The courtroom hummed with nervous activity as the jurors entered from the rear of the court and picked their way to their familiar place behind the mahogany railing. Expressionless, most of the jurors looked right at Priscilla as the foreman handed the verdict to the bailiff, who passed it in sequence to the judge and the court clerk. The clerk knew Priscilla, as did many of the Civic Center employees, and as she read the verdict into the hush of the room, her voice broke with strain.
“We, the jury in the above-entitled cause, find the defendant, Priscilla E. Phillips, guilty of murder in the second degree; that is, the unlawful killing of a human being—whether intentional, unintentional, or accidental—which occurs as a direct causal result of the commission of an attempt to commit a felony, namely the crime of willfully mingling any harmful substance with any food, drink, or medicine with intent that the same shall be taken by any human being to his injury, and where there was in the mind of the perpetrator the specific intent to commit such a crime.
“And in count two, we find the defendant, Priscilla E. Phillips, guilty of endangering the life of Mindy Phillips.”
Priscilla reacted at once.
“God, I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” she screamed hysterically, her voice so loud that it was heard outside in the corridor where an overflow crowd had gathered. She began to cry in great, whooping sobs, her face buried against Steve’s chest. He held her to him, tears streaming down his own face. Sounds of weeping broke out in the audience and the jurors shifted in their padded blue seats and looked away.
AFTERMATH
1
When news reached him that the verdict was in, Jim Hutchison hurried to the Civic Center. He, Priscilla, Steve, and some of their friends rode together in the small elevator, the hunched little group silent. Jim knew neither what to expect nor what conclusion he really hoped for.
He had murmured some supportive words as they met and clustered by the elevator doors. But more and more he had come to accept Priscilla’s guilt. There were moments during the early part of the trial when he suspected Priscilla was using him for dramatic effect. He was known to be a minister, and on several occasions Priscilla had rushed, weeping, to his seat among the spectators, to throw her arms around him. He thought this had happened most conveniently once or twice just as the jury was filing in. It was as though every emotion she displayed was artifice, every gesture calculated.
Later he remembered what happened after the verdict. Shrieking, “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” Priscilla had turned to Jim, still screaming, and added hysterically, “God knows I didn’t do it. How could you do this, God?” She had clung first to Steve, then to Jim, sobbing.
Jim sought out the bailiff. “Is there some way I could take her out?” he asked the officer.
“Yes, through the judge’s chambers.”
Jim gripped Priscilla firmly by the arm and led her behind the bench. Marietta followed, her eyes swollen behind their thick glasses.
“Priscilla, I really care about you,” Jim said loudly into Priscilla’s ear after they reached the judge’s chambers. At once she stopped crying. Instinctively, he felt he had pushed the right button: that was what she needed to hear.
Afterward he wondered if that might not be the key to the whole affair: Priscilla’s need for reassurance that she was loved and needed. Tia had needed her desperately and continually, and never more than when she was sick. The same was true for Mindy.
Jim could recall something Marj Dunlavy had told him once; its strangeness haunted him. Marj’s daughters customarily helped out in the church day-care center during Sunday service. One of them had described to her mother some behavior on Priscilla’s part that she could not understand. Marj had passed it on to Jim.
“Claudia told me that when Priscilla comes into the church nursery after the service,” Marj had said, “she always asks after the boys. She wants to know if they’ve been crying for her. When Claudia says no, Priscilla seems disappointed. If she says yes, Priscilla smiles. Claudia’s having trouble understanding her reactions.”
But to Jim, Priscilla’s behavior was beginning to manifest a horrible sort of consistency, a pathological progression that had apparently ended in tragedy. Jim had yet to figure out a way to deal with the pathology, but it was not an immediate concern. For now he had to get Priscilla home.
Somehow, Jim and the women found their way downstairs. Steve was waiting with the car, his face set. Behind them they left a crush of reporters gathered expectantly by the Jury Room, hoping for insight into the deliberations. The reporters would be after him soon enough, Jim knew.
