My Stolen Son

by Susan Markowitz

  We took him to a psychiatrist, who prescribed the “wonder drug” Ritalin. Well, it did help him focus more in school—but the problem was that it also made him more focused on getting the things he wanted.

  One night, what eleven-year-old Ben wanted was to see the R-rated movie Boyz n the Hood, and his mother said no.

  “You’re not going to see that,” she said.

  “Yes, I am,” he told her, and headed toward the front door.

  She blocked the door, and they got into a knock-down, drag-out fight. She hit him with the telephone, then began swinging at him, windmill fashion. He blocked her punches and restrained her arms. She bit him on the arm to get him off of her, leaving teeth marks, and he ran out the door. She called Jeff to tell him what happened and that Ben was out in the streets somewhere.

  Jeff went out and picked Ben up and brought him back to our house. I took photos of the bite marks in case we were about to get into another custody battle, but that wasn’t to be. She gladly turned him over to us at that point. He lived with us full time and didn’t visit with his mother at all for the rest of the year. Her choice. I don’t think they ever even spoke on the telephone for months.

  “All that bad stuff he did, he did under her watch,” we thought. We were sure that we were the better parents and would have a much better handle on him. He had certainly never stolen a car while he was at our house, for goodness’ sake, or had any physical confrontations with us, either. So we assumed that her mothering skills were probably to blame, and we’d get Ben straightened out in no time.

  We tried counseling, figuring he was still having a hard time with his parents’ divorce and the bickering between the families. At the time, though, we considered counseling something you could do every now and again when problems cropped up. We went maybe once a month and tried to talk about our expectations and fears about his behaviors.

  A few months later, Ben came to me with a broken arm; he told me he fell off of his bike, and I was naive enough to believe him. I took him to the hospital to have a cast put on.

  Meanwhile, Nick had just been named “Citizen of the Month” in his second-grade class. He was a sensitive kid who once became nearly inconsolable over Mexican jumping beans—he worried about the plight of the little jumpers inside the beans.

  “Whatever is in there, cut the bean open and let it out!”

  He loved to read and had already accumulated quite a collection of books. At night, he would fall asleep to the sounds of audiobooks. I’m not sure exactly what he was picking up from those books, though, because this is a note he wrote to his second-grade girlfriend, Gina:It has been too long since we have kissed. About three days. So why don’t you kiss me fool? I did not mean that, love dove. I think it’s time we got married. Sorry your cousin died. I will save this note forever. Dear Gina, our relationship has been long as well as love. XOXO. I love you. Your lover Nick.

  Around this time, he also began learning the piano. Maybe this was to impress Gina. Elementary school ladies do love musicians.

  In front of Nick, I was talking to a friend about a diet I was on—the latest in many I had tried—and he said something that left me with my head cocked.

  “Mom, you’re the perfect size for your weight.”

  One afternoon, Jeff was taking Leah to a football game, and twelve-year-old Ben asked for a ride to the movies. He said he was meeting a friend there and would get a ride home with the boy’s mother later. After he dropped Ben off, Jeff went home and called the friend’s mother. “You’re picking the kids up, right?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  With a sinking feeling, Jeff drove right back to the theater. The movie was still playing, and the theater was dark, but he walked the aisles and didn’t see Ben. As the show let out, Jeff stood outside the theater, and—just as he feared—no Ben. The kid had just disappeared, and we didn’t have the first clue where to find him or what might have happened.

  Jeff called his ex-wife—we were on speaking terms at that point—had she heard from Ben? She hadn’t but wanted to be kept informed about what was happening.

  A flurry of phone calls began. Jeff tracked down every friend of Ben’s he could locate and pressed them about where he was. No one wanted to talk, but as other parents got involved and details slowly leaked out, a few of them caved, and we pieced together the whole story.

  It started with the broken arm, which had been no bike accident. It turned out that Ben had been jumped as part of his initiation into a gang called Down to Serve (DTS). We had seen their graffiti tags all over the San Fernando Valley, though we never knew what “DTS” stood for before. The gang was known mostly for vandalism, such as taking baseball bats to mailboxes. But lately, they had taken to stealing cars.

  One of the members called Ben and pretended to be a police officer wanting to question him about the car thefts. Ben bought it and decided he needed to escape rather than face police questioning in front of us. That’s why he had asked for a ride to the movies—he had no intention of actually going to the movies, just using that as an excuse to get out of the house and meet up with a friend.

  Once he was out . . . he stole a car.

  Then he headed to a party in Palm Springs, about a three-hour drive away. By the time we learned that, though, he had already gone there and was on his way back to a friend’s house in the San Fernando Valley in the stolen vehicle.

  Jeff rounded up his brothers and his father and decided that, because they knew the address where Ben was heading, they’d beat him there and block off the street so that he couldn’t escape. They went to the friend’s house and explained what was happening, and the boy’s older brother, who was in training to be a police officer, joined in the effort to get Ben back home.

