The murder trial of John E. du Pont, according to Jim Ottenberg '39, "deals a crippling blow to the insanity defense." Decided in February 1997 in Media, Pa., the case concerned the heavily publicized murder of Olympic wrestler David Schultz by eccentric millionaire du Pont. du Pont's lawyers argued that he was mentally ill and brought in two high-profile psychiatrists to testify; the defense countered with four psychiatrists to say that du Pont was sane. After seven days of deliberation, the jury returned with a "compromise" verdict of guilty of third-degree murder but mentally ill.
For Ottenberg, the verdict was a step in the right direction and an indication of change in public opinion about the insanity defense. A harsh critic of the insanity defense, Ottenberg sees the consistent guilty verdicts in highly publicized 1996 cases, such as the Menendez brothers (parent murderers in California), John Salvi (abortion clinic murderer), and Edward Leary (New York City subway bomber), as "a welcome and long-overdue revolt of ordinary people against two groups of 'experts'--defense lawyers and forensic psychiatrists who testify for defendants."
Ottenberg's unusual career history gives him insight into the intersection of law and psychiatry. After graduating from Swarthmore and Harvard Law School, he married Margaret Davies Ottenberg '42 and returned to his native New York to practice law. In 1953 he became involved with the Lexington Democratic Club, which started his transition from law to politics. The group supported Democratic candidates for local positions in a time when campaigning meant ringing doorbells in the apartment buildings of uptown Manhattan.
"I became the best doorbell ringer in the club," recalls Ottenberg, "and I found out I could supervise other doorbell ringers." Interest in politics and administration led Ottenberg to an un-paid managerial position in the 1956 Stevenson presidential campaign and then a paid position in 1960 with John F. Kennedy's campaign. Ottenberg's help with Robert Wagner's successful New York City mayoral campaign two years later landed him a new job as deputy commissioner of mental health. The field of mental health was completely foreign to Ottenberg, but he learned on the job. "Half of my friends were psychiatrists--I don't know why," says Ottenberg, "but I felt comfortable in the milieu."
The 1965 New York City mayoral election of Republican John Lindsay meant the loss of his job in the Mental Health Department and the end of Ottenberg's career as a political appointee.
Starting a third career in the private sector, Ottenberg moved to administration of nonprofit organizations. Eventually, he returned to the administrative end of mental health, this time as administrator for psychiatry and medical administration at Bronx-Lebanon Hospital.
The attempted murder of President Reagan in 1981--and the subsequent ruling that found John Hinckley not guilty by reason of insanity--disturbed Ottenberg and interested him in what he saw as the uses and abuses of the insanity defense. The recent round of sensational cases involving the insanity defense and the prompting of colleagues inspired Ottenberg to begin writing about his longtime interest in the use of the insanity defense--from his perspective as both a former lawyer and a psychiatric administrator. Only weeks before the du Pont verdict, Ottenberg spoke at Bronx-Lebanon Hospital about the insanity defense in its waning believability.
Ottenberg retired from Bronx-Lebanon in September. But, at 79, he is looking forward to a long "fourth minicareer" writing about the intersection of law, psychiatry, and ethics.
--Jim Harker '99
When Nell Lee Kruger '64 and her husband, Chuck, first saw Clear Island on a ferryboat ride in 1986, they felt themselves pulled there emotionally by a powerful and invisible force.
Although the Krugers had not come to the island searching for a final resting place, here--both thought simultaneously--they could lay down their bones and die. Yet the idea went unspoken between them for months; the island had overwhelmed them with its beauty and serenity.
Clear Island, in County Cork, is the southernmost inhabited land off the Irish coast, an eight-mile ferry ride from the mainland. Now 60 acres of its three square miles is home to the Krugers, who moved there permanently in 1992. "It sounds like a small place, but with all the cliffs, canyons, and fingers into the ocean, it feels much bigger," Nell says.
The Krugers' home is an approximately 300-year-old fisherman's cottage. There is also a former ruin of a barn on the land that now serves as a holiday home that they rent to vacationers. Since purchasing the property, they have made many renovations, including the addition of indoor plumbing and electricity.
The island's history and the Krugers' life there have been published in Chuck Kruger's book, Cape Clear: Island Magic (The Collins Press, 1994). The Krugers also have a homepage at http://indigo. ie/~ckstory/ with photographs and information on their land and Clear Island.
