Mauling Death Creates an Activist

Around lunchtime, Diane Whipple called Sharon Smith at her office. Come home early, she said, so we can spend the afternoon together. Not long after 4p.m., Sharon cleaned up her desk and called Diane to say she was on her way. The answering machine picked up. She called three more times while driving through San Francisco traffic. Why isn’t she answering? Where is she?

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Sharon Smith still honors her partner Diane Whipple’s tender request: Think about me every hour, on the hour.

Smith doesn’t stop thinking about her. She thinks of Whipple when she goes running, when she sees a lacrosse game, when she looks out her window at the San Francisco Bay. “Every single thing I do, I miss her,” she said.

Smith tries to focus on the seven years they spent together and not on Jan. 26, 2001--the night Whipple died after being attacked by their neighbors’ two large Presa Canario dogs outside their apartment door.

She keeps her television off, for fear of being reminded of the gruesome images that still haunt her. She rereads Whipple’s love letters and meets with a grief counselor.

And she keeps busy, spending more time in the public eye than she ever imagined she would. In the last 14 months, Smith has appeared on national television and has spoken at rallies and marches about gay and lesbian rights.

She testified before a San Francisco grand jury that later indicted the dogs’ owners, attorneys Marjorie Knoller and Robert Noel, in her partner’s mauling. Closing arguments are scheduled to begin today in the criminal trial, which is entering its fifth week in Los Angeles County Superior Court.

Smith also helped gain passage of state legislation allowing same-sex partners to sue for wrongful death, a right historically given only to surviving spouses, parents and children. She filed civil suits against Knoller and Noel, who lived two doors down from her and Whipple, as well as the owners of the apartment building. And she started a foundation in Whipple’s name.

“When I think about everything that happened in 2001, I think 10 years must have passed,” said Smith, 36, who is on leave from her job as a regional vice president at the brokerage firm Charles Schwab.

Smith said Whipple, 33, was a fighter, and Smith knew she had to fight too.

“I wanted everyone to know that our relationship was real,” she said. “My loss is real. I’m going to hold them accountable. I am not going to just sit here quietly and just let this go.”

Smith had never been involved in San Francisco’s politically active gay and lesbian community. But that changed. Everything changed.

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Eight blocks from the apartment, Sharon saw flashing lights, ambulances, fire engines, television vans. Police cars blocked the garage. She double parked and sat in the car for a second, overwhelmed by the commotion. Then she jumped out and looked up. In the top corner unit, the lights were off and the television was on. “Oh my God. It’s her.”

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Whipple and Smith met through a friend in 1994. They hit it off right away and moved in together in Palo Alto a few months later. They vacationed frequently, traveling to Hawaii, Puerto Rico and Europe. During one trip, they exchanged rings in a private ceremony. If same-sex couples could marry legally in California, they would have, Smith said.

A few years later, Whipple was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. It was one of the toughest times for both of them, Smith said, but it strengthened their bond.

They moved into an apartment in the Pacific Heights neighborhood of San Francisco in May 1999, where they lived with their two cats, Bootie and Shadow. Whipple liked the neighborhood but didn’t consider herself a city person and wanted to someday buy a house in the more spacious and rural Marin County, just over the Golden Gate Bridge.

“I probably heard that 100 times,” Smith said. “Her dream house would have had a running trail right outside.”

They both came from the East Coast, but they planned to spend the rest of their lives in California. They had talked about raising children together.

Raised by her grandparents in Manhasset, N.Y., Whipple attended Pennsylvania State University on a lacrosse scholarship. After graduation, she played on the World Cup lacrosse team, then trained for the 1996 Olympics track and field team, but didn’t qualify.

Feeling pressure from her family to get a job, Whipple tried a few sales positions but decided to coach lacrosse, first at a private high school and then at St. Mary’s College in Moraga, a suburb east of San Francisco. She was more than a coach, Smith said. “She didn’t just clock in and out. It was an extended family.”

Smith was raised with her two sisters in Maryland and graduated from Longwood College in Virginia in 1987. Two years later, she accepted a job at Charles Schwab in Washington, D.C., and has been with the company since, working long hours to make her way up to an executive position in San Francisco.

Both women loved dining out, hiking and going to movies. But they weren’t alike in every way.

