by John Browne
He appeared to be in excellent shape, but I was curious as to why he had lost so much weight, as he was never heavy to begin with.
You would think the implications of his weight loss would be obvious not only to me but also to his jailers. But apparently not. You see, Ted’s cell was right next to a jailer’s live-in apartment, and there was a grated vent in the ceiling of his cell. The hole, approximately a square foot in size, would be impossible for any person to get through unless he was extremely fit, agile, and thin.
Ted made a series of phone calls on the night of December 30, 1977. He called Richard Larsen, a reporter at the Seattle Times; his friend and coworker Ann Rule; and me. I remember the phone call vividly, as I was not expecting to hear from Ted so close to New Year’s Eve. The conversation was a bit strange in that it seemed to have no real purpose. He had recently won some very important victories in court.
Judge George Lohr had determined that none of the “common scheme or plan” evidence would be introduced in Ted’s Colorado trial, a major victory. Furthermore, Judge Lohr had declared the Colorado death penalty statute unconstitutional. So one would think Ted would be better off remaining in Colorado than going to a state more likely to impose the death penalty.
And yet that night, hours after he called me, Ted Bundy escaped again.
He later informed me, during conversations we had in Florida, that he actually escaped one day prior to when the authorities revealed it to the public. He had obtained a detailed map of the Glenwood Springs jail and knew all the air ducts and lighting fixtures and where one could escape through the jailer’s apartment.
On December 29 he placed articles in his bed to make it look like he was asleep, went to the twelve-inch vent, and slithered through the air duct and down into the closet in the jailer’s apartment. He knew the jailer often left without authorization to visit a girlfriend and had done so on this night.
Because his cell had no windows, Ted didn’t know he was stepping out into a Colorado blizzard that had dumped an additional six inches of snow on top of the twelve inches that had fallen the previous day. An associate had bought a car for him and left it in the parking lot with a change of clothes and a substantial amount of cash.
Unfortunately for Ted, the associate purchased an MG Midget, the world’s worst car for navigating blizzard conditions in Colorado. Ted got in the Midget, changed clothes, and drove toward Vail. In between Glenwood Springs and Vail, the Midget, which had no snow tires or chains, sped into a snowbank and was completely disabled.
Ted flagged down a law enforcement officer, probably a highway patrolman, who helped pull the Midget out of the snowbank, and Ted drove to Vail, where the Midget bit the dust. He then took a bus from Vail to Denver and an airplane from Denver to Chicago. All during this time, the public was unaware that Ted Bundy had escaped, again.
He later told me he was watching the Rose Bowl in a bar in Ann Arbor, Michigan, when a newsflash came on indicating that Ted Bundy had broken out of the Glenwood Springs jail.
*1. For the full text of the letters Ted Bundy sent me, see appendix B, page 223.
12
A BARGAIN
The next stage of Ted’s saga seems completely unbelievable and has led me to the conclusion that Ted, all along, wanted to be caught in a dramatic fashion in a state where the death penalty was definitely going to be imposed.
Although he had a false ID and could get his hands on enough money to get by in a city where he could easily disappear, such as Chicago or Ann Arbor, he chose to travel to a college town, Tallahassee, home of Florida State University.
Ted, at thirty-one, was much older than most college students, but he still looked young and fit since losing weight and working out in the Glenwood Springs jail. He obtained an inexpensive apartment and survived by stealing wallets and purses from customers at local supermarkets. He also purchased an inexpensive bike and on occasion stole VW Bugs, his favorite mode of transportation.
Ted told me that he arrived at Florida State University on January 8, 1978, within ten days of leaving the blizzard in Glenwood Springs. Although he was on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list, he blended well into campus life and nobody seemed to pay any attention to him.
Six days after arriving in Tallahassee he killed two college students at the Chi Omega sorority house and severely injured two others. Later on that night he brutally attacked a dance student residing in a basement apartment. She survived the life-threatening injuries. Police officials spoke to a number of witnesses from the Chi Omega sorority house, one of whom provided them with two chillingly accurate drawings of the intruder she saw, both bearing a haunting likeness to Ted Bundy.
One of the drawings captures his very distinctive nose, and the other depicts him creeping with a stocking cap into the sorority house and up the stairs with a club, later determined to be a piece of firewood.
The terrible events of this night shocked the city of Tallahassee, the entire state of Florida, and for the most part the southern United States. However, no one seemed to notice the similarities between these attacks and the attacks of women in the northwestern and western states.
I first learned of Ted’s second escape from jail upon returning from a trip to Mexico. On my arrival at the airport in Seattle, the Seattle Times headline blared TED BUNDY ESCAPES JAIL AGAIN. I couldn’t believe the authorities would allow Bundy to escape under any circumstances, and had the chilling feeling we’d be hearing about his deadly exploits soon.
Of course, I had no idea where he would travel, and had no contact with him until February. It is still unfathomable to me that professional law enforcement and corrections officials would allow Ted to escape a second time. I would assume after his first escape that he would have been under constant observation and certainly not housed somewhere with a vent whose grate could be removed.
