Unless they came back with the two acquittals that Adam Moore had asked for, Tuffy would, indeed, be doing heavy “time.”
The jurors were sequestered in a hotel that Saturday night. They began deliberation again on Sunday. They had an awesome task, and they knew that whatever their verdicts, no one would win. They deliberated all day Sunday and, shortly before six in the evening, they signaled that they had finally reached a verdict.
It was obvious that several of the jurors had been crying. Not a good sign for the defense. And it was not. Jury Foreman Earl Willey read the verdicts. The jurors had found Tuffy Pleasant guilty of first-degree murder in the death of Morris Blankenbaker and guilty of manslaughter in Gabby Moore’s shooting.
Tuffy was impassive when the verdicts were read, but his mother and his fiancée burst into tears as did many of the jurors. He would not be sentenced on this night, but he faced a maximum sentence of life imprisonment on the murder charge and twenty years for manslaughter. He was returned immediately to his jail cell on the tenth floor of the courthouse.
Jurors, waiting for the elevator, hugged Coydell Pleasant. “This was the hardest day of my life,” one juror said, and another sobbed, “I’m sorry … I’m so sorry,” as she put her arms around Tuffy’s mother.
“Just as long as you were honest,” Coydell Pleasant said, “just as long as you were honest, that’s all I can ask.”
One juror, an airline flight attendant, leaned against the marble wall and cried uncontrollably. Another, who also had tears streaming down her face, told a reporter, “It was the law. We had to do it. It was the law. It was the god-damned law.”
Other jurors led the woman away, and a bus took them all back to the hotel where they had stayed the night before. They had come to trial knowing nothing about Tuffy Pleasant or Morris Blankenbaker or Gabby Moore. Now, they would never forget them.
Sentencing was set for Friday, September 10, 1976, in Judge Carl Loy’s Yakima County Superior Courtroom. Under Washington statute, Loy could, technically, still grant Tuffy probation, or he could sentence him to the maximum. For first-degree murder, the maximum would be twenty years with one-third off for good behavior, meaning that Tuffy would have to serve thirteen years and four months before he would be eligible for parole. The maximum for manslaughter (while armed with a deadly weapon) was also twenty years. Jeff Sullivan said that he would ask that the sentences be served consecutively, rather than at the same time.
After hearing arguments, Judge Loy sentenced Angelo “Tuffy” Pleasant to the maximum on each count, but acceded to the defense’s request that the sentences run concurrently. In the best of all worlds for Tuffy, he could be released by late 1989.
On September 17, Tuffy was taken from the Yakima County Jail in chains and delivered to a prison bus, which would take him to the Washington State Prison facility in Shelton. He flashed his familiar grin to newsmen as he left the jail.
***
AFTERWORD
Since books on criminal cases usually follow hard on the heels of a conviction, readers seldom find out what happened “later.” One advantage of my lack of confidence in my ability to write a “whole book” back in 1976 is that I came to know the rest of the story—or “stories”—over the intervening years.
Life does go on, even after the most horrendous tragedies, even after so much heartbreak. When Talmadge Glynn “Gabby” Moore fastened his obsessive eye on Jerilee Blankenbaker, his hell-bent manipulations ultimately changed the course of many lives. Nothing was ever the same again, but people went on, following the new paths that loss and grief had cut out for them.
Vern Henderson continued working for the Yakima Police Department. He regretted that Tuffy’s father, Andrew, Sr., blamed him for everything, but he was not surprised. He had known it would be this way, but he had had no choice.
One of the cases assigned to Henderson in the late seventies involved a robbery ring. He solved that case and saw the perpetrators convicted. They swore they would get revenge. And they did. Vern’s house was firebombed and reduced to rubble. He didn’t care about the furniture and other replaceable items, but he lost a lot of photographs and sentimental possessions. It was too much. Just as his house had burned, Vern had “burnout.”
In 1978 Vern Henderson resigned from the police department and accepted a job working security on the Alaska Pipeline. He spent eighteen months in the vastness of Alaska. It proved to be a healing time for him. He dealt, finally, with losing Morris and with having his world blown up both literally and figuratively.
