-Caveat Lector- An excerpt from: Loud and Clear Lake Headly and William Hoffman©1990 Henry Holt and Company 115 W. 18th St. New York, NY 10011 ISBN 0-8050-1138-2 272 pps — out-of-print/one edition --[1]-- Introduction THE BOMBING DOWNTOWN PHOENIX, ARIZONA. JUNE 2,1976.11:32 A.M. The big, forty-seven-year-old newspaper reporter with a resemblance to Clark Kent walks out of the front door of the Clarendon Hotel, turns right, and heads south on the narrow sidewalk toward the rear parking lot where he left his new Datsun thirty minutes earlier. Today holds pleasant promises; he isn't going to allow being stood up by a potential news source to spoil his plans. His mood is good, his step light. 11:33 A.M. He ignores the boiling desert sun, the heavy heat. Awaiting him this night are a rare quiet dinner out and taking in a movie with his wife, Rosalie, in celebration of their seventeenth wedding anniversary. They plan to see All the President's Men. A topnotch investigative journalist himself, he believes it will be fun (maddening, also) to watch what he expects to be Hollywood's trivial and inaccurate portrayal of his profession. 11:34A.M. He opens the car door and proudly slides inside. He has saved hard for this automobile (without the fame of a Woodward or a Bernstein, most investigative reporters spend a lifetime behind the wheels of secondhand clunkers). Surely he thinks of Rosalie, for the next time he speaks it is of her. He turns the ignition key and the Datsun starts immediately. He backs the car out one foot, a foot and a half. His world explodes in a giant orange fireball. "Telephone my wife. They finally got me. The Mafia. Emprise. Find John Adamson." These were the last words of Don Bolles, uttered to attorney Max Klass and others who rushed to his side after they heard the bomb go off. Klass had run by a "ball of flesh," part of the reporter, and found him lying facedown in the Clarendon Hotel parking lot, the remains of his burned, mangled body half-inside, half-outside his demolished Datsun. The tremendous explosion had shaken the ground with earthquake force, smashing windows hundreds of feet away, sending parts of the Datsun and pieces of Bolles atop a four-story building across six lanes of Central Avenue. The assassins, who had planted the explosive device underneath the car, directly below the driver's seat, must have calculated that six sticks of dynamite would blast a human body apart. They couldn't have dreamed that the reporter would live, much less be able to gasp three key words: Mafia. Emprise. Adamson. Bolles survived eleven days, but never spoke again. Doctors amputated his leg, an arm, the other leg, but the reporter clung to breath as tenaciously as he had pursued his investigative stories. When he finally died on June 13, his personal physician, Dr. William Dozer, said, "He put up the most courageous fight I have ever seen any person put up for his life." Friends closest to Don Bolles could have predicted it. Even his enemies—and he had many—didn't doubt his courage. For almost a decade and a half in Arizona, this devoted father of seven children had been a one-man crusade against organized crime and corrupt politicians, the two groups often working hand in hand; and this in a wide-open, gun-happy, let-the-sucker-beware state that more resembled the Old West than the new. He had exposed wrongs against Native Americans on the big Navajo reservation, atrocities committed against migrant workers in the Arizona citrus fields, and hoaxes perpetrated on retirees in fraudulent land schemes. Bolles joined the Arizona Republic in 1962, and just three years later was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, journalism's highest award, for a brilliant series of stories about political corruption. In 1974 his peers voted him Arizona Newsman of the Year. He was intelligent, persistent, and incorruptible. The Bolles family was known for such traits. His grandfather had been a progressive U.S. congressman from Wisconsin, his father a respected AP bureau chief, and his brother an Episcopal priest who wrote best-selling how-to books. Even Bolles's wife, Rosalie, showed uncommon courage.. Her support never wavered when the 1960s trickle of death threats against herself, her children, and her husband became a raging river in the mid1970s. For a short time after his death, it seemed that the politicians, at least, were trying to make it up to Don Bolles. Phoenix Mayor Margaret Hance proclaimed, "Don's fight for life was an inspiration to all of us. He lost his fight, but I pray that we will not forget him or what he was trying to do-create a decent, safe environment for all the citizens of Arizona." Governor Raul Castro ordered the flag flown at half mast, saying "My memories of Don Bolles as a personal friend, and his many contributions as an investigative reporter and a citizen, will remain bright. His death is a searing reminder of tasks which remain to be done. It is a tragedy that his zealous pursuit of justice resulted in his death. We are all poorer because of his death, the same as we are all better because of his unshakable