My Stolen Son

by Susan Markowitz

  The months and years of sitting in courtrooms and listening over and over to how my son was killed got to me. I couldn’t contain my tears, so I left the courtroom and stood in the cold hallway. There, I reminded myself that if there was a tear to be shed, it should be for my son.

  In all three trials so far, I had been flabbergasted by the lack of compassion on the “other side” of the courtroom. At best, they ignored Jeff and me and our families. At worst, they shot us dirty looks, grinned menacingly at us when something went right for them, and insulted us.

  The only people who even said, “I’m sorry this happened to your son” were Graham Pressley’s parents. Aside from them, nothing. None of the other families uttered a single kind word to us. We sat in the courtroom every day next to these people. They watched our pain, our tears, up close . . . and they didn’t say a word.

  It didn’t matter to me whether a lawyer told them to keep their mouths shut. I didn’t care about gag orders or legal strategies or whatever else they used to excuse themselves for their behavior. Nothing should ever have prevented them from doing the right thing and showing some human decency. What rule would it have broken to walk over to me and say, “I’m sorry for your loss”?

  I would have. I know, without a doubt, that I would have carried that guilt with me until my dying day and would have done anything I could to ease the other parents’ pain had my son had been on the other side of this equation. To be so callous was foreign to me; I grew up in a family of warm, loving people who knew what it meant to care about others. This felt like getting slapped over and over again at a time when I was already so vulnerable.

  I tried not to let it get to me, but it hurt. It really hurt. And it made me see a little more clearly how the children of these families had turned out the way they had; none of them had learned to care about anyone other than themselves.

  Sometimes the press would put words in their mouths to make them more palatable. Articles would say things like, “Of course they felt terrible for the family whose son had been murdered, but now they were worried about their own son’s future, too.” Of course they felt terrible? You could have fooled me. Many of them acted as if my son’s murder was a terrible inconvenience in their lives. Like they blamed me, and him, for the predicament they found themselves in.

  These thoughts could have knocked me flat if I had let them stay in my brain too long. So I tried hard to focus on the good people in that courtroom—many of whom were strangers to me, who just heard the story in the news or through their kids, and who had shown up just because it affected them. One woman, Jennifer, often brought me leis that she had made from flowers in her garden.

  It is now time to get over those who just don’t get it.

  The jury convicted Jesse Rugge of kidnapping for ransom, but they acquitted him of murder.

  It would take months before the judge would sentence Rugge, and in the meantime, I had to live with the knowledge that he’d gotten away with it, that he had beaten the murder charge. My son’s flesh had been left to rot in the stifling heat on the mountains, while this subhuman got away with it because the jury never even heard his confession.

  Before the sentencing, his attorney argued for probation only—no jail time—because the jury hadn’t convicted him of aiding and abetting in the murder. Plus, the attorney said, Rugge was a misguided guy whose parents were divorced, and he was a well-behaved inmate who was remorseful. Also, his safety in prison was in question because Ryan Hoyt had openly threatened to kill him.

  But the judge denied that motion.

  “He lured Mr. Markowitz into a sense of security, which he had no right to feel,” the judge said. And Rugge had done nothing redeeming even after Nick was killed, instead helping his cohorts to cover up the crime. As a result, the judge sentenced Rugge to the mandatory sentence for kidnapping for ransom: life in prison but with the possibility of parole after five years.

  “What does that mean?” I asked Joan.

  “It means that every two years, a parole board will review the case and his behavior and decide if he should stay in prison or not.”

  “Do we get any say in that?”

  “You can be there and address the parole board if you want to, but you don’t have to.”

  “We’ll be there. We’ll always be there.”

  It was never going to end, I realized. Even after the trials were all finished, this nightmare would not truly be over until every one of them died. There would always be the possibility of more appeals, of parole, of mistrials, and so on. In Jesse Rugge’s case, every two years, we would have to sit in front of the parole board and argue once again that this man should not be released to the public. If we didn’t do that, I would feel that we had missed an opportunity to do the right thing for Nick.

  I hoped that Rugge would die in prison so I could be released of my obligation sooner rather than later.

  The only person involved in the crime whom I felt at all hopeful about was Graham Pressley. There was something in him that was not in the others: a soul. I could see it in his scared, sad eyes the first time I saw him. I just didn’t know how to process that. How could a person with a soul have done what he did? Was I just being fooled because he had such an innocent face?

  Pressley’s parents had posted his bail money, so he remained free until his own trial. It hurt to see him in the court hallway, being comforted and taken home by his mom and dad. I missed those hugs. Sometimes, now, when I saw a boy who looked about Nick’s age, I would ask for a hug just to remember how it felt.

  For Pressley, there were actually two trials. The first one, which lasted for three weeks, deadlocked and ended in a mistrial in July 2002 because the jurors were split on whether to convict him on murder charges. They had heard a remorseful teenage Pressley tell them that he felt responsible for Nick’s death. “I am ashamed of what I did, and what I did not do,” he said on the stand. But his lawyer, a public defender, said that his client “wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  I understood why the jury had deadlocked. Pressley’s defense for his actions was that he was under duress, fearing for his own life the whole time he was involved with Nick’s murder. Prosecutor Ron Zonen, a senior deputy district attorney, said that it was difficult to prove that someone was not in fear of his life, so he knew it would be a tough decision for the jury to agree on.

