by Fred Rosen
Near Galt, just south of Sacramento, Vincent started ripping her clothes off. She was a nymphomaniac. When they stopped at a drive-in restaurant a short time later, he told her one more time to get lost. She defied his order. It was shortly after that that he picked up the two hitchhikers, “Larry” and “Pedro.” Now, she figured she’d get lots of action. At least, that was Singleton’s version of events.
Commenting on the disposition of his case, he claimed that the investigators had framed him by putting a hatchet in his toolbox. As for the bloody pants they had recovered, he said that they never existed. And the washed carpet in the rear of his van? Well, he washed it because his teenage daughter had been hauling hay for a horse he had bought her.
None of it was true, but who knew, maybe someone would bite? It was certainly a more plausible story than the one he had told Breshears and Reese.
If his lies wouldn’t do the trick, maybe, he figured, he could use facts to help himself.
Singleton not only denied assaulting Mary, he claimed that he had never raped her. Strangely, a lab report of a sperm sample taken from Vincent did not match his blood type. Singleton said that the lab report was never introduced at trial by his lawyer.
Never mind that there could be a myriad of reasons why the sample didn’t match his blood type. He could have been impotent.
After he had pushed all the buttons that showed he was an innocent, maligned man, it was time to trot out a plea for sympathy. That was another trick he’d learned in prison: make ’em feel sorry for you. Singleton said he was destitute, completely broke, and Debbie, his loving daughter, had been adversely affected by his troubles.
“Debbie couldn’t finish her law studies and had to finish with a business school,” he explained sadly. “She had to change her name to get a job in a bank.”
But Mary Vincent had no education, no prospects, and no hands. None of that mattered because Debbie had to change her surname. And then Singleton really turned it on.
“I spent $27,000 on Laetrile treatments for my first wife;” he said, his voice catching. “I nursed her until she died from cancer in 1977.”
Legal expenses had furthered his financial decline until he was wiped out. To top everything off, he had lost his seaman’s pension benefits.
“I’m contemplating filing suit in federal court,” he said. He was the victim, Singleton maintained, a victim of kidnapping and robbery. He vowed, “When I get out of these gates, I’ll have more time to work on my appeals. Right now, I’m working on the jury instructions, which were also prejudicial.”
Singleton had also learned another lesson of prison life—jailhouse lawyers put the system on trial. And he would have plenty of time to do it before his parole came up in April 1987.
April 1987
As Singleton’s parole date approached at the end of the month, California politicians, mindful of keeping their jobs, realized they had to do something. Unless they acted, and acted quickly, Singleton would be out, and who knew what county he’d decide to settle in?
If Singleton came to their county, citizens would be angry, not just at Singleton, but at the politicians who had allowed him in. Come election time, those same politicians would be out. Politicians in Antioch, a northern California town near San Francisco, were the first to act.
Antioch’s mayor had heard from the State Department of Corrections that there were plans afoot to parole Singleton in his town.
“Nothing doing,” said Antioch’s mayor, who, without much difficulty marshaled the townspeople to support his position.
Bowing to the public outcry, the Department of Corrections agreed not to release Singleton in Antioch and instead, contacted the mutilator’s relatives in Tampa, Florida.
“Would you take him?” they asked.
The rationale was perfect: get Singleton out of state and he becomes someone else’s problem. It was a classic case of passing the buck.
Before his family could respond, the state of Florida itself rejected Singleton. The last thing Florida wanted was Singleton violating his parole in the Sunshine State.
He was California’s problem—let it stay that way.
The prevailing wisdom in the State Department Corrections was to release Singleton into Contra Costa County, where he had once lived.
On April 24, attorneys representing the Contra Costa County Board of Supervisors and four city councils within the county went into court to prevent Singleton from being released into their jurisdiction. Finding a sympathetic judge was not difficult because, in northern California, Singleton was the devil incarnate.
The attorneys easily won a temporary restraining order from a superior court judge in Martinez barring the Department of Corrections from placing Singleton anywhere in Contra Costa County. The county then turned around and served documents on Stanislaus and San Diego counties, trying to compel them to take the Mad Chopper. The latter two counties would have to send their representatives to court on May 14 to argue why Singleton should not be paroled in their areas.
Singleton wasn’t even out yet and he had no place to go. Corrections decided he could live in anonymity in San Francisco for two weeks after his initial release. As soon as the state told Police Chief Frank Jordan of their plans, San Francisco decided two weeks were two too many. The city had its attorneys go into Superior Court on April 24 where they, too, got a restraining order barring Singleton from entering the city limits.
The next day, April 25, Singleton caught his first breath of fresh air when he stepped outside the gates of the California Men’s Colony at San Luis Obispo. He smelled the salt air from the nearby ocean, looked up at the blue sky, and then back down at the sundrenched earth. It was good to be alive, good to be free. He still had one little problem, though.
Lawrence Singleton wasn’t sure where he would be sleeping that night, or for that matter, where he’d be sleeping any night. Where should I go? he wondered.
