Beyond Reason (23 page)
Authors: Ken Englade
Elizabeth thought for a moment, then said she had best articulated that feeling in the letter to Jens in which she seemed to criticize him for threatening to surrender or commit suicide. It was written, she said, after an argument that stemmed from her feelings about her parents’ deaths. “He had seen how upset I actually was, and he felt that in some way I was turning on him and accusing him of doing something that I hadn’t wanted. So in the letter I was trying to reassure him that in my mind we did it together. Although I wasn’t physically present, I suppose I was spiritually there.”
SEVEN HOURS LATER ELIZABETH WAS ROUSED FROM HER cell and told to prepare for the short ride back to magistrate’s court for another remand hearing. She was told to take everything she had with her because she probably would not be returning to the Richmond police station. As she filed out of the cell area on her way to the van, she paused by the duty desk and dug in her pockets. She didn’t have much money, but she gathered all she had in her fist and dropped it through a slot on the desk. It was a collection box for the Metropolitan Police Widows and Orphans Fund.
ELIZABETH STEADFASTLY MAINTAINED THAT SHE HAD not been inside Loose Chippings when her parents were killed so she could not chronicle what happened. But Jens was there. Although his statements to investigators of what occurred inside the house that night were locked up for an indefinite period, a recounting he presented to a psychiatrist was not.
Jens met with Dr. John Hamilton, the medical director and consulting forensic psychiatrist at London’s Broadmoor Hospital, six months after he made his admissions to police and gave him a version of events. How it compared with what he told Gardner, Beever, and Wright and later a German lawyer is not known. But what he told Hamilton is this:
He said that the Haysoms were not glad to see him when he showed up on their doorstep, but they invited him in nonetheless. Nancy offered him dinner while she and Derek had dessert. They all had something alcoholic to drink. While they were still at the table, Derek and Nancy began telling him about plans they had made for Elizabeth. They wanted her to break up with him. Although Nancy said she felt the two could still be friends, Derek took a harder line. He said he didn’t want Elizabeth to see Jens again. Derek told Jens he was not “their kind of people” and that if he persisted in trying to see Elizabeth, he would remove her from the university and try to get Jens dismissed.
When Derek said that, Jens said, Jens himself sprang to his feet. He said Derek also jumped up. Derek pushed him and yelled, “Sit down, young man.” Derek caught him off balance, Jens said, and when shoved, he staggered backwards. His head and shoulders slammed against the wall.
The next thing he knew, he told the psychiatrist, he flew at Derek, who had turned away from him. Jens had a knife in his hand and he slashed at Derek, cutting him deeply on the left side of his throat. Without uttering a word, Derek slumped into a chair.
The next thing he knew, he told the psychiatrist, he flew at Derek, who had turned away from him. Jens had a knife in his hand and he slashed at Derek, cutting him deeply on the left side of his throat. Without uttering a word, Derek slumped into a chair.
Frozen by the sight of blood, Jens stood motionless, staring at Derek. Suddenly he looked up. Nancy was charging at him with a knife in
her
hand. He wrestled with her and took the knife away. But while he was occupied with her, Derek recovered. Rising from the chair, he attacked Jens screaming, “Are you crazy?” Again and again he yelled, “Are you crazy?”
her
hand. He wrestled with her and took the knife away. But while he was occupied with her, Derek recovered. Rising from the chair, he attacked Jens screaming, “Are you crazy?” Again and again he yelled, “Are you crazy?”
The two began to fight. During the struggle, Jens lost his glasses and couldn’t see too well what was happening. By then, the floor was covered with blood, and he and Derek were having trouble keeping on their feet because they kept slipping in the gore. During the struggle, Jens cut himself at least twice on the hand, and his blood added to that already on the floor.
At some point, Jens said, Nancy rejoined the battle. But he maneuvered behind her and cut her throat. She then staggered off and collapsed on the floor.
Finally, the fight with Derek ended. Elizabeth’s father dropped in a heap on the floor, and he did not rise. Jens looked down and saw that he himself was covered with blood. Some of it was his own but mostly it came from Derek and Nancy.
Because he was leaving footprints, he took off his shoes and padded around in his white socks. He bandaged his hand and tried to wipe away some of the shoe prints so they could not be used in identification. He assumed Derek and Nancy were dead, but he did not check to make sure. The last time he saw them, he asserted, they were lying close together at right angles to each other. He denied making any voodoo symbols.
