Favorite Sons (23 page)

Jackson Carter Vukovich; Male/Caucasian; DOB: 03-12-1932; Place of birth: Wheeling, W. Va.; Crime/Conviction: Second-degree murder, rape, and gross sexual imposition with a minor; Date, Place of Crime: On or about June 15, 1971, near Crystalton, Ohio; County: Jefferson; Victim: Peter Eugene Sanchez; Age: 17; Sentencing Date: Sept. 13, 1971; Admitted to Institution: Sept. 15, 1971; Release Date: Oct. 24, 2001;Time served: 30 years and 39 days. Ohio Parole Authority Case No. 71-CR-0201-8; Case Manager: Rita Ann Dayton. Summary: Mr. Vukovich served more than 30 years for the murder and rape of a 17-year-old boy. Most of that time was served at the North Central Correctional Institution in Marion, Ohio. He was incarcerated at the Montgomery Education and Pre-Release Center
at the time of his release. Mr. Vukovich's incarceration was without major infractions. He is currently residing in Portage Township, Summit County, Ohio
.

Earlier that evening I had given an uninspired talk at a meeting of the Medina County Republican Party, having arrived fifteen minutes late after my encounter with Jack Vukovich. I spoke in detail of the execution of Ricky Blood and of my goals for the attorney general's office, and feigned interest in the few questions from the floor. All I wanted was for it to be over. I hadn't shaved since four thirty that morning and hoped to God I didn't look as tired as I felt, though I suspected I did.

Ordinarily, I wasn't one to try to mask my problems with alcohol, but I began thinking about the bottle of Jack Daniel's long before I hit Fairlawn Heights. As the effects of the alcohol took hold, I began to fantasize about killing Jack Vukovich. I thought about Elmer Glick and something he had said to me several years earlier. Glick was a drug dealer who early in my career was charged with first-degree murder for allegedly bashing in a rival's brains with a shock absorber. Glick was not as crazy as Ricky Blood, but he was just as mean. While I believed Glick was guilty of the murder, there was not a shred of physical evidence implicating him and the only witness was a jailhouse snitch whose testimony was shaky at best. I dropped the charges before it went to the grand jury. In a meeting with Glick and his lawyer, I said, “Personally, I think you killed him, Elmer, but I've got nothing to give a jury.”

He grinned and said, “I certainly do appreciate that, Mr. Van Buren. You're a stand-up guy, and I want you to know that if I can ever do anything for you . . .” He squinted with his right eye, “. . . anything at all, you just let me know.”

I daydreamed of calling in the marker and having Glick take out Jack Vukovich. I wasn't seriously considering it, but it was fun to fantasize. Like Ricky Blood, the loss of Jack Vukovich would only benefit society. However, I had been around the criminal justice system long enough to know that such a request, no matter the
precautions taken, would simply set into motion a series of events that would culminate in me going to prison.

I took a sip of my whiskey and allowed one of the ice cubes to slide into my mouth. The letter was tucked into an old scrapbook in the wooden steamer trunk in which my great grandfather Van Buren had brought over his every possession when he'd immigrated from Holland. I had only read it once in my life. It had been like a knife to the heart, and I hoped that by hiding it the memory would dull, which it had not. Petey Sanchez was never far from my memory. I didn't think about him every day, and I imagine there were times when weeks passed without my memory venturing into that space, but he was always there, floating on the periphery of my psyche, circling my brain as he had circled the streets of Crystalton on his bicycle.

Earl Sanchez died during my first year of law school. His obituary arrived in a packet of newspaper clippings that my mother sent me about once a month in an effort to keep me apprised of local happenings. The next time I talked to Mom, I asked what had caused Earl's death. Mom said, simply, “He died of being Earl Sanchez.”

Lila died in the fall of 1999. I don't remember the date and Mom had moved to Florida, so I didn't get the obituary. However, I received the letter the previous June. I had been forewarned of its arrival by my mother, who said Lila had called to get my address.

“What's she want?” I asked.

“She said she wanted to send you a letter. I didn't pry.”

