Smith headed into his conclusion with a statement that would bring the blood of many in the courtroom to a boil. “I just have to keep my faith and know that wherever Christ leads me, I shall follow. Manuel Delgado and Belisario Delgado, I believe, died under the grace of Christ and they are waiting for George Smith in heaven now. I hoped and prayed that Jim Evans died a Christian.
“All I wish to say, I guess, in final and in closing here, is that George Smith, his Lord and Savior is Jesus Christ. I have to confess that amongst men to show you that I am for real. And I wish you all wings of an angel, and when you run, not to grow tired, and when you walk, not to grow faint.”
When his testimony was over, George had brought the jury no closer to understanding a man whom they might soon order to be put to death. He remained a puzzle of great contradictions. On one hand, selfless, kind, and generous. But in deciding to rob a bank and arm himself to kill others if needed, he displayed a self-righteous superiority that put his needs and beliefs above all others, even if it meant the death of total strangers. George might never have set out to kill anyone on May 9, 1980, but when the time came, he did, or at the very least, tried his hardest to.
EVEN WITH THE END OF THEIR ORDEAL IN SIGHT, THE JURORS REMAINED frayed and edgy. After nine days of deliberation, foreman Paul Dillinger sent Hennigan a 550-word note that it was turning into a complete mess and that they were not even close to agreeing on sentences. The problem, Dillinger said, was that several of the jurors had made up their minds on a verdict before deliberations had begun and were making the others feel they were being “railroaded” into coming to a quick decision. “The majority of the jury feels that we haven’t really even begun the process of a fair deliberation. We have not yet discussed most of the elements of the instructions.” Some of the jurors refused to even discuss the case with the others. Dillinger felt “that an exhortation by the court to ‘unmake up’ their minds will not change anything.” For the calm and methodical Dillinger, it was clear he was getting to the end of his rope too.
Hennigan called the jurors into the courtroom on August 13 to address the problem. He told the jurors they had a duty to discuss the evidence with the others. “Stubbornness is not a good attribute of a juror,” he said, before sending them back to the motel to try again. Late the following day, the jury threw in the towel. They were hopelessly deadlocked, Dillinger told Hennigan, eight for life, four for death. Hennigan thanked the jury for its service. They were free to go. “It was a very difficult, trying experience,” juror Vicki Regan said. “Something I want to forget for a while.” “I got a few bars to hit,” John Sowell said, clearing out his possessions from the Oceanside motel.
Press-Enterprise reporter James Richardson, who had sat through so much of the trial, had a theory about why the jury could never come back with a death verdict. “Stockholm syndrome,” he said, referring to the bond that can sometimes develop between captives and captors after going through a long ordeal together. “After spending so much time in that room together, there was no way they were going to sentence those guys to death.”
A MONTH LATER, THE THREE CONVICTED MEN SAT LISTENING AS THEIR life-without-parole sentences were pronounced. Christopher Harven chatted with attorney Michael Lloyd while judge J. David Hennigan pronounced his fate.
Russell Harven sat alone on a bench behind Alan Olson, staring expressionlessly into space. When Olson objected to sending the defendants back to Riverside jail, calling it a “dungeon” and a “hell hole,” all the acrimony that had been built up between Olson and Hanks finally erupted. “Could we do without the pejoratives?” Hanks snapped. Olson leapt to his feet, angrily threw off his suit coat, and screamed at Hanks. “Could you do without your coat outside?” Two bailiffs jumped up and stepped between the two as Olson continued to shout at Hanks while the prosecutor stood grinning at his enraged adversary.
In a separate hearing on September 25, 1982, George Wayne Smith remained convinced to the end that he had been unjustly convicted and unfairly sentenced. “This is a one-hour indiscretion that could lead to a life of torment. I don’t think society demands that much of an example.” The probationary report prepared to help guide the judge in his sentencing said that Smith had shown no remorse. However, George Smith had regrets. “If I could turn back the clock. If I could lay down my life and the other three could come back, I would do it. It’s something I have to live with for the rest of my life.”
