case. And there is no record of him being arrested, or of a warrant for his arrest being sought by the DA, though this, too, should have been routine. Yet the Kern County court records for May 25 state that, at 9:35 A.M., Jerry Coble was in custody, presumably in the Kern County jail, which is run by the sheriff’s department.
Six hours later, at 3:30 P.M., when Coble was supposed to be arraigned on the new charges, no hearing took place; court records indicate: “Defendant not transported to court.” The case record on file at the Kern County courthouse ends at that point, without explanation. There was no further attempt to bring Coble to court on the new case, no attempt to revoke his probation, no effort to prosecute or punish him in any way. To this day, the Kern County District Attorney has failed to pursue the forgery case against Jerry Lee Coble, though the case was listed as “open and active” in the court files as late as 1997. The case remained open until July 23, 1997, when the failure of the district attorney to prosecute the case led to its dismissal because Coble had been denied a speedy trial. The DA has never notified Pat Dunn of its existence.71
Had the defense known of the new case against Coble—and had they known of Detective Eric Banducci and his report chronicling Coble’s desperate attempts to strike a deal to avoid prison—Pat would have had powerful information with which to seek a new trial, to attack Coble’s credibility, and to show possible prosecutorial misconduct. Banducci’s testimony, had the defense known of its availability, could have gone far beyond simply challenging Jerry Coble’s story: It could have undermined the credibility of the entire case against Pat Dunn. The defense could have argued that any investigation that went behind Banducci’s back and ignored his and other detectives’ concerns about Jerry Coble’s veracity ought to be viewed with skepticism on every point.
But the defense had none of this blockbuster information. All it had were some nightgowns, tires and a trash picker. The outcome was never in doubt.
When the arguments were over and the new trial had been denied, Judge Baca began a final ritual before imposing sentence: Pat got his chance to address the court. It was the first and last time he would speak in his own defense, too late to do any good, a rambling ten minutes of fury and stammers.
“I am not what these people pictured me to be,” he told the judge, standing at the defense table and breathing hard. The cheap suit was gone; he was wearing jailhouse blues. “I have worked long and hard. Momma and I worked long and hard. Yes, we had a dollar, but it wasn’t anything different than you having an education and being a lawyer or a man with a backhoe in his backyard that he can earn a living with.”
The words came in a rush, driven by the pressure of months of silence, of sitting in that courtroom watching his life on the dissection table, unable to speak, squirming in his chair, scribbling notes like a madman his only outlet. Now, it seemed, he couldn’t stop. “The dollars that we had were to do something with, was to work with. It was nothing but a tool. Mom and I, we ran around in Levi’s and a T-shirt and we didn’t want anything else. We didn’t lack for anything and we didn’t want anything, either.”
The judge glanced at the clock; he had other cases to deal with that day. He cleared his throat. He tried, a few times, to quiet the man down, but in the end, he let Pat have his say. Baca knew who was going to have the final word.
Meanwhile, Pat rolled on. “And I am not an avaricious person,” he declared, “and I didn’t kill my wife, and I damn sure didn’t kill anybody for money.”
He railed against Coble and Soliz and Somers, saying it was all a lie, a terrible lie, a lie that had destroyed him. Then the words finally trickled to a stop, a creek run dry. No one else spoke for a moment. Then the judge filled the silence, businesslike and brief, completing the ritual. He had read all the letters to the court and considered each of them—from Pat’s ex-wife, Nancy, swearing he was a kind and good and nonviolent man; from his friends and son Pat Jr. and supporters, all attesting to his good nature; and from Sandy’s sister Nanette, seeking retribution. It was a futile exercise. The law permitted only one sentence in this case.
“The court can envision no crime more despicable than murdering somebody for financial gain, regardless of what the gain is, regardless of how big the prize might be.” The words sounded tough, but Baca delivered them with little emotion. Everyone in the room, including the judge, seemed tired and ready for the Dunn case to end.
Then Judge Baca sent Pat Dunn to prison for the rest of his life, without possibility of parole, as the law required. As a last gesture, in one of those odd and pointless rituals of the court system, the judge carefully noted that Pat should receive credit for three hundred forty-four days in jail—two hundred thirty of them actual days in custody, the rest “good time” credits. Later, the idea of receiving credit for time served on an infinite sentence almost made Pat Dunn laugh. Almost.
