Feb. 19, 2004
IN
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District Attorney Paul Gallegos.
Photos by Bob Doran.
by KEITH
EASTHOUSE
At home. Day is just breaking when we ring the bell. Muffled
barks, an opening door, then Joan Gallegos, clad in a bathrobe
with a towel on her head. She barely has time to say, "Good
morning," before two dogs come charging past her. "That's
Ginger," Joan says of the small white one, a lively if somewhat
aged bichon frisé mix, "and that's Hunter."
A heavy-set retriever of some sort, a golden retriever mix, maybe,
about four times the size of his comrade.
Beautiful wood floors inside.
Joan [photo below left], with a slightly amused, slightly resigned air,
asks if we want some orange juice, and we all head for the kitchen.
There we meet Kjellen, who's 7 and in second grade, and Sophia,
a kindergartner who turns 5 this Sunday. "What do you think
of all the signs with your dad's name on them?" "It's
kind of weird," Kjellen says, looking down, "but the
other kids say it's cool." Sophia, who looks amazingly --
eerily -- like her father, is in a more mischievous mood. "Now
I think I'm going to kick you," she says, and a red shoe
flashes in Kjellen's direction.
The
grown-up, male version of Sophia soon emerges from the home's
nether regions. Fresh from a shower, damp hair brushed back,
Paul Gallegos, too, is wearing a bathrobe, a white one, with
a black brush protruding from a pocket. In bare feet, he's got
child number three up on his shoulders, a solid-looking toddler
named Kai, pacifier planted firmly in his mouth, hair combed
just like his dad's. We walk into the living room, dominated
at one end by a plastic jungle gym set, and at the other by two
sofas and a TV. "Kjellen, get your socks and shoes on,"
says his mother, now dressed, in dark slacks and a red top. Dad,
meantime, with Kai still aboard, is carefully leaning over an
elaborate electronic keyboard, playing it. As he straightens
up, Kai's head bops against a light fixture suspended from the
ceiling. It seems a serious collision, but Kai is unfazed. The
kid, like his old man, can take a punch. [photo above right: Kjellen, left, and Sophia
in the kitchen]
To what extent are the children
aware of what's going on? "We don't make a big deal of it,"
Gallegos, 41, says. "It's just one part of life. It doesn't
seem a big deal to them." The kids, he adds, sometimes hang
out in the office while he's working, and now and then he'll
break free from work in the afternoons and trade in his identity
as Humboldt County's beleaguered district attorney for that of
a normal family man. (And you thought he went surfing.) "Yesterday,"
he says, "I took Kjellen to basketball practice."
For some reason, maybe his youthful
appearance, or because his visitors have never seen him in a
domestic setting, Gallegos as a family man seems incongruous.
But he's natural and relaxed in the role, and watching him stroll
down the street to the neighborhood basketball hoop in the early
morning light, fully dressed now, with Kjellen at his side, he
appears perfectly suited to the suburban scene around him. Attractive,
newish homes comprise this Cutten neighborhood, and many sport
red, white and blue "Gallegos" signs on their well-kept
front lawns. Larry Debeni
wanders out of his house to chat with Gallegos while Kjellen
shoots hoops. A developer, he and Gallegos have coached kids'
soccer and basketball teams together. "He's a well-rounded
family man, definitely good with his kids and others," Debeni
says. When asked how he feels about the recall, Debeni -- who
has no political signs on his property -- says he stays "out
of that whole mix." But he adds: "What's going on is
a rough deal."
Back at the house we get the
Hunter story. Gallegos found him seven years ago, an abandoned
puppy out in the woods on the Hoopa reservation. He barely had
fur; his body was covered with open wounds due to repeated attacks
from other dogs, and he was starving. Gallegos carried him to
his truck and wrapped a sweater around him. "I thought,
`At least he can die warm,'" Gallegos recalled. On the way
to the coast Gallegos called a vet on his cell phone, took him
there directly, and, lo and behold, the dog made it, although
there was a protracted recovery period. "He was so emaciated
his head looked huge, he had catastrophic mange and he had worms.