  Pressley was freed on fifty thousand dollars bail and had to abide by a 10:00 p.m. curfew and refrain from using drugs or alcohol while they awaited a retrial. The defense attorney had tried to make it sound like his client really wasn’t involved and hadn’t known anything about Nick’s murder before it took place, but that was blown apart in the second trial, which took place in October 2002.

  The prosecution described every time that Pressley could have told Nick about the money Hollywood had offered to have him killed—he did not tell Nick in Natasha Adams’s car before they went to the hotel, nor at the hotel party, nor in the pool, nor back in the hotel room before Ryan Hoyt got there, nor after Jesse Rugge and Hoyt left to get shovels.

  The defense described a terrified teenager who was normally easygoing and compassionate, and they said that Graham Pressley had not taken the walk to Lizard’s Mouth with the others; instead, they claimed, he stayed in the car the whole time.

  What didn’t make sense to us was that if we were to believe Pressley had been so terrified of Hoyt and Rugge that he dug a grave while not saying a word about the gun to Nick, how was it that he later defied Hoyt and told him he was going to stay in the car instead of going back with them to the grave? Where had his sudden bravery come from?

  Pressley would later change his story and admit that he had walked with the others part of the way, then turned back and stayed in the car—which is also what Jesse Rugge had said in his trial.

  Ultimately, Graham Pressley was found guilty of second-degree murder at the second trial, and Pressley hung his head and cried as he heard the verdict. The jury said it wasn’t an easy decision, but
one juror explained that the moment that allowed them to come to their guilty verdict was when Pressley and Hoyt returned to the hotel after Pressley had dug the grave; Hoyt had left Pressley alone in the car and said nothing to him while he went back into the hotel to get Nick and Rugge.

  Why had he stayed in the car?

  This was what bothered Jeff the most. He said, “I don’t care if you were stupid, I don’t care if you were scared, I don’t care if you were threatened . . . nobody would have stayed in that car if he was not involved.”

  Although Pressley was tried and convicted as an adult, he was sentenced as a juvenile, which gave me a sense of relief. It was hard to imagine him in adult prison, and hard to look at his parents and not feel sad for them.

  So I didn’t fight the feeling; I let myself feel for them. Nick had sat in the backseat of Christina Pressley’s car when she drove them over to the hotel, and she had expressed feeling tremendous guilt ever since then for not having realized that anything was amiss. Why hadn’t she received a sign from God? she wanted to know.

  Graham Pressley would be in juvenile prison until he turned twenty-five, but he would have annual reviews to determine if he could be released early. Despite my feelings of sympathy, however, I didn’t want him out early. He had failed my son terribly. He had chosen not to warn Nick that he had seen a gun or dug a grave; he had allowed Nick to keep walking toward that grave even when he knew what was about to happen. For that, I wanted an appropriate justice.

  And then I got a note posted to the guestbook on Nick’s memorial website:The Markowitzes ought to be ashamed of their thoughtless crusade against Graham Pressley. Your minds are so clouded by sadness and anger that you have failed to recognize your own evils as parents and citizens. Trust me, I’m a friend of Graham’s, and he is a far better person than either of you will ever be. I know this message will be deleted because it makes you question your own frame of mind. I only hope it somehow penetrates your mean-spirited, vengeful, misdirected lives . . .

  This is coming from a child, I kept telling myself—but that didn’t stop the tears that followed for two days. I didn’t delete the message. I left it there, along with my response, and hoped for an apology that never came.

  Most of the letters and postings were much kinder, though. Someone wrote to me saying that she prayed now that the trials were over, I could pick up the pieces. I responded by first thanking her for her love, and second by praying I would find some pieces to pick up.

  In July 2003, I received a letter from Christina Pressley, Graham’s mother:I have wanted to write to you for a long time, but I did not know if it would just be touching your wounds, hurting you, and I did not want to do that because you have been through so much already. I feel like it is as fresh as if it just happened yesterday, and I want you to know that we pray for you and your family every day. . . .

  I can’t even begin to understand your pain, but I somehow feel responsible because I did not detect something and save your boy. I still see his beautiful young face in the backseat of my car, and I wonder why I had no warning from God, so that I could have saved him. I’m so sorry, Susan. I want you to know that I support what you are doing, I still grieve for you, and I will continue to pray for you. Graham prays for you too, every day. He asks me about you regularly. Both of us dream of Nick often. My dreams are usually that I am driving down the 101, taking him home. Graham dreams of grabbing him by the shirt on the trail and running away with him into the night, dodging bullets and making it to safety. He has been on a crusade to help kids too because of this tragedy.

  I just want you to know that all of the work we do to help teens is in honor of Nick, and we will never forget him.

  Blessings to you,

  Chris Graham Pressley

  I responded:I am not surprised by your letter, but only in the length of time it took you to write. I feel I have known you a lifetime, but have not had the opportunity to speak to you. Our shared words and emotions in the hallway awaiting the trials will forever be with me. I have always felt your compassion, and your letter is one of many missing pieces to my puzzled life. I appreciate it more than you will ever know.