commitment to justice." President Gerald Ford sent a telegram to Bolles's widow and seven children: Mrs. Ford and I and millions of citizens across the nation were deeply shocked by the senseless criminal violence that tragically deprived you of your husband and our free press of a prize-winning investigative reporter. Our thoughts are with you and your children as we pray that God will give you the courage to persevere through these difficult days. We hope that you and your family will find sustaining comfort in the knowledge that your husband dedicated his life to the search for truth and that the integrity he brought to his profession will endure as an inspiration for his colleagues for a long time to come. Your children can find reflected in their father's career the finest principles of our way of life to guide them through their formative years. They have been cruelly robbed of a devoted parent, but they also have been blessed by a memory that is truly worthy of being cherished and emulated. It is a memory that invokes qualities of personal character and civic responsibility which strengthen not just their lives but the life of our democratic society. Then the journalism establishment tried to make it up to Bolles with a pile of posthumous honors. He received the prestigious John Peter Zenger Award for "distinguished service in behalf of freedom of the press and the people's right to know." Customarily, four hundred editors and publishers from around the world vote on their choice for the Zenger, "but this year [1976]," the Arizona Republic reported, "there was no need for a ballot." And at first, when the search for his murderers began, it seemed that Arizona justice was also trying to make it up to him. just two and a half hours after Bolles died, the police picked up local hoodlum John Harvey Adamson and charged him with murder. Adamson had been mentioned in the reporter's dying words, and the prosecution quickly built an airtight case against him, including proof that he had lured Bolles to the Clarendon with the promise of an important story and personally planted the bomb under the reporter's car. But who had hired Adamson? In what would turn out to be a critically important decision, Jon Sellers, a police detective, granted immunity to a close associate of Adamson's, attorney Neal Roberts, in exchange for Roberts's theory of who masterminded the bombing. Lawyer Roberts, thoroughly immunized, fingered Phoenix building contractor Max Dunlap and one of Arizona's richest men, rancher Kemper Marley. The Arizona Republic, Bolles's own paper, featured the Roberts theory in a major story. Adamson waited seven months, then, in a plea bargain, named Max Dunlap and Kemper Marley as his accomplices, plus a local plumber, James Robison, who Adamson said had detonated the bomb. Based almost entirely on the testimony of confessed murderer John Adamson, Robison and Dunlap were indicted and, on November 6, 1977, convicted of first-degree murder. Subsequently both were sentenced to die in the Arizona gas chamber. Marley wasn't even indicted—"not enough evidence," said the prosecution. It appeared as if Arizona Justice had done its job. A book written by Martin Tallberg about the killing-Don Bolles, An Investigation into His Murder—was published in December 1977 and proclaimed: "It soon became clear ... that the real reason Adamson was willing to confess and turn state's evidence was the meticulously thorough and brilliant investigation conducted by the Phoenix police department." Which was where the matter stood when a group of Max Dunlap supporters-old, close friends frightened by the probability of his execution-asked me to take a look at the case. ===== 1 Discovery Almost twenty-nine months after the savage, deadly bombing of Don Bolles, I met with representatives of the Max Dunlap Committee for Justice. The November 21, 1978, conference had been arranged by my childhood pal George Vlassis and was held in his Phoenix law office, thus bringing together two graduates of the Goshen (Indiana) High School class of '48, George and me, with our counterparts from Phoenix North High School's class of the same year. Representing the Dunlap Committee were Dr. Ken Olsen, a psychologist, businessman Harold Bone, tire store owner John Sullivan, and attorney David Fraser. I had met Fraser the day before and been told he wanted to retain me to investigate the Bolles murder but needed approval from other committee leaders. The Dunlap Committee numbered some three hundred supporters, many from that class of '48, whose president, captain of the football team, and most popular student, Max Dunlap, awaited the gas chamber on Arizona's death row. As Al Martinez wrote in the Los Angeles Times, "Arizona has never seen an effort like this on behalf of one man, even during the 1960s when causes were popular and crowds formed quickly." Pillars of the Phoenix middle class, this "strange army"—that's what newspapers called them—didn't believe for an instant that Dunlap had had anything to do with killing Don Bolles. "Really good guy ... .. salt of the earth ... .. nicest