by Bella Stumbo
The gun was in the car, inside her purse, Betty told Wells, because that's where she always kept it, for safety, when the boys were at her house. It was pure circumstance that she had it on the morning she drove to Dan's.
Wells let it go.
If she had only wanted to "talk" to Dan, Wells asked next, why hadn't she simply knocked on the door instead of sneaking into the house? Betty gave the same tired answer: "Because Dan wouldn't have opened it."
She had gone through the kitchen door and crept up the stairs, gun in hand, only to make him either listen or to kill herself. That, she said, was her only plan. And, "I was very scared …"
And, at that moment, Betty Broderick looked very scared again, as she waited for Kerry Wells to ask her the next, obvious question: What had happened then?
But Wells didn't ask.
Instead, she skipped over the killings entirely. She asked a couple of trivial questions about Betty's calls from the Clairemont phone booth afterward, and then sat down. The People's cross-examination of Elisabeth Anne Broderick was done.
It was one of the most stunning—and, in hindsight, inept—tactical decisions any prosecutor could have made. Wells would never explain it later, beyond remarking vaguely that "we thought the jurors would see through her." But, obviously, Jack Earley's sly little remark in his opening statement, about how someone had shouted 'Call the police,' had worked. He had floated the bait, and Wells swallowed it. Wells was clearly afraid that, if she pursued Betty into the bedroom, where Wells had always insisted two helpless people were executed as they lay sleeping, she would only provide Betty with an escape hatch—an opportunity to say that she had been frightened, attacked, assaulted, or somehow otherwise provoked into firing her gun. Rather than risk it, Kerry Wells, prosecuting two counts of first-degree murder, simply left court-watchers, reporters, Whelan, the jurors, and, not least, Betty Broderick herself gaping in surprise.
Wells had spent two days on the divorce and nasty language, but not even five minutes on murder.
Nobody was more shocked than Jack Earley that Kerry Wells had skipped over the killing scene entirely. "I can't believe it—she bought my entire defense!" he later crowed in delight.
Best of all, no more nightly pilgrimages to Las Colinas now that Betty's testimony was done. No more futile, frustrating two-hour sessions, trying to wheedle her into displaying remorse for her crimes. It was over. "Now," Earley trumpeted, grinning ear to ear, "I don't have to talk to Betty anymore at all!"
Chapter 37
Jack’s Parade
After Betty stepped down from the witness stand, there was even less pattern to Earley's case than to Wells's. For the next three days, about two dozen witnesses came and went, some of them on the stand for no more than ten minutes. It was a crazy quilt parade: schoolteachers mixed with young boyfriends, a maid, a police consultant who said panic shootings are common, the gynecologist who talked with Betty and Dan in 1984 about having her tubal ligation reversed. A neighbor of Dan and Linda's came to say he heard five rapid-fire shots, (indicating Betty hadn't shot at leisure); and three mental health experts testified that Betty was unwell at the time of her crime. Earley also called two of Betty's judges, mainly for pure meanness, since they were so protected by position, and Judge Thomas Whelan, that he couldn't ask them anything of real interest.
And scattered among them all was a long line of La Jolla women, friends of Betty's with the courage now to testify in the most sensational San Diego murder trial of the decade. They constituted the bulk of Earley's defense, although their testimony didn't add up to much more than a group statement that Betty Broderick was once a cheerful, fun-loving woman and devoted mother who had fallen apart after her husband left her and behaved in shocking ways.
But Earley's first witness after Betty—Dr. Don David Lusterman, the family psychologist from New York who specializes in infidelity—was perhaps the single most thoughtful, credible witness in the entire trial. His manner was quiet, calm, and unassuming. But Lusterman's strength was apparent from the minute he opened his mouth. He was an academic, a student of the human psyche, and a counselor who had worked with hundreds of couples damaged by infidelity. He was in court not to advance the cause of Betty Broderick, but merely to explain his findings. He had, in fact, never even met her.
There was nothing pedantic, obscure, or quirky about David Lusterman's opinions. He spoke in the universal language of purest common sense. Anybody who has ever been touched by a faithless relationship—or even considered how he or she might react in such a situation—could only agree with every word he uttered.
