They Call Him Dr. Death

He has a kindly face and lots of country-boy charm, but when Psychiatrist James Grigson, 48, shows up in a Texas courtroom, it is usually the kiss of death. The prosecution brings Grigson in for a sentencing hearing and asks him about the guilty man's inclination to commit violent crimes in the future. In each of more than 70 such proceedings since 1967, Grigson has testified that the defendant was a "sociopath" who was dangerous to society, and every time, with a single exception, the jury has unanimously voted for the ultimate penalty: in Texas, death by injection. Says Peter Lesser, president-elect of the Dallas County Criminal Bar Association: "He is a witch doctor. They call him Dr. Death for a reason."

A former professor at Southwestern Medical School in Dallas, Grigson became a familiar courthouse figure while diagnosing people for commitment proceedings. As he tells it, one court veteran suddenly thought, " 'Hey, here's a sane psychiatrist.' Instead of playing golf on Wednesday, I started doing legal work." Court cases now take up most of his professional time and, at $100 an hour, bring him some $60,000 a year. Says University of Texas Law Professor George Dix: "He is skillful and persuasive, and he doesn't talk down to the jury." Most important, says Dix, Grigson is more willing than most of his colleagues to make firm predictions about a defendant's future behavior.

Indeed, Grigson's predictions are what most trouble his critics. In the Ernest Smith case decided last week by the Supreme Court, the American Psychiatric Association filed a brief that questioned the use of testimony like Grigson's. Said the brief: "It gives the appearance of being based on expert medical judgment, when in fact no such expertise exists."

Grigson pooh-poohs such faintheartedness. He believes that during an hour of examining a defendant's past and searching for remorse, he can determine the likelihood of future violence. "Some prisoners really get their rocks off telling you about these horrible crimes," he says. In a few cases, Grigson has offered an opinion without conducting an interview, relying only on the suspect's record. "With enough evidence and arrests," he maintains, "you can show where a person is coming from." About a third of the time, the pretrial interview convinces Grigson there is hope for the defendant and he does not testify for the prosecution.

Dallas Defense Attorney Richard Anderson suggests that Grigson fills a psychological need of jurors. "When they are making a life-or-death decision, they want to believe that an individual who would do these horrible things is a different species from them," says Anderson. "He tells them this person doesn't deserve to live. He makes a decision easier."

Anderson caused the only exception in Grigson's record. During testimony by the psychiatrist, Anderson asked him to evaluate not his own client but, hypothetically, a deprived black who had a record of several arrests before going to prison at 19 for a violent offense. "What would be your prognosis?" Anderson asked. Grigson said he saw only more of the same ahead. The lawyer then revealed that the case history belonged to Ron LeFlore, now a star for the Chicago White Sox. Even so, Anderson just barely succeeded. Eleven of the twelve jurors wanted to mete out the death penalty anyway.

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