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FOR THE LAST FEW WEEKS OF HER LIFE, Caroline Witt felt besieged by her former boyfriend. As her mother tells it, Kristoffer Wendt left flowers on Caroline's car in Crystal Lake, Ill.; he wrote notes; he called her over and over. Diane Witt claims her daughter told her that Wendt said: "If I can't have you, no one can." Early on Sunday, Oct. 17, Witt, 22, and her boyfriend, Brian Woiwode, ran into Wendt at a local gas station. Angry words were exchanged and the men scuffled. The couple drove off, authorities say, but Wendt pursued them, bumped their car and, after another furious exchange, sped away. This time Woiwode got out to call for help, but police say Wendt made a U-turn and aimed his Ford Mustang at Witt's Toyota; roaring across the road, he crashed into the car head-on. "The next time I saw Caroline," Diane Witt says, "she was under Kristoffer Wendt's car."
Illinois has one of the toughest anti-stalking codes in the nation. Yet when Witt sought police protection in early October, she left in frustration--police thought Caroline's case didn't meet the law's requirements. (Wendt's attorney, Donald Toomey, claims that his client was not stalking Witt.) Two days after Witt's death, another Chicago area woman, Kimberly Globis, was fatally shot in front of her two young children, allegedly by an ex-boyfriend, Leslie Peace; authorities say she had repeatedly sought orders of protection against him. Peace was unavailable for comment. Victims' rights groups outraged. But for legislation police and judges throughout the nation, the cases score the difficult, laws to deal with the murky issues of stalking. "The idea behind stalking laws is to penalize threats," says Northwestern University law professor Ronald Allen. But what a threat is cannot possibly be captured by a rule."
Spurred by the 1989 shooting death of TV actress Rebecca Schaeffer, California passed the first anti-stalking law in 1990. Since then 47 other states have adopted specific measures. The intent was to give name and "teeth" to a longstanding problem, but the results are a legal morass. Some laws are so broad they could include anyone, including, say, a reporter legally covering a public figure. Others have so many caveats that almost no one could be convicted. Under state law, judges in noncapital cases weigh whether the defendant is more likely to return for trial or skip town. But in stalking cases, freeing a defendant could mean death for the object of an obsession.
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The most difficult problems lie in discerning a credible threat from a casual remark. Although celebrity stalkers and stranger-to-stranger stalkers grab headlines, as many as 75 or 80 percent of cases involve people who were once married or dating. "That invariably means comparing two people's points of view," says Allen. "A husband says, 'Remember New Jersey?' Later he'll say he meant, 'Didn't we have a great time when we lived there?' But his wife thinks he meant, 'Remember the time I beat you?'" Wendt's attorney says, "As with every story, there are two sides to this one." He says Wendt will plead not guilty when he is arraigned Nov. 8 on a charge of first-degree murder.
How will states untangle the mess? The first step could be a uniform stalking law. Several groups--the National Conference of State Legislatures, the American Bar Association, the National Criminal Justice Association--have developed a model state law that is expected to be unveiled by the justice Department this month. The intent, says Susan Hillenbrand, director of the ABA's special-projects section, is to strike a balance between what's "effective and constitutional"--a law with stiff anti-stalking measures that won't violate suspects' civil liberties. Still, police need to take women's fears seriously, and the criminal-justice system needs to enforce the laws. But the most important step must be taken by victims themselves. In 1992, authorities say, Caroline Witt filed two reports against Wendt. Both times, she declined to press charges. Witt's reluctance may have deprived police of tools for meeting the requirements of the Illinois law.
It is unclear whether any law can stop a stalker. That troubles Dawn Wilson, 26, a homemaker from a Chicago suburb. Three years ago her ex-husband attacked her in an alley; he was convicted of aggravated battery. But on Sunday, Oct. 24, after 15 months in jail, one year on parole--the past five months on an electronic home-monitoring program--Christopher Wilson became a free man. Advocacy groups decried his release, saving Wilson racked up 223 technical violations of the monitoring program. Chris Wilson insists he wants nothing to do with his ex-wife: "I'm trying to go on with my life." But Dawn, who still has a misshapen nose and bruised eye, says that she is terrified. "It's just a matter of when he feels like coming and getting me." For the moment, the law can do little to console her.
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