by Fred Rosen
“There’s never been a case like this,” said a Department of Corrections official in what was a classic bit of understatement.
Chapter Ten
To Have and To Hold
To Mark McCain, appearance was not as important as who the person was. And that was why, when he met Mary Vincent, he was able to immediately see the vulnerable and loving woman, and not the claws for hands. They had fallen in love.
Mark had the capacity to always make her laugh. Redheaded and twenty-three years’ old, he was the boss of a landscaping crew. He had something that Mary Vincent had lacked for ten years. Mark McCain had a future, and eventually he offered to share it with her.
Now, it was the day of their wedding in a small village in the Pacific Northwest. The location had been kept a secret so that the proceedings were not inundated with prying reporters. Only three journalists had been invited, and they had all signed an agreement not to disclose the city, nor even the state where Vincent had lived for almost three years.
Mary had done a good job of covering her tracks. She didn’t want Singleton, who had threatened to “finish the job,” to know where she was. The Department of Motor Vehicles, a public agency, would not reveal if there was a driver’s license in Mary Vincent’s name, despite the fact that driver’s licenses were a matter of public record. So were marriage certificates, but arrangements had been made in advance so that her marriage to Mark would not be a matter of state record.
The idea had come from Mary’s attorney. By sealing public documents with her name and address, there could be no paper trail for Singleton or anyone else to follow to the town that had taken in Mary Vincent like one of their own.
“Everyone in town kind of looks out for me to make sure I’m okay,” said Mary to one of the reporters who’d signed the confidentiality agreement. It was in this mystery town which had adopted her that she felt truly safe. Residents knew of her notoriety, but wouldn’t talk to outsiders about her, even when asked. They were used to minding their own business.
“It’s like I was a gem that walked in here and everyone said, like, ‘This girl’s special, she cares a lot. So we’d better look out for her,’” was how Mary described her special relationship with the town, and it with her. “I’ve never had that feeling in a long time.”
For the wedding, Mary looked beautiful in a white satin gown. With a minister presiding, they made their vows and Mark placed the wedding ring on Mary’s hook.
As the minister pronounced them man and wife, they embraced and kissed. For Mary, it was a quiet, peaceful moment that she hoped augured well for the future.
“It [life] just began all over again,” she said. “Everything that has been happening lately seems like the beginning of another life, a better life.”
Since that awful day in the fall of 1978, Mary Vincent had been looking for peace in her world. And on her wedding day, she finally found it.
The California Gold Rush of 1849 had brought many men to northern California. Unfortunately, there were as many rogues and scoundrels and criminals among them as there were miners. Eventually, the few jails that existed at the time became overcrowded with convicted lawbreakers. Aware of the state’s growing pains, the legislature knew they had to act to alleviate the situation.
There was a point extending out into San Francisco Bay, north of the city. It was land that no one wanted to build on because of its raw weather and marshy conditions. It was, therefore, the ideal place to establish a state prison—isolated, cheap, and secure. The money was appropriated for its construction.
The new prison opened its doors for the first time in 1852 and began receiving what, through contemporary times, has been a continual stream of criminals. Named for the point extending out into the bay, it was called San Quentin Prison.
While its sister prison, Alcatraz, on a small island in San Francisco Bay, catered to the worst federal offenders, San Quentin housed the most recalcitrant criminals guilty of crimes against the state. It was the place, Governor George Deukmajian felt, that posed the best solution to “the Singleton problem.”
While publicly stating, “That by his barbaric acts, Lawrence Singleton forfeited his right to ever again live in civilized society,” Deukmajian had grown tired of the refusal of the Northern California counties to take Singleton and what seemed like their daily efforts to get relief through the courts.
Acting to put a stop to the “circus,” Deukmajian took the unprecedented step of ordering that Lawrence Singleton be housed for the length of his parole behind the walls of San Quentin prison. It was a good political move.
Deukmajian was answering his critics, who had said he had failed to act decisively as the matter snow-balled, while at the same time coming up with a solution that no one could really criticize, except perhaps civil libertarians, and who cared about them? Singleton, of course, wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of going back to jail, but he didn’t have much of a choice.
Under the guise of protecting Singleton from the mob and the mob from Singleton, Deukmajian’s plan was to house Singleton on prison grounds under a twenty-four-hour watch of parole agents and “wherever he goes, he will be accompanied by these agents.”
“With the placement of Singleton on the site of a state correctional facility, a safe distance from other communities, and with around-the-clock parole supervision, we will provide maximum public protection under the law,” the governor said in his weekly radio and television address.
Deukmajian, who had a law-and-order background as a state legislator and attorney general, went on to say that, “Understandably, no community wants Singleton, and yet he must be placed somewhere.” While noting that Singleton’s sentence was “insufficient” despite the law in effect at his sentencing, the governor said, “I call upon all public officers and law-abiding citizens to understand that they must set a good example and that mob rule has no place in our society.”
