On his way to becoming one of Portland's top criminal
defense lawyers, Larry Matasar has learned to be a pretty
shrewd judge of character. But Tom Curtis is one guy
he can't figure out.
Like just about everyone else, Matasar was charmed
by Curtis, the one-time Grant High School student
body president, the middle-class boy next door, the
kid who could make anyone laugh like hell. Last week
he watched his 19-year-old client sentenced to a dozen
years in prison for an armed robbery spree that shocked
Portland and the nation.
Some may say that the sentence is too long; others
that it's not long enough. Either way, you must agree
that Curtis is the kind of kid who really scares you:
How could a kid like that doing anything like
this?
"I feel a sort of civic duty to talk about this case
when I wouldn't feel that way about other cases,"
Matasar says. "It's an important problem. Why do people
do things like this? It's obvious why poor people
steal, for instance. But what makes this so complicated
is Tom had so much to lose."
Matasar first met Curtis as a first-grader but got
to know him better much later, after the Grant High
student had what seemed to be two minor scuffles with
the law.
In August 1997--long before Curtis was a suspect
in 19 armed robberies--he was accused of stealing
from a 7-Eleven. It was kid stuff, really, a chippy
little deal in which Curtis argued with the clerk,
shoved her and ran out of the store with a package
of Twinkies or Doritos or something. Matasar can't
even remember, though he represented Curtis on the
third-degree robbery charge.
As that case was winding through the justice system,
Curtis landed in another scrape. In November 1997,
Curtis had called 911 claiming that he and his friend,
Ethan Thrower, were the victims of an unprovoked gang
attack during which Thrower was shot. Curtis was always
good at that. He could always think on his feet, talk
his way out of a jam. But this time, it backfired.
The police realized that Thrower must have shot himself
by shoving the gun into his waistband. Later, Curtis
said he made up the gang fight because he wanted to
cover for Thrower, who had taken his dad's gun.
Curtis took his lumps and pleaded guilty to initiating
a false police report. Lesson learned, Matasar thought.
By that time, the Twinkie caper was in court and
presenting a serious challenge. "We worked hard on
that case," Matasar says. "It was a tough one, involving
several witnesses."
On April 9, 1998, Curtis was acquitted. Matasar felt
vindicated, as if he had helped a good kid get another
chance. "I got to meet a lot of Tom's friends--the
Rose princess, the all-state soccer player, the varsity
tennis players," Matasar recalls. "I have teenagers
of my own, 16 and 18. I think I'm pretty savvy about
what teenagers are like. I thought these were great
kids."
Exactly one week later, however, Matasar was floored
by news that Thrower had been arrested and charged
with armed robbery. "It was Ethan, who I knew, so
that was bad," Matasar recalls. "But when I heard
that Ethan was arrested for an armed robbery that
took place on the same night that he shot himself
in the groin, that was really bad."
Why?
"Because Tom was with him that night."
After Thrower was arrested, Curtis fled. Meanwhile,
the media frenzy began. Tom Curtis became America's
most famous teen criminal.
There was no way he could talk his way out of this
one. Not even Johnnie Cochran could have helped. Measure
11 meant a mandatory 90-month sentence for each armed
robbery. And 19 robberies times 90 months equals more
jail time for his client than Matasar had ever encountered.
They would have to plea bargain.
In the old days, before Measure 11, it might have
been different. Now prosecutors, not judges, have
the balance of power in deciding sentences. Norm Frink,
one of two deputy district attorneys assigned to the
case, wasn't about to haggle. "I told Larry that I
would come to Curtis with my bottom-line offer," he
said. "And I did." He and Jeff Ratliffe offered plea
bargains to each of the six defendants in the robbery
spree according to his or her degree of participation.
By the time Curtis appeared in court last Wednesday,
the end of the story had already been written. Multnomah
County Circuit Judge Linda Bergman simply read the
charges--from a list so long that it took several
minutes and plenty of stumbling just to get through.
Count 1: robbery in the second degree, 70 months...count
7: robbery in the second degree, 70 months...all the
way to count 90: robbery in the first degree, 90 months.
Most of the sentences would run concurrently, so
Curtis faced a total of 12 years in prison. With time
off for good behavior, he could get out in 11 years
and one month.
Curtis read a simple statement to the court: "I know
you hear this every day, when people apologize for
this kind of thing. I just want you and all the victims
to know I am truly sorry for what I've done. I never
intended to hurt anyone, and I'm sorry for the nightmares.
I'd like to thank my parents and friends for their
support."
It was kind of a letdown, both for the victims, who
heard what sounded like a cursory apology, and, no
doubt, for Curtis himself. At his July arraignment,
for instance, the courtroom was so packed with friends,
family and reporters that sheriff's deputies had to
turn people away. But not a single friend showed up
at last week's sentencing hearing. They were all at
work or away at college, where Curtis would have been
if he had behaved.
A handful of victims and his mom, dad and brother,
along with a half-dozen or so reporters, were just
about the only people there to see Curtis off.
So why did he do it? Curtis didn't say. And Matasar
can't figure it out. "Everybody keeps asking me that,"
he says, gesturing like a man about to tear his hair
out.
Curtis will have a long time to contemplate it. With
a pat on the back from Matasar, and an "I love you,
Tom, be strong" from his mom, the Grant High School
student body president headed off to prison.
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Willamette Week | originally
published April 28,
1999