When police found the Haysoms, they were in separate rooms, and both were stretched out on a north-south axis with their heads pointed north.
After wiping up his shoe prints as best he could, Jens climbed into his car and drove off toward Lynchburg. Not far away, he ran over a dog. That upset him terribly, he told Hamilton. He also stopped soon afterwards and disposed of his bloody clothes in a dumpster.
After Lynchburg, as he was speeding down the highway heading toward Washington, he turned on the car radio and tuned in a rock station. Blasting back at him was a song by the Talking Heads entitled “Psycho Killer.”
Less than a month after meeting with the psychiatrist, Jens had a session with a prosecutor sent in from Bonn. As a German citizen, Jens claimed the right to talk to a German official.
The tale Jens told then put him in a much more favorable light than anything he had said previously. According to the prosecutor, Jens told him that “he had never had any intention of killing Mr. and Mrs. Haysom and … he could only remember having inflicted wounds at the neck on Mr. and Mrs. Haysom, which must have had something to do with their dying later.” He also claimed “there had been no talk whatsoever [between him and Elizabeth] about killing Elizabeth’s parents.”
AS SOON AS HE GOT BACK TO VIRGINIA, SUFFERING FROM jet lag and a cigarette cough, Jim Updike, whose only lasting souvenir from his first and maybe final trip to Britain was the addition of cigarettes to his repertoire of addictions to tobacco products, asked that a special grand jury be convened as soon as possible to hear the accusations against Jens Soering and Elizabeth Haysom. The five-member group met before the week was over, on Friday the 13th, and listened to Ricky Gardner for an hour. Soon afterwards they handed up indictments charging Jens and Elizabeth with first degree murder for the deaths of Derek and Nancy. Since Jens had allegedly committed the crimes, he was charged additionally with capital murder, which meant Updike could seek the death penalty.
Despite the speedy action by the grand jury, there was not much Updike or anyone in Bedford County could do about bringing the case to a speedy conclusion. Both Jens and Elizabeth first had to answer for the fraud in Britain. And then there were the complicated extradition hurdles to be cleared. These would be made even more difficult because of Jens’s governmental connections and the breadth of legal representation available to him.
For Ricky Gardner, who had lived, eaten, and breathed details of the Haysom murders for fourteen months, the long fight was all but over. For Jim Updike it was just beginning. His struggle to bring the two former lovers into court would drag on for three times as long as the original investigation.
Even if he had known what an arduous task it was going to be, Updike would have plunged ahead anyway. He may speak slowly, softly and courteously with a pronounced
drawl, but buried in that county boy persona is a sharp legal mind and a sense of determination that would make Margaret Thatcher look wishy-washy.
drawl, but buried in that county boy persona is a sharp legal mind and a sense of determination that would make Margaret Thatcher look wishy-washy.
JAMES WILSON UPDIKE, JR.’S FAMILY HAS BEEN IN VIRGINIA for generations, possibly as long as Elizabeth’s. While her ancestors, however, were in the upper social strata, Updike’s were firmly in the middle; mostly they were farmers and construction workers. His father was an electrician, and his mother managed a grocery store.
When he was a teenager, the family lived in Pittsburgh for two years. Before then, in high school in Bedford, Updike played keyboard in a band. The drummer in the group was Chuck Reid.
Updike, who began by playing his grandmother’s organ when he was ten, was seriously interested in music. When he was a senior in high school, he auditioned for the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music but was not accepted. A year later he was told there would be a spot for him at the Conservatory as a music theory major, but by then he had already decided on law.
After two years at the University of Cincinnati, Updike transferred to UVA and was graduated “with distinction” in 1975 with a major in English. The next fall, he was accepted into the law school at William and Mary. During his law school summers he clerked for the prosecutor in Roanoke County. After he graduated, he was offered a job with the commonwealth attorney in Bedford County.
As recently as the late 1970s, Bedford was such a sleepy county that the prosecutor spent more time on his private practice than he did working for the government. With population growth and a concomitant increase in crime, however, that began to change. In 1980, when Updike was twenty-four and only two years out of law school, the board of supervisors decided to make the commonwealth attorney’s job a full-time one. Since the man who held the title was too entwined in his private practice to seriously consider switching to a county job, he resigned and recommended
his assistant as his successor. Updike took the job on an acting basis until an election could be held. He won that in a snap, just as he has won reelection every four years since then, always without opposition. When he and Gardner went to London in June 1986, he had been a prosecutor for six years but had never tried a capital murder case. In the next year, though, he tried two and won them both.
his assistant as his successor. Updike took the job on an acting basis until an election could be held. He won that in a snap, just as he has won reelection every four years since then, always without opposition. When he and Gardner went to London in June 1986, he had been a prosecutor for six years but had never tried a capital murder case. In the next year, though, he tried two and won them both.
