Small Sacrifices (32 page)

cars from Texas always being white. [To match their license plates.]"

w,, The Inmans didn't see passengers in the car, and it was too

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dark to see the driver. The two-car, accidental caravan inched along for a few minutes. The road was too curvy for Inman to risk passing the slow-moving red car. When they came to a straight stretch, he'd pulled ahead and left it behind.

There were no other cars driving or parked along Old Mohawk, and he'd seen no one walking along the road. But he was

definite about the car, its color, the Arizona license plates, and his family could bear him out. Roy Pond was puzzled. The Inman family had seen a car exactly like the Downs car barely moving along the road—immediately after the shooting had occurred. But they hadn't noticed anything peculiar about it.

Pond took Joe Inman back out to Mohawk Road so that he

could determine exactly where he had seen Diane's red Nissan. The encounter had taken place eight tenths of a mile west of the probable shooting site (where the casings were found) and Inman had followed the red car for about two minutes.

And yet, none of the Inmans had heard a cry for help, or a horn honking, or screams. Only the red Pulsar slowed to the pace of a turtle, inching toward Springfield.

Pond's statement from Joe Inman was the first eyewitness account Fred Hugi had heard. And it tainted Diane's version even more.

Diane had declared that she'd raced to the hospital with her bleeding babies, driving as fast as she dared to get them there alive. ". . .and I just kept going . . . kept going ..." Deputies painted two white lines across Old Mohawk: one still marks where Joe Inman first spotted the red car, the other where he pulled ahead and passed.

The darkened red car had been silent. For two full minutes, Inman was behind it—with his windows open. He would have heard a cry for help. No one called out. Not the driver. Certainly not the passengers.

i Diane might not have known there was a car behind her—

I never noticed it as it passed. She was concentrating on sights and sounds inside her car.

'This whole thing was started because the detective pestered my children. I won't have them treated that

way. Let her [Christie] heal! She may be the only

person that's ever going to exonerate me . . . If I had shot my own children, I would have done a good job

of it. I would have waited 'til they died and then cried crocodile tears . . .)>

--Diane Downs, press

conference, June, 1983

Diane was eminently accessible to the media. She held official press conferences often, castigating the DAs and the Sheriffs Offices. A month after the shooting the cops were coldly angry,

some even suggesting that Fred Hugi be removed from the case. No way. He wasn't ready to file charges yet, much as he

wanted to. The probe was moving along, even if it sometimes seemed to be sliding backward. Beyond circumstantial evidence that pointed to Diane and virtually eliminated any other suspect, there was Joseph Inman's statement now, and there was some physical evidence: the tool marks on the cartridges and Jim Pex's

discovery that high velocity blood spray misted the exterior of the passenger door's rocker panel. But the physical evidence was so esoteric, perhaps more than a lay jury could fathom.

[ Small discrepancies continued to pop up. Diane told Doug I Welch and Dick Tracy that Christie stared at her out the rear win'dow

of the Datsun, beseeching her mother with her eyes to save her. Paul Alton pointed out that it had been pitch dark outside the

Icar, and the dome light was on inside the car. Christie could not have seen anything but blackness out the window. She could not have seen her mother--unless her mother was inside the car. Fred Hugi believed that Diane had indeed seen that look on Christie's face, because Christie was terrified--horrified--to see the gun in her mother's hand. The expression on Christie's features had not been "Mommy, why is he doing this to me?" The expression must have said, "Mommy, why are you doing this to r\f f

me?

He figured Diane couldn't erase the memory entirely, but she could incorporate it into her story of a helpless mother, impotent at the hands of a gun-wielding stranger.

The bloody beach towel meant something too but, so far, the criminalists and detectives weren't sure what. They folded it and refolded it, but they couldn't break the code that had to be there spelled out in blood.

Hugi kept thinking that today--or tomorrow--or the day

after--the .22 semi-automatic Ruger would turn up.