person you'll ever meet." "I like him myself," admitted Jon Sellers, the chief police detective assigned to the homicide, "but he's guilty as hell." I had handled hundreds of defense investigations, but the Bolles case with its worldwide notoriety ranked was unique because Dunlap's friends had rallied to his side after the conviction. Usually supporters make a big noise before a trial and start fading away once the verdict goes against their man. None of the committee members had expected the jury to find Dunlap guilty of murder. This buddy of theirs, this family man, had to be innocent, the accusation a bizarre aberration, and justice would take its course. The first-degree murder verdict and subsequent death sentence came like a jug of ice water thrown in their faces. "Gentlemen," said David Fraser, "this is Lake Headley. He's a private investigator from Los Angeles and a lifelong friend of George Vlassis. I've talked to him about our needs in the Dunlap matter, and having seen his resume I believe he fills the bill. I think, for your own satisfaction, you should ask him questions." We sat in highback leather chairs around a large mahogany table. Vlassis, one of Arizona's best-known and most successful lawyers, owned the entire distinctive N-shaped building on West Thomas Road near Encanto Park. For fourteen years he had served as general counsel to the Navajo Nation. On display throughout his office were valuable Native American handcrafted dolls and rugs. "Lake," said John Sullivan, the tire store owner, "I've known Max Dunlap a long time. I love and respect Max and know in my heart he couldn't commit murder. Killing is diametrically opposed to his nature. My question is: How can you help?" "I'm not sure yet. But I know you need a thorough investigation that might unearth exculpatory new evidence to persuade an appeals court to grant a new trial. We're starting very late in the game, -and I don't even know the salient facts of the case yet. But I will." "I've been on top of everything since Max was charged," said the psychologist, Ken Olsen, his voice cracking with emotion. "All of us on the committee share a gut feeling that he had no part in this crime. But how can we prove it? How can you prove it?" "I don't know I can, but the procedure is simple enough. I'm going to learn the case inside-out, I need to meet Dunlap's lawyer, and Robison's, and—" "Robison? This is the Dunlap Committee. Don't we have enough problems just helping Max? You want to take on Robison?" "Dunlap and Robison were co-defendants. By helping one, you help the other." "I know Max is innocent. I'm not so sure about Robison." "The state hasn't been able to split them, and we shouldn't try. We'll need complete cooperation from both men, and their lawyers, to have any shot at success. I want to interview Robison, which will require his attorney's assistance. I can't imagine any conflict of interest, and I understand Max and Jim have become friends since the indictment. Learning the state charged them as co-conspirators, even though they never met until their joint arraignment, knocked my socks off." "Well then," said Harold Bone with a disgruntled chuckle, "prepare to pick cactus spines out of your bare feet because you'll lose all your socks walking through this case. There are a whole bunch of things that don't make sense." Shifting his weight in the chair, Bone said, "Mr. Headley, I think we'd like specifics on how you plan to start your investigation." "I'll go to Arizona State Prison to see both men and let them decide if they want my help. All the players in a criminal case are subject to substitution-committees, lawyers, the judge, the prosecutor-with one exception: the defendants. Dunlap and Robison have to want me. Once that's decided, I'll urge them to commission a joint investigation. Then—" "How will you get in? They're on death row. None of us have been allowed to visit." "I've interviewed numerous death row inmates. Unless Arizona law is different, I'll interview these. In the past, a letter from the attorneys saying I represent the defense got me through the gate." I tried to explain that my job involved pressuring the appeals court by getting favorable stories into print—assuming such existed—and if access couldn't be gained to the convicted men, I'd sound ludicrous to reporters. "'Those two guys are innocent,' I might declare. 'How do you know?' would be a legitimate query. 'You own a crystal ball?' 'I just know,' I could say, dodging. 'Ever talk to them?' a reporter surely would ask. 