We quarantined him in the kitchen for a month and a half."
A lasting effect of Hunter's ordeal is some arthritis, but otherwise
he appears healthy, fat and happy, even. "My dad saved him,"
Kjellen says, adding, "When I was a little kid I played
with Hunter a lot." [Hunter,
photo above right]
Joan
is in the kitchen seasoning a chicken, which she then places
in a crock-pot -- tonight's dinner. (The Gallegos' are having
guests.) An attorney like her husband, she's going to be in court
this morning. "I've got five cases," she says. Gallegos,
who says he has a "super mellow" schedule today, puts
on a tie, using a mirror in the living room. Kai's baby-sitter
arrives, and the Gallegos crew, minus its youngest member, leaves
the house and piles into two vehicles -- Joan and Sophia in a
white mini-van with an "I Don't Recall" sticker on
the back, Gallegos and Kjellen in a black pickup. "Adios,"
says Gallegos to his wife and daughter as they drive off.
We start driving even though
the window is fogged, then slow down. "You get in an accident,
it's an accident. If I do, it's a sign of bad judgment,"
he says with a rueful laugh. After a few blocks he pulls into
the parking lot of Kjellen's elementary school, walks his son
into the building, ducking playfully along the way through a
large plywood zero -- part of the numeral 100 on display to mark
the hundredth day of the school year.
When he returns, he's asked
about family. "It's what's important. Everything else is
white noise."
LEFT TO RIGHT: Sophia Gallegos.
The DA with Kjellen at school. Kjellen and Kai Gallegos.
Heading
in. As we wend our way down off
the Cutten plateau, Gallegos starts talking about his family
when he was a kid. He grew up outside Washington, D.C., in a
home next to the Bull Run battlefield. His father, Orlando Gallegos,
a cryptologist during World War II, worked for the National Security
Agency, part of the Defense Department. "My dad was a bonafide
spook," Gallegos says with a laugh. His mom, Leneale, owned
a Montessori school, and his grandmother was one of the first
Montessori teachers in the country. The ninth child in a family
of 11 children, Gallegos is at home, so to speak, in a chaotic,
complex, shifting environment. Maybe that explains why he seems
so unfazed by the situation he finds himself in today, a district
attorney facing a fierce, well-funded recall effort. Put another
way, he's used to a scrap. "A large family is its own experience,
it's like a clan," he says. "There are subgroups within
it. We fought on a regular basis."
We pass plenty of "Gallegos"
signs, but the number of maroon "Dikeman" signs is
not insignificant. Family matters suddenly fade, replaced by
the weight of what's going on. "My campaign wasn't that
long ago," he says. "A lot of people just dusted off
the signs they had before." As for the Dikeman signs, he
notes, "They're the same color as Terry Farmer's signs were.
They're on the same lawns. [Worth] is saying the same things
in debates. It's a replay of the election."
Traffic slows as we go down
a gully and come up the other side. The thought occurs that Gallegos
has never really been given the chance to be DA. He was elected
two years ago, waited 10 months before taking office, and then
became the target of a recall less than three months into the
job. There has been no "normal" time for him, no period
when he could learn how to be DA free of intense scrutiny by
the media and his enemies, be they Pacific Lumber or the Terry
Farmer loyalists who used the flap over the fraud lawsuit against
the company to jump on the recall bandwagon. Farmer may have
moved out of the area, but his supporters remain -- not to mention
his wife, county Supervisor Bonnie Neely, in whose home, it is
widely rumored, the first meeting of the fledgling recall movement
was held last spring.
As we near downtown, Gallegos
says the fact that Farmer's campaign had barely demobilized worked
to the advantage of the main beneficiary of a change in leadership
at the DA's office: PL. "They were able to totally benefit
from the recency of the past election," Gallegos says. He
points to another logistical advantage held by those leading
the recall: Most of the money supporting the effort has come
from one place. "My base is people, 700 people have contributed
to my campaign, but [raising money from so many sources] takes
time and effort.
"It's not like I'm PL,"
he went on, "where I can pony up $70,000. It's a little
easier if you get money from just two or three people."
