APRIL 30, 2009 FEATURES WHITMAN COLLEGE PIONEER 15

On May 18, 1987, Whitman student Tristram Lun-dquist, a sophomore, died of multiple gunshot wounds to the chest from a .22 caliber hand gun. He was mur-dered by fellow Whitman student, senior Eric Maxon.

Prior to the murder, Lundquist and Maxon fought over the affections of the same girl, sophomore Su-zanne Meuret.

Lundquist was murdered over a love-triangle.“It was a pretty standard love triangle. Suzanne had

been dating Eric first and had just gotten tired of the relationship or somehow it had broken up,” said Whit-man alum, Brek Lawson. Lawson, who graduated in 1990, lived with both Lundquist and Meuret in Lyman during the time of the relationship drama and ensuing murder.

Matt Cleman, a fellow Lyman resident in 1987, also spoke of the affair.

“Suzanne and Eric broke up about November or De-

cember…she started going out with ‘Tris’ sometime in January or February,” said Cleman in a May 20, 1987 issue of the Union Bulletin.

At about 1:30 p.m. on the day of the murder, Maxon came to Lyman where Lundquist lived and took the victim to wheatfields eight miles Northeast of Walla Walla to “talk” over their differences regarding their mutual lady love. Maxon returned without Lundquist and by 7:35 p.m., Lundquist was reported missing.

According to Lawson, the romantic combination of Lundquist, Maxon and Meuret was dumbfounding.

“I guess part of the, well I don’t want to say humor of it, but it was ironic that these three people were in-volved in a love triangle,” he said.

Lawson depicted the students involved as colorful characters.

b y Ch e l s e a B i s s e l l

In the 1970s, Whitman professors ran a se-ries of programs that brought students and inmates from the Washington State Peniten-tiary into close contact—maybe too close.

“The philosophy…was to increase the in-teraction between residents and free people,” said Professor of Physics, Emeritus Craig Gunsel, who initially became involved in the program after his wife encouraged him to volunteer.

Through what was called the “Social Therapy Program,” prisoners mixed with Whitman students in the Olin Hall facul-ty lounge, and even went home with them through the “Take a Lifer to Dinner” pro-gram. For the most part, these interactions took place without police supervision.

“When I look back on some of things we did with some of those guys, it’s shocking nothing happened. We were rolling with some real hard guys,” said Professor of For-eign Languages and Literatures Emeritus Dale Cosper.

Cosper started the program in 1971, along with Lee Bowker and Paul Peterson, both professors at the time. Within two years Pe-terson and Bowker had left and Cosper was running the program. Gunsel took over in 1975.

The then warden and associate warden were also Whitman alumni and very sup-portive of the programs, allowing them to expand.

Through “Take a Lifer to Dinner” students

would “check out” a convicted murderer and bring him home for a meal, before returning him to prison. There were no guards pres-ent during these exchanges, and according to Cosper, “a couple of those guys escaped while they were at people’s houses for din-ner.”

“Looking back on it, it seems kind of na-ïve, but before…these programs were pro-gressive, an effort to provide something dif-ferent,” said Cosper.

During their peak popularity, student par-ticipation in the programs reached between two and three hundred students.

“Whitman students are very, very bright but they are also naïve,” Gunsel said. “After they went out to the prison, they would come

back still very bright, but less naïve.”In 1979, an inmate stabbed an officer,

instigating a prison lockdown. During this time, prisoners were not allowed to leave their cells at all. According to Gunsel, this event dramatically altered the culture of the penitentiary.

Although shocking, the prison’s compara-tive laxity thirty years ago coincided with a record number of convicts earning Asso-ciate’s degrees—more, in fact, than in any other prison in the nation. The prison cur-rently offers only GED courses and English as a Second Language.

“The hope was that if convicts were given the opportunity, they would take on respon-sibilities,” said Gunsel.

!While Whitman may not be a large city school in a rough neighborhood or have the Hilton sisters as students, its rumor mill op-erates overtime. From the playful story of a ghost in North Hall to more insidious ru-mors, the gossip is always titillating. One of the most controversial products of campus hearsay is that Whitman subsidizes police cruisers to shield students from the law.

According to one version of this rumor,

former president Thomas Cronin (who served from 1993-2005) funded Walla Walla Police Department (WWPD) patrol vehicles for campus use.

Allegedly, Cronin “bought off” the police so that they would protect the campus but let students off easily in instances of underage drinking and partying.

“I don’t know if it is true, but it goes along with other stories of Whitman students [be-

ing] left alone by the law,” said junior David Protter.