'Well, no, but . . .' " "The committee members," said David Fraser-, "still don't understand what you do, how you proceed." Dunlap's friends seemed to be thrashing about, not sure how to help Max, wondering if hiring an investigator was a good idea in the first place. I needed to be patient and compassionate, but not raise false hopes. "I can't say how I'll proceed. The facts will dictate my actions, but the first step is routine. I'll obtain the discovery material from the lawyers representing Dunlap and Robison." "What is discovery material?" someone asked. "Copies of all police reports supplied by the prosecution to the defense. I have to study them carefully." "I've seen the discovery," said the attorney, Fraser. "It's a mountain of paper." "Then it's a mountain I have to climb before I can intelligently discuss the case with anybody." "And then you'll visit Max and Jim?" "Correct." I sensed that my deliberate approach didn't thrill anyone. Understandably, committee members wanted Max Dunlap home with his family, today if possible. I didn't have the heart to tell them that statistically they faced horrendous odds. From my memory of cases this famous, I couldn't recall a single instance of conviction reversal. Fraser shook his head. "I've never heard of a private investigator visiting death row inmates. George," he said to Vlassis, "do you know of this happening in Arizona?" "No." "Anyway, if you see them, what will you do next?" I wasn't getting my message across. "I won't know until I talk with them." We discussed money. The committee agreed to pay me $2,500 a month, no expenses. Usually I charged $50 an hour, plus expenses, but this case was one I might have worked for nothing. The murder victim had been a particularly admirable individual, and if innocent people had indeed been convicted, that meant ... anyway, there were several national magazines I believed would contribute on the chance of obtaining an important story. Also, my good friend Vlassis had performed numerous favors for me, and I knew he wanted me to take on the investigation. The committee itself, at considerable expense (one woman had mortgaged her home for her friend Max), had already made major outlays, largely for ads in area newspapers to proclaim Dunlap's innocence. But not in the two biggest newspapers, the Arizona Republic and Phoenix Gazette. Both papers, jointly owned by the Pulliam family (whose current member of note is Vice President Dan Quayle), had refused to sell ad space to the committee. Don Bolles had been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize during his fourteen trail-blazing years on the Arizona Republic, and putting the best face I could on the Republic and Gazette positions, I had to assume that they thoroughly believed Robison and Dunlap guilty and didn't intend to do anything—even accept paid ads—to support an opposing view. I had run across similar problems in other cases. Sometimes they could be ironed out by reasoning with the publisher, explaining that the First Amendment guarantees of a free press shouldn't be limited to those wealthy enough to own a press. Other honest, righteous people can hold differing views and should have the right to be heard. As the meeting neared a close, emotions became heated. These law-abiding, solid citizens typical of modern suburbia, many of whom probably had never been committed to a cause before, had become zealots, crusaders with a mission. "Let me tell you about Max Dunlap," said Ken Olsen. "Outwardly he was a rugged kid, captain of the football team; but on the inside he was a sensitive, caring person. In the summertime when swarms of pesky June bugs bothered us, Max was the only guy who refused to kill them. He'd carefully brush them off, so we nicknamed him Juney. Why, Max wouldn't even swat a fly. That's the kind of gentle man the police say blew up Don Bolles." Everybody had a story. Harold Bone: "I've known Max most of my life. He's been a good friend to me, but more, to everyone in the community. I can't remember his ever refusing to lend a helping hand, and often unsolicited. When you meet him you'll see: he's incapable of committing this crime." John Sullivan: "I remember one year at the State Fair. A little girl had won the blue ribbon for her prize steer, but she was crying. Max asked her why. 'He's been bought,' she said. 'The new owners will slaughter him" 'It doesn't have to be that way,' Max told her. He topped the bid for the steer and gave it back to her." Later I learned from Dunlap's wife, Barbara, and their seven grown children more about what a soft touch Max was, always willing to respond to a hard-luck story. Or do someone a favor, like the one that landed him on death row. The next morning, November 22, 1978, 1 went to the office of John Savoy, Dunlap's local defense attorney and another class of '48 graduate. A member of the Phoenix establishment, tall and heavyset, Savoy dressed in western clothes that didn't disguise his linebacker build. During preliminary hearings Max had been represented by Savoy and the famed Percy Foreman, then in his seventies, but still capable of impressive alcohol consumption. At one hearing Foreman couldn't remember what city he was in. Attorney Paul Smith came in from Boston to replace him and joined Savoy in the trial defense. "Lake," said the lawyer, "I don't know how familiar you are with this case." "Not very, but I'm catching up. I met with the committee yesterday, and there's no doubt how they feel. What I need from you is the discovery." "I'll have my secretary photocopy it for you." "How about the defense investigation reports?" "There are none, as such. We had a few things looked into, but not much. The