In 1980 Vern came back to Yakima where he would spend the next decade as an investigator for the Public Defender’s Office. Since the early 1990s, Vern Henderson has worked for the Attorney General’s Office in both Washington State and, currently, in a southwestern state. At present, he is assigned to fraud cases, white-collar crime, and internal investigations.
The little kid from Shreveport, Louisiana, has carved out a remarkable career and is a credit to law enforcement. He is in his early fifties— as Morris would be, had he lived.
Sergeant Bob Brimmer is retired from the Yakima Police Department and, at last, has time to go fishing whenever he wants.
Yakima County Prosecuting Attorney Jeff Sullivan has held that office for six terms. He is a past president of the Washington Association of Prosecuting Attorneys as well as being one of the most reelected prosecutors in the state of Washington. Yakima County has burgeoned and Sullivan now supervises thirty attorneys and seventy civilian employees. Somehow he found time along the way to help his wife raise four children, to coach AAU basketball teams— both boys and girls— Grid Kids Football, and to be a lector in his church. His thick blond hair is now thick white hair and he is a grandfather. His oldest son is an accountant; his youngest an army lieutenant. One daughter is a successful television producer and the other a civil attorney.
Although Sullivan has tried many, many cases since the Pleasant trial, it remains “one of the top ten of all the cases I’ve handled in over twenty years. It stands out as a highlight of my career. There was so much involved,” he comments. “A good blend of scientific investigation, good detective work, interesting legal aspects-particularly the polygraph question.” Sullivan acknowledges that the local celebrity of the principals and the “love triangle” helped to make the case unforgettable. “This has always been one that you remember. I’ve tried to explain this case to people and they just stare at me. They can’t believe it really happened. But then truth is stranger than fiction. In the end, the reason we were able to solve it was because ‘People don’t keep secrets.’ You can count on that.”
Sullivan’s deputy prosecutor, Mike McGuigan, practices law in Hawaii.
Adam Moore is still one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the state of Washington, and he and Sullivan cross swords regularly. As this is written, they are preparing to meet in court once again. Neither could tell you how many trials this will make. Adam Moore is also a longtime friend of Vern Henderson’s. At the time of the Tuffy Pleasant investigation and trial, no one knew it, but Adam and Vern ran together every noon. By tacit agreement, they did not discuss the case they were each immersed in.
Despite gossips’ smug predictions that Jerilee’s marriage to Jim Littleton would never last, they have been happily married for more than twenty years. They lived in Yakima for many years after they were married. Jerilee became a successful stockbroker while Jim built a huge wholesale produce business. Eventually, the Littletons moved over to “the coast.” In Seattle, Jim’s enterprises expanded even more.
It wasn’t really surprising to me that Jerilee was reluctant about an interview to talk of the tragic events of the mid-seventies. Finally, we did meet briefly, and I saw that she had changed from the vulnerable, shocked young woman I had watched testify at Tuffy’s trial. She was still beautiful, but it was a sophisticated, mature beauty. She stood straighter and she seemed taller, with her shining dark hair drawn into a French roll atop her head. She had c
learly become a woman in control of her life, a world away from the teenager who had walked into a bank in Tacoma in 1965 and asked for a job.
Jim Littleton accompanied Jerilee to our meeting. He had grown handsomer as he reached forty and he was obviously very much in love with Jerilee. He was not eager, however, to have his wife recall bad days of long ago. Although they had never had children together, they had raised Jerilee and Morris’s children, Rick and Amanda. Rick, taller than Morris by six inches and as attractive as a movie star, had gone into business with Jim. Amanda was going to college in Seattle, studying to become a teacher. Both of the children had grown up to be happy, well-adjusted adults.
I did not blame Jerilee for demurring when I asked about her feelings after the murders of Morris and Gabby. Those days were all in the past for her and whatever regrets she might have had, she chose to keep private. She said that she might want to talk to me in depth one day. I never heard from her again, however.
Amanda and Rick remained close to Olive Blankenbaker, their paternal grandmother. Married and living once again in Yakima, Amanda gave birth in February 1996. The baby would have been Morris’s first grandchild.