In order to prevent situations like the one they now found themselves embroiled in from reccuring in the future, Deukmajian advocated enacting a proposed constitutional amendment that would empower the governor to rescind the scheduled parole of a felon whose freedom would pose an “unreasonable threat” to public safety. He also urged that the state legislature approve a senate bill that would create the new crime of “aggravated mayhem,” punishable by life without the possibility of parole.
It was an ironic solution to the problem, considering that a few days before in Rodeo, Singleton had categorically rejected Sarah Fisher’s suggestion to the same effect But since then, he’d had cause to reflect, and that reflection had deteriorated into abject fear.
Between the vigilantes and the grinding travel from town to town, Singleton was scared. He knew that if he remained outside prison walls even with agents protecting him, all he could look forward to was the public continuing to hound him and the possibility that one day, soon, someone might actually follow through on the threats to kill him. When he was offered the chance to serve his time at San Quentin, he readily agreed.
On Saturday, May 30, Singleton checked into the prison at five A.M He was immediately taken to a trailer that had been set up for his use on the prison grounds. He would be among many nonprisoners who lived at the prison—families of about one hundred prison staff members lived on the prison grounds. But their living area was made out of bounds to him, and in turn, his special housing was out of bounds to the “normal” residents.
As for company, he would have little or none. Besides the parole agents, there was no one who would come to visit him, save his ex-wife, and she couldn’t come often. As for his rights, Singleton would have the same ones as any resident, subject to his parole restrictions, which were many.
Singleton was not allowed any contact with inmates, and he wouldn’t be allowed to leave the immediate area where he was housed. He had to observe a curfew from ten P.M., to six A.M, but he would be allowed to leave the prison grounds, as long as his parole agents accompanied him.
; In other words, he had substituted one prison for another. His trailer would be his cell until his parole was completed at the end of the year. The state would, however, help him find a job if he wanted a job in the prison, or even one outside prison walls. Singleton figured that if he could get his pension back, he wouldn’t have to worry about that.
Most of the politicians who had criticized the state government for trying to place Singleton in their community praised the governor’s actions.
“It’s a great idea,” said Sarah Fisher. “My constituents have been calling and they are very, very grateful to the governor for interceding.”
“I think the governor has come up with an excellent compromise,” said Claire Thomas. She felt that Deukmajian’s actions effectively ended the greatest public complaint she could recall in Contra Costa County.
“It was a tremendously emotional situation,” Thomas continued. “I have never in the history of this county seen anything like this.”
Singleton settled into his “new” life behind prison walls. His notoriety began to fade. Other rapists took their places on the front pages, But the public, and the press, would not let him forget. Singleton was, at least for a while, determined to distance himself from the past.
For the first time since his release, he refused interview requests. Apparently, he didn’t even bother to travel off prison grounds.
“Haven’t see him around,” said pharmacist Aaron Niles, who worked in a drugstore north of San Quentin in the town of Rafael.
“I wouldn’t recognize him if I saw him,” added Sally Rydell, manager of a convenience store near San Quentin.
“His picture was all over the paper for weeks. I’d recognize him if he’d been in. He hasn’t,” confirmed Meade Williams, a pump jockey at a gas station a mile down the road from the prison.
While admitting that “… a glitch in the law allowed him [Singleton] to get out too soon,” Robert Gore, assistant director of the California Department of Corrections, said that most of Singleton’s trips outside the prison were actually for weekly medical and psychological appointments at other state facilities.
Singleton definitely was out of the public eye, but the state was still very cognizant of his presence. And his crime. His parole date was coming up in April.
“When April 25, 1988, rolls around, under the law he is a free man,” Gore continued. And knowing Singleton’s parole date was due, politicians were starting to get riled up again about his second release.
The San Francisco deputy mayor, who’d previously commented on Singleton’s case, made it known that he wanted to see the Department of Corrections have the power to indefinitely extend parole. At least that way, guys like Singleton would be on a tight leash.
“Under the present system, the criminal is eventually off parole and free to go where he wants. Our problem with that is not only a community safety problem, but a Larry Singleton safety problem,” said the deputy mayor.
Dave Harkins, police chief of Twin Cities, a town in the San Quentin vicinity, was even more blunt. He indicated to the state that he would bill them for any police costs that would be incurred should Singleton’s presence in his jurisdiction beget riots.
Eugene Burell, an attorney who had represented Contra Coast County in the suit that tried to block Singleton’s parole in its jurisdiction, said that the parole system did not allow ample consideration of the needs of local communities.
“Parole is designed to be a system where local officials have very little input.”
Burell felt that it wasn’t enough to simply tell the local cops of a sex felon’s presence in the community. Local elected officials should also be notified.
“How is anybody else going to make their opinion known?” Burell concluded.
Singleton, meanwhile, was thinking of a way to start a new life for himself once he got out.
Up in Oregon, farmer Tom Brennan had read of Singleton’s problems and followed his case with great interest. He offered to let Singleton move in with his family and work as the farm’s handyman.