police did a very thorough investigation." My ears would tire from hearing of the police's "thorough" investigation. The deeper I dug, the more astounded I would become that anyone believed it. "I'll need a letter authorizing me as your investigator." "No problem. When do you want to visit Max?" "Tomorrow." "That soon? I doubt the authorities will allow it tomorrow. You see, Lake, the case is on appeal right now. After the Arizona Supreme Court denies the appeal, we then have access to the federal system. We can delay Max's execution for a long time, and who knows? Maybe Congress or the Supreme Court will outlaw capital punishment." His remarks didn't fill me with optimism. I considered the defense's meager investigations appalling and from experience suspected that the police inquiry fell far short of the super job Savoy described. Savoy's pessimism might have been warranted-no prisoner in Arizona history had ever walked off death row-but it nonetheless was discouraging to hear him refer to the state supreme court's confirmation of the guilty verdicts as a given. Were Robison and Dunlap so obviously culpable that they stood no chance? "Why do you expect a denial on the appeal?" "Arizona is a big place that harbors a clannish, small-state mentality. You'll soon get a bellyful of the unfriendly climate we face. The whole community was whipped up by the Arizona Republic, which exerted terrific pressure to get this murder out of the way. I doubt the state supreme court has the guts to overturn." Next I saw David Derickson, Robison's court-appointed lawyer, a savvy, street-smart barrister, the flip side of the conservative Savoy. Derickson, dapper, slender, handsome, shared two traits with Savoy: a penchant for western wear and pessimism about his client's future. "Jim says he didn't do it, and I halfway believe him," Derickson offered, "but the evidence was very strong." "I need your discovery material." "If Savoy's giving you his discovery, you'll have it all. But I'll be happy to write that authorization for you to visit Jim." "You conduct any defense investigation for Robison?" "We had a few things checked out. Mainly concerning his alibi for the time around the bombing." Derickson's respect and sympathy for his client impressed me, and I decided to lay it on the line. "Do you think Dunlap and Robison killed Don Bolles?" The lawyer took his time before answering. "No. In fact, I'd bet they didn't. But that doesn't mean we're going to win. I doubt we will. All the forces in this state are arrayed against Jim and Max. I said I don't think they're guilty; but if you ask me who is, I'll have to say I don't know. We'll probably never know." "The Dunlap Committee drew me a thumbnail sketch of Max, but Robison's a total blank. Tell me about him. What's he like?" "A helluva individual in no way resembling the monstrous brute described by the press. His biggest problem is his appearance, mainly a deep scar on his forehead that makes you think he lost an ax fight. Actually, he sustained the injury as a kid in a diving accident. The press called him Jimmy the Plumber, to convey a Mob connotation. Hell, he really is a plumber, a bluecollar guy who works with his hands." "How about schooling?" "Jim is totally self-educated. I'm not given to dishing out praise, but he has a brilliant mind, and he's the best-read individual I've met. Shortly after being appointed to represent him, I asked if he needed anything. He said, 'Some good books would be nice.' Then he grinned and added, 'This place isn't exactly a center for cultural enlightenment.' Well, that day I received four Book-of-the-Month Club selections. When I carried them over to the jail, he said, 'Thanks, but I've already read these.' Since then I've taken him scores of books, and he's usually read them, too." Late that night I sat in Room 217 of the Westward Ho Hotel with the discovery papers up over my head. I had rented a room in the spacious, marble-columned hostelry-where Calvin Coolidge spent part of his retirement-because of its proximity to courthouse, lawyers, library, and post office. Important finds in a complex murder case usually come after long, tedious digging, but right away I happened upon a double bonanza: the clear weakness of the police version of the murder, and evidence in the discovery material of a vast, largely untapped mother lode for the defense. First, the police theory. The name Adamson was one of the last words Bolles said after the bomb exploded beneath his Datsun. This referred to John Harvey Adamson, a.k.a. Cocaine John, local thug, arsonist, enforcer, con man, fixer—a walking-around definition of the word sleaze—who turned himself in to police on June 3, 1976, the day after the bombing, on an unrelated "defrauding an innkeeper" charge. He got released in two and a half hours on a hundred dollars bail, but when Bolles died after eleven days of excruciating pain and suffering, the police charged Adamson with first-degree murder, a crime punishable by death in the Arizona gas chamber. The prosecution quickly built an ironclad case against Adamson, but the police conveniently forgot