Clear Island, Nell says, "is a place where going to get eggs from a neighbor may take six hours during the slow season. You stop for the eggs and are invited in for a cup of tea. Then you're asked to stay for sandwiches that just seem to appear, and all the time you're talking."
After 26 years working as teachers in Switzerland (Nell spent her last 10 years there teaching at the Zurich School of Translation and Interpretation), the Krugers moved to Clear Island. Chuck Kruger describes the island in his book as a place where a half-dozen rainbows can appear on an April afternoon. Nell speaks of the heather, blackberries, and gorse that grow wild on the property. They farm a small portion of their land for vegetables and lend another section to friends who raise cattle and ponies. Nell says she can go three or four months without leaving the island.
For a population of about 130, there are three pubs (there were five), two small grocery stores, a nurse who can make house calls, and a weekend priest. "The island used to have its own priest. But there's a shortage of priests in the country," Nell says.
Island life does have its drawbacks. On a personal level, Nell misses her children, two of whom live in the United States and one of whom is in Switzerland, and the rest of her family. But she says, "I can't live my life for them, nor they for us." She also mentions learning how politicized a small island community can become but is quick to point out the community spirit that thrives here. "If somebody needs help right away, people will drop what they're doing and go to that person," she says.
Nell says she likes the pace of the island. It's also a place where she can be herself.
"Here I can get on with being me or learning more about who I am," says Nell, who makes papier-mâché crafts and pressed-flower pictures and sells them in a craft store she rents on the island. "I'm not distracted by trying to fit into molds. Cape is like a blackberry bush. It's so incredibly sweet, and the thorns prick like hell."
The thorns refer to the toll nature can take on the land and people. Gale-force or even hurricane winds are common and can destroy property. Self-reliance and handyperson know-how are important character traits for those who choose to live there.
"Living on the Cape is like an old comfortable sock that keeps you warm but has a hole in the toe," she says. "It reminds you that comfort requires work."
Nell says the island is a good destination for people who enjoy nature--taking long walks; watching for whales, dolphins, and seals in the sea; or visiting historic sites, including a burial rites passage tomb dating from 3,000 B.C. and 13th- and 14th-century castle ruins. "It's a great place to work on a dissertation," she adds.
"I fell in love with the land," Nell says. "The sea is wide open. The proximity to nature is quite amazing. We had always rented property before. Even in Switzerland for a quarter century we were renters. Now we are owners, though I suspect it's the land that owns us. We feel we belong here."
--Audree Penner
When you go to a concert, it's for the music, but when you go on an international tour with an orchestra, a world of associations opens. As a member of its board of directors, I had the opportunity to spend the Thanksgiving season in Russia and Denmark with Swarthmore's ensemble-in-residence, Orchestra 2001.Traveling with James Freeman, artistic director and Professor of Music, and 13 musicians were composers George Crumb, Hon. '89, and David Finko, their wives, stage manager Ali Momeni '97, board members Kenneth Hieb- ert and Kendall Landis '48 and their wives, and a three-person camera crew. The entire trip was funded by the Four Oaks Foundation of Walter Scheuer '44, who is producing a documentary film about it for PBS.
The first concert, at beautiful Glinka Hall in St. Petersburg (said to be Russia's most prestigious venue), was the final event of "Sound Waves," the weeklong International New Music Festival of St. Petersburg. Alexander Radvilovich, the artistic director, founded the festival in 1989 to provide a venue for the performance of new music.
Orchestra 2001 played two pieces by Crumb, "Music for a Summer Evening" and "Ancient Voices of Children," and one by Finko, "Fromm Septet." Crumb has an almost reverential following in St. Petersburg. On the afternoon before the orchestra's performance, he was given two hours for a seminar at the Composers Society. The admiration of the room full of Russian students and distinguished composers was palpable, not from the profundity of what he said--Crumb has no such pretentions--but simply by his presence.
