Mean Justice
Authors: Edward Humes
PRAISE FOR
EDWARD HUMES
AND
MEAN JUSTICE
“Fascinating reading. . . .
Mean Justice
unfolds like a good mystery, with gripping detail, surprising, not to say extraordinary revelation, superb background, a lucid style and solid, commanding conclusions.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“The story is told like a movie. . . . Humes’ nonfiction account reads like many of the courtroom novels so popular now—except Pat Dunn is real, a victim and in prison.”
—New York Daily News
“Gripping. . . . We should read this book and weep for all who have lost their liberty or even their life because of a prosecutor who wanted to win too badly.”
—Christian Science Monitor
“In
Mean Justice,
Humes describes in jolting detail how a society obsessed with punishing criminals has provided almost unlimited new power to prosecutors.”
—Detroit Free Press
“An eye-popping tale of justice miscarried that will shock anyone who believes our criminal justice system still works just fine.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Humes’ account of prosecutorial overreach shows how easy it is for the legal system to ignore truth in pursuit of convictions. . . . The people are fascinating and the novelistic narrative is compelling. Even the appendix is worth reading.”
—Star Telegram
(Fort Worth, Texas)
“Fascinating and eye-popping. . . . For those that believe that investigative policies work only to separate the guilty from the innocent, you must read this book.”
—Columbia Fire Weekly
“Read this and you will have nightmares, fail to read it and you might have to live some nightmares. The choice is yours.”
—The Chief of Police
(official publication of the
National Association of Chiefs of Police)
“A compelling narrative of a horrifying story. . . . Humes demonstrates the ease with which police, prosecutors, and judges can manipulate the process to convict even the innocent.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Mean Justice
is an extraordinary nonfiction work. . . . The reader is simply swept along.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
MISSISSIPPI MUD
“A story almost too unbelievable to be true. But it is. . . . Terrific.”
—Ann Rule
“Reminiscent of Truman Capote’s
In Cold Blood.
. . . Read[s] as smoothly as a finely crafted suspense novel.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Mississippi Mud
reads like a well-constructed mystery novel, and Edward Humes’ lucid and unadorned prose admirably suits this complex story of venality and betrayal.”
—New York Times Book Review
NO MATTER HOW LOUD I SHOUT
“Passionate. . . . A sad, maddening, brilliant book.”
—Washington Post
“A finely etched, powerfully upsetting portrait.”
—The New York Times
“The book reads like a pilot for a Michael Crichton TV series. . . . Stories careen by in an ER-style blur but still manage to touch a nerve. . . . Humes has produced a thoughtful, nuanced work, set apart from the flood of wonkish policy books by his often beautiful prose.”
—Washington Monthly
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Contents
Prologue: Beginnings and Endings
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Appendix A: Wrongful Prosecutions in Kern County
Appendix B: The Toll of Misconduct
PREFACE
This book owes its origin to an off-hand remark made in 1994 by private investigator Laura Lawhon, whom I had come to know both professionally and socially: She suggested I might be interested in writing about the experiences of a client of hers recently convicted of murder in Kern County, California. I am usually skeptical of such suggestions, and Laura’s was no exception; my experience as a newspaper reporter and author writing about the justice system taught me that claims of innocence from convicted criminals are often made, seldom proved, and usually refuted. But four boxes of documents and many trips to California’s Great Central Valley later, I found I had discovered a tale worth telling about the
People of Kern County vs. Patrick O’Dale Dunn.
And I had found a much larger issue to ponder as well: how a town’s—and, indeed, an entire nation’s—fear of crime and desire to be safe has made the conviction of innocent men and women startlingly common.
Many individuals aided in the research and writing of
Mean Justice.
I wish in particular to thank Tamara Koehler, formerly of the
Bakersfield Californian,
for her invaluable assistance, generosity and insights, and Richard Beene, executive editor of the
Californian,
for his hospitality in making the considerable historical
resources of his newspaper available. Also generous in their sharing of time and information were Stanley Simrin, H. A. Sala, Susan Penninger, Jim Fahey, Offord Rollins III, Offord Rollins IV, Denver Dunn, Pamela Kniffen, Eric Banducci, Jeff Niccoli, Vernon “Dusty” Kline, Kate Rosenlieb, Marie Gates, David Goldberg, Gary Pohlson, Georgia Herald, Jerry Mitchell, Rex Martin, Jennifer Dunn, the excellent staff of the Kern County Superior Court Clerk’s criminal section and Pat Dunn. As always, my literary agent, Susan Ginsburg, and my editor, Laurie Bernstein, were unflagging in their support and assistance. And, as always, my wife, Donna, proved to be my best editor, best writing coach and best friend.
If little faults, proceeding on distemper,
Shall not be wink’d at, how shall we stretch our eye
When capital crimes, chew’d, swallow’d and digested,
Appear before us?
—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE
,
H
ENRY
V
The function of the prosecutor under the Federal Constitution is not to tack as many skins of victims as possible to the wall. His function is to vindicate the right of people as expressed in the laws and give those accused of crime a fair trial.
—J
USTICE
W
ILLIAM
O. D
OUGLAS
Innocent until proven guilty? Talk about legal fiction.
—L
AURA
L
AWHON
,
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
PROLOGUE
B
EGINNINGS AND
E
NDINGS
J
ULY
1, 1992
He postponed calling the sheriff for hours, seizing on any interruption that would let him avoid the moment he dreaded most. He paced. He drank beer. He called his son for advice. He drank more beer. He drove past the dusty corners of East Bakersfield, staring at pedestrians as they braved the glare and spongy asphalt of summer. He returned home and tidied the house, startled by every unexpected creak or rustle. And when a prospective tenant for the shopping plaza that he and his wife owned stopped by unexpectedly to discuss plans for a new pizza parlor, he welcomed the man into his home, spoke at length about the virtues of his College Center strip mall, and then even drove the visitor out to squint approvingly at his other properties in the area. Burned a good ninety minutes that way.
He just did not behave like a man worried about his missing wife,
the prosecutor would later say.
No way. He took that man out to the mall, and he acted like he hadn’t a care in the world. He never once mentioned his wife. Not once.
Finally, late in the afternoon, he found himself alone again in the silent, empty house, out of excuses, out of hope. He picked up the phone and sighed, a pleasant, beefy man in
his late fifties with blondish gray hair and pale blue eyes that puffed and drooped like a hound dog’s. The hands holding the phone were rough and chapped, though he had given up physical labor years ago.
“Sheriff’s department,” a woman’s voice answered on the third ring. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, sheriff’s department,” he answered, his tone forced and bright. Though he was Californian born and raised, he spoke in the flat midwestern accent of his Oklahoma forebears, in a deep, rumbling voice that slipped often and easily into a nervous chuckle. “Who am I speaking with? This is Pat Dunn.”
“Valley,” the dispatcher said.
“Valley? Like in San Joaquin?”
“Yeah,” the woman answered warily.
“Oh, that’s a neat name.”
“Thank you,” the dispatcher said, laughing obligingly.
1
Listen to the tape of that call,
the prosecutor would say.
He’s laughing, joking. Do you laugh and joke because the woman you supposedly love has disappeared? Or because you think you just got away with murder?