My Stolen Son

by Susan Markowitz

  Although Nick did take tae kwon do, he was not a black belt as the film depicts (in the scene where he tosses Justin Timberlake’s character to the ground). In fact, he was not particularly good at tae kwon do.

  The girls did not have a steamy “Marco Polo” scene with Nick in the hotel pool, and I doubted that all the sex scenes happened as scripted, but none of it really bothered me. It didn’t bother me to see Sharon Stone in a horrible fat suit, even though it was an exaggeration of my weight gain. It didn’t bother me to see Ben’s drug use and behaviors exaggerated. None of it bothered me, because the spirit of the film felt right to me.

  Jeff wasn’t as enthusiastic about the film as I was—he would tell you simply that he’s “satisfied” with the movie and didn’t like to talk about it much—but to me, it was better than I expected. I felt that there were real lessons here, and that if teens and parents watched this movie, they might actually absorb some important messages.

  Foremost, the message was about paying attention and caring enough to act when someone was in trouble. The film’s poster said, “One crime. 38 witnesses. No way back.” The number may not have been perfect, but it was certainly close to accurate. Cassavetes made a point throughout the film of highlighting just how many people had seen Nick during his kidnapping and murder, and that none of them intervened.

  If only . . . I kept thinking.

  We attended the premiere party afterward, and I got to hug Anton and Sharon and tell both of them that I thought they had done a good job. Then we went back to our lives and waited to see what the reaction would be to the movie.

  And then . . . something amazing happened.

  Each time an article had run in a newspaper, I had received some letters from people wanting to offer support and kindness, but the movie made it explode. Whereas earlier it had been a few letters here and there, now it was a steady inflow of dozens of letters at a time. People saw the movie, and then wanted to know more—they wanted to know what was real and what wasn’t, and what had happened with the trials since then.

  Teenagers, parents, grandparents . . . I heard from all sorts of people from all over the world. No longer was this a local story; now it was international. People wrote in broken English to tell me that they would not forget my son.

  One Mother’s Day, I got a letter signed “Random boy named Adam.” Because he knew Nick couldn’t be with me, he said, he wanted to give me a hug for Mother’s Day and tell me how great I was. It meant so much to me.

  The film ended up being a tremendous blessing in my life because it gave me an opening with people—instead of having to tell my whole story, I could ask the cashier in the grocery store, “Did you see the movie Alpha Dog?” Most of the time, the answer was yes. “I’m Nick’s mom,” I would say—and it earned me a lot of hugs.

  I wanted to talk to people; I wanted to tell as many people as I could about Nick’s story, so that maybe they would pick up something they could apply to their own lives. I wanted them to see that these terrible things didn’t just happen to strangers on the news; they happened to people you meet. Real flesh-and-blood people . . . and that meant it could happen to you, too.

  The reactions to the movie gave me confidence in my own voice. I began using it as an excuse to talk to strangers. I continued handing out key chains with Nick’s name and information—more than ten thousand of them so far—and now I had a simple way to introduce myself and talk about Nick’s story.

  I would even talk to telemarketers about it. When they’d launch into some marketing pitch with me, I’d tell them that I would agree to listen to them as long as they would also listen to me afterward. They could go right ahead and tell me about their chimney-cleaning service or their political candidate, but then I was going to tell them about my son and how his murder could have been prevented.

  In that way, I found my reason to keep going.

  I kept abreast of all the news I could find about the movie, Jesse James Hollywood, and the upcoming trial, and people helped me do that by sending me articles from their local papers. Never really sure what I was going to do with it all, I collected all of the information nonetheless—stacks and stacks of articles to put into scrapbooks. What would it be when it was finished? Who would I give it to, and why? It was a morbid sort of collection, but it was the evidence that my son’s life had mattered to people other than ourselves. His murder had been covered in newspapers across the world as well as on television programs, radio news, and websites.

  I frequently checked in on websites where people were discussing the movie and the case. I became a regular on the IMDb.com (Internet Movie Database) and CourtTV.com, answering questions when I could. It was remarkable how many people would watch the movie, then immediately go to Google to search for more information. It was the kind of movie that stuck with people and made them want to know more—which made me feel good and useful.