Friends were clustered in tight knots on the patchy brown front lawn of the house on Woodbine when they arrived. Jan Doudiet stood with Nancy Dacus. Stony-faced and now calm, Priscilla went in to change clothes. The others followed. Ed Caldwell and Al Collins drove up. Caldwell was in tears.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said huskily. “I expected a hung jury at least. I never got them to see Priscilla for what she is, and I should never have let it ride on reasonable doubt—they obviously needed an alternative. I shouldn’t have let that cursed phone call into evidence!” He paused for a deep breath. “It's that damned Dan White verdict, that had to have an effect. But still, I don’t understand how they could find second-degree murder. It’s so inconsistent—a compromise, obviously. I’m going to find out. I’m going to call every one of those jurors and ask.”
“Will you appeal?” someone ventured.
“Of course we appeal! Letting Blinder’s testimony in on Munchausen Syndrome was preposterous.” Ed looked murderous.
“What about her sentence?” Jim asked.
“We won’t know for a month. At least Burke continued bail. She’ll be sentenced under the old indeterminate sentencing law. That’s five years to life for second degree.”
“Oh, my God!” Jan Doudiet cried out.
“But she could get straight probation if she gets a favorable report from the probation department. It’s not unheard of. The P.O. should interview her friends before he prepares his report. You can all help,” Ed went on.
“Of course!”
“Whatever it takes!” They were buoyed now, relieved that they might make a difference, that they could act.
After a while, Jim Hutchison slipped out and drove home. Priscilla had emerged pale and composed from the bedroom, and Jim had watched her friends close in around her, all of them holding onto her, soothing her, bathing her in support.
Later that afternoon, a reporter from the
Independent-Journal
caught up with Jim.
“What does the church think of the verdict, Reverend?”
Jim hesitated only momentarily: he had prepared an answer. “Well, I suppose the members of the church have reacted like the community at large,” he offered. “There are three general categories: those who believed in her innocence and still do; those who were confused and decided to await the trial’s outcome; and those who considered her guilty all along. There was tremendous restraint in the congregation, and those who considered Priscilla guilty from the beginning have expressed sympathy for her mental condition,” he added.
“You know, there’s been another case of this Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy recently. A Houston mother went on trial in April. Josh Thomas mentioned it just now in an interview,” the reporter confided.
“Really?”
“Yeah. And supposedly the pediatricians never suspected a thing because of the close bond between mother and child. One doctor said the mother became an expert on immunology—knew as much as some specialists. The
I-J’
s carrying an article in tomorrow’s edition.”
“Amazing.” Jim turned away and watched as the reporter moved off. He remembered the stretched and flattened acreage of Bahia Cemetery in Novato where they had buried Tia twenty-seven months earlier. In the midst of a two-year drought, the day had brought rain.
* * *
“Tia has gone to Heaven and told God to send down rain,” little Erik had announced at the graveside service that had followed by a day the memorial service at Aldersgate. They had all smiled through their tears.
Like all services for children, Tia's had been difficult for Jim. It was hard to understand the death of a child. He had preached to the overflowing crowd on the topic of: “What I do now you know not, but ye shall know,” the statement Jesus had made to the Disciples on the eve of his crucifixion. Jim found the theme to be comforting, as it underlined the divine purpose in all that happened. Who knew what purpose little Tia's death might ultimately serve, or who might benefit from it? Perhaps others would learn about Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy; perhaps other infant lives would be saved. The purpose might not become clear for some time, but that did not deny its existence. The cross, after all, had become the resurrection.
Meanwhile he faced the problem of how to deal with Priscilla now that she stood convicted. The church had helped to raise money for her defense fund. Jim, despite reservations, had allowed the church post office box to be used for collections because he believed that no one should be denied the best possible defense. But now what stance was appropriate? Could he in good conscience support a convicted murderer? Would support, in the end, even help her? He could not sit on this uncomfortable fence much longer. But for now, he needed to gain a sense of proportion, and he needed to pray.