Back in Stanislaus County, the city fathers were determined to see that he stayed out of their hair. Concerned that their most notorious criminal might come back to roost, Mayor Maureen O’Connor and Police Chief William Kolender wrote a letter to state corrections officials, stating unequivocally that not only did they not want Singleton, they wouldn’t accept him.
Someone like Singleton, who had committed a crime “… too heinous for any rational human being to comprehend, should never have been granted parole in the first place,” the letter said.
Attorney General John Van de Kamp said he had sympathy for county officials who wanted to keep Singleton away from their citizens. But he characterized the situation as a “spectacle.”
Steve White, the chief assistant attorney general, was probably more accurate when he added, “This has all the dimensions of a circus.”
Governor George Deukmajian, a Republican who had campaigned on a hard-on-crime platform, weighed in with his feelings.
“I would personally have felt, based on what he did, he probably should have remained in prison for the rest of his life,” the governor said.
But since Singleton’s fourteen-year, four-month sentence was in accordance with state law, local officials had no legal right to block his parole. If that were allowed to happen in this case, Deukmajian reasoned, it could happen in any case where a county did not want to take a controversial parolee into its bosom.
“I just don’t think that would be a feasible solution,” the governor continued.
He pointed out that Singleton had been sentenced under California’s 1977 determinate sentencing law, which gave specific terms for crimes. That law, and others the state had adopted, required that after an inmate did his time, he be released, allowing, of course, for reductions for good behavior and involvement in a work program, as in Singleton’s case.
While Deukmajian supported the stricter sentencing laws that had taken effect after Singleton’s conviction, and did not want a return to the determinate sentencing laws, he said, “There may be some instances where we do ne
ed to provide more flexibility for the paroling authorities … with respect to some individuals who have committed heinous crimes.”
In other words, if a criminal like Singleton slips through the cracks in the future, we’ll handle it the right way, but for now, we will just have to deal with the situation as it exists.
All this controversy put the California Department of Corrections in a quandary. They hadn’t passed the sentencing laws, the state legislature—the politicians—had. And now those same politicians did not want to take responsibility for Singleton’s release. Instead, Corrections was supposed to worry about him.
Not on your life.
Corrections appealed the restraining orders. Their position was that the counties did not have the legal authority to interfere with an inmate’s parole. In private, though, no one in the department could blame the two counties. Who would want Singleton anyway? For its part, the Department of Corrections, in an effort to avoid further showdowns like this one, decided to step up their efforts to place Singleton in another state.
They tried the neighboring state of Nevada.
NOTORIOUS RAPIST SETTLES IN VEGAS
Would that be a headline good for the gambling and tourism industries that caused the state’s coffers to bulge? the Nevada officials asked themselves. Of course not. No way was Singleton settling in Nevada, no way. The best part was, since he was an out-of-state resident, they didn’t even have to go into court to get a restraining order. All they had to do was give a polite “no,” which they did, and it was the end of their problem. For California, though, the problem was only just beginning.
Celia Johnson had read of her ex-husband’s plight in paper after paper. It seemed you couldn’t turn on a local newscast without seeing something about it.
She felt sorry for Larry. After all, they had shared a life together and remained friends afterward. She wondered if there was some way she could help him. Celia released a public statement that said she was willing to take him in. Singleton could live with her.
“I’m not afraid of him, and he has to live somewhere,” said the compassionate nurse.
She felt that Larry deserved a chance to rehabilitate himself. Her only worry was whether her humble motor home would be the right place to start this, the latest phase in their relationship.
“It’s not my right to upset this community,” she said. “We’d have to find someplace else.” She lived in Lake County, ninety miles north of San Francisco. “It wouldn’t be safe for him here,” she added.
Celia’s generosity notwithstanding, the problem was not whom he’d live with, but where he’d live. Also, there might be a problem just keeping Singleton alive.
There had been anonymous threats on Singleton’s life, which, given the depth of feeling against him, the state had to take seriously. Armed parole guards were brought in to shuttle Singleton to a secret location in northern California while his future residence was being sorted out.
“He’s somewhere north of Bakersfield. That’s all we can say,” State Department of Corrections spokesman Robert Gore told the press. “We expect a very quiet weekend,” he added. “We are charged with supervising a successful parole. We want a minimum of publicity.”
Four days passed of what should have been his newfound freedom, but instead Singleton found himself a prisoner of his own notoriety. He was moved to a motel on Fifth Avenue in San Mateo’s North Fair Oaks area. Meanwhile, the Department of Corrections was working hard to find him a home, but with little success. As soon as a community found out who it was the department wanted to place in their midst, they threatened legal action. Like San Mateo.
At first, things had been fine in San Mateo. Sheriff Arthur Baca knew Singleton was coming, that he would be temporarily paroled into his county. Baca had decided to keep the news quiet, lest a media circus be churned up by the knowledge of Singleton’s whereabouts.