Bolles's other two words: Emprise. Mafia. And Adamson couldn't have acted alone. Someone must have hired him. With much of the nation outraged by the murder of a fighting reporter, the police and prosecution were pressured to bring all principals to justice. To do so, they offered Adamson a lenient sentence, new identity, and a hundred thousand dollars, put up by the Arizona Republic, to name who helped him and/ or hired him. Ironically, this man who evidently planted the bomb under the reporter's car stood to collect a reward from the victim's employer for solving the case. Phoenix police detective Jon Sellers headed the murder investigation, and two days after Bolles's death Sellers found his scenario, one he would follow to the very end. In a critical and, I thought, outlandish move, Sellers, a police detective, gave immunity to an associate and close drinking buddy of Adamson, attorney Neal Roberts, in exchange for his "theory of the crime." Roberts's theory, promptly printed in the Arizona Republic, speculated that Max Dunlap, acting under orders from multimillionaire rancher Kemper Marley, hired Adamson to kill Bolles. Ever since Max Dunlap's high school days, he and the financially and politically powerful Marley had shared a father-son relationship, with the rich man providing advice and loans to further Dunlap's career. Marley's motive for wanting Bolles dead? Revenge—"rangeland justice" Neal Roberts called it-in retaliation for articles written by Bolles months before, which Roberts said cost Marley a post on the Arizona racing commission. While Adamson debated whether to accept the generous plea bargain offer and read in the Republic of his friend Neal Roberts's theory, Governor Raul Castro shifted responsibility for prosecution from the Maricopa County attorney's office to the Arizona attorney general, Bruce Babbitt-later governor of Arizona and a 1988 presidential candidate. Babbitt suggested a slightly different deal: Adamson would receive a sentence of 54 years, with parole guaranteed after 20, to be served outside Arizona; and immunity from 33 confessed felonies (punishment for which totaled $80,000 in fines and 325 years in prison, plus two separate life sentences and death in the gas chamber). Not to overdo it, Babbitt's offer did not include the $100,000 reward. Adamson readily accepted the new deal, agreeing to plead guilty to the Bolles murder and name his accomplices. He also agreed to testify "truthfully and completely at all times whether under oath or not." If he didn't speak truthfully and fully, the plea bargain read, the entire agreement became "null and void and the original charges automatically reinstated." On December 28, 1976, more than six months after his arrest, the con man finally gave the prosecution his story, and it fitted perfectly with Neal Roberts's "theory": contractor Max Dunlap, calling Kemper Marley "Mr. Smith" and acting as a gobetween for the crusty, colorful rancher, hired Adamson to kill Bolles; and James Robison, a plumber with electrical experience and an acquaintance of Adamson, built the bomb Adamson planted, then triggered the blast. Like almost every state in the United States, Arizona law required corroboration of accusations against a defendant. In this instance, however, the Arizona legislature expeditiously passed a special measure-to become known as the Adamson Act-which eliminated the need for corroboration and permitted the prosecution to obtain death sentences based solely on one man's testimony, that man being John Harvey Adamson. Putting aside my sense of wonder about Arizona justice, I couldn't imagine a weaker motive for murder than the one attributed to Kemper Marley. Would an individual contract a murder because of articles already published, a fait accompli? A far more likely motive would have been to stop a planned story. But there was a problem with this more logical line of reasoning: the Arizona Republic maintained Bolles had burned out, becoming a mere shell of his former dynamic self. So he had been taken off the investigative beat. Prior to his death he had been covering the rather staid proceedings of the state legislature. >From reading the discovery I gleaned glimpses of what had happened at the trial of Robison and Dunlap. Adamson, without whose testimony no case existed, had invoked a selective memory to shore up his testimony. "It may have been that way," he often said. Or, "I'm not saying it didn't happen like that, I'm just saying I don't remember." And when even selective memory failed him, Adamson simply took the Fifth Amendment. This netted him several contempt-of-court citations, but neither William Schafer III, the assistant attorney general and chief prosecutor, nor Jon Sellers professed much uneasiness with Adamson taking the Fifth, despite his broad immunity deal and his sworn agreement to testify "truthfully and fully" at all times. The second point that grabbed me as I read the discovery was the massive supply of defense ammunition stockpiled therein. What follows is a police report of June 5, 1976 (three days after the bombing, when Bolles still