THE CRIME THAT CHANGED PUNISHMENT

In 1992, Steve Doell's daughter was killed. Since then his rage has helped
transform Oregon.

Her name was Lisa Doell.

Just 12 years old, she was a star pupil at Waluga Junior High who dreamed
of becoming an actress. She had just gotten off the school bus that October
afternoon in 1992 and was walking along Lake Oswego's North Shore Drive.

The car struck her from behind. Within two blocks of her grandmother's
house, she was killed instantly by the impact. The teenager behind the
wheel sped away.

When police caught up with 16-year-old Andrew Whitaker, he explained how it
happened. He just "homed in," stepped on the accelerator and ran her down.
"It wasn't an accident," Whitaker told police. "I did it on purpose." He
had even bragged to a friend about the dent in his father's silver
Oldsmobile.

The crime was bad enough. The punishment only added to the horror. Instead
of intentional murder, a jury found Whitaker guilty of manslaughter, which
under state law carried a maximum sentence of three years.

Thirty-six months didn't seem like much when weighed against a girl's life.
Especially at a time when fear of violence was sweeping the country, when
politicians were duking it out to win the tough-on-crime crown, and when
Oregon's criminal justice system was already under fire.

"In that kind of atmosphere, sometimes a very small spark can cause a large
explosion," says Dick Springer, who at the time served on the state Senate
Judiciary Committee. "That's kind of how I would see Lisa Doell's death."

Her father's grief and rage have been part of the fuel. For five years,
Steve Doell has played a central role in a kind of people's revolution.
Last year, he became head of Crime Victims United, an advocacy group
that--since his daughter's death--has had remarkable success in shaping
crime policy in this state by taking power away from elected officials and
putting it in the hands of voters.

In the last four years, five silver-bullet ballot measures--two of which
were crafted specifically with Lisa Doell in mind--have steamrolled years
of legislation and precedent.

Love it or hate it, the influence that crime victims like Steve Doell have
had in changing this state's priorities is undeniable.

Need proof? Since 1993, the combined budget for the Department of
Corrections and the Oregon Youth Authority has almost doubled--from $440
million to $836 million.

This November, Doell, 48, will take an even more public role as a
co-sponsor of Measure 61, which will take the revolution one step further
by lengthening sentences for 35 different crimes (see "Tougher on Crime,"
page 25). Most observers expect Measure 61 to pass if it reaches the
ballot, although the state Supreme Court is now considering a
signature-count challenge by opponents.

With Oregon's justice system now determined the same way as its tax policy
is--through the initiative process--it's time to take a look at the clout
of one grief-stricken dad.

Just over ten years ago, Oregon's system of crime and punishment was a
joke. We hadn't added a prison bed in years. Because of overcrowding,
virtually all prisoners were released at least six months before their
scheduled parole dates, and some inmates were given temporary leave to make
room for the endless supply of new convicts. "There was a gigantic gap
between what was being said in the courtroom and what was actually
happening," Multnomah County District Attorney Mike Schrunk recalled. "[In
some cases], 10-year sentences were really 60 days. It was ridiculous."

There was also a problem with equity. While there were maximum sentences on
state law books, judges had tremendous leeway in doling out punishment. For
example, a thief from Coos Bay might be sentenced to five years behind bars
while one in Portland would get a short stint in jail.

In 1987, the Criminal Justice Council, a committee of prosecutors, defense
lawyers, judges, probation officers, legislators and citizens, embarked on
what would become a two-year project to transform that broken system.

They came up with a system called Sentencing Guidelines. It was essentially
a new scale of justice that weighed the need to punish offenders,
particularly violent ones, against the desire to keep prison spending at a
reasonable level.

Under the guidelines, sentences were standardized across the state,
although judges still had the power to tailor those sentences to individual
offenders using specific criteria.

Most important, in 1988 then Gov. Neil Goldschmidt reluctantly agreed to
build hundreds of new prison beds (a promise that was later followed
through by his successors) so that offenders would serve their full
sentences. Parole, the bane of crime victims, was eliminated.

"Oregon's sentencing guidelines were considered about the best in the
country," says Multnomah County Presiding Judge James Ellis, who worked on
the committee.

There was just one problem: Even with the new prison cells, there wasn't
room for everybody at the inn, so some sentences still seemed too lenient.
For example, the standard sentence for a car thieves was generally
probation, possibly including some jail time--even for two-time offenders.
Some violent offenders could receive probation if they had no prior
offenses.

But without building even more prison beds--something few in the
Legislature had the stomach for--the sentences couldn't change.

The story of a disturbed teenager and the girl he killed helped convince
voters to take matters into their own hands.

In the summer of 1992, Steve Doell was floundering. After working in sales
and marketing at Tenneco for 15 years, he was without a job. The company
offered him a promotion, but it would have required moving to Los Angeles.
"It was either up or out," he recalls. He chose the latter because he
wanted to stay in Lake Oswego near his two children, Lisa and her older
brother, Scott, who were living with their mother. The couple had divorced
three years earlier (see "Irreconcilable Differences," page 29).

At the time, Doell figured he would find a new career in a related field.
Then, on Oct. 21, he got the awful news: Lisa had been killed by a
hit-and-run driver.