  It turned out that Ben was with a fifteen-year-old boy who was also new to the gang. They had used a dent puller to rip out the ignition, then used a screwdriver to start the car. The fifteen-year-old said he didn’t know how to drive, so it was Ben—the twelve-year-old kid with his right arm in a cast—who drove the car. Even more unbelievable, the car was a stick shift. Yet somehow, they made it almost three hundred miles without incident.

  But as he approached the friend’s block, Ben saw his grandfather hiding behind a tree, and he got spooked— gunning the gas pedal and taking off. Ben’s friend’s older brother jumped into a car and took off after him, getting into a high-speed chase in the middle of a suburban street. Finally, Ben’s ride came to an end when he ran a red light doing fifty miles per hour and broadsided another car.

  No! Jeff screamed. Then there was silence and that moment where the world seems to stop all at once, frozen in time. Was Ben dead? Had he killed a carful of people?

  It was a miracle: although both cars were totaled, no one was even injured. Relief washed over Jeff, coupled with total bewilderment about the bizarreness of the situation.

  “What were you thinking?” Jeff yelled, approaching Ben in tears. “Haven’t I said ‘I love you’ enough? Where does this come from out of the blue? Why, Ben?”

  There wouldn’t be any good answers, though. Ben just stood there looking shaken and caught. The tools the boys had used to break into the stolen car were still in the backseat when the police arrived. They arrested Ben and the other boy—then they opened the trunk and found a .22 caliber rifle.

  Jeff called me, sobbing, and I drove over to meet him at the scene. Ben’s mother arrived around the same time I did. She didn’t say a word to anyone, just watched what was going on, a weighty sadness hanging over all of us. She hadn’t laid eyes on Ben in maybe six months, and as he was taken to jail, she got back into her car and drove home.

  Jeff and I had been so cocky, thinking that Ben’s previous problems had all been her fault and that we would do a better job keeping him in line. But look what happened on our watch; the whole thing stunk of failure. Was it a cry for help, for attention? When Ben was with his mother, we thought he was crying out f
or our attention. Maybe now that he was with us, he was crying out for hers.

  Car theft and illegal gun possession bought Ben a ticket to a juvenile detention center for about three weeks. That left the question of what would happen when he got out. His mother didn’t want him in her house, and I sure didn’t want him in mine anymore, either. We talked about putting him into a private military school, but the tuition was about sixty thousand dollars per year, and Jeff still really wanted to keep that sailboat.

  Maybe this would be the wake-up call that Ben needed, though, we hoped. Maybe a few weeks in a detention center would be enough to make him straighten up. From the sounds of it, he was truly sorry.

  He didn’t have much of an explanation for what he did; it didn’t seem like there was much thought process behind it at all. But he promised to drop the gang and clean up his act. Very hesitantly, I agreed that we’d give him one last chance.

  For some time after his arrest, things were relatively quiet. Perhaps grateful that we hadn’t shipped him off anywhere, he did his best to behave. With enough love and attention, I thought we could still get through to him. There was so much good in Ben, in between the bad patches. He lived with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other; unfortunately, the devil kept kicking the crap out of the angel.

  Getting him involved with sports seemed a positive way to channel his energy, so we let him enroll in baseball and tae kwon do. His sister, Leah, also joined tae kwon do, on top of her cheerleading schedule, and Nick soon followed in their footsteps and joined, too.

  When Ben was thirteen, I bought a journal for us to write notes to each other. On the first page, I wrote, “Ben, you make me so proud. Your efforts are shining through! Keep up the good work. If I can help let me know.” He happily took to this form of communication and kicked off his first entry, discussing his plans and his then-girlfriend:Susan, I really like staying home. And you have been really helpful with Tae kwon do and everything. Lara and I are not really close any more, like we used to be. Do you think its cause she is out of town, most of the time? She used to want me to go out there, but now she says the house is embarrassing because there is nothing in it. What do you think? . . . Tomorrow, I’m probably going to wash my Uncle Monte’s R.V. Make some money, and have something to do.

  Gotta run,

  You’re kinda great yourself!

  Love, Ben ☺ hi

  Some of our entries were funny and loving, covering the usual topics a thirteen-year-old thinks about most. Considering how tough he was trying to act, it was sometimes easy to forget what a sweet and sensitive kid he was, but then I look back and see his words:I appreciate every little thing you do for me. Even though at the time I might not act like it. I won’t let you or dad down this time. So don’t you worry about it.

  or

  I just want to thank you for letting me do tae kwon do.

  or

  Thank you for giving me some extra rope this little vacation. I really enjoyed it.

  or

  I love you.

  Ben signed his name and a peace sign under some of his entries, noting that the peace sign was his “official mark.” Sometimes he wrote about his friendships, sometimes about vacations or places he wanted to go, but some of the most poignant entries were more indicative of our troubles and power struggles about the rules in our house.