Protter listed some examples, including Whitman students who scaled the Marcus Whitman with grappling hooks only to be picked up by the college shortly after, stu-dents caught hot-boxing a car in the wheat fields and told by the officer to “have a safe

night,” and instances of students whose speeding tickets are waived when they “ac-

cidentally” pull out their Whitman I.D.sAccording to some students, Whitman is

a major financial supporter of the police de-partment.

“I’ve heard that Whitman is the number one funder of the police force, buying them new cop cars each year,” said senior Matt Cameron.

b y Sh annon B uc kh am

BY

C J

WISLER

EDITORS’ NOTE: What follows in this five-page features spread are some of the legends that have been floating around Whitman campus. We have heard these subjects discussed in low whispers from students who are unsure of the truth, and we wanted to set the record straight about some of the more prominent rumors.

ERIC MAXON , ‘87,

CONVICTED OF MURDER

TRISTRAM LUNDQUIST,

‘89, VICTIM

SUZANNE MEURAT,

‘89, LOVE INTEREST

14 WHITMAN COLLEGE PIONEER FEATURES APRIL 30, 2009

APRIL 30, 2009 FEATURES WHITMAN COLLEGE PIONEER 15

On May 18, 1987, Whitman student Tristram Lun-dquist, a sophomore, died of multiple gunshot wounds to the chest from a .22 caliber hand gun. He was mur-dered by fellow Whitman student, senior Eric Maxon.

Prior to the murder, Lundquist and Maxon fought over the affections of the same girl, sophomore Su-zanne Meuret.

Lundquist was murdered over a love-triangle.“It was a pretty standard love triangle. Suzanne had

been dating Eric first and had just gotten tired of the relationship or somehow it had broken up,” said Whit-man alum, Brek Lawson. Lawson, who graduated in 1990, lived with both Lundquist and Meuret in Lyman during the time of the relationship drama and ensuing murder.

Matt Cleman, a fellow Lyman resident in 1987, also spoke of the affair.

“Suzanne and Eric broke up about November or De-

cember…she started going out with ‘Tris’ sometime in January or February,” said Cleman in a May 20, 1987 issue of the Union Bulletin.

At about 1:30 p.m. on the day of the murder, Maxon came to Lyman where Lundquist lived and took the victim to wheatfields eight miles Northeast of Walla Walla to “talk” over their differences regarding their mutual lady love. Maxon returned without Lundquist and by 7:35 p.m., Lundquist was reported missing.

According to Lawson, the romantic combination of Lundquist, Maxon and Meuret was dumbfounding.

“I guess part of the, well I don’t want to say humor of it, but it was ironic that these three people were in-volved in a love triangle,” he said.

Lawson depicted the students involved as colorful characters.

b y Ch e l s e a B i s s e l l

In the 1970s, Whitman professors ran a se-ries of programs that brought students and inmates from the Washington State Peniten-tiary into close contact—maybe too close.

“The philosophy…was to increase the in-teraction between residents and free people,” said Professor of Physics, Emeritus Craig Gunsel, who initially became involved in the program after his wife encouraged him to volunteer.

Through what was called the “Social Therapy Program,” prisoners mixed with Whitman students in the Olin Hall facul-ty lounge, and even went home with them through the “Take a Lifer to Dinner” pro-gram. For the most part, these interactions took place without police supervision.

“When I look back on some of things we did with some of those guys, it’s shocking nothing happened. We were rolling with some real hard guys,” said Professor of For-eign Languages and Literatures Emeritus Dale Cosper.

Cosper started the program in 1971, along with Lee Bowker and Paul Peterson, both professors at the time. Within two years Pe-terson and Bowker had left and Cosper was running the program. Gunsel took over in 1975.

The then warden and associate warden were also Whitman alumni and very sup-portive of the programs, allowing them to expand.

Through “Take a Lifer to Dinner” students

would “check out” a convicted murderer and bring him home for a meal, before returning him to prison. There were no guards pres-ent during these exchanges, and according to Cosper, “a couple of those guys escaped while they were at people’s houses for din-ner.”

“Looking back on it, it seems kind of na-ïve, but before…these programs were pro-gressive, an effort to provide something dif-ferent,” said Cosper.

During their peak popularity, student par-ticipation in the programs reached between two and three hundred students.

“Whitman students are very, very bright but they are also naïve,” Gunsel said. “After they went out to the prison, they would come

back still very bright, but less naïve.”In 1979, an inmate stabbed an officer,

instigating a prison lockdown. During this time, prisoners were not allowed to leave their cells at all. According to Gunsel, this event dramatically altered the culture of the penitentiary.