The next 12 months were torture for the Doells. They endured a seven-day
remand hearing to determine whether Whitaker should be tried in juvenile
court. "It was very long and very painful," Steve Doell says. "You have to
listen to clinical psychologists and psychiatrists saying why [defendants]
are just real good people who were having a bad day. That's very painful to
a family." In the end, the judge sided with the prosecution. Whitaker would
face trial as an adult.

Then, the Doells sat through a eight-day trial and three days of jury
deliberation. In the end, Whitaker was found innocent of intentional
murder, despite the fact that he told police he had run the girl over on
purpose. He was found guilty of second-degree manslaughter, a crime which
under Sentencing Guidelines carried a maximum sentence of 36 months.

Steve Doell decided to fight. He joined Crime Victims United, an advocacy
and support group headed at the time by Bob and Dee Dee Kouns. The couple,
now retired, began working on crime issues in 1980, after their daughter
Valerie disappeared in California. (Her body has never been found, and no
one has been prosecuted for the crime.) Today, the group has about 800
members statewide, only about 25 to 50 of whom are active. "It's run on a
very thin dime," Doell says. He says he relies on a settlement from his
daughter's death to pay his bills.

CVU worked to change the justice system on two fronts: through the
Legislature and through the initiative process. Legislative successes were
few; CVU was often blocked by Democrats who were in control of both
chambers until 1991. The group did get several initiatives approved by
voters--for example, a victims' rights measure in 1986--but these were
isolated victories in a climate otherwise unreceptive to getting tough on
crime.

>From the early 90s, that all changed.

In 1994, the country underwent the Republican revolution, as Democrats were
tossed from office nationwide. In 1995, Republicans gained control of both
chambers of the Oregon Legislature, giving CVU a more receptive audience.

In addition, inmates who were convicted before the Sentencing Guidelines
took effect were still being released early. Publicity over these
releases--and the growing fear of crime--played into CVU's hands. And, of
course, there was the story of Lisa Doell.

By 1994, the political climate was ripe for crimefighters. Then state Rep.
Kevin Mannix, an ambitious Democrat from Salem (who is now running for
office as a Republican), jumped on the opportunity. He proposed a
triumvirate of ballot measures--10, 11 and 17--that would dramatically
alter the way justice was meted out in this state.

Measure 11 was the most sweeping of the three. It required long minimum
sentences for certain crimes, including robbery, rape and murder, and it
applied to first-time offenses. It also required offenders as young as 15
to be treated as adults--a provision Mannix says he added with Whitaker's
grueling remand hearing in mind.

Doell's daughter was a key player in the campaign.

Lisa's death was mentioned in radio ads, in the Voters' Pamphlet and in
editorial boardrooms. "We heard a lot about Lisa Doell and her
circumstances," recalls Ingrid Swenson, a Portland defense lawyer who
fought the measure.

For example, Lisa's paternal grandfather, Edward Doell, penned this Voters'
Pamphlet statement: "My beautiful 12-year-old granddaughter, Lisa Marie
Doell, was murdered October 21 1992 in a violent and random act
If your
family were victimized by violent crime, which sentence would you want
imposed on the criminal?"

Opponents of the measure were unable to counter such volatile emotional
fuel. It passed overwhelmingly, with 65 percent of the votes in favor,
thereby tossing out a large portion of the Sentencing Guidelines. Judges
could no longer tailor the sentence to the crime. Without this discretion,
they were, as one prosecutor said, "like potted plants in the courtroom."

"Measure 11 is the gorilla that ate the whole system," Swenson says. "It
runs the whole show here."

That same year, 65 percent of voters approved Measure 10, which prevents
the Legislature from overturning any part of Measure 11 without a
two-thirds majority. And 70 percent of voters passed Measure 17, which
required all state inmates to work full time to earn their keep.

If the justice system was knocked upside down in 1994, it was given another
stiff kick two years later.

In 1996, CVU pushed for Measures 26 and 40. Once again, Lisa Doell was a
key figure in the campaigns. Steve Doell even helped to write one of the
measures with his daughter in mind.

A Voters' Pamphlet statement in favor of Measure 26, which eliminates the
Constitution's prohibition against "vindictive justice," read: "Remember
the horrific story of a teenage boy who purposely ran over a young girl
simply for the thrill of doing it?" The statement was signed by Sen. Gordon
Smith, Rep. Chuck Carpenter and Rep. Beverly Clarno.

Doell took particular interest in the crafting and passage of Measure 40,
called a crime victims' "bill of rights." Among other things, the measure
allows 11-1 jury verdicts in murder cases (instead of only unanimous
verdicts) and changes the rules of evidence--provisions that stemmed
directly from his daughter's case.

Both initiatives passed with overwhelming margins, although portions of
Measure 40 have since been thrown out by the state Supreme Court.

Taken in combination, says Emily Simon, a Portland defense lawyer, the
measures have amounted to "virtually a revolution in the way in which the
criminal justice system works."

Like the Kounses before him, Doell has also worked another angle--the
Legislature.

"He's a pretty tireless guy," says Mark Gardner, special counsel to the
attorney general. "He's [at the Capitol] all the time. He's lobbying and
lobbying and lobbying."

Observers in Salem have mixed opinions about his skills. Some, like former
Rep. John Minnis, say he's a "very articulate man" who knows

Checked-by: Joel W. Johnson