We swing into the parking garage
beneath the Humboldt County Courthouse. Gallegos gets out and
we head toward the elevator. Alluding to the fact that he and
his wife came to Humboldt cold 10 years ago and built a successful
law practice, he says he understands people's fears about jobs
and the economy. "I know how tough it is," he says.
But, he adds, just because Pacific Lumber is a large employer
is neither here nor there. "To me they're just another defendant,
one of 7,900 cases we filed last year, an "X" in the
box called defendant. What people are saying is that Pacific
Lumber should never be an "X." Why should they be exempt?
They can't be."
Does he ever have bodyguards?
The elevator doors separate and we walk in. "I'm a member
of this community, I have no more protections than anyone else."
The doors close. It's silent a moment, then he deadpans, "Maybe
less." The reference to his strained relationship with the
law enforcement community, which generally backs the recall,
is perfectly timed and we both break into laughter. Sardonic,
and with flair, no less.
On the fourth floor. Gallegos heads into his office, while we stick
our heads into Tim Stoen's
[photo at right] . The assistant
district attorney is in an upbeat mood. An identity theft case
he successfully prosecuted when he was with the Mendocino District
Attorney's Office has just been upheld on appeal. He chats briefly
about the PL suit, which he is handling for Gallegos, and says,
as he has many times before, that it's "rock solid."
"If they thought we had
a deficient case, they would never have put $70,000 into the
recall. Why would they tarnish their name? The reason is because
they know they can't win the case."
He decries the sparse political
support offered Gallegos during the past several months. He says
Rep. Mike Thompson's involvement in the Headwaters deal has clouded
his judgment on the PL suit. "He wants a trophy [the Headwaters
deal], not the truth." As for state Sen. Wes Chesbro: "He
won't help Paul because he's too busy seeing which way the wind
blows." (A few days later Chesbro announced that he would
not vote for the recall, but he refused to endorse Gallegos or
any of the replacement candidates.)
In Stoen's view, Gallegos is
a great DA in the making. "He's got three things I've never
seen before in a DA: Courage, integrity and humility. All he
needs is experience."
Stoen met Gallegos in January
2002, two months before Gallegos' upset victory over Farmer.
It was at a Republican women's luncheon at the Eureka Inn. "We
just shook hands," Stoen says, "I was a Terry Farmer
supporter." He says he "never lifted a finger"
to get the job he has now. Instead, the job was offered to him
after Gallegos visited Mendocino District Attorney Norm Vroman
11 months later, in December 2002, to get advice about running
a DA's office.
Speaking of a DA's office, Humboldt
County's has a heck of a view, a sweeping vista of the Eureka
waterfront and the bay beyond. Sitting behind his desk, in between
attending to paperwork and answering the telephone, Gallegos
riffs on a couple of different topics, most notably Terry Farmer.
"He still won't even shake my hand," the district attorney
says, not bitter, just matter of fact. But then he jabs: "Sometimes
elected officials get to the point where they think they own
the office."
Gallegos says Farmer met with
him only once during the protracted transition period, for five
minutes in the office's law library -- "not," Gallegos
emphasizes, "in here." Gallegos says Farmer was "very
curt," and told him to "be careful what you wish for
-- this is a politically divisive community." There was
no going over the budget, no introduction to the troops. "It
was set up to create an implosion," Gallegos says, adding
that the deputy DAs who wished to get to know their future boss
could only do so on their own time, outside the courthouse.
There's a photo of Abraham Lincoln
in Gallegos' office and a bust of the president on his bookshelf.
"He's a hero," Gallegos says. He may also be someone
Gallegos can relate to. The 16th president came to power and
the country divided; Gallegos comes to power and Humboldt County
divides.
That's not to say Gallegos has
any illusions about his own importance. He doesn't even have
illusions about Lincoln. "One of the things we revere about
Lincoln is he made slavery a moral issue. But to Native Americans
he was a nightmare, someone who gave away their land [to settlers]."