On November 15, 1982, the sentences were finally affirmed, two years, six months, and six days after five men attempted to rob the Security Pacific Bank in Norco, California. When it was done, Jay Hanks stepped out a courtroom door into an alley, raised his hand above his head, and shouted, “It’s all over!” In a house in Irving, Texas, a phone rang with the news and, once again, a mother sobbed. “It never goes away,” said Martha Evans.
MARY EVANS RODE THE HORSE HARD THROUGH THE RIVER BOTTOM, AMONG the willows and cottonwoods, the hooves thundering on the sandy wash beneath her. She slowed the big animal to a walk and they went along like that, breathing deeply from the exertion. They came to the small stream at the center of the channel and paused, Mary listening to the water flowing over the rocks. The news had finally come in from Vista. A hung jury. So, this is the way it ends for the three of them: life. Not the way it ended for Jim.
She rode the horse out of the wash and up a long trail to the top of a dry and dusty hilltop and looked out at the wide sweep of the Inland Empire spread out below her. The animal kicked at the dirt and nosed the blanket of dead grass that covered the hillsides in all directions. A setting sun filtered through the brown smog. From that spot, Mary could see where everything had happened, but only on a clear day, of which there were few. Fifteen miles west was Norco and the intersection of Fourth and Hamner where events were put into play that led to the death of her husband. Twenty miles to the north, the mouth of Lytle Creek Canyon opened at the base of the towering San Gabriel Mountains where he died. Eleven miles due south was Riverside National Cemetery where his body now lay. That she could see, even through the layer of smog. A hot wind blew back her hair. You were the love of my life.
She leaned forward and patted the horse’s neck. Desperado, given to J.B. Jr. by a local attorney within weeks of his father’s death. The boy was two and a half now. She thought of Jim seated at the kitchen table the morning before he went off to die, cradling the baby in his arms. Jim, why don’t you ever put that baby down? Because I want him to know who I am. She had kept all the photos, the medals and awards and the news clippings to be brought out at a later time. One day he will, she thought. She turned the horse and headed back down the trail.
EPILOGUE
ON SEPTEMBER 9, 1982, JUST DAYS BEFORE HIS SCHEDULED SENTENCING, George Wayne Smith submitted a one-page handwritten note to justice J. David Hennigan requesting a hearing for a “motion for new counsel” to have Clayton Adams removed from his case. “As the Court has noticed, he fought with Court, all counsel, court clerks, court security, and client and investigator. He stated to this Court he has had fits of insanity, and I put that mildly.” He went on to say Adams and Alan Olson “both lied to me” about presenting witnesses that he requested. “His batting average is 0–45,” he wrote, referring to the guilty verdicts. He said that the jury indicated Adams “was the biggest trouble as to my case.” The note was signed, “Christ be with you and your family. Your brother, George Wayne Smith.”
Meeting in chambers with Hennigan and Adams two days later, George Smith was irate at what he felt was grossly inadequate representation that had landed him in jail for life. He called Adams a liar, mentally ill, incompetent, negligent, ill prepared, and neglectful of him as a client.
Adams defended himself and his strategy, but it was obvious he felt betrayed by the man whose life he had fought so hard to save. “I’m trying to be professional about this, but I simply cannot help it because I know I broke my heart over this case. I can’t believe this has actually happened. All I can do is
sit here and tell the Court my heart is no longer in this case. I just can’t do it.”
Clayton Adams went on to a long career in criminal defense as “a bracero toiling in the fields of justice.” Decades later, he showed no bitterness over the case. He summed up his defense strategy in a single sentence: “I was trying to save George’s life.” He referred to Alan Olson and Michael Lloyd as “professionally and personally competent.” He had nothing but admiration for Jeanne Painter, calling her “investigative knowledge and experience, excellent,” and her support in the courtroom “like clockwork.” He remained convinced that Painter had been set up by the Vista jail and had done nothing wrong. He still believed Jay Hanks committed “prosecutorial misconduct by interfering with defense expert witnesses and intentionally disregarding standard discovery orders.” Of their animosity in the courtroom, Adams said, “Any suggestion of aggressiveness or confrontational behavior is considered a two-way street.”