Although shocking, the prison’s compara-tive laxity thirty years ago coincided with a record number of convicts earning Asso-ciate’s degrees—more, in fact, than in any other prison in the nation. The prison cur-rently offers only GED courses and English as a Second Language.

“The hope was that if convicts were given the opportunity, they would take on respon-sibilities,” said Gunsel.

!

While Whitman may not be a large city school in a rough neighborhood or have the Hilton sisters as students, its rumor mill op-erates overtime. From the playful story of a ghost in North Hall to more insidious ru-mors, the gossip is always titillating. One of the most controversial products of campus hearsay is that Whitman subsidizes police cruisers to shield students from the law.

According to one version of this rumor,

former president Thomas Cronin (who served from 1993-2005) funded Walla Walla Police Department (WWPD) patrol vehicles for campus use.

Allegedly, Cronin “bought off” the police so that they would protect the campus but let students off easily in instances of underage drinking and partying.

“I don’t know if it is true, but it goes along with other stories of Whitman students [be-

ing] left alone by the law,” said junior David Protter.

Protter listed some examples, including Whitman students who scaled the Marcus Whitman with grappling hooks only to be picked up by the college shortly after, stu-dents caught hot-boxing a car in the wheat fields and told by the officer to “have a safe

night,” and instances of students whose speeding tickets are waived when they “ac-

cidentally” pull out their Whitman I.D.sAccording to some students, Whitman is

a major financial supporter of the police de-partment.

“I’ve heard that Whitman is the number one funder of the police force, buying them new cop cars each year,” said senior Matt Cameron.

b y Sh annon B uc kh am

BY

C J

WISLER

EDITORS’ NOTE: What follows in this five-page features spread are some of the legends that have been floating around Whitman campus. We have heard these subjects discussed in low whispers from students who are unsure of the truth, and we wanted to set the record straight about some of the more prominent rumors.

ERIC MAXON , ‘87,

CONVICTED OF MURDER

TRISTRAM LUNDQUIST,

‘89, VICTIM

SUZANNE MEURAT,

‘89, LOVE INTEREST

14 WHITMAN COLLEGE PIONEER FEATURES APRIL 30, 2009

16 APRIL 30, 2009 FEATURES WHITMAN COLLEGE PIONEER 17

By protesting the Vietnam War draft, stu-dents in the late 60s were increasing their own likelihood of being drafted. Despite this threat, Whitman students continued to make their opinions heard.

Between 1967 and 1970 “The Hershey Directive” put in place by General Lewis Blaine Hershey said that the act of protest-ing could actually void a person’s educa-tion deferment and put him or her at risk of being drafted immediately. Because they saw this as an impediment to free speech, many Whitman students felt that military recruiters should not be allowed to solicit on campus.

In the morning of April 15, 1968, se-nior Charles Lawrence, who now teaches at Seattle University, and junior Michael De Grasse, who is now a lawyer in Walla Walla, were arrested for blocking military vehicles from entering the Student Union Building (which has since been replaced by Maxey Hall).

“People viewed it as an anti-war protest, and it was. But it was a free speech effort as well,” said De Grasse in his address to the class of ‘69, who had their reunion last weekend. “Just for protesting, you could be subjected to a draft, and this made many people afraid to protest. We thought this wasn’t something the school should put up

with, and the entire student congress had voted for recruiters to be barred.”

According to De Grasse, the protest was not a “momentary eruption,” rather, it took a great deal of planning. The organiz-ers chose a designated “leaker” to spread news of the protest before it occurred, and 15 to 20 students volunteered to help block the road. De Grasse also said that this was not merely a “romantic effort.” Each par-ticipant expected to be suspended and ar-rested.

“The plan was that we would be asked to leave, and all but two of us would leave. The two of us would be arrested and then two more would sit down. We would con-tinue this for about a day, and then the recruiters would get bored with it and go home,” said De Grasse.

However, the plan was destroyed when they found out that instead of just being taken to jail, slapped on the wrists and re-leased, the protesters would be locked up until they paid a $100 bail each.

“We simply didn’t have the funds for ev-eryone to get arrested,” De Grasse said.

Tom Edwards, who was an Assistant Professor of History here in ‘68 and also spoke at the reunion, said that he fully sup-ported the student protests on campus dur-ing the 60s and 70s.

“I was very supportive of student ac-tivism. Sometimes students went a little too far, but they were just young!” he said. “The students in ‘68 were revo-lutionary, they were a different type of students. It was the years between ‘64 and ‘72 that shaped Whitman into what it is today.”