It arrived on the last Saturday of the month. I was working in the yard and wiped the sweat and dirt off my hands on my shorts before taking the stack of envelopes from the mail carrier. It was mostly junk mail, a few bills, and a small envelope with shaky script. I read it, then tucked it into the scrapbook.

The lid to the trunk squeaked as I raised it and allowed the arched top to rest against the wall. I didn't need to search for the envelope. It was pressed between yellowed clippings of the long-past heroics of the Crystalton Royals. The air whooshed out of the seat cushion as I flopped back down in the chair. It was written on a sheet of yellow legal paper and folded several times to fit into the envelope. I slipped it out and unfolded the sharp creases, exposing it
to my bloodshot eyes. Like the script on the envelope, the letter was written in the weak and jittery hand of a dying woman.

Dear Mr. Van Buren
:

It has been many years since I last saw you and you have no cause to remember me, but my name is Lila Sanchez. I am a friend of your dear mother and the mother of Peter Sanchez, who was murdered by Jack Vukovich in the summer of 1971
.

As you remember, Mr. Vukovich was sent to prison for up to 38 years for killing my boy. Twice in the past eight years I have gone to Columbus to testify in front of the parole board about how that animal sexually molested Petey before he murdered him. I asked them both times to please not let Mr. Vukovich out of prison and they didn't
.

That is why I am writing you this letter. My husband Earl died in 1979. I was recently diagnosed with lung cancer and the doctors say I need to get my affairs in order as it is unlikely that I will live to see Christmas. I am very concerned that when I'm gone no one will fight to keep him in prison. My children think I should just let go and not waste my last days worrying about trash like Jack Vukovich. But, I cannot let go, not when he took my boy
.

Your mother calls me from Florida every few weeks to see how I am doing. She talks about you often and is quite proud of you and your work as a prosecutor. She says you are a respected and honorable man. I have been receiving end-of-life counseling from my minister and he also said it would be a good idea to ask for your help
.

For those reasons, I am asking you to please, please not forget my son
.

Mr. Vukovich will come up for parole in two years. I am asking you as a man of authority to do all you can to make sure he never gets out of jail. He is evil and vile, and if he gets out he will hurt someone else. Please tell the parole board to keep him in prison
.

I hope that I can count on you to do what is right and keep this murderer of my son in prison for the full extent of his sentence
.

I pray that you will be my voice when I am gone
.

May God bless you and keep you
.

Lila Sanchez

The following Monday morning I typed a letter to Lila. I did it myself, rather than dictate it for Margaret to transcribe, in part because I knew I would never follow through on my promise. I am not particularly proud of the fact that I told Lila I would do what I could to keep Jack Vukovich in prison, all the while knowing it was a lie. I justified it by telling myself that I was simply trying to ease the mind of a woman who had only a few months to live. That doesn't make it right, but what could I do? Jack Vukovich was sentenced to prison for a murder he did not commit. I couldn't in good conscience testify to keep him in prison. Therefore, I elected not to attend Jack Vukovich's parole hearing in August of 2001.

I heard the deadbolt in the front door retract and click. It echoed through the foyer and made its way throughout the house. It was Shelly. I listened as her footfalls—the clack of each angry heel slapping the hardwood—crossed the foyer and started up the stairs to the second floor. I was familiar with the cadence of her footfalls; she was pissed and on a mission. She marched down the hall to the steps leading to the third floor. The single bulb in the stairwell cast a stark light on the wall at the top of the steps and the bobbing shadow of her head preceded her into the room. “Well, it's my most beautiful lover come to see me,” I said.

She did not respond in kind. “Is your cell phone broken?”

“I don't think so.”

Her jaw tightened. “I've tried to call you at least twenty times today.”

“Don't be modest. It was at least forty times.” I sipped at my booze and set the glass on the coffee table. “It's been a busy day, love. I was witness to the state of Ohio ridding itself of one of God's mistakes, had to give a speech in Medina County, and had some other chaos to attend to.”

“You couldn't find two minutes to pick up the phone?”

I shrugged. “When was the last time we had a conversation that lasted only two minutes?”

She ignored my remark, walked into the room, and picked up the drink, held the glass under her nose and took a light sniff. “Whiskey? What's the occasion?”