Michael Byalyk, Russia's foremost music critic, covered the performance. His review glowed with praise for the orchestra and vividly reflected the passionate enthusiasm of the Glinka Hall's capacity crowd: "It was an evening of contemporary American classical music performed by the superb ensemble Orchestra 2001 under the direction of James Freeman.... An extraordinary sense of serenity was expressed both in the music and by the performers' playing of that music, and a feeling of spiritual union between performers and audience was clearly evident. That spiritual union--joyful and sublime--uniting the musicians and the audience, reigned in the Glinka Hall throughout the evening."
David Finko was born and raised in what was then Leningrad. Fearing for their safety in the former Soviet Union, David, his wife, and son emigrated to the United States in 1979. During this emotional return to St. Petersburg 18 years later, the Finkos invited some of us to join them on a visit to the family plot in the city's one ancient Jewish cemetery. I was walking by myself among the grave sites' overgrown trees and lurching fences when a woman stopped me. "Bist a yid?" ("Are you Jewish?") she asked in Yiddish. Her family lived in St. Petersburg; it was difficult, she said, sometimes, "nit tu kain shtihkl broit" ("not even a piece of bread"). Now she's the only one left--the rest are "here." She turned away with, "a solchen vei" ("such a sorrow"). I understood; I had heard the same words, said the same way, from my grandparents who left Russia a century ago.
Because there had been "incidents" on the six-hour night train from St. Petersburg to Moscow, we took an earlier evening run, arriving safely at the dark Moscow station by 10 o'clock. At our hotel the desk clerk shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. Something was improper. She wanted to keep our passports, visas, and credit cards overnight. It wasn't a welcome proposition, but after a half-hour of shuffling and whispering, back came our documents, room keys, and a big smile. We had heard it was like that in Russia.
The Moscow concerts, at Rachmaninoff Hall of the Moscow Conservatory, were arranged by Conservatory Professor Svetlana Sigida and solo clarinetist of the Bolshoi Rafael Bagdasarian, who two years ago had played at Swarthmore and would be our clarinetist on this tour. Joining us, too, were the Bolshoi's principal bass and principal second violin. The performance in Moscow was excellent, though we were surprised the crowd was only half the size of our St. Petersburg audience. Only later did we learn that three other concerts--were taking place in different halls of the Conservatory at the same time as ours.
In Denmark we had no "incidents" or bothersome desk clerks. Sleek modern trains and buses whisper precisely through their schedules, and the hospitality was warm.
The orchestra was to perform at the Teacher Training Colleges at Tvind and Nebbegaard, which are part of a Danish private school system that takes pride in its un-orthodox curriculum, including six-month stints of "solidarity work" in places like Mozambique, and the annual Yule concerts.
During a festival of George Crumb's music in Ljubljana, Slovenia, last summer, James Freeman and Orchestra 2001 soprano Barbara Ann Martin met June Jørgensen and Grete Andersen, two Danish teachers. They talked about doing Crumb's music, and the decision was made to include Orchestra 2001 and "Ancient Voices of Children" in the Yule concerts for this year.
The all-day (10 a.m. to 10 p.m.) concerts are designed to provide a variety of music from different countries for the education and appreciation of the student body and their families. The schools' 1,000-seat auditoriums had a nightclub atmosphere, with round tables and elegant meals and snacks in the breaks between performances that, in addition to Orchestra 2001, included an a capella choir from Minsk, a Polish symphony orchestra, solo percussionist Gert Mortensen, the blind sitar virtuoso Baluji Shrivastav guiding the audience through a musical meditation, and Barbara Ann Martin accompanied by Orchestra 2001 pianist Marcantonio Barone in a series of operatic numbers and show tunes.
Between performances we were housed, fed, and pampered by our own private caretakers, one of whom was 16-year-old second-year student Penelope Hansen, who later wrote her impressions in the Nebbegaard News under the title: "Were They Crazy or Musically Gifted?"
"This year's Christmas concerts were very special because there were loads of new music and artists. Laena and I were hosts for an orchestra from the USA called 2001. They were nice and enormously friendly. They played new and very good music, which certainly made an impression on me, and in one way or another, on the whole audience.
"Their music was the kind that if you heard it without seeing them and their instruments, you'd think that a group of nonmusical people were tuning instruments. Seeing them perform made a world of difference and gave sense to the chaos. The more we heard their music, the more we liked it.
"We were sad to say good-bye when they left, but they said we must come over and visit them. They'd arrange accommodation and everything. So next year, we'll definitely go over and visit our new friends."