Lusterman also described Betty Broderick's early reactions to Dan's affair with Linda so perfectly that she cried quietly throughout most of his testimony. Even from across the room, this mild, detached stranger was addressing her feelings in a way that nobody else ever had. However remotely, it was perhaps the first real therapy she had ever received, either since 1983, when she first realized that Dan was having an affair, or in the aftermath of the killings.
Lusterman referred to the cheating spouse as the "infidel," to the cheated spouse as the "victim." And because it is almost always the male who is the infidel, said Lusterman, he consistently referred to the infidel as "he," to the victim as "she." At long last, somebody who didn't even know Betty Broderick was agreeing that, at least when it came to the infidelity, and the lies accompanying it, she was the victim, just as she always said.
Lusterman's testimony was simplicity itself: It is never the infidelity per se that is so devastating to the victim, he said, but the accompanying lies—and the longer the lies go on, the deeper the damage inflicted on the self-esteem of the victim, who has spent months, years, deceiving herself, trying to believe that what she knows to be true is really not true at all. Once the truth finally comes out, the victim commonly loses all confidence in herself, he said. If she had bought into the same lies day in, day out, for years, over breakfast, over dinner, every time he said he had to work late, then what was her judgment worth, as a parent, as a human being? It was, in Lusterman's mind, one of the most crippling of psychological blows—and no doctor could really heal it. Instead, he said, it was up to the infidel to begin the healing process by admitting the truth and apologizing for his lies. Those are the first keys to recovery for the victim, because, otherwise, her feelings, her suspicions, and her pain remain unvalidated. There is no "closure."
And, so far as Lusterman could tell, Dan Broderick was a classic case study in how not to handle infidelity, once it is out in the open. Instead of apologizing to Betty for the lies and hurt, once he told her about Linda, she was still the crazy one. He wanted to send her to a hospital, all because he had finally admitted that he had lied to her for years … Dan never helped her let go of the rage because he never admitted to the lie," said Lusterman. "And when the infidel flees from all blame, it only binds the boil … She was trying to establish her own sanity in the face of his lies … but if he doesn't come through with some honesty and validation, she's totally canceled out."
Not incidentally, Lusterman found nothing unusual in Betty's subsequent obscenities, vandalisms, and other acts of violence. She had no other outlet for what he called her unrequited "hot rage." And not only Dan, but also her own family and friends denied her any right to her anger. What she needed was for people to say she was entitled to her rage, that she wasn’t crazy. “You can't just expect victims to step over that phase."
Nor did it surprise Lusterman that, even up until Dan's wedding day—and after—Betty was still in an apparent state of denial, still deluding herself that he might yet come home. Victims of infidelity who have never really been confronted with the truth often resort to such illusions, he said. Likewise, divorce commonly means nothing to them, for the same reasons. In lieu of truth, pretense is always a viable alternative. In fact Lusterman added, in what was perhaps Kerry Wells's least favorite line of his entire testimony, he found it quite conceivable that Betty Broderick's denial might have
lasted right up until the time she walked into Dan's bedroom and found him in bed with Linda.
There wasn't much Wells could do about this quiet, reasonable man, and so she didn't try. Instead, she rose, and, with as much courtesy as her facial muscles would permit, asked:
"What if [the victim] had a narcissistic personality disorder?"
Lusterman only shrugged. He hadn't met Betty. Narcissism wasn't his specialty. He didn't know if she had other problems or not. He only knew that victims of infidelity very often react to the prolonged stress in ways that may look crazy—"But that doesn't mean they are."
And what about the influence of "plain old jealousy?" Wells asked.
""It's not the same," Lusterman told her. In fact, he thought it was "a vast oversimplification" to equate jealousy with the extreme mental abuse suffered by victims of infidelity who have been lied to for so long.
Wells started to argue that Dan Broderick had tried to be honest with Betty. But she thought better of that and sat down. The sooner David Lusterman got out of the courtroom, she clearly decided, the better.
Then came the rest of Earley's miscellaneous parade. Two teachers and one administrator from the elite Francis Parker School defied the school hierarchy's unspoken taboo against cooperating in this sordid case to testify for the defense anyway. All three praised Betty as one of the most attentive, active, best-loved mothers they had ever seen. Their reviews of Dan as a father ranged from fair to awful.