It was common knowledge that Diane was the prime suspect. The media said it out loud, printed it on the front page. Rumor said she had done it for her lover. Some believed the rumors; more did not. The dichotomy of opinion would continue for a very long time.

The Eugene Register-Guard featured a huge color picture of Diane and her father in profile, the same intense expression on their faces as they sat together in Wes and Willadene's living room. Diane wore her usual modest blouse, white eyelet with a bertha collar and ruffles. So pale, without make-up, her left arm encased to the armpit in surgical dressing, she turned angrily toward both still and television cameras: "I will not confess to something I did not do. There's no evidence. I didn't do it and there can't be any evidence if you didn't do something." Questions were called out from the press corps and Diane fielded them confidently.

"Why did you go out so late? Why did you stop for a stranger?"

"We never went out 'til nine. We enjoy sightseeing and ^ploring, even at night. That's just us. They can't change us. I ^s raised not to fear people like that. If I didn't stop, I'd be responsible for someone on the side of the road dying, if there had "een an accident. I had no idea he'd harm my children."

276 ANN RULE

"Why were you only shot in the arm?"

"Thank God that's all. If he'd got me in the stomach, we all would have died."

A reporter asked a question about the "man" she had lost the possibility that he might have been a motive in the shooting. Diane smiled with faint condescension. "That's like taking the first sentence in a book and saying that's the whole book. I know the man will never come back. He doesn't like trouble and death is the worst trouble there is."

In Arizona, Steve Downs answered reporter's questions carefully.

"There's no need for me to put my judgment on her. If she's guilty, they're going to find out. There's no need for me to crucify anybody."

Christie Downs was still in the McKenzie-Willamette Hospital, visited every day still by her mother. But Christie had strong support from Paula Krogdahl.

The most important thing was to protect the surviving

children--their minds as well as their bodies. Hugi would not consider questioning Christie until he was sure it wouldn't damage her. Was it too soon for Paula to ask her some careful

questions? Danny, buffered by his youth, was more open--and he always related his injuries to his mother. His nurses were sure he

knew the truth. But he confabulated: "I can't stand up--My mommy ran over me with the car."

They would have to question Christie.

On June 16, Paula, Bill Furtick (appointed by the court as Christie's attorney), Candi McKay (Christie's nurse), and Deputy Jack Gard gathered in Christie's room at 11:00 a.m.

How to start? Paula knew she couldn't just jump into the bitterest questions.

"Christie," she said. "I want to talk to you about--about a jigsaw puzzle. I know you were hurt, honey--but I need to know how you got hurt--if you can tell me."

Christie murmured "... nothing." That was her way of saying that she couldn't remember.

"What color was your car, Christie?"

Christie pointed to Paula's skirt. Red.

That was hopeful. Christie remembered the red car, and the Nissan had been only a few months old when the shooting occurred. She hadn't blocked out all the memory for that period.

"Were you going to see someone that night?"

"Yes."

"Was it a man or a woman?"

Christie was silent.

And then, more slowly, Paula asked, "A man?"

"No."

"A woman?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

". . . hard . . ."

"OK. I'll say some names. You tell me if I say the right one. Sue . . . Mary . . . Linda . . . Laurie . . . Heather—"

"Yes."

"Did you ever go there before?"

Christie shook her head. No.

"Was it dark outside?"

"Yes."

"Was it past your bedtime?"

"Yes."

"Were you sleeping before you went to Heather's?"

"No."

•"Did the ride to Heather's take very long?"

". . . longtime."

Paula asked Christie to try to remember what happened on the visit to Heather Plourd's house. Christie indicated that they'd seen a horse. She remembered the horse. She didn't remember going into Heather's house.

"Did you see anyone there besides Heather?"

"No."

"What happened after you saw the horse?"

Christie's face changed. She was frightened.

Paula Krogdahl changed tack. She asked about the "hurts" to Christie's family.

"Were all the hurts the same?"

"No. Mom . . . different ..."