Despite his client’s post-trial attack, he still referred to George as “intelligent, attentive, and courteous” and their relationship on the case “open and cordial.” “If you see George,” he said almost four decades afterward, “tell him I said hello.” As for his performance in the trial, Adams said, “Some folks said the defense won the case, others were not so generous. You decide.” Adams died in Modesto, California, in 2016.
ON APRIL 16, 1983, GEORGE WAYNE SMITH AND JEANNE PAINTER WERE MARRIED through a filing of paperwork with the County of Sacramento, near where Smith was being held at Folsom State Prison.
The anxiety attacks and emotional strain that had afflicted Painter for most of the trial continued afterward. In September 1982, Painter filed for disability and workers’ compensation with the county, saying the stress of the trial and allegations of sexual misconduct had rendered her unable to continue at the Office of the Public Defender. “At this point she is 100 percent disabled because the doctor won’t let her work,” said her attorney, Michael Lloyd. Days later, Painter also filed a $4 million lawsuit for libel and slander against Riverside and San Diego Counties over the jailhouse accusations.
It took Jeanne Painter only a few years to file for divorce from Smith. Several years after that, George displayed one final act of disregard for a woman who had been loyal to him beyond any reasonable expectation. Included in his 1989 trial appeal was an argument against Clayton Adams for “Failure to control his defense investigator, Jeanne Painter.” “Appellant Smith argues that his investigator Jeanne Painter was allegedly observed by a deputy performing oral sex with appellant Smith inside an anteroom to the court during a recess.” In the response to the appeal, deputy attorney general Holly Wilkens noted that an investigation “cannot locate any reference in the record” of the court or anywhere else to support the allegation.
If there was anyone who had been misunderstood and unfairly treated in the trial of the Norco 3, it was Jeanne Painter. It is true that Painter was successful in a high-pressure world of extremely high stakes. But what had been forgotten along the way was that she was still a young woman buffeted about by uncertainty, anxiety, and the pressures of trial work. Painter was never delusional about the crimes committed by George Smith, but she was a passionate and compassionate person. After years alongside Smith in a battle to save his life against a system she felt was unfairly stacked against him, Painter had found it difficult to simply walk away from someone for whom she had fought so hard. It did not help that this particular someone was the intelligent, charismatic, and often manipulative George Wayne Smith.
Eventually Jeanne Painter’s anxiety began to subside and her life slowly returned to normal. After leaving the defender’s office, she started an independent private investigation firm in the Riverside area. Shortly after divorcing George Smith, Painter married a local attorney with whom she raised children. They were married for more than thirty years. Jeanne Painter Callaway died in 2018. Her obituary invited donations in Jeanne’s name to Death Penalty Focus, a nonprofit dedicated to the abolishment of the death penalty.
AFTER RECEIVING $150,000 FOR TWELVE MONTHS’ WORK, THE NORCO TRIAL had left Michael Lloyd’s newly opened Riverside law firm nearly bankrupt. Lloyd remained in criminal law until 1999. Alan Olson returned to his practice in Orange County and gained some attention for his defense of James O’Driscoll, convicted of stabbing a teenager to death inside the Disneyland theme park in 1981.
AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE NORCO TRIAL, PROSECUTOR JAY HANKS WAS named assistant district attorney, the number two in the department, responsible for running day-to-day operations. In 1988 he was elected justice to the Riverside Municipal Court and two years later to the California State Superior Court for the County of Riverside, where he served for another twenty-five years. Hanks lives in Riverside.
Kevin Ruddy went on to become one of the most prolific prosecutors of major crimes during his time with the Office of the Riverside District Attorney. Ruddy brought to jury verdict thirty-five murder cases, including some of the most notorious in county history. He was named chief deputy DA in 1999 and supervised the Major Crimes department for ten years. Ruddy retired in 2009 and remains in Southern California.
