Poisoned Love (34 page)

Loebig and Eriksen speculated that Pfingst’s decision stemmed from three factors: Kristin was a young woman with no record; this was a circumstantial case; and the alleged act was not nearly as heinous as those in previous local death penalty cases.

“I think it was a deliberate and fair consideration,” Loebig said. “For all parties concerned, they made the right choice.”

Ralph and Constance said this decision would help the defense attorneys focus all their attention on the murder trial without the distraction of a subsequent trial on whether Kristin should get a death sentence.

“It’s also good because it means that jurors who may be riding the fence can’t split the difference by saying I’ll vote to convict, but not on the [death penalty],” Ralph said.

Rick Hogrefe, the head of TriLink, was delighted and relieved.

“Thank God,” Hogrefe said. “I fully expected this from the beginning. This case is already, in my eyes, so weak. If they went for the death penalty, I think no jury would even consider it.”

Others in the legal community speculated privately that it could be difficult to obtain a conviction and a death sentence in San Diego against such a pretty, young, educated white woman from a relatively affluent family. Some suggested that Pfingst did not want to take a risk on such a big case during an election year.

Goldstein explained later that he had recommended Pfingst go with the lesser sentence because Kristin didn’t have a criminal record, and “the murder, though terrible, [wa]sn’t egregious in the sense of maiming, torture,” or multiple killings. Plus, he said, her meth use would be viewed as a mitigating factor, and juries had a more difficult time putting women to death. After all, he said, life without parole was a “pretty severe punishment.” Goldstein, who was also running in the March primary for a judge’s seat, said Pfingst had never used the death penalty as a political tool. Plus, he said, Pfingst never would have overruled him, because that would have forced his removal as prosecutor.

Pfingst, a Republican who had been in office for eight years, had unseated an incumbent of twenty-four years after winning a nationally recognized murder case he prosecuted against California Highway Patrol Officer Craig Peyer. But his honeymoon was long over, and he was in a tough race against three challengers, including an openly gay judge named Bonnie Dumanis, a Democrat who went on to win the seat in November 2002.

San Diego was not the conservative military town it used to be. The electorate—and jury pool—had evolved, although the city still had its share of conservative thinkers who weren’t giving up their small-town mindset without a fight.

San Diego County, which had a population of 2.8 million, had grown up since the days when its economy depended largely on the defense and tourism industries. Although the military remained a major presence in the region, the burgeoning biotech and high-tech industries had helped to diversify it economically and politically. Meanwhile, the region’s racial makeup shifted as the minority communities continued to grow. Changes in urban areas of the region were mirrored in the makeup of the San Diego City Council, where politically conservative Republicans no longer represented a majority. The suburban and rural unincorporated areas, however, were still voting for a full slate of white Republicans on the county Board of Supervisors.

At the time that Pfingst announced his decision in Kristin’s case, he was under fire from many of his own prosecutors, who had registered a no-confidence vote in his leadership. During his tenure, one of his top prosecutors was convicted of fraud for conducting a real-estate business out of the DA’s Office. An internal investigation was sparked after a jailhouse informant and his wife said a DA investigator allowed them to have late-night sex—and take nude photos—for two years in the office in exchange for the informant’s testimony against gang members accused of killing a police officer. Pfingst’s office was also accused of botching a high-profile murder case involving the stabbing of a twelve-year-old girl, and Pfingst himself was accused of being anti-Semitic and of being unethical for failing to prosecute political corruption more aggressively. Pfingst denied all the allegations, saying he’d fallen victim to “the most sleazy and vile” campaign in the county’s history.

The Rossums weren’t able to pull together the bond package before Christmas as they’d hoped. It wasn’t until the afternoon of January 4, 2002, that Constance, Ralph, and their youngest son, Pierce, came to Las Colinas to take Kristin home in their silver Mercedes.

While the media was waiting for Kristin to emerge on that sunny but breezy winter day, a man carried out a large brown paper bag that looked to be full of books and gave it to Pierce to put in the car. Ralph and Pierce brought out two more bags.