Edwards said that he isn’t sure how he feels about the way the administration handled this issue.

“I’ve often thought about the idea that maybe the administration overreacted, but I’m really not sure if anything else could have been done,” he said, during a phone interview. “On the one hand, shouldn’t military recruiters be allowed to recruit? But on the other hand it was a very tense time. Hershey said that those who protest-ed the draft would lose their draft defer-ment, and that is a violation of American Rights.”

Protests such as this one were going on all across the country, but according to Ed-wards not all of them were as nonviolent as this one.

“In 1968, a professor from Berkeley came to visit, and he said that there’s no problem here. There’s no graffiti, no violence. But

we just haven’t had any violence because it’s a small enough school that if students

t h i n k something is wrong then they can go talk to someone about it. At a school like Co-lumbia it is a different story.”

Ultimately, in 1970 the Supreme Court ruled that “The Hershey Directive” was unconstitutional. President Richard Nixon then removed Hershey from the Selective Service but appointed him as presidential advisor and promoted him to a full four-star General. At that time, Hershey was the only one to have received this rank without ever having served in combat.

When Nixon came to visit the campus in September 1971, Whitman activists flew

the American Flag backwards to protest war and his actions as president.

Lawrence, who also spoke at the re-union, sees the draft threat as a defining

part of his college years.“Without the draft, we would have had

a very different experience at Whitman,” he said.

He also has only one regret about the way students conducted the 1968 protest.

“We should have just had them arrest everybody and not worried about the bail!” he said.

Twenty-one years before Whitman’s first di-versity symposium, the campus

was embroiled in controversy over college investments

in companies serving apartheid-era South

Africa. To protest the spending,

s t u d e n t s cons t r uc ted

a shanty town in front of Memo-

rial Building to dem-onstrate the poor living

conditions of black South Af-ricans.

In addition to creating a make-shift slum, Whitman Stu-

dents for Social Change planned theatre per-

formances, cam-pus discus-

sions and a c a n d l e l i g h t

vigil to raise awareness of the is-

sue. Ann Pelo, a rep-resentative of the group,

resigned a month prior from a special investment advisory com-

mittee set up by the college in response

to student outcry. She told the Walla Walla Union-Bulletin in March of 1986 that the shanty town symbolized how Whitman’s spending was antithetical to human rights.

“The shanty town is an expressive statement of condemnation of apartheid voiced through soli-darity with the South African blacks,” Pelo said.

Blacks living in racially segregated South Af-rica were not eligible to vote, and the government restricted their mobility. This system of apartheid lasted from 1948-1994.

At that time, Whitman owned stock in more than a dozen companies conducting business in South Africa, including IBM and Coca-Cola. These investments generated about $375,000 in revenue each year, and were worth a total of about ten million dollars.

While the debate reached a tipping point during the week leading up to a Friday Board of Trustees meeting to address concerns, critics had been urg-ing divestment for several months, and students had arranged a one-day boycott of class. College spending had become a subject of extreme conten-tion.

“Do we need educational institutions which are fiscally sound but morally bankrupt?” wrote Jack Riehl in an inflammatory letter to the editor, in which he also identified himself as a Whitman alumnus and former member of the administration. In the letter, which was published in Februrary, Riehl also accused

the Board of Trustees of having “developed an avarice and greed which is famous, but which is actually better suited to a private business than to a liberal arts education” and that “ob-sessed with material security, they have loudly ignored the larger questions of purpose and greater human understanding…Whitman is no-where near the quality institution it pretends to be.”

According to then Dean of Students Russel DeRemer, students had college approval to con-struct their symbolic shanty town. Although the Union-Bulletin reported that around 50 students showed up to help build, enthusiasm had fizzled

by the end of the week as students began leaving for Spring Break.

Despite a vote by students and faculty to re-move funding, the Board of Trustees voted to re-tain investments, limiting only those that would directly benefit the South African government or

military. Whitman treasurer Pete Reid argued that con-

tinuing to invest was a better way to urge compa-nies to “apply pressure where it could best be ap-plied on the South African government to remove apartheid.”

A report adopted by the Board of Trustees fur-ther stated, “There is not evidence to indicate that divestment is an effective strategy for improving the admittedly reprehensible situation in South Africa.”

Another part of the rumor is that current president George Bridges stopped subsidizing police cars be-cause he found it immoral.

Bridges, however, called the rumor humorous but untrue, adding that speculation about Whitman’s in-volvement in the community may have originated because of another former president, Chester Maxey (president from 1948-1959).