A slim man of medium height with thinning blond hair, blue eyes, and a ginger-colored Fu Manchu mustache, Updike faintly resembles Robert Redford. Put astride a horse, he could be a Marlboro Man, except he prefers Merits and he has a curious attachment to small, dark cigars, which he keeps in a brass container large enough to serve as a beer cooler. With the cigar box within reach to his left and a bright red thermos filled with strong coffee to his right, Updike feels he can get through almost any crisis.
His office on the second (and top) floor of the county courthouse is both large and spartan, with the latter accentuating the former. The furniture is strictly government issue: a battered wooden desk probably taken from another bureaucrat’s office when he died or retired, two institutional-style visitors’ chairs covered in green plastic, an ashtray on a pedestal, a formica sideboard and a second, smaller desk. Wall decorations consist of the traditional diplomas, citations, and plaques. The floor is cracked linoleum the color of milk chocolate, marked here and there with cigarette burns and stains from mysterious liquids, perhaps Updike’s corrosive coffee. The office, like its occupant, is plain and unpretentious.
He is non-assuming enough to dress in off-the-rack suits, short-sleeve shirts, conservative ties, and scuffed white bucks, but vain enough to wear contact lenses rather than spectacles. He has a quiet sense of humor and likes to tell self-deprecating stories. One of his favorites is about his trip to London and how he was never able to master the British currency system. “There was a cigarette stand I used to go to, and whenever I did, I always went through the same routine. Since I never could figure out the money, I’d just
point to a pack of cigarettes and hold out my hand which was full of coins. The attendant would take a few out, put a few back, and I’d go on my way. I never did know how much I was paying for them, but it didn’t matter. I had my cigarettes, and I was happy.”
point to a pack of cigarettes and hold out my hand which was full of coins. The attendant would take a few out, put a few back, and I’d go on my way. I never did know how much I was paying for them, but it didn’t matter. I had my cigarettes, and I was happy.”
Another story he likes to tell is how he and Jens Soering celebrate the same birthday: August 1.
THAT IS ANOTHER OF THE SMALL IRONIES OF THE CASE, one of the few things he can chuckle about in what otherwise has been a grim, numbing experience. For Updike the prosecution of Elizabeth Haysom and Jens Soering was to become an all-absorbing passion; since April 1985, the case has never been out of his thoughts. This had changed him considerably, his wife, Marilyn, said, turned him from a gregarious, fun-loving spouse, who enjoyed his evenings and weekends away from the office, to a man obsessed with bringing the two of them to trial.
When Elizabeth and Jens were arrested in England, Updike had no interest in or knowledge of international law. His world consisted virtually exclusively of Bedford County and Bedford City, an orderly community of six thousand people with shady streets and magnificent old houses built on gently rolling hills in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains, a town of neat, spotless streets lined with stately homes and ancient hardwoods, of old churches, new schools, friendly people, good neighbors. The power politics of the British Parliament and the Council of Europe were as far removed from Updike’s world before 1986 world as it was possible to be.
He proved to be a quick learner, but while he was immersing himself in the intricacies of extradition, the case was proceeding at its own pace on the other side of the Atlantic.
IN THE OLD DAYS, THERE WAS ONLY ONE FORM OF “RECREATIONAL” exercise in Her Majesty’s prisons: walking. It was compulsory. Every prison had an oval, like a miniature horse-racing track, where on certain days large numbers of prisoners would be taken. Masked and chained together, they would be marched around the oval in opposite directions, one group going clockwise, the other counter-clockwise. Typically, the space inside the oval was filled with mulberry bushes. This exercise regimen was the origin of what later would become a children’s game, an activity in which tiny tykes formed two groups, joined hands and raced in opposite directions in a circle chanting, “Here we go ’round the mulberry bush …”
British prisons still have exercise ovals. And the guards in the prisons are still called
screws.
The derogatory nickname came about because they controlled a piece of machinery called a
crank,
which was dreamed up by someone concerned that prisoners had too much idle time. It consisted of a gearbox on a pedestal with a protruding handle or crank. Each prisoner had to turn the crank ten thousand times a day. If the guard wanted to make it tougher for them, he could increase the resistance against the handle by tightening a screw on the back of the box.
screws.