The Rossums tried to downplay their affluence and touted their humble beginnings to the media. But they were able to put up a $1.25 million bail bond, which meant they were out a nonrefundable deposit, which constituted up to 10 percent of the total amount paid to the bail bondsman.

They explained that the bond had been backed by cash, stocks, bonds, and three homes—theirs and both of Kristin’s grandmothers’—as well as by their sons’ investment accounts. They said seventeen friends also pledged money market funds, stocks, and bonds. Because the bail was so high, Loebig said the Rossums were able to work out a lower deposit fee, something closer to $80,000 than $125,000.

Ralph told reporters that the family didn’t think Kristin was a flight risk but said, “If she were to flee, it would ruin Constance and me financially.”

Kristin’s boss, Rick Hogrefe, was by far the most generous contributor to the defense fund. “Without Hogrefe, we wouldn’t be here today,” Ralph said.

Putting a good face on Kristin’s future, Ralph said she’d already asked to order graduate exams in chemistry and physics because she wanted to get a Ph.D. and run a lab. But until the trial was resolved and she was acquitted, those plans would have to be placed on hold.

Ralph said his daughter was a victim of malicious prosecution, something that would never happen in Los Angeles. But in San Diego, he said, the Police Department and District Attorney’s Office seemed prone to glom on to facts, even when faced with information to the contrary, picking and choosing from among the evidence.

“We think it’s outrageous,” he said, characterizing Agnew as inexperienced, with only a few weeks on the homicide team.

“We are deeply troubled to see that the San Diego police and District Attorney’s Office have failed to heed the warning offered by the USC Annenberg School of Communication to its aspiring journalists about accepting a story, or in this instance, a case, that is too good to check,” the Rossums said in a news release. “We are convinced that had we and others who knew Greg’s mental state the weeks before his suicide been contacted, Kristin never would have been arrested.”

Ralph said the defense attorneys had advised him and Constance to keep Kristin on edge so she didn’t accept her fate. They wanted someone on the witness stand who was alive, not defeatist. That night, he said, the family planned to take Kristin out to dinner at a sushi bar in Claremont.

“It’s bittersweet because obviously the battle isn’t over, but it’s wonderful to know we’re going to be able to bring her home,” he said.

Constance brought a black sweater, dress pants, and a string of pearls for Kristin to change into before she spoke at her first press conference. Through the glass doors of the jail, Constance could be seen primping Kristin, stroking her hair and hugging her, before she stepped outside.

Kristin was all smiles, practically breathless with emotion as she told reporters she felt overwhelmed. She said she was just so grateful to all the friends and family who helped her get out of jail. She looked a little fuller in the face than before she went to jail.

“I look forward to proving my innocence in court this summer,” Kristin declared. The charges are “without truth…I did not harm my husband in any way.”

Kristin started crying, laid her head on Ralph’s shoulder, and told him she loved him. Then, holding her parents’ hands, Kristin walked with them through the parking lot to the car, a mob of cameras following behind.

Still answering reporters’ questions, Kristin said, “It’s hard not to be bitter, but six months has been taken out of my life. I had no doubt throughout this ordeal that there would be a day that I would go home.”

Kristin and her family let
48 Hours
film them drinking champagne that night at their home in Claremont.

After reviewing tapes of interviews Ralph had given to broadcast media, Judge John Thompson decided to put an end to what he saw as a media circus. He’d been particularly irritated by Ralph’s recent comments on a local conservative radio commentator’s show.

“I’m going to do now what I should have done when this case came to me,” Thompson said at a hearing on January 15.

He issued a gag order that covered Kristin, her attorneys, the prosecutors, and all police and investigative personnel.

“You are to have absolutely no contact with anyone from the media,” Thompson declared.

Directing his comments specifically at Ralph, Thompson said he certainly would have included him in the order if he could. But at the time, Ralph had not yet been declared an official witness, which would have given the judge the legal jurisdiction to gag him as well.