"How?"

Christie shook her head in frustration; she couldn't find the words to explain how Diane's injuries were different.

"Remember when you lived in Arizona?" '"*

^Yes."

•"Were you ever afraid of anything when you lived there?"

"Yes."

What?"

218 ANN RULE

"Two . . . choked ... in the hospital . . . choked." Christie was remembering a time when she was two, when

she had a sore throat--crouplike--and couldn't breathe.

Paula asked her if other things had frightened her.

Christie gestured that other things had scared her sometimes in Arizona.

"What, Christie?"

"I'm not telling ..."

"Did Mom ever hit you, Christie?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

Christie raised her good arm and touched her face.

"Why?"

"It was me--my fault."

"Did Mom ever hit Danny?"

Christie showed Paula on a doll that Diane had spanked

Danny.

"Did Mom ever hit Cheryl?"

Christie indicated that Cheryl had been slapped in the face.

"Did that happen that very often?"

"Lots."

But when Paula asked Christie if she liked to live with her mom, there was no answer. Paula sensed that Christie Downs harbored some terrible guilt that she was in some way responsible for the tragedy that had wrenched her family apart. Just as children often take personal responsibility for their parents' divorce, a catastrophe of this proportion almost certainly had left Christie wondering, "Was it my fault?"

"Do you think that bad things happened to you because you were bad?" Paula asked Christie softly.

The room was quiet. No one seemed to breathe. Finally,

Christie nodded slowly.

"Christie, you're not bad. You're not bad at all. You're good," Paula soothed. "Sometimes bad things just happen and little kids can't help it."

Asked if she feared her mother, Christie said, "Sometimes," and then, quickly, "No."

Christie answered yes, her mother had guns--two of them. They didn't look the same. One was long (she extended her arm to show this) and one was short. Christie could talk so little that

she needed her good left arm to communicate.

She tried to draw a picture of the shorter gun on art paper.

"Have you seen Mom carry the gun?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

Christie drew a picture of a car.

"Did Mom shoot the gun?"

"Lots."

"Where?"

Christie drew a picture of a target and indicated Arizona on the map.

"Was the gun kept inside of anything?"

Christie nodded. But she could not find the word. Paula

asked her if it was closed by something you find on clothes. Christie nodded, and Paula pointed to a button, a snap, and finally a zipper. Christie nodded again. Now Christie drew a picture of a pouch for a gun with a zipper.

"Christie, did you see the gun in the red car in Oregon?"

"Yes."

"Did you see them the night you went to see Heather?"

"Yes."

"Which gun?"

"Both." " "Where?"

Christie indicated the trunk of the car.

"Who put them there?"

"Mom."

Paula hated asking these questions, but she had to go a little further. Painstakingly, because Christie was so hampered verbally, Paula phrased questions carefully to the child to answer. The guns were sometimes kept in the front seat area, but Mom had put them in the trunk that night.

Paula drew a picture of the red Nissan Pulsar. "Is this where the bad thing happened?"

"Yes."

Paula drew a line from the trunk area of the car to the front door areas. "Is this what happened?"

"I think--I think, Mom."

"Did anyone tell you not to tell, Christie?"

^'. . . Mom."

"Was there anyone there that night that you didn't know?"

"No."

'Was there a man there you didn't know?"

220 ANN RULE

Christie shook her head.

"Was there a lady there you didn't know?"

Christie shook her head.

"Was it just your family there?"

Christie nodded.

"Is there anything missing from the picture?"

Christie shook her head.

"Was anyone crying in the car?"

"No."

"Was Mom crying?"

"No . . . yes."

"Were Danny and Cheryl crying?"

"No."

"Why wasn't Cheryl crying?"

". . . dead."

Paula Krogdahl didn't want to ask the next question. But she had to. "Do you know who was shooting, Christie?"

"I don't know ... I think—"

Christie stopped talking.

"Who do you think, Christie?" Paula said softly.