“At one point… Maxey was also the mayor of Walla Walla. He may have undertaken something like this,” Bridges said. “I do know that he is single-handedly re-sponsible for shutting down the brothels in Walla Wal-la, partly to keep the Whitman men in line, but also at the request of the federal government.”

Chester Maxey’s autobiography, “The World I Lived In: A Personal Story,” reflected on his time as mayor, in-cluding his controversial crackdown on prostitution and gambling, which until that time had been largely tolerated.

While illegal, these activities persisted because the police force “turned a blind eye,” according to Maxey.

For all those conspiracy theorists that love a good rumor depicting the “bad” side of Whitman, police payoffs make a fun story to retell, but lack any clear evidence.

Whitman’s Treasurer and Financial Officer Peter

Harvey said that while Whitman’s relationship with the police department is “collaborative,” the WWPD receives no funding from the college.

Off-duty fire fighters and police officers are also al-lowed to use Baker Ferguson Fitness Center for train-ing purposes.

“Though the college encourages faculty community service – just as it encourages community service in the student body – the college itself does not financial-ly contribute to the police department,” Harvey said.

“To the best of my knowledge… the answer is ‘no,’” said Bridges. “We do not have subsidized police cars from the Walla Walla Police Department.”

b y G i l l i a n Fr e w by Sara Levy

ALDEN

ZIPPARO

ALDEN

18 WHITMAN COLLEGE PIONEER FEATURES APRIL 30, 2009

“Tristram was tall, dark hair, a beard—a thin little beard. He was a trench coat type-of-guy. A bit of an odd person…I think I recall him and some other guys hanging around and playing Dungeons and Dragons. It was big at that time and that was kind of his speed,” said Lawson.

Maxon, was alsoconsidered “odd” by those who knew him, but in a different way.“He was stockier, his hair was a light

brown, he was, hard to say specifically, but overweight just 30 or 40 pounds,” said Lawson. “He was not Tristram, Tristram was tall and thin.”

Considered an “imposing figure” by Lawson and accused of having an “intense personality” by Cleman in the Union Bul-letin, Maxon had the potential to intimidate wiry Lundquist into a wheatfields expedi-tion.

Furthermore, Maxon was athletic, into body building, football and strength. Someone who, according to Cleman, was “really into” being the member of a frat.

At the time of his death, Lundquist was just starting to get into drama. He was also a standout enthusiast of math, physics and astronomy.

“He was simply an outstanding student,” said Phil Sakimoto, Visiting Assistant Pro-fessor of Astronomy and Physics.

But for all their differences, Maxon and Lundquist had the same fatal taste in wom-en and the same competitive edge. Their ri-valry was brewing on a couple of fronts.

“Not only did he and Eric like the same girl, but they had battles over the chess board,” said Lawson. “They matched wits.”

This deadly competition culminated in Maxon’s fateful decision to unleash his wrath against Lundquist with a .22 and his even more surprising decision to turn him-self in half a day later.

Maxon went to Walla Walla police sta-tion at 5:30 am on May 19 and told officers that he was “in some trouble,” and led them to Lundquist’s body.

The state originally charged Maxon with first degree murder. But on January 14, 1988, Maxon pled guilty to a reduced charge of second degree murder. Walla Walla Superior Court Judge Yancey Reser who presided over the case asserted that because of difficulties with evidence in the case, first degree murder would have been difficult to peg.

Controversy around the case thickened as Maxon’s parents were nearly arrested for contempt against the court. The day of the murder, Maxon had placed phone calls to his parents. The elder Maxons initially re-fused to testify against their son or answer any questions regarding their conversations that day. Eventually, they were forced to testify about the conversations in court.

Although Maxon was determined to have had suffered certain mental incapabilities, Judge Reser denied Maxon’s suggestion that his ineptitudes prevented him from a lucid determination of right from wrong on the day of the murder.

Maxon was sentenced to 13 days and eight months in state prison, the longest possible sentence for second degree mur-der.

In spite of the drama surrounding the murder involving two Whitman students, there were varied reactions to the event on campus.

“I can only speak for Lyman people, I’m hearing them say it’s like a bad nightmare, a bad movie,” said Cleman.

But Lawson remembers the student reac-tion as one of relative apathy for a murder.

“It wasn’t a popular trio on campus…they were part of the loner crowd,” said Lawson.

He claims that had the trio been a more popular group on campus there would have been “more of a splash” over the murder.

On the day of his conviction, Maxon is-sued a statement to the press.

“I’m deeply sorry for what happened and I wish I had a chance to repay other than sitting in a prison cell,” he said.

ALD

EN