  For some reason, Ben was more respectful of me than he was of his father—maybe because I demanded respect. In his journal, he often asked me to intervene and get his father to ease up on him. Unfortunately, every time we did ease up, we ended up regretting it. When I went through his drawers (which I did pretty often), I found a set of markers. He had been graffiti tagging, I figured. Why else did he need markers?

  In March 1992, he wrote to me:Dear Susan

  I feel that both you and dad are wrong when you go looking through my stuff without telling me. I don’t care if you think it’s necessary or not. You should tell me, or ask me if you can and do it in front of me. So then, I don’t feel like I have to hide love letters and stuff, because that’s the only thing that I worry about.

  Dad says that I can’t wear the new shoes you got me. That sucks! And I should be able to wear them. Nobody has come up to me and asked where are you from, or are you in a gang for a real long time. In fact, I think the last time was in September. It’s like, what is “gang” related? People dress the way they want to dress. Hell, dad wears some stuff that a few gang members I know wear. Who cares? Dad’s work pants are considered gang. His tennis shoes are considered gang to some extent, but nobody bugs him about it.

  I know what I did was wrong, but it doesn’t mean I should pay for it for a while. Stop thinking and hanging onto the bad, think about the good. Oh, and give me back my candy I had in my drawers.

  Love, Ben

  I wrote back to him:Ben,

  I asked you to be honest with me about the tennis shoes. We know there are certain items that if mixed with other certain items, makes them gang related. Some certain items we do not want to put money toward, nor may you wear them. If you are in the wrong place at the wrong time, “bad things happen.” You know it, and they know it. Why would we take that chance?

  It is not just your safety we have to be concerned for.

  I know you will say, “They wouldn’t do anything.” But we’re the adults, and we have to handle it the way we feel best.

  We are not asking you for your opinion on this subject, because along with the markers, pretending to have a gun? With the gang affiliation in your past, we will not take chances.

  We love you, and that is the way it is. Be thankful you are not wearing K-Mart clothes, and appreciate what you do have and can wear.

  Love ya, “honest,”

  Susan

  We also tried to give Ben a lot of positive reinforcement for the things he did well. He was a natural athlete and competitor, and he progressed quickly to his yellow belt in his tae kwon do school. It seemed to help focus him and give him something positive to be proud of. That translated to better grades, too; he got three positive report cards in a row. It looked like things were finally improving, and even his big sister noticed the change. She wrote this note in his journal:Ben

  I know that I’m not supposed to be in here, but I just wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you for staying out of trouble. I’m also proud of you about your schoolwork. Keep it up.

  Love you,

  Your Sister, Leah

  P.S. I didn’t read anything.

  In April of 1992, we traveled to Florida for a tae kwon do tournament, where Ben won gold and silver medals for his division. When we got back, he went straight to his journal:Susan

  See I knew I could do it. I won! It was real nice too, because right after I won I saw dad, and he gave me a kiss for like the first time this year. So, I got a lot out of this trip.

  For a little while, things almost felt . . . calm. I complimented Ben on his mannerism and said that he was going to make some girl a great catch someday—he’d be a fun husband like his dad.

  “What does mannerism mean?” Ben wrote back. “Oh well, I think it was a compliment. Thank you!”

  But it wasn’t enough to sustain him on a long-term basis. Despite the discipline that sports provided, there were too many temptations and too many opportunities to get into trouble. When he was in our sight, he was fine. But with his peers, things were unpredictable.

  One afternoon when Ben was thirteen, he was standing in front of our house with a group of kids. I looked out and saw that they were passing a gun around between them, like it was just a baseball or a cool new video game. As if they did it every day.

  It turned out that a girl had taken the pistol from her father and brought it to Ben because he thought he needed protection. Why would a thirteen-year-old think he needed a lethal weapon to protect himself?

  “Why didn’t you talk to me? If you feel like you’re in danger, why didn’t you come to me and tell me?” Jeff asked Ben later.
>
  Ben didn’t have an answer. Some kids at school were threatening him, so he just figured he’d keep this gun around “just in case.” And that’s the way it would be thereafter; Ben’s life would become about being the biggest, the baddest, the one nobody wanted to tangle with.

  Everyone has a breaking point. That one was mine.

  I was in charge of Nick. That was my son, my adorable seven-year-old son who loved to read Shel Silverstein and play with his dog, and he deserved to have a seven-yearold’s life. He shouldn’t have to even know about this underbelly of a world that Ben was exposing us to. And having Ben in the house was starting to become a danger to Nick, not to mention the rest of us. What was going to happen if some gang member came charging into our house looking for Ben?

  I felt not only disappointed, but deceived. All the effort that had gone into building up our relationship and trying to guide Ben so he could earn our trust felt like it had been for nothing.

  When Jeff came home that night, I had a pile of clothing on the bed.

  “Are you cleaning out the closet?” he asked.

  “No. I’m packing,” I told him. “I’m leaving with Nick. Something is going to go wrong.”

  How right I was.