“You, I can control,” Thompson said to the attorneys. “Mr. Rossum, I cannot.”

Over the past few months, Thompson said, he had no doubt that Ralph had been trying to “potentially poison the jury pool in this case.” And he wanted all of that to stop. If it didn’t, Thompson threatened to take action that was in his power and move the trial to another county, possibly north of San Francisco. He said Kristin’s attorneys could request such a move, although he would not agree to hold the trial in neighboring Orange or Riverside Counties. He would, however, approve of taking it to Imperial County, the next jurisdiction to the east.

“We’re not going to try the case in the paper,” he said.

Although Goldstein liked having the media spotlight on the court process for public education purposes, he didn’t mind this particular gag order. It was much less distracting not to have to worry about inadvertently saying something outside the courtroom that he shouldn’t or about how his comments would play in the press.

The defense attorneys felt the same way, but they also weren’t thrilled that the prosecution had already released details of its case to the media before Thompson imposed the order.

Later, Thompson said he wished he’d handled Ralph Rossum and the gag order differently. He hadn’t realized that he did have the authority to gag Ralph because he was going to be called as a witness. But Thompson hadn’t been sure of that at the time.

“I rued the day I didn’t gag him in the beginning, right out of the chute,” Thompson said.

Goldstein was elected in the March primary, though he wasn’t scheduled to take his seat on the Superior Court bench until the following January. He and Pfingst discussed whether he should continue on the case, and they decided that he was the best one to follow it through, even if he had to postpone the start of his judgeship. Kristin’s trial was supposed to begin in early June, but trials had a way of being delayed.

Goldstein also decided that for the first and last time in his prosecutorial career, he wanted to bring on an attorney as second chair. He picked Dave Hendren, with whom he’d worked for the past eight or ten years, and whom he had supervised for the past two. Goldstein wanted to give Hendren, a very thorough, efficient, and hardworking prosecutor, a shot in the limelight. An oversized Boy Scout wearing a suit and sometimes a big grin, Hendren and his courtroom manner made him a good foil for Goldstein. But Hendren was a capable prosecutor in his own right, with a cross-examining style that could impeach a witness. He’d won his share of cases, though none as high profile as Goldstein’s. This case would put his name in the news.

Shortly after the election, Kristin’s attorneys filed a motion seeking to remove Goldstein from the case, arguing that letting a judge-elect continue as prosecutor would lead to an unfair trial for their client. Because of the gag order, none of the attorneys could tell the media about the motion, which was filed under seal. Thompson said the media seemed to have an “insatiable appetite” for the case.

When the
Union-Tribune
found out he’d sealed this motion and possibly others, Thompson wouldn’t even disclose its topic when questioned informally by the newspaper’s attorney, Guylyn Cummins. So, Cummins asked for an immediate hearing.

“We don’t have to shield every high-profile case from public scrutiny,” she wrote in her motion seeking to unseal the documents.

Thompson held a hearing the next day but wouldn’t budge on his decision, so Cummins took it to the Fourth District Court of Appeal. On April 24, the day before Thompson was scheduled to hear the motion, the appeals court overturned his decision to keep this or any other pretrial motion sealed.

Kelli Sager, a First Amendment attorney in Los Angeles, said the law could not be more clear in prohibiting what Thompson tried to do.

“A blanket sealing order like the kind entered in this case is flatly unconstitutional,” she told the
Union-Tribune.

When Hendren was assigned to the case, he had less than two months to prepare for the June 3 trial date. It was quite a daunting task. His first thought was, “Oh my gosh, twenty-some thousand pages [of discovery] to go through. How am I ever going to get up to speed on this?”

The father of two spent virtually every waking hour reading. And that included a lot of late nights and weekends, constantly analyzing, researching, and doing follow-up, as he tried to catch up with Goldstein’s knowledge. As he read through the drug audits, he thought that too many drugs relevant to the case were missing to be a coincidence. He wondered why, when the paramedics arrived, the wedding photo was propped up against the chest next to the bed when Kristin said it had been tucked under Greg’s pillow.