The derogatory nickname came about because they controlled a piece of machinery called a
crank,
which was dreamed up by someone concerned that prisoners had too much idle time. It consisted of a gearbox on a pedestal with a protruding handle or crank. Each prisoner had to turn the crank ten thousand times a day. If the guard wanted to make it tougher for them, he could increase the resistance against the handle by tightening a screw on the back of the box.
AFTER THEIR JUNE 9 REMAND HEARING IN THE RICHMOND magistrate’s court, Jens and Elizabeth were split up to await legal developments. They faced check fraud charges in England, and Updike was anxious to get them back to Virginia to stand trial for Derek’s and Nancy’s murders. Also, Beever and Wright were still working to see if they could
develop drug or IRA connections, both of which they still considered possible.
develop drug or IRA connections, both of which they still considered possible.
In the meantime Elizabeth was sent to the newly built Prison, a structure completed only in 1985. It was, all things considered, not a bad place to be. Built on the same site as the original prison, which is well out of tourist London to the North, almost in Camden Town, the new Holloway consists of a series of rambling, modern, brick buildings set in the middle of a quasiresidential neighborhood. It has an indoor swimming pool, a gymnasium, and spacious exercise yards as well as the traditional oval. There is a color TV on every floor, and, in addition to three meals a day, every afternoon at four o’clock the 350 inmates take tea.
Upon arrival, Elizabeth was assigned to a private cell on an upper level in D Block, one of four such facilities that radiate outward from the central structure. It was comfortable by prison standards: large enough to hold a steelframed bed, a small desk, a metal clothes locker, and a lavatory. In an alcove off in a corner was a private toilet. Elizabeth’s most prized piece of furniture, of course, was the desk. Sitting in her cell, Elizabeth scribbled and scratched, filling page after page with notes, explanations, and excuses.
JENS WAS NOT AS LUCKY IN HIS PRISON ASSIGNMENT. IT IS apparently one of the vagaries of the British prison system that male prisoners are moved more frequently than women. At least Jens was. While Elizabeth went straight to Holloway, Jens was moved about from prison to prison for several months before he finally settled at Her Majesty’s Prison at Brixton, a once-fashionable suburb south of London.
Built in 1819 as a county house of correction, it was designed loosely to resemble a “model prison” that had recently been completed at Milbank. In 1852 the county sold the facility to the national government. The plans at that time were to use it to house the mentally ill, but that never came about, and the facility was put on the auction block. An architect named Sir William Tite bought it for £8,400, intending to demolish it and sell the material. Before he
could do that, however, the government bought it back to use as a woman’s prison. Tite made a nifty 50 percent profit on the deal.
could do that, however, the government bought it back to use as a woman’s prison. Tite made a nifty 50 percent profit on the deal.
It served that purpose from 1853 until 1892, when the original Holloway was built. When the women were transferred, Brixton was converted to a military prison. Then, around the turn of the century, it was enlarged and converted to
the
trial and remand prison for the London area. That’s what it still is today, with most of its 1,000 or so male prisoners being held there only temporarily.
the
trial and remand prison for the London area. That’s what it still is today, with most of its 1,000 or so male prisoners being held there only temporarily.
Temporary
, however, is a broad term. Jens Soering became one of the “temporary” prisoners.
, however, is a broad term. Jens Soering became one of the “temporary” prisoners.
Brixton Prison has a central building constructed in a polygonal shape, originally so the chief administrator, called a
warden
in the United States and a
governor
in Britain, could walk around inside and look out in all directions to make sure the prisoners were working. The cellblocks where the prisoners lived were built in a semicircle around the main building. The original cellblocks at Brixton, which are still in use, are two-story affairs containing a total of 149 single cells and twelve double cells. By modern standards, these are cubicles. Each single cell is only 369 cubic feet, which translates into a space large enough for a prisoner to stand up and lie down and wide enough for him to stretch his arms from wall to wall. But barely. By contrast, death row cells at the Mecklenberg Correctional Center, Virginia’s maximum security institution, are ten feet long and seven and a half feet wide.
warden
in the United States and a
governor
in Britain, could walk around inside and look out in all directions to make sure the prisoners were working. The cellblocks where the prisoners lived were built in a semicircle around the main building. The original cellblocks at Brixton, which are still in use, are two-story affairs containing a total of 149 single cells and twelve double cells. By modern standards, these are cubicles. Each single cell is only 369 cubic feet, which translates into a space large enough for a prisoner to stand up and lie down and wide enough for him to stretch his arms from wall to wall. But barely. By contrast, death row cells at the Mecklenberg Correctional Center, Virginia’s maximum security institution, are ten feet long and seven and a half feet wide.