clung to life), written by Phoenix police detective G. Marcus Aurelius: On 6/5/76, at 1:30 A.M., investigator made telephone contact with Betty Funk Richardson through the Balboa Beach Club number. Mrs. Richardson identified herself as the ex-wife of a Bradley Funk, of the Funk-Jacobs-Emprise Corporation organization. She is presently married to a Bill Richardson and living with him at the Balboa Beach Club, Balboa, California. Emprise! The name itself was enough to rivet my eyes to the police report. It had come from Bolles's own lips, and he surely knew best who might want him dead. Mrs. Richardson advised having married Bradley Funk due to an unwanted pregnancy while Bradley Funk was a student at the University of Arizona, approximately 1960. She subsequently separated from him in 1961 and was subjected to continuous harassment and financial disregard by Bradley Funk. During this period she lived with her children in the Phoenix area, and due to the lack of financial support, she was required to exist on Welfare funding. During the course of years, she met and became friends with Don Bolles. What Aurelius wrote was unfolding like a true-crime thriller. First Emprise, now Bolles. Mrs. Richardson subsequently met and married Bill Richardson, her present husband. She has been separated and divorced from Bradley Funk approximately 14 years. Her children are described as being both afraid and totally indifferent to Bradley Funk, which is a source of irritation to him. Reportedly, on one occasion, he and David Funk attempted to have sexual relations with the daughters. She characterized Bradley Funk as an only child, spoiled, very demanding, vindictive and mean, especially when he does not obtain things he wants. She indicated having walked out on him, and because of her independence and the actions of the children, Bradley Funk has been especially mean and vindictive toward them. Don Bolles in the past has written newspaper articles concerning the Emprise Corporation which prompted Bradley Funk to make a statement in a news article, "We're going to have to get him off of our back"; reportedly a 1972 article. She advised Bradley Funk has expressed vengeance toward Don Bolles in the past and she believed it to have been prompted not only by the newspaper articles but also by the fact Don Bolles has appeared in various court trials on her behalf in opposition to Bradley Funk. d never heard of Bradley Funk prior to reading this police report, but the statement about getting Bolles "off of our back" merited scrutiny. If Robison and Dunlap were innocent, other people committed the crime, and although finding these persons didn't constitute my job—I'd been hired, after all, to prove the innocence of the convicted men—I'd be remiss if I overlooked other suspects. Detective Aurelius's report picked up speed: Mrs. Richardson advised of a pending 1.5-million-dollar lawsuit she has instigated against Bradley Funk for invasion of privacy and harassment. The lawsuit is presently being prepared by a Mr. Bill Stevens in Phoenix. Reportedly, Bradley Funk is not aware of the suit; however, a number of coincidences have occurred recently. Originally, she was utilizing an attorney by the name of Pulumbo in the Bill Stevens firm. He unexpectedly left the firm, with Bill Stevens taking over the lawsuit's preparation. On 5/10/76 she had telephone contact with Don Bolles during which time she mentioned the pending lawsuit. This information was in confidence and provided because of their close association. On 5/12/76 she received an anonymous phone call threatening her welfare, at the Balboa Beach Club residence phone. The caller was not identified. The information Betty Funk Richardson provided Detective Aurelius pointed to a stronger motive than the one attributed to Kemper Marley. Moreover, as soon as her attorney filed that lawsuit, with its allegations of harassment and sexual impropriety, it became a matter of public record-and Bolles could publish it. On 6/2/76 during the afternoon hours, Mrs. Richardson received a telephone call from her attorney, Bill Stevens. He inquired of her who in Phoenix did she mention the lawsuit to. She advised Stevens she had informed only Don Bolles. Stevens then asked, "Do you know what they did to him?" She responded "No," and he remarked, "They just blew up his car." This was her first indication Don Bolles had been injured. She advised having no knowledge as to the suspect's identity; however, she suggested investigators consider Bradley Funk as an instigator. She repeated her character description of Bradley Funk as being mean and vindictive; however, she offered her opinion that he had "blown a fuse" and should be in a mental institution. She believes Bradley Funk had become so insanely jealous and vindictive due to the indifference toward him of his daughters that it is quite possible for him to have privately engaged the services of a subject to harm Bolles. She described Bolles as being the only person, other than the lawyers, knowing of the pending lawsuit. She offers no suggestion how others may have learned of the lawsuit other