April 1, 1988
Singleton’s parole was only weeks away when he decided to break his silence.
“I’m planning on going up to Oregon as soon as I get released,” he said.
While Oregon had refused Tom Brennan’s request, maybe they would allow Singleton to join a church group in an area of Oregon that he declined to name. The church group had offered to take him in. Of course, since he was going to be a free man with no constraints, he had thought about moving back to his old stomping grounds—Contra Costa County.
“I have many good law-abiding friends in Contra Costa County,” Singleton told the Antioch Daily Ledger.
When asked how he felt about Mary Vincent, Singleton said that he was going to file a complaint against her in Placer and Marin counties. Since she’d lied about him, she should be made to answer for her behavior in court. He still maintained that the bad girl with the stick had kidnapped him.
“I am not doing this out of vindictiveness,” he stated. “I’m exercising my constitutional rights.”
As for what he hoped for once he was finally and truly free:
“I want the California Department of Corrections gorilla off my back.”
When Mary Vincent read that Lawrence Singleton was “coming to get her,” only this time legally, she was upset. Once again, her past, the past she had been trying to get rid of, would be pushed back into the spotlight.
“I think he is very dangerous and unstable. I think he’s operating under a delusion [of innocence],” commented Stanislaus County District Attorney Donald Stahl. “I don’t know what will happen when the pressure gets to be too much or if he falls off the wagon.”
April 16
“Hello?” said Lawrence Singleton when he got his party on the line.
“Yes?” said the person who answered.
“This is Lawrence Singleton.”
“Why, yes, Mr. Singleton, how are you?” asked Vance Law.
“Well, I apologize for not calling sooner.” And Singleton broke into tears.
“That’s okay.”
“I wanted to thank you again for your invitation. I’m just concerned about how my coming up there to Azalea was going to affect your church.”
Law reassured him and Singleton said, “I am coming and I do want to be with you people.”
The Bride of Christ Church was a fundamentalist Christian sect in Azalea, Oregon. Azalea is a small timber and mining town in rural southern Oregon. With all of three hundred residents, the town has never had any sort of infamy attached to it. At least that was what most residents thought until the invitation was tendered by Law. He had invited Singleton to come up and live with the sixty-five church members, most of whom grew their own food, raised livestock, and lived off the profits of several small businesses run by Law.
Church members dressed modestly, with women wearing below-the-knee skirts in muted colors, and scarves on their heads. Children attended a church school, and adults were paid a small salary for working on one of two farms or in church-owned cabinet shops. As for the men, they were the church leaders, while women were helpmates.
The invitation had been on the table for a while, but Singleton had finally decided to take advantage of it. “Just the fact that we want to put our heads on the line for someone the whole world wants to kill shows that we are a little different,” Law told the San Francisco Chronicle.
“Somebody has to show this United States how to love those who have done wrong,” continued Law. “If we can’t do this, how are we going to show the enemies of this nation the love of Christ?”
If nothing else, it was a brave move by a man with love in his heart, trying to help someone he perceived to be a lost soul. Of course, the move backfired as soon as the public got wind of it.
Someone took a shotgun and shot up two church vehicles that, luckily, were unoccupied. The switchboard at the governor of Oregon’s office lit up with 198 callers from Azal
ea and other Oregon communities who wanted nothing to do with the rapist/mutilator.
“The children usually wander around, but they’re not going to be able to do that this summer,” was a typical response from one of the area residents when he found out about Singleton’s imminent arrival.
In one final effort to keep Singleton out, the town planned on having a town meeting to figure out whether they could do anything to keep Singleton from moving in with Law.
Maybe it was the fact that Azalea wasn’t near the ocean, and once a sailor, always a sailor. The ocean got in your blood and you couldn’t be too far from it. Or maybe it was the notoriety.
Singleton had just spent a full year in the public spotlight and the last thing he wanted—the last thing—was to be back in it again. And despite Law’s good intentions that was exactly where Singleton was once again, which is why Singleton called Law to say he had changed his mind.
Law might have been disappointed, but for the rest of the tiny community of Azalea, it would be a safe understatement that the town breathed a heavy sigh of relief. That brought up the question that had been on everyone’s mind the previous April when Singleton was paroled: where was Lawrence Singleton now? He was out, finally, and people were worried. Newspapers speculated, callers to radio programs offered Singleton “sightings,” until finally, word came through that Singleton was living in Berkeley.
Singleton had a tough time finding a place to live. Every time he called landlords, when they heard his name, they slammed down the phone. Singleton was exasperated and couldn’t figure out why they wouldn’t talk to him. But this wasn’t Lawrence Singleton: it was Larry Ellis Singleton.
A thirty-eight-year-old man who had been on a five-year trip around the world in 1978, he knew nothing of the assault on Mary Vincent until a friend sent him a newspaper clipping. After reading it, he forgot all about the case until Singleton’s parole. That was when the two got confused in the public’s mind and the law-abiding Singleton was suffering.