• • •
Following sentencing, as Laura Lawhon pointed her car south for that long, slow drive over the Grapevine, she, like Gary Pohlson before her, found herself weeping in anger and frustration, banging the steering wheel and talking to herself. She raced to the freeway, feeling like an escaped prisoner. When a news report on Pat’s case suddenly blared from her car radio, she snatched at the off switch so hard she nearly broke it, unable to bear that solemn voice describing Pat as the man who murdered his wife for her millions. Lies, she thought to herself. Lies. She knew it in her bones. But she couldn’t prove it, and could imagine no worse a feeling. She could still hear Pat’s angry, rambling remarks to the impatient judge, who did everything but drum his fingers in exasperation. She could still see the pained expressions on the defense lawyers’ faces and the pitiful last wave Pat gave her while being led from the courtroom—he looked almost child-like, as if he were shrinking before her eyes.
This place has defeated us, she thought. And now, as she angrily wiped at her eyes, she wanted nothing more than to get back home, to her family and her pets, to other cases in other towns. Pat Dunn’s case had taken over her life, with its constant phone calls and letters from jail and endless interviews with witnesses who lied, who changed their stories and who, Laura believed, had helped keep the truth hidden. And now that it was over, she wanted her life back. She pushed down hard on the gas pedal, feeling the Mercedes’ big engine struggle with the uphill climb as it blasted by other cars and trucks as if they were hardly moving.
Only when she reached the top of the Grapevine, and she began speeding down the other side of that treeless wall of granite separating Bakersfield from the rest of Southern California, did she begin to feel a palpable sense of relief. The oppressive heat and dust and injustice that she had grappled with in Kern County shrank like a pinpoint in her rearview mirror. She rolled down the window and felt cool air rush in, washing over her, carrying with it the scent of things growing. And despite herself, before she even realized what she was doing, Laura found herself thinking of new ways to reopen the case and pry Pat Dunn’s cell door open. Maybe she could take another run at Marie Gates. Or Kate Rosenlieb. Maybe she could find out more about Jerry Coble and his family. There had to be something else she could do.
As a blood-red sun dipped below a hillside and the distant galaxy of lights that marked Los Angeles sparked into view before her with the suddenness of a match, Laura found herself speaking these thoughts aloud into the rushing wind: Maybe, she said, just maybe, it’s not over yet.
A few days later, Laura arrived at her office to find an express delivery from the California Department of Motor Vehicles awaiting her. The envelope contained records that she had requested long before but which had never arrived. In her preparation for Pat Dunn’s petition for a new trial, she had asked for a computer search for any law-enforc
ement agencies in Kern County that might have inquired about the license plate number Rex Martin had written down on the day he followed Jerry Coble from Pat’s house. Jerry Mitchell, the retired deputy sheriff, had sworn that he passed this number on to Detective Soliz within a day of receiving it from Pat, though Soliz claimed he could recall no such thing. Laura had harbored doubts about the detective’s assurances and wondered whether there might be a computer record somewhere showing that Soliz had indeed checked the plates. Only after the trial did Laura learn such a computer check was possible, and she initiated one in the hope that it would reveal something in time for the new-trial motion. But the results had not arrived in time.
Inside the envelope Laura found a printout. It showed the state motor vehicles database had indeed received an inquiry from a Kern County law-enforcement officer about that same license plate—a Pontiac Sunbird owned by Jerry Coble’s long-suffering mother. The official police request for information on this car, according to the record, had been made on July 27, 1992—exactly in the time frame Rex Martin claimed to have followed the suspicious car, and when Jerry Mitchell would have communicated the number to John Soliz. Someone in Bakersfield law enforcement—the printout didn’t say who—had run Coble’s plate. Just as the defense had claimed.
It had potential, this new information, but Laura’s excitement at the discovery quickly gave way to frustration. Had it arrived just a few days earlier, it might have made a difference in the case—perhaps enough to win Pat a new trial. Now, though, with Pat Dunn’s best chance for acquittal and freedom already behind him, Laura knew that this document would be little more than a starting point, a place to start digging for answers that had continued to elude her.