In addition to the proximity of his family home to Bull Run,
there's another Civil War connection -- his great grandfather,
William T. Prosser, of Pennsylvania, was wounded at Antietam
and held prisoner at Andersonville, the South's hellish prisoner
of war camp.
Referring to the staggering
carnage of the conflict, Gallegos says, "[Both sides were]
using Napoleonic tactics in a post-Napoleonic time. And the North
ended up going beyond that and succeeded because of that. It
was the beginning of modern warfare."
Gallegos is like that. Discussions
of relatively mundane matters -- sour relations with Terry Farmer
-- can rapidly morph into more lofty topics, like Lincoln and
Napoleon. According to his wife, and Stoen, Gallegos is extremely
well-read. When asked, the DA shies away from the subject, saying
only that he "always" has more than one book going
and that he has "hundreds" of favorite books and authors.
Stoen, a book lover himself, as evidenced by an impressive library
of classics in his office, says he and Gallegos have "wonderful
chats together" about literature and history. A recent subject
of discussion was the English revolution. At the moment, Gallegos
is reading a book dating from Roman times on the rules of etiquette,
a book George Washington read. "That's the type of primary
source material he reads," Stoen says, "that's the
level of zest for life he has." Later, in between court
appearances, Gallegos would make a reference to Victor Hugo's
The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Throw one more stereotype
in the trash. The surfing DA is an intellectual.
LEFT: Paul Gallegos at his desk. RIGHT: Two inspirations: "Joanie"
and Lincoln.
One
on one. Gallegos comes from around
his desk and sits in front of a striking, abstract, mostly blue
painting of an urban skyline. It seems to explode with energy.
Showing his combative side, he takes a poke at a nemesis, Sgt.
Dave Morey of the Humboldt Deputy Sheriff's Organization, an
early supporter of the recall. "Dave Morey comes out and
says it's 100 plants," Gallegos says, referring to his now
defunct medical marijuana guidelines. "It's just a lie.
Why would you lie? You're a law enforcement officer. If you look
at my guidelines, they're actually more conservative than Terry's.
That's the joke." Gallegos explains that while his guidelines
allowed 99 seedlings, they only permitted seven full-grown plants.
Under Farmer's rules, 10 full-grown plants were acceptable.
How
does he feel being under a microscope? "I know the purpose
of it. The purpose of it is to create division." He goes
on to say that since few in the community understand the complexities
of prosecuting a criminal case, it's relatively easy for his
opponents to seize on one case and claim it shows Gallegos is
soft on crime. "You take one case, which is an exception,
maybe, and portray that as the norm, and since the community
doesn't know what the norm is, they view that as the norm. No
one would write a story about the fact that every day 20 to 40
people are out in the ocean surfing. But if someone gets bit
tomorrow, that will be in paper. That's the exception. But what
happens is people think if they get in the water they'll get
bit by a shark. It creates false apprehensions."
The phone rings. "Tom,
amigo." A pause. "Like a knife fight in a phone booth."
Another pause. "Life is good is what I'm telling you."
He returns, starts talking about
the PL suit, how it has slowed him down in terms of achieving
other goals. Does he regret filing it? "I cannot because
if I hadn't filed it the reason [would have been] because of
the personal political consequences to me. Are there times when
I think it would have been great if I didn't have to? Of course,
there wouldn't be a recall right now. If the case had not surfaced,
my life would have been a lot easier in the past year."
Is he anti-logging? "Not
even remotely. Many of my friends and past clients are loggers
and in the logging industry. So are many of wife's current clients.
How can filing one case against one logging company be an indication
I'm against logging, anymore than filing one case against one
white person is an indication that I hate whites?" He pauses
and looks off. "Let's be honest. Timber is Humboldt County
iconography. Why would I set about attacking an icon? When I
was a private businessperson in this community, I never did environmental
stuff. Maybe shame on me. But I was making a living."
Did he foresee that filing the
suit would provoke a recall? "We do our investigation and
I'm sitting there with the complaint on my desk [before making
the decision to file] and I'm thinking I'm on the edge of a cliff.
