Doc: The Rape of the Town of Lovell (61 page)

Linda Story of her father's "love and concern" and the quality time he spent with his family. "I have never even heard him raise his voice to any of us," the younger daughter said. She was certain of his innocence "because I know his character, his stability, his dedication to God, and his principle. And I would think that placing him among murderers and thieves just makes no sense at all."

The University of Maryland graduate student suggested that the Court sentence her father to Ethiopia, "where he might take care of the people that are suffering and dying." Like her grandmother, she showed no false humility and no deference to the judge's robes. She looked straight at Hartman and said, "To deny him his quality of life and to deny he and my mother their later years together greatly compounds the injustice that has been done to him by this court."

Susan Story, a registered nurse from Fort Collins, Colorado, defended her father in a torrent of words: "I just can't stand the thought of him being treated like a criminal when he is the most wonderful man. ... A wonderful doctor. ... A rare doctor. . . . Not many doctors showed respect for individual persons the way he does. So medicine is very important to him, but it is not his whole life. . . ."

Aarestad asked, "Do you feel that he poses in any way, shape, or form any type of a safety risk to society?"

"Are you kidding?" the older daughter said. The answer brought a laugh from the spectators.

Marilyn Story testified that women had always been envious of her because her husband was "the most gentlemanly, courteous, considerate man that I have ever known, and many other wives have even made that comment that they wish that their husbands would be so kind to women." She swallowed hard as she spoke of "those false accusations [that] have totally ruined our lives."

Her husband would never hurt anyone, she testified. "He never has. He deserves to be out with us. He has already—he is the victim. ... He is our counselor and our guide for us, for me and my daughters." She dabbed at a tear as she concluded, "I just can't bear the thought of him being away from us any longer."

In a final plea for leniency, Aarestad stressed that he was personally convinced of his client's innocence. Like the others, he didn't hesitate to attack the court and the judicial process. "We believe that the injustices that have been perpetrated to date are great enough without compounding them at this point. We believe this case cries out for justice, and we believe the case is far from over, and we believe that a day of vindication will come."

He brought dismayed groans when he informed the judge that Dr. Story had voluntarily turned in his medical license "in order to prevent any concern that he would return to an environment under which these allegations occurred." Without the license, the lawyer argued, there was no evidence that his client posed a threat to society. "And he has removed himself from that environment just to eliminate any confusion whatsoever on that issue."

He asked for a suspended sentence or release on bail.

Judge Hartman thanked the North Dakota lawyer and turned toward the defendant. "John Story," he said as a hush fell over the courtroom, "do you have anything that you would like to say to the Court prior to passing sentence in this case?"

Clothes rustled as the spectators leaned forward. Story made no effort to stand. He said, "I think not."

The judge said, "Is there any reason why sentence should not be pronounced at this time?"

"I am aware of none," Story said.

"John Story, would you stand, please?"

The judge acknowledged that he'd read over a hundred letters and petitions, "and I must say that the overwhelming number of letters that I did receive, of course, were in your favor." He confirmed that he'd looked into the possibility of probation. At the mention erf the magic word, hopeful sighs arose from the crowd like vapor.

The judge went on. "I also considered, among other things, your age, your intelligence, your training, your background, your lack of criminal record, your present attitude. I have also considered the number of lives that you must have saved in Lovell, the many calls that a physician is called upon to make at all hours of the day, the number of persons that you have healed and those that you have treated, and for those persons that you have been both a counselor and a confidant for. I have also considered the tremendous amount of training that you have received and your God-gifted talent for being able to heal the sick and care for those who are in need of your services."

As he spoke, the courtroom mood seemed to lighten. The Story family, seated side by side in a single row, stared intently at the judge, but their truculent air had changed to mild expressions of hope. Why would the judge spend so much time in praise of the man he was about to sentence? Did it mean . . . could it possibly mean . . .
probationl

The judge's tone darkened. He spoke of "the seriousness of these crimes" and noted that the possible penalty on two of the counts was life imprisonment. He mentioned the "vulnerability of the victims . . . the psychological and emotional havoc that you have visited." He said he was certain that "the scars that you so inflicted cannot measure, by any stretch of the imagination, any type of sentence that I could impose." He admitted that he was distressed to have to impose a sentence "on a man of your abilities and with your training. It is a waste."

He paused for a sip. It was ten o'clock. For the first time all morning, not a cough or a whispered aside was heard from the spectators. They seemed cut in stone, faces tilted upward, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed to slits as though it would help them to hear.

The judge continued. "The Court notes that there has been no admission by you that any of those crimes have occurred. Also, the Court has taken into consideration the question of whether or not any incarceration would deter the general public from committing these types of crimes, or specific persons from committing these crimes.

"The Court has also considered the factor of incapacitation, whether you need to be separated from society. And finally, the Court has considered the question of retribution, that one who breaks the law must pay the penalty or receive his just deserves."

He picked up a sheaf of papers, then sentenced Story to six terms ranging from ten to fifteen years on the lesser charges and fifteen to twenty years on the rapes, all to run concurrently.

Story didn't react. A moan came from the front row as the judge intoned, "I will remand John Story to the sheriff of Big Horn County for transportation to the Wyoming State Penitentiary located in Rawlins, Wyoming."

This time there were no good-byes or hugs, no spitting on the bench, no imprecations. Marilyn Story glared at Terry Tharp and ground a fist into her palm. The other spectators milled about like survivors of a train wreck.

Deputies steered the prisoner toward the back door. Someone called out, "It's not over, Doc," and another said, "It's just the beginning." The steadiest sound was the crying.