2
Shortly before ten on the last Friday in June, Priscilla appeared once again before Justice Louis Burke of the Marin County Superior Court for sentencing. In addition, Burke was to rule on the motion for a new trial that Ed Caldwell had filed. In the event this motion failed, Priscilla would file an appeal.
In the sparkling summer air, Priscilla was weighted with spent emotion and dread. For the last month, a San Mateo County probation officer had been preparing a report that the judge would use for sentencing. The Marin County probation department had ruled that it would be a conflict of interest to become involved, as both Steve and Priscilla were well-known in the department and Steve's job involved daily contact with it. Consequently San Mateo had been called in. The same man who had interviewed Priscilla in county jail following her arrest—and whose recommendation for OR had been ignored at that time—had been reassigned to handle this presentencing report.
On this report hinged Priscilla’s future. Probation Officer Richard Mallon could recommend straight probation, perhaps with stipulations as to psychiatric treatment or reduced community involvement for Priscilla. He could recommend ninety days’ observation for psychiatric evaluation at the California Institution for Women in southern California—an evaluation that was usually followed by a department recommendation for probation. He could recommend county jail, with sentences on each charge to run either concurrently or consecutively. If he chose to be harsh, he could recommend state prison with sentences to run consecutively.
Priscilla had hoped desperately for a recommendation of straight probation. Barring that, she thought she could withstand confinement in a nearby jail, where she could see the boys regularly and often. Perhaps she might be released early on a work-furlough program. There was none in Marin County as yet—although one was expected to start soon—but Oakland had such a program, and Oakland was only forty-five minutes away.
Mallon had prepared a detailed report. He had interviewed Priscilla and Steve and Marietta. He had telephoned Priscilla’s sister Louise, and talked with Dr. Satten. He had interviewed Ted Lindquist and Josh Thomas. He had read and quoted in his report the many letters from Priscilla’s friends expressing outrage at the verdict and urging leniency. He had considered circumstances in mitigation and circumstances in aggravation. Finally, on the last page of his twenty-three page report, he had made his recommendation.
Richard Mallon recommended that criminal proceedings against Priscilla Phillips be suspended until a ninety-day evaluation and report could be provided by the Department of Corrections. He further recommended that the Marin County probation department submit a suggested probation program to be considered by the court when sentencing was imposed following the ninety-day observation at the California Institution for Women at Frontera, San Bernardino County.
If the judge followed the recommendation, it meant a three-month separation from the boys and Steve. Priscilla had resigned herself to that. But Judge Burke was not bound by Mallon’s report; he might still sentence her to straight probation, or to state prison.
“Ed, will I have to go to jail right after the hearing?” Priscilla asked Caldwell the night before sentencing. “Should I bring the boys to court so I can say good-bye to them?”
“No, that’s not necessary. No matter what the sentence, I plan to ask for you to have this weekend at home. I’m sure you won’t have to report until Monday if you’re sentenced for ninety days. I’m going to request bail pending appeal. And, though I doubt it, we may even get a new trial on the basis of that fireman’s experiment.”
It was not uncommon for attorneys on both sides of a case to call the jurors following a verdict and ask for their opinion on strategy or question them about which arguments or witnesses had been most convincing. Although such calls could not, as a rule, help their clients, the information could be beneficial in other cases. Both Ted Lindquist and Ed Caldwell had telephoned the jurors after Priscilla’s verdict was announced. And with his call to Jerome Polizzi, the defense attorney had hit pay dirt.
The San Francisco fireman who lived in Novato had been polite. He and Ed had chatted for a few minutes.
“There’s one thing I wanted to ask you,” Ed probed gingerly.
“Yeah?”
“The DA offered no evidence to show how Mrs. Phillips might have transported baking soda to the hospital. All her handbags were examined by the FBI, as you heard, and were found to contain no traces of baking soda. That has always seemed like a big hole in the DA’s case to me.”