than bugging the telephone of Don Bolles, or through Pulumbo. Wiretapping Bolles's telephone seemed extravagant. I was to learn, however, that the reporter's phone had been tapped before, and by none other than Bradley Funk. Mrs. Richardson explained not wanting to sound like a vindictive ex-wife; however, she advised being very familiar with the Funk family and of course Bradley Funk, and to what extremes they would go to obtain what they wanted. She described them as barbarians, as animals, with Bradley Funk in his present state of mind very capable of causing injury to Don Bolles. lles. Mrs. Richardson advised that Don Bolles had been fighting the Emprise Corporation for the last several years, almost on his own, without real support from other agencies or people. She advised being aware the Emprise Corporation and the Funks are well protected and are involved with a number of socially prominent personalities. Among the names mentioned were judge Bernstein, the Paul Fannin and Joe Hunt families, Barry Coldwater, and Rosenzweigs. She expressed her understanding it was very difficult to get to the Funks because of how they have shielded themselves with such personalities. She advised, however, because of the Don Bolles bombing incident, if the Funks are involved, if Bradley Funk specifically is responsible, all of his friends, and associates, will stay away from him and may provide information to investigators. She indicated the bombing of Bolles to be totally out of character for the syndicate, and if the Funks, or Bradley Funk specifically is responsible, he has made an irreversible mistake. She then repeated her desire to be properly understood as not being vindictive towards him but felt investigators should understand that Bradley Funk in his present state of mind has a motive to hurt her and the family by destroying Don Bolles. She also expressed the opinion that John Adamson, a subject she is not familiar with, should also be in danger because he flubbed the job. She advised "they" are probably trying to find him because Bolles is still alive and Adamson's identity is known. She suggested that Adamson would be better off in police custody than free on the streets. It was far too early to form opinions—I had only started the case this afternoon—but on the surface, merely scanning the discovery, I had already found a stronger motive than the one tagged to Kemper Marley. Bolles evidently had been a thorn in Bradley Funk's side for years, and the distinct possibility existed that just before the bombing the two adversaries were again set to square off over accusations that could ruin Funk. I read early into the morning, growing increasingly alarmed by what I learned. The attitude in Phoenix after the murder had been, "Solve this case fast, get that national spotlight away from us," and the predictable result was a completely blinkered investigation ignoring any leads other than those provided by admitted killer John Adamson. Many in Arizona officialdom, including prosecutors, a police detective recklessly handing out immunity, and a state legislature passing the Adamson Act, abetted the single-minded rush to judgment of Robison and Dunlap. I knew of no other state with a criminal provision such as the Adamson Act, whereby the naked, unsupported accusations of even a notorious liar, hoodlum, and murderer were considered adequate to send two defendants to the gas chamber. What made the law all the more repugnant was the fact that it had been enacted solely to facilitate prosecution in the Bolles case. It had been a long day, and I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. At this point I had no idea whether Jim and Max were guilty, only that I wouldn't lack, as the committee feared, things to do. The Patsy I drove the rental car southeast on Interstate 10 toward Tucson, exiting on 387 to reach the town of Florence and the Arizona State Prison. I hardly expected to find a model of the modern maximum security penitentiary jutting out of the sand, but nothing in my experience had prepared me for the abysmal hellhole I found. Convict labor built the Florence "correctional facility" from remnants of the Old West's notorious Yuma Territorial Prison, moved some two hundred miles—literally stone by stone—across the desert. Inmates sweltered in sizzling slow summers and shivered when whistling winter winds chased in all manner of wilderness vermin through gaping cracks and crevices. Its only appearances of "modernization": razor wire and closely spaced guard towers topping the institution's ugly stone walls. Death row, where Robison and Dunlap existed in six-by-ten-foot cells, came equipped with aggressive rats and a menagerie of small, shyer creatures skittering across the floor, over grungy walls, and along a crumbling ceiling that leaked copiously whenever the rains came. Except for a few minutes of fresh air and outdoor exercise in a hurricane-fence enclosure called the "dog run," inmates stayed locked down twenty-four hours a day. pps. 1-22 --[cont]-- Aloha, He'Ping, Om, Shalom, Salaam. 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