Mike Blankenbaker, Morris’s half brother, joined the Yakima Police Department. Although there were no blood ties between Mike and Olive, he gradually became her son too. He understood how much she missed Morris, and tried to be there for Olive.
Rene Sandon, Tuffy Pleasant’s fiancée and the mother of his two daughters, gradually distanced herself from the lover who had never been entirely faithful to her. With new confidence, she went to college, earned her master’s degree, and became a school counselor. Tuffy’s daughters grew up to be fine young women.
Joey Watkins, the huge but gentle wrestler who had been so much help to Vern Henderson in the investigation, also went to college and is now a teacher.
Kenny Marino, Tuffy’s best friend once, has vanished from Yakima. No one can say where he is or what he is doing today.
Coydell and Andrew Pleasant, Sr., held their heads up proudly in Yakima, but nothing was ever the same for them. Their son Anthony lives in the house next door. Their other children finished college and prospered. A few years ago, Andrew, Sr., nearing seventy, put a ladder against his store so he could climb up and fix the roof. While he was working, the ladder fell. Always a robust man who was used to working hard and being in good shape, Pleasant didn’t call for help. Instead, he attempted to jump from the roof onto the bed of his truck. He fell short and was badly injured. He died in the hospital without ever seeing his middle son again as a free man.
Angelo “Tuffy” Pleasant, who had dreamed of being a teacher and a coach, did not get out of prison in 1989. He served six years more, spending almost twenty years in prison. Given the choice, one wonders if he would not have traded his few moments in the sun as a state champion for a normal life-a free life. Gabby Moore had filled his head first with ambition and hope, and then with paranoid plots. When Gabby fell to earth, so had Tuffy.
Two decades ago, Gabby had told Tuffy, “You don’t understand what I’m feeling now, but when you are middle-aged— over the hill— you may.” And now, Tuffy Pleasant is forty-two years old, one year younger than Gabby Moore was when he declared that Jerilee was the only trophy that mattered to him. Does Tuffy understand? Perhaps. Perhaps not. No one would blame him for being bitter toward his old mentor. Gabby, at least, had a life, wife—two wives— children, and a magnificent coaching career. Tuffy, who “hurt” when Gabby “hurt,” has had twenty years behind bars. How many times must he have realized that “The Man” cared nothing at all about his future or his dreams?
Out of prison, but on probation, Tuffy scarcely resembles the perfectly muscled young athlete he once was. Twenty years of prison food and confinement have piled on untold pounds. No one looking at his newspaper photographs in 1976 could recognize Tuffy Pleasant today. Probation authorities have noted Tuffy as “a good candidate for rehabilitation,” and have recommended schools and programs.
Olive Blankenbaker lived to see her son’s killer sentenced to life in prison. She had not asked for any more time than that. In trying to convince me to write this book, she gave me a number of her precious photographs of Morris. I accepted them, but I told her I didn’t think I would be able to sell a book to a publisher, as I had no track record. She said she understood.
I didn’t hear from Olive over the next few years, and I concluded, sadly, that she had succumbed to lung cancer; I knew she had accepted her “terminal” diagnosis. Ten years later, I was giving a lecture at Yakima Valley Community College. By that time, I had published six books and I spoke often on topics such as serial murder and high-profile offenders. Afterward, I was signing books in the school library when I glanced up to see a woman who looked quite familiar. I stared at her, thinking, “No, it can’t be. She looks so much like Olive Blankenbaker.”
As the woman came up to the table, she smiled at me and said, “Yes, it’s me. I didn’t die after all.”
Olive had one request beyond a signature; she still wanted me to write the story of her son. I promised that I would try. Over the last ten years, I have visited with her often in her mobile home in Yakima. She still grows flowers and she pampers a family of cats. Olive and Jerilee have long since made their peace with one another. Jerilee, Rick, and Amanda are in close contact, worrying about her and helping out when they can. When Amanda moved back to Yakima, she became her grandmother’s strongest support.