His first escape, I believe, was impetuous and opportunistic and involved no planning whatsoever. This second escape was well executed, with the assistance of an accomplice.
The only conclusion I can come to is that Ted used his charisma, which he utilized in obtaining the trust of countless victims over the years, to charm his keepers to the extent that they allowed him privileges and freedom within the correctional institutions not often provided to others. This, despite his previous escape and horrendous criminal charges.
If any western law enforcement officers investigating Ted had seen the composite drawings of the intruder at Chi Omega, they would have immediately recognized the intruder as Ted Bundy.
Of course we all knew that if Ted Bundy were loose, there would be more murders. There was nothing I could do to prevent further criminal behavior on Ted’s part, and certainly nothing the police authorities could do since they had no idea where he was.
On February 16, 1978, at 5:00 PM I was sitting on the couch in my new office in Seattle, where I was now a full-time private attorney, going over the day’s work. I received a phone call through my answering service from someone in Florida. The caller gave the name Rosebud, and I knew immediately it was Ted, trying to conceal his identity.
I accepted the phone call and had a lengthy and bizarre conversation with him. He had been detained for suspicious behavior and auto theft, but the cops had no idea who he was. On the phone he was completely insane, wandering from one subject to the next. It seemed he was either in the midst of some sort of psychotic break or under the influence of a powerful drug.
He told me he was in jail in Florida and that it was only a matter of time until they found out who he was. I agreed and suggested that he inform the authorities of his identity so it would look like he was at least being cooperative.
He made me promise not to reveal his identity until the following day. I agreed. This haunts me to this day. I knew he was in custody and therefore no longer a danger to others, but had no idea of the crimes he had committed in Florida.
I was concerned that if he were released before they determined his identity, he would kill again.
So I wanted to contact law enforcement in Washington State and let them know that Ted was now in custody in Florida, but my dedication to the attorney-client privilege prevented me from doing so. I didn’t sleep that night, and at one point I even dialed the Ted Task Force office, but hung up before anyone answered. I told myself that Ted, as had become his pattern, would also call Ann Rule or Richard Larsen, both of whom could ethically call the police and tell them about the nattering mystery jail inmate in Florida.
The next morning I awoke to news reports that Ted Bundy had been apprehended in Lake City, Florida, and was being investigated for crimes committed in that state since his escape from Glenwood Springs, including the murders of the sorority sisters at Chi Omega and the attack on the nearby dance student. He was also being actively investigated for the disappearance of a twelve-year-old girl, Kimberly Leach, who was missing but had not been found.
I had determined that I was finished assisting Ted in any capacity unless it was an attempt to prevent the death penalty from being imposed. I enlisted the help of Millard Farmer, a very well-respected anti–death penalty attorney from Atlanta, Georgia. He was one of the founders of the Southern Poverty Law Center and dedicated his entire career to defending those charged with death penalty offenses. Although Millard and I weren’t Ted’s official lawyers in the Florida cases, we worked with Ted in the hopes of arranging some sort of plea bargain that would save his sorry life.
The plea bargain would involve an agreement by Florida, Utah, Colorado, and even Washington not to prosecute Ted for any death penalty cases if he pled guilty in Florida. In my wild imagination, I could not foresee any possibility of arriving at such a plea bargain for the man who had become, at the time, the most notorious serial killer in the United States.
To my surprise, Millard and I were successful in obtaining a written plea bargain, and in May 1979 he and I spent a great deal of time with Ted at the Tallahassee jail trying to convince him to accept it. But Ted was resistant immediately to any attempt to resolve his case with a life sentence.
Millard and I knew Ted could be worn down and were hoping that we could literally deprive him of sleep to the extent that he would sign the paperwork and we could finalize the deal. I would spend four or five hours with Ted in the jail cell, and then Millard would enter and spend four or five hours with him while I went to the hotel and slept. This process went on over a period of two or three days.
My time in Tallahassee with Millard Farmer was quite extraordinary. Millard was a folk hero to many college students in this era, and we were stopped constantly by students in restaurants and even on the street, asking for autographs from Millard and information as to the progress on the attempts to save Ted’s life.
Millard was always gracious and kind to anyone who wanted some of his time. I remember fondly that the thin Millard maintained his weight by drinking only Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi during the day and eating very light meals at night. When he was not working, which seemed rare, he was reading material regarding death penalty advocates and writing pamphlets on how to defend those accused of death penalty crimes.
Spending time with Millard was definitely a highlight of my career, and I will always fondly remember him as a zealous advocate for the right to life.
The magnitude of our task was overwhelming, as Florida and Texas were known as the buckle of the Death Belt in the South, where people were executed without much due process, without the aid of competent lawyers, and with very little appellate review. As I told Ted in Aspen after his first escape, “If you really want to get executed, you should go to Florida or Texas.”
Convincing Ted to plead guilty in Florida to consecutive life sentences and avoiding the death penalty in Florida, Colorado, and Utah (as well as potential charges in Washington) also included imploring by Ted’s mother and his new lady friend, Carole Ann Boone. His public defenders helped a great deal as well, though their involvement was kept from Ted, as he (wrongfully) mistrusted them, as usual. They were dedicated and hardworking people.