  Our correspondence continued, and we met several times for lunch. The district attorney’s office was skeptical when I first told them that Christina had reached out to me; “Be careful,” they told me. “Don’t be surprised if she’s just trying to get you to ask for an early release for Graham.” But she never once even hinted at such a thing, and I felt very comfortable with her. I wanted to cry with her. Sometimes I felt that if I cried with the right person, it would make the pain go away.

  CHAPTER 15

  CROSSROADS

  Ben had been dating the same woman since about a year prior to Nick’s death. Now it was the spring of 2003, and they were expecting a baby and preparing to get married.

  Give Jeff his freedom, I told myself. Let him be the great father and grandfather I know he can be. I could not go along for this ride, but he deserved to. There was even a point when I asked Jeff to move out. I was not mad at him, and I didn’t want to split up, but I knew I was not going to be able to be a part of Ben’s life again, and I knew he would always want to.

  The baby came—a girl. I felt nothing but sadness. Jeff went to see her. I sat alone in our albatross of a house that was keeping me in a pattern of depression, and I wrote a letter to Ben. I’m not sure if I ever mailed it.

  To hear you say you were sorry one thousand forty one days ago would have helped me look at you differently . . . not that it matters, not that any of this will matter. You have moved on with your life and I am trying to find a path that does not have a sinkhole.

  I want you to know I know you loved your brother. I know you never wanted your brother dead. Nick not only loved you, he looked up to you.

  Your father has chosen to reinstate himself back into your life. Life gives and takes, but it took my world, my purpose for living, as I know you now can appreciate. I have heard you now have a little girl to love and care for. I have appreciated your distance. I no longer fit in, but I wish you many happy moments with your little one. In addition, of course I hope she gives you some crap along the way!

  I would appreciate if you would not respond. My intentions are nothing more than to move on.

  Of course, Ben probably had said he was sorry at some point, but in my grief, I had never heard it. It was not enough. How could it ever be enough?

  Luckily, he and his fiancée married at City Hall and didn’t ask his family to come, so we avoided the question of what I would have done had they asked us to be there. I thought about how I would never go to Nick’s wedding, never get to kiss his children’s chubby cheeks. I thought how unfair it was that Ben got another chance and Nick didn’t.

  While I was still sitting squarely in that crossroads of my life, I took my mom out to lunch at the local Mission Burrito by our home. Afterward, on our way back to my car in the parking lot, I noticed a teenager straining to read the magnets on it. There were two large car magnets on either side of my car that I had printed up with two different pictures of Jesse James Hollywood, along with the story and the offer of a fifty thousand dollar reward.

  I never knew who I was going to meet on any given day as a result of driving a moving “Wanted” billboard, but I had made hundreds of supporters who would ask more about the story or express their disbelief that the police hadn’t caught this scum yet. One supporter, a Santa Barbara lawyer, asked me, “How is it that you can have this thug’s mug on your car without showing your beautiful son’s?”

  He was right, and I immediately rectified that. I was lucky that my local Kinko’s was supporting me by providing me with all of my printing needs at their cost, but it was still expensive. I had so many handouts made up to pass around to people.

  I hoped that the boy who was straining to read my car was a supporter—maybe someone who had known Nick in school. He was leaning into a white Thunderbird to talk to a woman, and as my mom and I b
acked up to leave, I stopped in front of him and offered him a “Wanted” card—a business card that looked just like the magnets on my car, except that the other side also featured Nick’s website information.

  The boy threw his arms in the air with a look of confusion and disgust. “I’m not touching that!” he yelled.

  I didn’t understand, but I said, “That’s OK; you don’t have to take it.” As I pulled forward to leave, a female leaned out of the Thunderbird window and stuck out her middle finger.

  “Fuck you!” she screamed, three or four times.

  Fuck me? Is she talking to me?

  I tried to drive off, but the shock of it just wouldn’t let me leave. I circled around to the liquor store they were parked in front of and parked my car again.

  “They must be friends of the Hollywoods,” I realized. I jotted down the Thunderbird’s license plate number, and an even clearer thought came to mind: could this be Jesse’s mother?

  I waited for them to leave; then I drove by the Hollywoods’ house. Sure enough, it was the queen bee who’d stung me. Laurie Hollywood.

  I went home and cried from disbelief. When the tears dried, we increased the reward money, again. We would have to take out a loan if anyone claimed the reward, but we knew that it would be worth it. Sometimes money makes people talk, and more money makes people talk more.

  Over the next several months, I regularly drove by the Hollywoods’ home. Each time I put up new posters and memorials around the city, someone would quickly tear them down. I figured it was Laurie, but I would have needed to install security cameras everywhere to catch her.

  Jesse James Hollywood’s parents were still playing dumb, pretending that they had no idea where their son was. I knew that they knew. And in driving by their house, I kept hoping to pick up a clue. I took note of the types of cars parked in the driveway, but nothing seemed very useful. Laurie was taking in the garbage cans one of the times I drove by, and she flipped me off again. It was the first time I got a good look at the wrathful face behind the finger.