Sergeant Judi Cashel decided she'd been putting too much stock in omens lately. On her way up from Casper, she'd flogged her new Fiero, a black one this time, to 70 mph, and been awarded a speeding ticket, an embarrassing blemish in the personnel jacket of a supervisor who often wrote tickets herself.

After that, she'd expected the worst. She was afraid that the judge would be snowed by Story's clean record and his prominence in the community and his Mr. Peepers persona, and let him walk. Which would be too bad, she'd said to herself, because it would mean more rapes. She knew enough about antisocial personalities to know that they didn't change.

She was happy with the verdict, but not happy enough to smile or laugh or otherwise exult in front of the upset audience. She felt strong compassion for the relatives and friends and supporters. At heart, she considered them decent people, no better or worse than the victims.

Standing in the well of the court, she saw two women sidling toward her. She recognized Janet Buttermore, the pastor's wife, and Rex Nebel's wife Cheryl. They stood just behind the rail and muttered, "Are you satisfied?" "You've ruined this wonderful man." "What an un-Christian person you are!"

Judi had no taste for a fight. Story was a manipulator, and he'd manipulated these good women just as he'd manipulated the others. "Look," she said softly, "the way you're acting now isn't very Christian, either. Why don't you just go home and sleep on it?"

They were still fussing at her as she picked up her purse and walked through the door to the back.

* * ♦

Even after the main players had left the stage, Terri Timmons couldn't stop shaking. The crowd's grip had loosened, but she still attracted stares and whispers. Nila Meeker, Wes Meeker's daughter, stared at her. In the far corner of the courtroom, three women held hands and looked sideways at her, then started praying aloud, as though her soul required immediate intervention.

As she teetered down the stairs with Loyd, Terri tried to collect her thoughts. Well, she thought, the sentence was fair. He deserves it. He put me through all those bad years; let him serve fifteen of his own. She wondered if the judge had read her letter. It made her feel good that his sentence had approximated her own formula.

In the lobby, the Reverend Buttermore approached. She disagreed with him about Story, but she'd been grateful for his public stand against violence. He spoke past her to Loyd: "It's not over yet. We've just begun to fight."

"Fight?" Loyd snapped. "The next time you see him, he'll probably be dead."

Buttermore turned away, and Terri heard him tell a newspaper reporter, "We're picking up more and more out-of-state support. I think this thing will get very big by the time it's all said and done."

Terri asked her husband, "What made you say he'd be dead?"

"I just blurted it out," Loyd said. "I was thinking that convicts don't like child molesters."

Child molesters.
Yes, she thought, that's exactly what he is. In spite of all the phony words of praise by his family, he's a plain ordinary sicko creepo child molester. O Lord, she said to herself, why has that always been Lovell's special problem?

When they went outside, she saw the supporters marching around on the grass, still clutching their placards. They seemed to have recovered their spirits. Apparently they were waiting for a final glimpse of their hero as he was walked to the jail next door. There were a few fierce looks.

Dave Wilcock came out to drive them home. As they headed for the parking area, Bev Moody called out, "Are you happy now?"

Wilcock whispered, "Ignore it!"

In the parking lot they passed an official Wyoming vehicle with an "S" license plate. Someone had run a nail along its side. They guessed it was Sironen's.

Terrill Tharp decided to wait in his office till the last of the supporters were gone. Passing the time, he opened a letter from a woman in Colorado. It said that she'd read about Dr. Story and wanted the authorities to know that her daughter had gone to him for a Girl Scout medical exam and been given a pelvic.

Tharp shook his head. Ever since the arrest of Halloween night, he'd been receiving phone calls and letters like this. He said to himself, Some conspiracy!

He leaned back in his polished wooden chair and thought how seldom it was that criminals paid their accounts in full. Crime was one of the last great bargains. Burglars committed fifty or sixty break-ins and went to jail for the one time they were caught. Arsonists, larcenists, child abusers, car prowlers, cattle thieves, bunco artists—hardly any of them got as much as they gave. Story was only the latest example.

He wondered how many victims were still keeping quiet, how many children Story had fathered, how many teenagers he'd deflowered, how many girls had been too embarrassed to go home and tell their parents that he'd complimented them on their "buds" and fondled them, how many skittish old ladies like Emma Lou Meeks and Julia Bradbury had fled his clinic and been ashamed to tell what he'd done to them till events had left them no choice.

It was a numbers puzzle, a game of educated guesses. Dave Wilcock guessed there were at least 150 victims. Judi Cashel estimated 200. Tharp remembered his first interview with Caroline Shotwell. He'd thought at the time that she was a prime candidate for the Burlington Liars Club. She'd said that she firmly believed that the rape doctor used his penis every day during his one thirty appointment, sometimes during his final appointment of the day around five or five thirty, and occasionally in evenings and off-hours. Mrs. Shotwell had estimated his victims at over a thousand,

SENTENCING

and told Tharp, "You can just stand outside our church on Sunday and you'll see very few LDS women who weren't victims."

Whatever the truth of the numbers game, the young prosecutor was convinced he'd put a fiend away. Now, he said to himself, if only we can keep him there.

87

PRESSURE

Rex Nebel relayed the first word from the imprisoned doctor. In a note published in the
Chronicle,
Nebel wrote, "Doc recently stated in a letter from 'the joint' as he calls it that it would be better to leave Lovell than stay here and hate these people. Doc stated that it is our job to love these even though we don't understand the reason why. . . . Doc continues in his love and concern as always; as our example, as the Holy Bible instructs!"