After three days of pressuring Ted into accepting the plea agreement, he finally agreed to sign the paperwork and did. Notice was given to the court, the prosecuting attorneys signed the agreement, and a hearing was set for May 31 in Judge Edward Cowart’s courtroom. Ted had lucked out again, as Judge Cowart was known as a fine, independent legal mind and not a hack. He was also a very strong believer in the death penalty.
Millard, Ted, and I were exhausted from the marathon discussions we had on the second floor of the Tallahassee jail. Ted’s cell had no windows, only light coming from a bulb high on the ceiling, which provided very little illumination. He had a typewriter and a number of boxes full of legal materials, mostly briefs I had sent him on pretrial publicity issues, search and seizure issues, and the constitutionality of the death penalty statutes.
I was looking through one of the files during one of our sessions and noticed that Ted had secreted in a small manila envelope a number of antianxiety pills, which he was supposed to be taking on a daily basis. There were over thirty or forty in the envelope. Alone with Ted during this session, I asked him why he was stockpiling the medication, and he said that if all else failed, he would save the State of Florida money and take his own life. He then laughed.
I did not believe that Ted Bundy would ever take his own life. But there was a side of him that knew he was a bad and evil person, and he probably felt he could take his own life if the “good” side of him prevailed. I knew it never would.
On May 31 we entered the Tallahassee courtroom, where a complete media frenzy ensued outside and inside. We knew this would piss Ted off, as he agreed to the plea only on the condition that it be kept secret until he officially entered into it. He did not want to give the media and the public the satisfaction of seeing him finally say he was the Ted. Someone on the prosecutor’s side had obviously leaked the news. We walked into the courtroom, Millard in front, followed by Ted and me behind.
As we walked to the defense table, Ted, who looked exhausted and somewhat crazy, turned around to me and said, “I am not going to do it.”
I informed Millard, and we took Ted back to the holding cell and had our last conversation as attorneys for Ted Bundy. I will never forget Millard putting his skinny leg up on a chair in the holding cell and very calmly, in his gentlemanly southern drawl, saying, “Ted, John Henry and I have only so much time in this lifetime, and we are going to spend it helping people who actually want to live. Bye.” Millard then left Ted and me alone. Ted had ripped up his copies of the plea agreement, but I maintained the originals.
I decided to give up any efforts to assist him as a lawyer. I told him I had been more or less volunteering my time over the past years, attempting to save his life by interceding with his attorneys and providing him legal materials and, on occasion, actual representation.
I thought he did want to die in a dramatic fashion, I said, and was never going to sign a plea agreement. I explained that achieving the plea agreement between multiple states was beyond my imagination, something that took a great deal of effort and would never be an option in the future.
I was extremely disappointed, as I had thought, with the plea deal, my interactions with him would be over that day and he would die decades later in the geriatric ward of the Florida State Penitentiary.
Before I left Ted somewhat graciously explained to me that if he had not gone down the “dark side,” he would have wanted to be a defense attorney and help people in trouble with the law. It was very apparent to me that Ted had no understanding of what it meant to be of service to others, except perhaps in an abstract way.
He asked me what I had gotten out of representing him, and I said, “Basically nothing.”
I was not angry so much as disheartened, and, frankly, extremely tired. I caught an early morning plane back to Seattle with the expectation that I would not have any further contact with Ted.
Judge Cowart moved the trial to Miami, Florida, and set the beginning date of
the trial for June 1979.
Shortly after my return to Seattle I received a letter from Ted dated June 1, the day after I left Tallahassee, though I did not receive it until a few weeks later, probably because of his transfer from Tallahassee to Miami.
The letter was short and to the point, and I believe it was Ted’s way of thanking me for my assistance and acknowledging that I was no longer going to be assisting him. It is this side of Ted that charmed many people, because it seemed sincere and from the heart:
Dear John:
During the time you stayed in Tallahassee, we had a chance to discuss at length developments in the case. If you feel anything like I do, you are sick and tired of hearing about the Bundy case.
It was great seeing you and talking with you again. There can be little question as to why you are doing so well in your practice; you are an exceptionally bright and concerned person. You are much more than that, but the way in which you reach out to those whose causes you advocate is extraordinary.
I am fortunate to have had you on my side and there is no adequate manner to express my gratitude for the time and expense you took to come help me, except to give you a deeply felt, quote, “thank you,” in every way.
Best regards,
Ted
13
CONFESSIONS
I never thought I would have any face-to-face contact with Ted again, but for his trial, which began on June 25, 1979, I was subpoenaed as both a defense witness and a state’s witness to testify about the circumstances surrounding Ted’s bizarre phone call to me the night of February 16, 1978.
Ted was acting as his own cocounsel and questioning many of the witnesses during the pretrial hearings as well as during the trial. The defense’s theory was that Ted’s extremely inculpatory (incriminating) statements were involuntary, because his state of mind was psychotic, and thus none of them should be utilized at the trial.