  There was so much that I wasn’t able to answer, though. I had not been able to speak freely since the beginning; always, there was someone—from the district attorney’s office to the judge—who asked us to hold off on discussing details of the case until after all the trials were complete and sentencing finished. That was so difficult for me! But I kept reminding myself that the day would come eventually.

  The first question people usually asked me after seeing the movie was about Ben. They wanted to know if he had ever turned his life around, and what our relationship was like now.

  Like everything else related to this story, the answer couldn’t just be a simple one.

  I had heard that Ben really had turned his life around, thanks to his children—he now had a baby son as well as a daughter—but prior to August 2005, we still did not communicate. That was when he sent me a letter. He said that he didn’t know how to approach me, but that he wanted to write and tell me that, “More than anything, I’m sorry that I was in any way related to Nick’s death.”

  “I want you to know that your letter was accepted with an open heart,” I wrote back. “It was beautifully written and I so needed to hear the words you wrote.”

  We wrote back and forth a few times after that. It was a time of opening up—of him telling me that he had grown up with a lot of anger, and me telling him how hard I’d tried to make him and Leah feel they were part of our family. He told me how much he had needed, and still needed, his dad, and how much he’d loved Nick.

  “I think it is time to say I forgive you,” I wrote. “I know in my heart all the things you said in your letter were true, but for some reason, I felt it was your responsibility to step up to the plate first. I know things will never be the same and I may not be able to interact much of the time, but I will try. I know it isn’t easy for you, either.”

  And then an occasion presented itself. My mother-inlaw’s seventy-fifth birthday came in October 2005, and everyone was invited. I didn’t want to avoid her party just because Ben would be there, and I didn’t want him to avoid it just because I would be there, either—so something had to happen. It wasn’t about us, and I didn’t want to take away from her celebration. I asked Ben to meet me at the cemetery four days before the party so that we could get the uncomfortable initial meeting out of the way.

  Ben had never been to Nick’s grave, and we had not seen each other in five years. But when he arrived, we were both ready. It was time.

  Oh, good, he has hair, I thought upon seeing Ben. It was a small thing but not insignificant. He didn’t look like a tough guy anymore; he looked handsome again.

  He hugged me, and we talked. There were no tears, but there was emotion and comfortable conversation. We even went to dinner afterward, and talked some more, mostly about how it still all felt so surreal and how it was hard to believe that Nick was actually gone. We didn’t skip off arm in arm, but it felt very natural and good. It felt like a positive step in a relationship that would probably take the rest of a lifetime to heal, if it could even ever be truly healed. For now, we would settle for whatever this was: a qui
et sort of peace, an understanding. As I walked away from Nick’s grave that day, I felt that he would be proud of us both.

  Ben’s children had become his whole world, which gave him a better understanding of my perspective. He became the doting father I would’ve always hoped he would be. He even coached his son’s Little League team, always wearing long-sleeved shirts to cover up the tattoos he now wished he’d never gotten. There were just too many of them to attempt to remove, though, so he did the best he could to hide them out of respect for the kids.

  I still had trouble seeing Ben’s family, though. It always reminded me that Nick would never have that opportunity to get married and have kids of his own, that I would never have grandchildren of my own. Maybe one day I would be able to be a better stepgrandmother, but that day hadn’t come yet. It was still difficult.

  Ben and I didn’t see each other often; our relationship was good but still a bit delicate. We were open with one another, and I was very proud of the strides he’d made in his life. He didn’t understand why I talked to the media—he would’ve preferred that everything about Nick’s death would just disappear from the limelight. He and his wife wanted to put it all behind them and live anonymously, which I could understand—but, unfortunately, I couldn’t tell Nick’s story without mentioning Ben. His life would forever be entwined with Nick’s death, and that was part of the message about consequences.

  Sometimes people get lucky, and the dumb things they do as teenagers just become crazy stories to tell later at their high school reunions.

  And sometimes they don’t.