In 1984, Joe Curfman was named the district attorney’s chief investigator, where he served for twenty years overseeing the bureau that grew to 125 members across Riverside County during his term.
By the conclusion of the trial, both the defense and prosecution had positive and negative things to say about justice J. David Hennigan’s handling of the trial of the Norco 3. “That’s usually a sign that a judge has done his job,” a colleague of Hennigan’s said. Most had an unfavorable opinion of the jury selection process; however, one of his rulings during that stage had likely avoided a mistrial months later. Hennigan continued to serve on the superior court for many years and passed away in 1997.
DAMAGE AND MONTHS OF POLICE CONFISCATION OF HIS VAN COST GARY Hakala his canning business within a year of being taken hostage in the parking lot of the Brea Mall. Gary returned to his first love as an educator, teaching mathematics at the high school and junior college level and coaching wrestling, volleyball, and track. He was named Teacher of the Year for the city of Beaumont in 2007. A grandfather of eighteen, Hakala lives in Riverside County where he is a real estate investor, NRA pistol instructor, and kayaking teacher.
ANDY DELGADO WOULD NEVER FULLY FORGIVE GLYN BOLASKY AND CHUCK Hille for leaving him alone under fire in front of the bank that day. “I had a three-minute gun battle with the robbers. I wasn’t happy being left there to die,” he told the Press-Enterprise thirty years after the event. The way Andy remembered it, he had been in the middle of gunfire when he heard Chuck Hille’s transmission that he was rolling Bolasky to the hospital. The recording of the radio traffic reveals that Hille’s transmission, made moments after turning off Fourth Street, had come two minutes and eleven seconds after Delgado reported the yellow truck had left the scene. However, there is also no question that Bolasky and Hille had ceased engagement in the firefight prior to that, effectively leaving Andy alone from the moment he arrived on scene.
But details and data do little to get to the heart of what happened during those four minutes of madness in front of the Security Pacific Bank. All three deputies acted heroically, all felt fear, all did what they thought at the time was right. “When I got shot, I wasn’t a cop anymore,” Bolasky would later say. “I was a human being trying not to die. I went into a self-defense mode. It was a caveman mentality with only one thing in mind—survival.”
For Chuck Hille, reconciliation comes only in understanding what the others were experiencing in the moment. “I’m sorry Andy still feels that way,” Hille said years later. “We never made a decision to leave him alone, but in the end, we probably did.”
After leaving law enforcement, Glyn Bolasky joined the United States Air Force, rising to the rank of lieutenant colonel as an electronic warfare officer. He frequently speaks to law enforcement and other groups, applying the lessons of Norco to the mode
rn world of terrorism.
Chuck Hille left the sheriff’s office several years after Norco, tried his hand at acting, and ran a carpet store. In the aftermath of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, he began to hear more about posttraumatic stress disorder and realized he had been suffering some of the symptoms himself since his experience in Norco. He decided then he wanted to use that experience to help others and obtained an advanced degree in psychiatry. Dr. Charles A. Hille has a successful therapy practice in Riverside County, much of it counseling sufferers of posttraumatic stress disorder.
Andy Delgado enjoyed great professional and personal success after leaving the RSO. He re-enrolled in college and earned a master’s in business administration from the University of Redlands. He joined the San Diego Probation Department and rose to the rank-equivalent of lieutenant and was the architect of a landmark youth offender program. After retiring, he taught U.S. history at a local high school for ten years along with criminal law and administrative justice at the junior college level.
At age forty-five, Andy Delgado finally found the family he had been denied early in his life when the children of his biological father, Leonard Monti, embraced him as one of their own. He had been in touch with Monti, the restaurateur from Phoenix, and the other children off and on since high school. After the death of the family patriarch, Andy reunited with the extended family in 1998. They soon began encouraging him to “officially” become one of the Monti family. “What’s this Delgado name? You’re not a Delgado.” In 2001, Andy Delgado filed the paperwork and became Andrew Monti, finally shedding the last name he never should have had in the first place.
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