Jens was assigned to one of Brixton’s original cells. As a Category A, or high security, prisoner he was shuffled into a suffocatingly small cubicle with a tiny window that provided some light but not much in the way of a view. Since the prison predated modern sanitary facilities, there was no indoor plumbing in Brixton cells when the facility was built. There still isn’t. If Jens has to answer the call of nature between lockdown time in the evening, about eight o‘clock, until the next morning, again about eight o’clock, there is only a slop jar. And if he wants to wash, he has to use a
pitcher and bowl. He can use the exercise oval or other facilities, but Jens was never the athletic type. Because of the lack of activity and the starchy prison food that comes four times a day—the usual three meals plus tea (and a pint of ale a day if he wanted it)—Jens rapidly gained weight. When he was arrested in Richmond in June 1986, he weighed about 145 pounds, which he carried well on his five-foot-eight frame. But in no time at all, on prison fare, he ballooned to 180. He became a German dumpling, pale and soft and vulnerable looking.
pitcher and bowl. He can use the exercise oval or other facilities, but Jens was never the athletic type. Because of the lack of activity and the starchy prison food that comes four times a day—the usual three meals plus tea (and a pint of ale a day if he wanted it)—Jens rapidly gained weight. When he was arrested in Richmond in June 1986, he weighed about 145 pounds, which he carried well on his five-foot-eight frame. But in no time at all, on prison fare, he ballooned to 180. He became a German dumpling, pale and soft and vulnerable looking.
But his physical condition had nothing to do with his mind. Like Elizabeth, he is a prodigious letter writer. Together, their demand for writing paper is such that something like an entire forest has probably been decimated to cater to their needs.
The volume of material they exchanged just among themselves is impressive. Add family, friends, and lawyers to the list, and the amount of correspondence flying back and forth is really stupendous. The only way to have kept up with it accurately would have been with a computer. Unfortunately, there was no computer, so the details about who wrote what to whom and when are a little fuzzy. Letters were lost, destroyed, stolen—whatever. But one thing is certain. As time went on, their relationship quickly unraveled. It was not strong enough to survive the strains and pressures of separation, imprisonment, and the conflicts inherent in preparing their cases for trial. They were backed into opposite corners, and their positions would become increasingly adversarial as the days and weeks flew by.
Occasionally they saw each other, such as at joint court appearances or when they met together with the lawyer handling the fraud case. But it was not enough. They began arguing and exchanging accusations. Keeping track of what was said at those sessions is even more confusing than trying to piece together the history of the correspondence. Each had his or her own version of what the other said, suggested, or proposed. Rarely did these versions correspond. Still, the
pattern quickly becomes clear: Elizabeth’s and Jens’s great love was falling apart by the day.
pattern quickly becomes clear: Elizabeth’s and Jens’s great love was falling apart by the day.
Basically, the problem was that each had totally different ideas about what they should do next. Elizabeth, burdened with guilt, wanted to go back to the United States and be punished. The harsher the punishment, the better it would be. She had adopted a martyr complex: She acted as if she wanted to scream
mea culpa
on prime time and put it on page one of the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post.
mea culpa
on prime time and put it on page one of the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post.
On the other hand, the United States was the very last place Jens wanted to go. The thought of being electrocuted gave him nightmares even in the daytime. All of Elizabeth’s instincts said “surrender”; all of Jens’s said “fight”—fight at all costs either to stay in Britain or be extradited to Germany, neither of which had a death penalty.
Jens started laying the groundwork for this strategy barely a month after their weekend in the Richmond police station. He began his campaign subtly, mentioning matter-of-factly in his letters to Elizabeth that he thought he would be tried in a German court, where, he figured, he probably would get a six-year sentence. That wouldn’t be hard to serve, he added, because German prisons are very “cushy.”
A couple of weeks later, though, he realized that he could be in for a fight. In a communication to Elizabeth he asked her to contact everyone she knew who might have influence. He hinted at another time that his parents were willing to back him all the way.
After his arrest, Jens’s parents were very supportive. Elizabeth’s family, on the other hand, ignored her. Except for a few letters to a maternal uncle in California, she was without contact with her siblings.
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