Mike Blankenbaker still drops by often to see Olive, and pictures of Mike in his Yakima police uniform sit on Olive’s piano next to wedding pictures of Olive and Ned, childhood photos of Morris, and photographs of Olive’s grandchildren.
Nevertheless, Olive never forgot her pleas to me to write “Morris’s story.”
And so, at last, I have kept my promise: After twenty years, it wasn’t easy to track down people who once lived in Yakima, Washington, some scattered to the four winds. For this book is not just Morris’s story-it is the story of many others as well.
Yakima’s houses, buildings, and streets are all still in place-some a little shabbier-some freshly painted. Only last week, I walked down the alley behind the big frame house on North Sixth, walked south from where Tuffy Pleasant parked his car on Lincoln, past the window where Gerda Lenberg heard the hollow heels of a running man, and into the backyard where Morris Blankenbaker died in the snowstorm. The wire fence where Vern Henderson found the vital bullet casing is, amazingly, still there.
I could almost hear a voice calling, “Morris! Morris …”
Olive Blankenbaker is eighty-five years old. I am grateful to her for waiting for me. This is for you, Olive.
THE END
***
THE HIGHWAY ACCIDENT
There is such a thing as a perfect murder. Any detective will admit that some homicides are never recognized for what they are. All of the popular sayings such as “Murder will out” and “There’s no such thing as a perfect crime” are the stuff of fictional mysteries. Although the advent of the space age of forensic science is shifting the odds to the side of law enforcement, there will always be murderers who are never caught. And there will always be murders that are written off as something else.
Even so, some cases of murder do slide through savvy investigators’ tightly woven nets of suspicion. The case that follows, one of Oregon’s most memorable investigations, might never have come to the attention of homicide detectives if sharp-eyed state policemen and apprehensive neighbors had not raised questions. The incredible story that evolved shed harsh light on a marriage that seemed happy despite the fact that its very fabric was riddled with lies and betrayal.
***
The sounds coming through the bedroom wall in the duplex apartment in suburban Salem, Oregon, were too loud and too disturbing for anyone to sleep through. It was very early in the morning on February 25, 1976, when both Marilee* and Doug Blaine* had the same dream, or rather, the same nightmare. Wrenched from deep
sleep in the dark winter night, they sat up in bed. Doug fumbled for a light.
They could hear a woman screaming over and over, “No! No! Don’t!” Then there was only silence, which was followed by a softer sound that was almost like a moan. That was suddenly cut short.
Blaine looked at the clock beside their bed and saw it was three A.M. He and his wife discussed what they should do. Although they had never heard the couple in the adjoining duplex fight before, they agreed that they were probably overhearing a domestic squabble. They hated to interfere in something that was none of their business. What should they do— go knock on the door in the next unit and ask, “What seems to be the problem?” Maybe pound on the wall? They couldn’t phone because they didn’t even know the last name of the people next door, much less their telephone number.
There were no more screams, now. They tried to get back to sleep, but Doug Blaine was troubled and he tossed and turned, watching bare tree limbs bend grotesquely over the streetlight outside as the wind pushed them.
After awhile, he thought he heard someone open the front door of the adjacent duplex. Blaine got out of bed and, without turning on any lights, crept to his living room. Feeling somewhat like a busybody, he eased out of his front door silently and stood in the frigid dark where he knew he was hidden by his car. Everything seemed perfectly normal—both of the neighbors’ cars were parked in the driveway: a Volkswagen bug and a Chevy Vega. Far off, a dog barked and the trees creaked in the wind, but there was no other sound.
Back inside, Blaine heard nothing but the ticking of clocks and the furnace blower. He crawled back in bed and he and his wife tried to go back to sleep.
It was quiet for about twenty minutes, but then they heard drawers being opened and shut next door, closet doors squeaking, and bedsprings settling. Beginning to feel like a fool, Blaine looked out his front window once more. This time, the man next door was carrying what looked like laundry or bedding to the Vega. He made several trips back and forth to the car. Then he got in and started it up. Without pausing to let the engine warm up, he backed out, accelerating as he disappeared down Cedar Court.