A school admissions official testified that, after the separation, both boys sometimes came to school in cold weather without jackets; that Rhett often arrived with shockingly dirty hair, ears, and clothes; and that both boys were occasionally sent to school so visibly ill that they were put to bed in the nurse's room until one of the parents came to fetch them—usually Betty, since the school could rarely locate Dan.
One teacher testified that when she once called Dan to discuss her concern about Danny's "acting out" in class, "I felt intimidated by his manner. He felt there should be no problem. It was something he didn't want to hear." Another teacher had nothing negative to say about Dan, but lavished praise on Betty, who, she said, would often come to school to have lunch with Rhett, and all the other children would swarm to her. "They were always more attracted to her when she came in the room than to me."
Wells tried to blame Rhett's colds on allergies. But the teacher said that if Rhett had allergies, Dan had never mentioned it to her. What's more, the woman added sourly, Rhett would then arrive at school the next day in exactly the same condition; so if he did have allergies, evidently nobody was doing anything about it. Wells finished by trying to excuse Dan as a busy, harried single father doing the best he could. If it ever occurred to her, in her own heart, that maybe he could have done better, it never showed.
Both P.J. Hathaway, Kim's sometimes date, and Jason Prantil, Lee's boyfriend at the time, were summoned by Earley, primarily for the purpose of impeaching Kim's testimony. Earley wanted both young men to agree that, contrary to her remarks on the witness stand, Kim had complained incessantly about Dan's poor treatment of her, thereby incensing Betty even further.
He failed. Both agreed that Kim had indeed griped loudly about what an insensitive cheapskate Dan was. But, as the curly-haired, blond Hathaway said, with a disarmingly grin, shrugging, so what? Didn't everybody have the same bitches about their parents? Prantil was no more helpful. Earley was wasting his time, trying to get these young people to tattle on each other.
Since Wells had already called two of Dan's housekeepers, Earley, determined to fight fire with fire, next called Maria Montez, who had worked for the Broderick family since 1976—and for Betty alone since 1985. After the separation, in fact, Montez and her son had moved in with Betty for several months, mainly because, Montez said later, Betty was so lonely. "I felt so sad for her. Sometimes she would just stay home all day and cry and cry," Montez said in her broken English. Nor was Maria Montez a fair-weather friend. Even after the homicides, she sometimes made the hour-long bus trip from her two-room home in one of San Diego's poorest Hispanic barrios to visit her former mistress in jail. "We understand each other," said Betty. "Don't ask me how. I don't do Spanish. But Maria and I know what we're saying to each other, even if nobody else can figure it out. We've been talking in half Spanish, half English and sign language for fifteen years."
Alas for Earley, Maria Montez, however well-meaning, was an ineffective witness, partly because she testified in Spanish with a translator at her side—"This is too important," she said. "And I want to be understood"—but also because she had nothing substantive to offer beyond her obvious affection for Betty Broderick. Still, in a trial centered largely around money and shallow social values, that was no small contribution, as Earley well knew. Montez, with her long black braid and gold front tooth, dressed in a cotton smock, was an affecting sight as she marched determinedly to the witness stand to do what she could for the woman who had befriended her for most of her adult life.
Maria had nothing bad to say about Dan Broderick. She only knew that the children loved Betty more, and when Mr. Broderick was home, "they were silent." Later on, after the divorce, she testified, they would sometimes hide in the bushes when Dan came to pick them up because they didn’t want to go home with him. "And the only time Betty was happy was when the children were there," she said.
Montez's testimony was so benign that it was surprising to see Wells take her on. But Kerry Wells could never resist a target, no matter how innocent it was. And, in fact, Wells scored. She got Montez to admit that Betty had lied about Dan burning his own clothes. Montez also testified Betty said the reason she didn't have the children anymore was because Dan had taken them away by force one night and then called her "a drunk and a prostitute," which is why she couldn't regain custody.
Earley also hauled Judges Anthony C. Joseph and William J. Howett, Jr., into court. Both men initially resisted on grounds that it was improper, since they were, after all, judges. But Whelan, going the extra mile to avoid charges of legal cronyism in this, of all cases, ordered them to show up if Earley wanted them—although he also restricted Earley from asking them about almost anything except the missing divorce files. Earley would not be allowed to ask either judge to defend his decisions in the Broderick divorce matter. Both said they had no idea how the Broderick divorce files had vanished, but, in any event, they didn't need the files to render fair judgments. Joseph was puckish, obviously annoyed. Howett, a big, rumpled man, was more easygoing.