“It seemed to be the only thing that would answer the call.” It was nearly ten thirty. “Where've you been?”

She sat down on the couch and began speaking without making eye contact. “I had dinner with Dirk Baker and his wife.”

“Who's Dirk Baker?”

She waved it off. “A minor player. He's running for Cuyahoga County commissioner and wanted to pick my brain on some campaign strategies.” Shelly's ash-blonde hair was done in soft curls that hung to her shoulders, and she was wearing a cornflower blue cocktail dress that revealed a hint of cleavage. A black satin clutch purse was in her right hand. In her closet were dozens of power suits and matching purses; she certainly wasn't dressed for a business meeting. She smelled of expensive perfume and lies, but I didn't press it.

Shelly Dennison was thirty-seven and the complete package— stunningly beautiful, smart, and witty. Our first meeting had been at the Tangier Restaurant in Akron. I hired her as my campaign manager before dessert and was sleeping with her inside of a week. I could not get her out of my mind. Despite my unbridled attraction to her, I realized early in the relationship that it was doomed. I was simply occupying a spot on her dance ticket until someone better, more powerful, came along. She had been dating a state representative from Ashtabula County when I came along. He lost her to me, and I would lose her to someone else, and they would in turn lose her to someone else. She was a political animal and I lacked the political drive to sate her lust for power.

As she sat on the couch, her legs crossed at the knees, brushing hair from her face with her fingers, my loins jumped. I wanted her and for a moment contemplated playing to her weakness. Since the talk of politics and power seemed to be the only aphrodisiac that worked on her, I toyed with the idea of telling her that after one term as state attorney general I planned to run for the U.S. House of Representatives and then chart a course to the presidency. She would have been immediately moist and wouldn't have been able to shimmy out of her panties fast enough. In seconds she would have straddled me, arched her back, and moaned, “Oh yes, oh yes, fuck me, Mr. President, fuck me.” That's all it would have taken,
but I didn't have the energy for the post-coital strategy session that would have lasted until dawn as she planned my ascendancy to the Oval Office.

“So, what was all the chaos about?” she finally asked.

Because I knew the clock was running on our relationship, I had always been somewhat cautious about what I told Shelly. I didn't want her falling for a political rival and suddenly in possession of my secrets and weaknesses. I took another sip of my Jack, then cradled the glass between my hands in my lap. “A guy who used to live in Crystalton came into my office today. He got out of prison a couple years ago after doing thirty years for the rape and murder of a seventeen-year-old mentally retarded kid named Petey Sanchez. He committed the rape, but he didn't commit the murder.”

“That's what he says.”

“Yes, but I have a strong reason to believe that it's true.”

“How do you know?”

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before continuing, carefully choosing my words. “Crystalton is a small town. There was some suspicion that he didn't commit the murder. He had a lot of time to sit in prison and think, and he's come up with a conspiracy theory. He thinks one of my friends killed the boy and he suspects I knew the truth.”

“How old were you?”

I squinted, as though trying to retrace the years. “Probably fifteen, or so.”

“Even if you did, you were a juvenile. You can't be held responsible for that. You would have had to have been an eyewitness to the murder to have any culpability.”

Again, the heat started up my neck. “Maybe so, but it doesn't do my political future any good if he takes this to the newspaper.”

“Why have you never told me this?”

“It wasn't important until now.”

“Is he blackmailing you? What does he want? Money?”

I shook my head. “No, not money. He's back to his old tricks, molesting a fifteen-year-old severely disabled kid in Portage Township. He's under investigation and the cop who's after his ass is
top-notch, and Vukovich is starting to sweat. Essentially, he says he'll slip into the night and forget about his conspiracy theory if I make this problem go away.”

“How strong is the case against him?”

“It's virtually nonexistent. No physical evidence, no witnesses.”

She frowned, puzzled by my inability to grasp the obvious answer. “Then do it, for God's sake. If the state of Ohio found out he had served time for a crime he didn't commit, they'd give him a cash settlement. Instead, you cut him a break on this investigation. Everything's even. Justice served.”