“This was a very temporary thing,” Baca said later. “I was satisfied that there were appropriate security and supervisory measures taken by state parole,” the lawman continued. “Sure, he’s the type of individual that should have remained in custody. He’s going to be a problem for any political jurisdiction he’s released in.”
That was an understatement, but there was little time to contemplate it when word leaked out of Singleton’s presence. Mindful of his safety, corrections guards whisked Singleton out of town. Officials in bordering counties denied that Singleton had been foisted on them.
Back in San Mateo, Bodie Lane, president of the San Mateo County Board of Supervisors, was outraged that the state had sent Singleton to his county, even for one night.
“The whole situation has been totally shocking to me,” said Lane. “There is massive opposition to this man being here.”
Lane had scheduled a special meeting of the board of supervisors to block Singleton from being paroled permanently into his county. “It may be a political sort of thing, just voicing our outrage,” Lane said honestly. “It may be that all we can do is write a letter or pass a resolution.”
“I got the impression that neither the board of supervisors nor the district attorney’s office knew anything about it, which was kind of surprising,” added Redwood City Mayor Marshal Ralston. Redwood City was another town in San Mateo County that didn’t want Lawrence Singleton.
Three weeks passed, three weeks of court appearances by county officers seeking to keep Singleton out of their localities, three weeks in which the parole guards moved Singleton from location to location. For his part, Singleton was enjoying all the attention.
There was something nice, for a change, in the state doing something for him, rather than against him. It was as though they owed him.
He stayed in nice motels. The food was good and plentiful. He had all the smokes he needed. What could be bad?
Like Odysseus, Singleton’s odyssey had to end. Eventually, the courts had to rule and they did: on May 8, the First District Court of Appeals overturned the temporary restraining orders in Contra Costa County and San Francisco, allowing state parole agents to place Singleton where they saw fit.
In other words, to heck with Contra Costa, San Francisco and all the rest of the “friendly” California localities that would not welcome Singleton into their collective bosom. The parole agents would put Lawrence Singleton where they wanted and there wasn’t going to be any argument.
The agents decided on a motel in El Cerrito in Contra Costa County. The county fathers were infuriated, but what could they do? The appeals court had ruled and they’d lost. Maybe they would appeal to a higher court.
“I’ve got a better idea,” said county official Claire Thomas.
Thomas had seen how averse the Department of Corrections was to publicity. After a few calls disclosed Singleton’s location, the information was made public. The verbal response of the Department of Corrections was unprintable, but their physical response was immediate. Once again, Singleton was whisked out of town to an undisclosed location.
In a public statement afterward, Thomas explained her actions.
“I felt it of utmost importance to the public,” to disclose Singleton’s location. “It would have been inappropriate of me to withhold that information.”
Chapter Nine
As Singleton struggled to find a home, Mary Vincent struggled to find a life.
While Larry cooled his heels in motel after motel, Mary Vincent continued to suffer. She gave countless interviews to magazines and newspapers about what had happened and how she was doing. There were authors who bothered her for potential books, and producers for television movies, who called her up to get the rights to her story. But no book was ever written, no movie was ever made, and Mary never made a dime off her tragedy.
She entered psychotherapy, which she continued for years. Her family split apart when her mother and father separated. Her dad went to work in Alaska, where he joined the Alaskan Air National Guard. Her mother preferred a more hospitable climate—she went to Vegas where
she became a blackjack dealer. And Mary?
Mary had her prostheses all right, but no education. She did not return to school after the assault. She had not been trained for any job at the time of the assault, and she continued to be unskilled afterward.
Her total income for the ten years after the assault came from three sources. From the California Victim of Crimes Act, she got $13,000, supplemented by $6,000 in small donations from a public fund set up in her name, and finally, public assistance. Along the way, she had a relationship with a man that produced a son.
Jimmy Collins was behind the desk in the Redwood City motel when the two big guys came in. Following them was an older man who had a large, bulbous nose. The two guys came up to the front desk and asked to rent two rooms for the night.
“Together,” one of the big guys added.
Jimmy looked through his room keys. It was a slow night and he had no problem finding two rooms together. The same guy who had spoken filled out the guest register and was quick to request a receipt for the money he laid out for the rooms. Maybe it was the quickness of the question or the deliberately low profile all three seemed to be trying really hard to keep that made Jimmy suspicious.
Jimmy glanced over at the guy with the nose, who turned around for a moment from the window he’d been gazing out of. It took Jimmy a second to realize who the guy was—Lawrence Singleton! But Jimmy didn’t say anything. He just checked them in and gave them their room keys.
Jimmy quickly went to the phone to call an old school buddy, Saul Beltran, who was a reporter for the local paper, the Times Tribune. The paper told him that Saul was out on assignment. Jimmy tried again in a couple of hours, but Saul was still out.
The following morning, there was a knock at the door of Singleton’s room. He opened it, figuring it was his bodyguards, only to be surprised by a flashbulb popping off in his face and a reporter firing questions at him.
“Mr. Singleton, what are you doing here? Are you settling in Redwood? How do you like—”