Do I stay on land because I don't want to fall? Or do I step
off because that's my duty? I've been falling ever since. Actually,
I've been banging ever since," he adds with a laugh, sardonic
once again. "Ouch, another outcropping!" he says, mimicking
a falling rock climber.
We switch gears, but don't lose
much speed. He says he hired Tim Stoen, a political conservative,
to counter his progressivism. "I wanted this community to
know that this office represents both sides." He also hoped
Stoen, a prosecutor, would serve as a bridge to the deputy DAs,
since his own background is largely as a defense attorney.
On the Pedro Martinez-Hernandez
case, the Ferndale man who molested his daughter for years, we
don't break much new ground. Gallegos says what he's said before,
that Martinez-Hernandez, who was charged with one continuous
count of molestation, did not get off -- he got 16 years. As
for last week's revelation that a "felony filing evaluation"
suggested filing multiple charges so Martinez-Hernandez could
be put away for 100 years or more, an option that Gallegos, who
handled the case, either was unaware of or ignored, according
to his critics, the DA again repeats what he's told other reporters:
He doesn't make filing decisions. That, he says, is the job of
Chief Deputy District Attorney Wes Keat.
But he doesn't criticize Keat,
so evidently, in the district attorney's view, nothing went wrong.
He mentions something else: Filing multiple charges would have
entailed putting the girl on the stand and forcing her to relive
the abuse. And that's assuming that the daughter and her mother,
illegal aliens, would not flee the country before the trial.
(Word on the street is they've already fled.)
A
side issue is the question of who in the DA's office leaked the
filing evaluation, a confidential report. "Someone in our
office leaked confidential information for political gain. There's
no getting around it," Gallegos says. Interestingly, he
doesn't seem angry, more like, "What else is new?"
We break for coffee. Gallegos
goes into Stoen's office to bum some money.
Out
and about. At a coffee house across
the street from the courthouse, the subject turns to Dikeman
-- and for the first time all day Gallegos' glibness deserts
him. He starts and stops, looks off into the distance, jokes
that the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet, then finally settles
down and tells how he learned that Terry Farmer's longtime lieutenant
was going to run as a replacement candidate.
"He came into my office
and said, `I really hate this. I don't like [the recall]. I want
to be working for you in March. I hope it doesn't pass. But if
it does succeed, I have to do what's best for the office.' I
was like, `OK, that makes sense.' But a lot of my friends were
like, `Holy cow, how can he do that? You have to fire him.' So
I called Worth and I said, `I want you to know what my friends
are saying to me. They're freakin' losing their minds over this.
They're saying I should fire you. And I'm not going to do that.
I understand why you're doing it. The office knows about Gloria
[Albin Sheets, one of the three replacement candidates, along
with Arcata attorney Steve Schectman]. Gloria's not someone the
office wants as DA. It's just going to be interesting, that's
all I can say.'" Gallegos stops, throws back his head and
lets out a big laugh. "Wow!" he says, as if to underscore
the intensity and awkwardness of the situation with Dikeman.
Does he feel Dikeman has strongly
defended his record during the campaign? "Have you heard
the term damning with faint praise?" Gallegos retorts. But
he refuses to say Dikeman is being disloyal. "I think it's
best for people to draw their own conclusions."
We hook up later for lunch,
sitting in the sunshine outside the Eureka Co-op. People seem
to recognize Gallegos wherever he goes. A commercial fisherman
from Monterey who recently relocated here comes up and applauds
Gallegos for "fighting the corporations."
"I'll be voting for you.
Keep it up," he says.
Larry Killoran, a local attorney,
sits with us for a bit. He says the recall has been "tainted
from the beginning" because of the slipshod, possibly illegal
way in which the signatures to get the recall on the ballot were
collected. "Paul Gallegos said he would make changes and
he came in and did exactly that," Killoran says, sounding
indignant. "Fifty-one percent voted for him. The recall
is an attempt to nullify the 51 percent of the voters who voted
for Paul's idea for change."