Earley was engaging in a pointless exercise, and he knew it. But he didn't care. In a case grounded in allegations of litigious assault, Earley was, at the very minimum, at least stripping judges of some of their precious veneer, simply by forcing them to sit there in front of the woman they had jailed and judged, and be judged themselves by twelve jurors. To her credit, Betty did not betray the faintest smirk of satisfaction.
But, again, Wells won the round by abruptly proposing to Whelan that the entire sealed divorce file [since recovered] be introduced into evidence. Since both Earley and his client seemed so concerned about those formerly missing files, she challenged, then why not let jurors read the entire five-year file for themselves?
Why not indeed?
Earley backed off his fiery rhetoric as fast as an alley cat confronted by a hungry coyote at the trash can. Wells had called his bluff. He objected. He didn't want the divorce files admitted into evidence.
"Dan was a very smart attorney," he explained later, sheepishly. "He wrote so many letters [to Betty and her attorneys] just for the record—he just sounds too reasonable. And the average juror wouldn't be able to see through that."
"What the fuck?" Betty yelled later over the jail phone, amazed. "I've got nothing to hide! What is Jack doing? I've been bitching about those goddamn sealed files for five years, and now my own lawyer makes it look like I'm sneaking around. Shit! What are people thinking now—that I was a child molester?"
What outraged her even mor
e, she said, was the fact that Earley, as usual, hadn't even consulted her beforehand.
Then came Earley's procession of La Jolla ladies, nearly a dozen of them, ranging from casual associates of Betty Broderick to close friends. Some were divorced, some were married, mostly to lawyers. Some were socially prominent in La Jolla and San Diego, others were independent career women. Several were there because they had known Betty Broderick since the seventies when she had been a second mother to their children at her day-care center.
Most looked the La Jolla part—attractive, well-groomed, carefully dressed—and most were also visibly nervous as they milled about in the courthouse corridor, awaiting their turn on the witness stand. Like some of Betty's other, oldest friends who had jumped ship, refusing to get involved—Lynn McGuire, Judy Bartolotta, Kathy Saris, and Chris Michaelson—all these women could easily have avoided a subpoena, too, simply by promising to be uncooperative. But, for their own different reasons, they wanted history to record that they didn't run.
"I don't want to be here. I don't want to see myself on the evening news," said Melanie Cohrs. "But I feel like it's my duty. What she did was so very wrong, but Dan did some terrible things to her, too."
"He was evil, I'm not sorry he's dead," said Wilma Engel, still remembering the hateful letter she received from Dan years earlier for daring to criticize him.
“I think he drove her to it," said Ann Dick, a future Las Patronas president. "If he had given her enough money and the children, this whole tragedy could have been avoided."
But all these remarks were made out of court.
Once on the witness stand, none of the women who came to testify for Betty were allowed to say anything of real significance, partly because Wells objected constantly to any questions leading to even implied criticism of Dan Broderick—but also because Jack Earley didn't exploit them to the fullest. Each had anecdotal material about Dan Broderick's coldness, Betty's fears, Betty's demise. But Earley's only apparent goal seemed to be to move as many attractive, articulate women through the courtroom in cameo appearances as fast as possible to demonstrate to the jury that Betty Broderick once had a lot of respectable friends. Despite Pasas's meticulous interview notes, Earley barely seemed to know the difference between Candy Westbrook, a friend of both Brodericks since 1975, and Melanie Cohrs, a local child abuse activist who had watched Betty's disintegration up close in the final two years. Pasas held her head, watching her months of work go down the drain as Earley shuffled around the courtroom, basically treating each of these women like assembly line clones. Nearly every woman who came to court for Betty later expressed dismay at Earley's failure to utilize them to advantage. Even prosecution witnesses, such as Gail Forbes and Helen Pickard, would have contributed to the portrait of a woman in steady decline, had Earley asked them the right questions on cross-exam. "I never understood it," Pickard said later. "I was called by the prosecution, but I had a lot of good things to say about Betty, too. I thought I was going to get to tell both sides."