Whipple always remembered her friends’ birthdays, while Smith relied on an electronic organizer for important dates. The fun-loving and silly Whipple lived for the moment while the more even-tempered and focused Smith planned ahead, intending to retire at 45.

“Sharon was the serious workaholic and Diane liked to goof off and have a good time,” said Sarah Miller, Whipple’s friend and assistant lacrosse coach at St. Mary’s. “They kind of had a happy medium; they complemented each other really well.”

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Sharon was trying desperately to get anybody’s attention. What happened? Somebody said there was a robbery. The apartment manager said Diane was bitten by a dog and was in critical condition. What did that mean? Did she lose an arm? Will she have to give up lacrosse? Something didn’t seem right. A dog bite doesn’t match up with this scene.

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The tragedy could have easily resulted in Smith, a private, quiet person, turning inward as she grieved, said Smith’s sister, Janet Batchelder.

“She could have stayed home and cried,” said Batchelder, who marched in San Francisco’s gay pride parade with her sister. “She could have buried her face in the sand. She didn’t.”

Batchelder said she was surprised to see Smith become a spokeswoman and advocate for lesbians.

A week after the attack, Smith met with an attorney who told her she could sue for wrongful death only if she were a parent or legal spouse. That seemed unbelievable and unfair, Smith said. The attorney told her that was the law. Smith replied, “Well, let’s change the law.”

A San Francisco assemblywoman already had proposed a bill to expand the rights of gays and lesbians. So last spring, Smith stood before the state Legislature and spoke out for the rights of same-sex partners to file wrongful-death suits. Gov. Gray Davis signed the controversial bill into law in October.

Many lesbians started seeing Smith as a symbol of courage and strength, said Kate Kendell, executive director of the National Center for Lesbian Rights. Smith responded to her loss with a quiet determination rather than anger, she said.

“There is no doubt that Sharon’s grace and dignity and her very honest and moving comments about her situation really have struck a chord,” said Kendell, who is also representing Smith in the civil suits.

Smith said Whipple is her constant inspiration--both for political advocacy and in her personal life. Since the mauling, Smith, who moved to a new apartment, has spent more time with family and friends. Last summer, she went skydiving in Whipple’s honor.

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At San Francisco General Hospital, a surgeon said Diane had lost all her blood in the apartment hallway and didn’t have a pulse for 23 minutes. But Diane was alive and Sharon wanted to see her. The doctor showed the way to the intensive care unit, where Diane lay bandaged. She was barely recognizable. She’s staying alive just long enough for me to see her and say goodbye.

Smith said she was relieved when the trial started in Los Angeles, where it had been moved because of publicity in the Bay Area. Batchelder saved money for a year and left her family in Colorado to be with Smith during the trial.

“I wanted to be there for her,” said Batchelder, 44. “She’s pretty independent, but she’s come to depend on me more in the past year.”

Smith has had the judge’s permission to be in the courtroom on some days, and those have not been easy. She had to leave during opening statements when photographs of Whipple’s wounds were shown. Then, last month, she took the witness stand, telling jurors that one of the dogs had bitten Whipple a month before the fatal attack.

During cross-examination, the defense attorney representing Knoller asked Smith a question that she can’t get out of her head: “Do you consider that had you made a complaint, Diane Whipple might be alive today?”

Smith said later that she hated that question, especially because she did wonder for months if there was anything she could have done to prevent the attack.

Now Smith anxiously awaits the outcome of the trial. She plans to stay in Los Angeles until the jury reaches a verdict.

Knoller, 46, who was charged with second-degree murder, involuntary manslaughter and keeping a mischievous dog, faces 15 years to life if convicted. Her husband, Robert Noel, was charged with the two lesser counts and could face a sentence of four years. Their dogs, Bane and Hera, have been destroyed.

Smith knows exactly what she will do when the trial is over. Whipple had told Smith where she wanted her ashes spread: her high school and college lacrosse fields, the Atlantic and Pacific oceans and a mountain. All that’s left is the mountain.

When she gets home, Smith will drive to one of their favorite spots, Mt. Tamalpais in Marin County. There, she will think of Whipple and toss her ashes onto the mountain.

“I owe it to her to live life as if she were here and move forward,” Smith said. “And she will be with me. She will always be with me.”