In
court. An hour or so later. The
cramped, under construction fifth-floor courtroom. Gallegos,
sitting at a desk before Judge Christopher Wilson, is writing,
left-handed, in a notebook. Next to him is Deputy District Attorney
Rob Wade, like Dikeman an 18-year veteran of the Humboldt County
DA's office -- and, like Dikeman, not exactly a Gallegos man.
In the dock, a half-dozen or so men, most of them young, in orange
jumpsuits. They're handcuffed to each other. The one nearest
the spectators, a blond man barely in his 20s, is struggling
to maintain his composure. Red swollen eyes. Weepy. Somebody
moves their chair, and the noise literally makes a woman in the
audience yelp. She's got some sort of nervous disorder, her body
jerks periodically.
The cases are pretty routine
-- drunk driving, a probation violation. A meth addict who failed
recovery gets 180 days in jail. A depressing rhythm gets set
up as one by one the men in orange stand up and take the next
step in their journey through the penal system. Wade and Gallegos
are just basically sitting there, and even Wilson isn't saying
much. The whole procedure seems to operate on its own, pilotless.
Maybe it's the close air but a drowsiness steals up -- nodding
off would be easy were it not for the twitching woman and the
sense of troubled lives pressing in from all sides.
The trance gets broken when
a decidedly different sort of defendant emerges from the audience,
sans jumpsuit: Penne O'Gara, a local educator whose car struck
and killed 17-year-old Ross Joseph Glidden, an Arcata High School
student, on Highway 101 during a hailstorm last April. Again,
the issue at hand is seemingly routine: A confirmation hearing
to determine whether a jury trial should be held. Gallegos buttonholes
one of the spectators, Francine Glidden, mother of the victim,
and the two leave the courtroom to confer in the hallway. We
try to eavesdrop, but Gallegos shoos us away. After the two are
finished, Gallegos is quizzed on the particulars. He doesn't
say much, except that it is the prosecution's contention that
O'Gara, who is being charged with a misdemeanor, was driving
at a speed unsafe under the conditions.
We chat briefly in a dimly lit
narrow area outside an elevator. In response to a remark about
the pervasive sense in the courtroom of downward spiraling lives,
Gallegos says, "This is the world of pain. Either their
lives are a catastrophe or they're making a catastrophe out of
other lives."
Next stop is a more spacious
and well-kept courtroom on the second floor, where Gallegos gets
entangled in a confusing exchange over paperwork with Judge Marilyn
Miles and Shawn Lee Perrot, an articulate young man accused of
having unlawful sexual intercourse with underage girls. Afterward,
Gallegos explains that Perrot, who is representing himself, is
"papering over" the case with motions. "He's sitting
in jail, he doesn't have anything else to do."
Reflections.
Back in his office, Gallegos starts
to relax. The light is failing outside, the workday is done.
The conversation turns to surfing. Gallegos shares an experience
he had recently. He was out on the water, paddling, when he suddenly
got an overwhelming premonition that a great white was in the
neighborhood. He was ready to turn back when he reminded himself
of a lesson surfing has taught him: "Sometimes, when you
get afraid and you try to paddle out of danger, you paddle into
worse danger. So you can't let fear dictate your conduct."
He continued to head out and instead of a killer shark he got
a killer day. "It was so awesome it was sublime. The way
the light broke through, the water was green, the water was so
clear. You couldn't believe it. And I came back and Tim's talking
about something and I said, `Tim, we cannot be motivated by fear.'
It was one of the greatest days of my life and I was prepared
to paddle away and I would have missed that."
What's most striking about Gallegos
right now, as he takes the full brunt of outrage from Humboldt's
old guard, as his own people -- Dikeman, Wade and the other deputy
DAs -- not so secretly yearn for his ouster, is that he is so
obviously calm in his core. It's undoubtedly his family who gives
him such a deep-seated sense of security, but self-assurance
also seems to be embedded in his DNA. Others in his position
would be furious and bitter, or simply just shaken, but Gallegos
seems to have a healthy air of detachment. He's dealing with
it.
It's dark out now, the shop
is closing. As we head out, Gallegos is asked for the time. One
more chance for a jest, this time in relation to the upcoming
D-day. "I don't know, but I know it's not March 2."
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