We shall greet them with open arms!
Arnold Gessel '54 is retired from the practice of psychiatry. He lives in Rose Valley, Pa.
Rob Henderson (far left) leads the group on their early-morning run.
As men of honor, we live our lives with integrity. Pride is a justifiable sense of our worth and is instilled through positive accomplishments. Without respect, honor, pride, and loyalty, we are nothing." Noble words, worthy of a knight of the Round Table&emdash;the stuff of medieval courtly literature. But this quote is extracted not from a Middle Ages code of chivalry but from a creed recited daily by a group of juveniles gathered around a rather less splendid table than King Arthur's at the Chester (Pa.) Regional Probation Office. The creed is a part of the day-to-day routine at an eight-week-long boot camp organized by Chester probation officers as an alternative to placing young felons in more isolated rehabilitation facilities outside their own community. The boot camp is the brainchild of Rob Henderson '92, a probation officer in the Chester office since 1994.
Leaving Swarthmore with a major in sociology/anthropology and a black studies concentration, Henderson entered a managerial program with Acme supermarkets. Despite the chance for quick promotion and its accompanying financial security, Henderson aspired to a more satisfying career. "I came upon probation," he says, "submitted my resume, and here I am." Thanks to an innovative supervisor in his first year, Henderson and his colleagues were encouraged to create their own programs for dealing with juvenile delinquents; in particular they wished to find ways of steering young people away from the streets. In 1994 and 1995, the officers offered summer classes on topics like sex education, black history, or conflict resolution to young people on probation; attendance was low, and Henderson thought that the youngsters were not being reached effectively. From his suggestion to combine classroom exercises with a strenuous physical regimen within a structured, almost militaristic framework, the boot camp was born. Ten participants were selected from felons aged 14 to 18 who were not thriving on probation and were on the verge of being placed in correctional facilities; boot camp was their last chance to avoid placement.
The camp's first session in 1996 was not as successful as the officers had hoped; the close relations that they established with the youngsters created problems with authority. "There was no strict line they knew not to cross," said Henderson. So the 1997 camp was "a much more disciplined, in-your-face kind of thing." Rules and regulations were drawn up and studied along with the consequences for breaking them; the creed postulating respect, honor, loyalty, and hope had to be memorized within the first week and recited daily. Participants were only allowed out of their homes to attend camp, their whereabouts being monitored around the clock by electronic devices strapped around their ankles.
They were awoken daily at 7 a.m. and were expected to be at the probation office 45 minutes later. For 90 minutes they did calisthenics and jogged three to eight miles. The staff of three men and two women accompanied them throughout their drills. Team-building exercises followed. Returning to the classroom, they discussed newspaper articles&emdash;preferably on topics they could identify with and relate to&emdash;read aloud by group members. They were instructed in grammar and writing, black history, sex education, drug and alcohol education, and life skills. Each Friday they performed community service, either at the Senior Community Center in Chester, where they prepared and served meals and cleaned, or out in the streets of the town picking up trash or cleaning the municipal buildings. Points were assigned daily for positive or negative behavior; at the end of each week, the points were added up, and armbands of various colors were distributed. Red, black, and green designated various levels of achievement, and one of each was required to graduate. The campers were serious about earning their armbands; when on one occasion two of them lost their bands because of bad behavior, Henderson says, "It was like the end of the world for them. They had earned something, and we took it away. They saw it as something worthwhile." At boot camp's end, eight graduated; two were placed in rehab facilities after repeatedly breaking the rules. Some are in school, others are working, and three of the original group reoffended.
As an after-care officer who supervizes the young felons when they come out of placement, Henderson has seen juveniles come out of an intensely structured environment only to be thrown back into a living situation that has very little structure. And as a probation officer seeing the youngsters three times a week for a few minutes at a time, he knows that this is by no means sufficient for him to effect a change or reinforce what has been instilled during the period of placement. He believes that the boot camp gives the juveniles an opportunity to change for the better within their community and so is more likely to have a lasting effect on their behavior. "With placement," he says, "they feel the only place they can change is outside the community; this [the camp experience] gives them energy when they see that change can occur on their own turf."
--Carol Brevart
Swarthmore College 1998. All rights reserved.