  CHAPTER 17

  HOLLYWOOD’S ENDING

  Just short of nine years after he ordered my son’s execution, Jesse James Hollywood was finally going on trial for kidnapping and first-degree murder. The pretrial motions had dragged on and on for four years while Hollywood simply sat in the county jail.

  In April of 2009, the prosecution and defense met with the judge to make their requests about the trial, each side wanting to present their case in the best light. First, the judge ruled that there would be no cameras in the courtroom, which meant that it would be very different from the other trials. If they couldn’t get pictures and video, many news outlets wouldn’t bother sending their reporters out.

  The defense also wanted to ease up on security at the trial to make sure that Jesse James Hollywood didn’t appear . . . dangerous. They argued that there were too many sheriff’s deputies in the courtroom, and “The appearance is very heavy.” Two deputies were to stand behind Hollywood. The judge offered to instead move one of the deputies behind the defense and the other behind the prosecution.

  “I don’t want anyone behind us,” said James Blatt, one of Hollywood’s two attorneys. “It’s not in the best interest of the defendant to have a deputy behind him.”

  The judge said he understood, but that safety in the courtroom was important for all. He said he’d do his best to balance the need for safety with the need for Hollywood to have a “fair trial.”

  As I had during all of the other trials, I wore a special pin on my lapel—a silver brooch with Nick’s picture in it. I discovered Jesse James Hollywood’s trial was not going to be like any of the others when I was ordered to take it off.

  The defense team argued that my brooch could “prejudice” the jury. And before the defense team was done, they would also attempt to strip the courtroom of any humanity whatsoever—there were to be no reminders of Nick in the room, and they didn’t even want the prosecution to be allowed to show a photo of Nick in the middle of a poster board that included pictures of the defendants during the opening statements because the “layout of the board” might prejudice the jury. (The judge overruled that one.) And there was to be no Jeff Markowitz.

  That’s right: my husband, Nick’s father, was barred from being in the courtroom because he was on the witness list. He obviously had not been a witness to the crime, but he was to be called to discuss Nick’s disappearance, Ben’s attempt to contact Hollywood, and other matters. The judge decided that he would not be allowed to sit in the courtroom even after he testified, just in case he would be called back to the stand later.

  So Jeff went to work, and I stayed in Santa Barbara without him. I was never really alone, thank goodness. My friend Nadine was with me most days, and Leah came whenever she was able, as did Jeff’s cousin Robyn. Our victim’s advocate, Joan, was by my side as always.

  I don’t think it was the scene Hollywood was hoping for in the courtroom, however. While in prison awaiting trial, Hollywood had been corresponding with a man named David Woodard. I don’t know why, just as I don’t know why certain types of women actually flock to prisons to throw themselves at convicted felons. Maybe it was someone he or his father had known prior to his crime, or maybe it was just someone who had read about the case and decided to offer Hollywood his support. But for whatever reason, Woodard and Hollywood had an ongoing correspondence, and several of Hollywood’s letters from prison were posted on the Internet.

  They were often about politics and about Hollywood’s defense strategies. He bragged about how District Attorney Ron Zonen had gotten “the boot” from the trial and how Hollywood was going to get the whole Santa Barbara district attorney’s office thrown off, too. He kept saying that things were looking up for him and that his defense team was very optimistic. And he began calling himself “Alpha Dog” after the movie was released.

  There was also a strange element of sexuality and “fan club” about the correspondence, where Woodard had apparently mentioned a woman who designed “Jesse James Hollywood” T-shirts and the young women who were supposedly his fans.

  One of Hollywood’s letters said, “Hope you can get together a harem of those young tender Alpha Dog supporters, pop on some Daisy Dukes and some tight J.J.H. T-shirts for sex appeal at the trial. They already take me in a presidential caravan with all their most expensive toys, so it’s only natural my supporters turn out for the big event, right? The Alpha Dog Unit Team is ready for war, and with Zonen M.I.A. we make like the Special Forces Green Beret. As always, I appreciate your support to the fullest.”

  Among other things, Woodard’s “support” included sending articles, as well as apparently sending racy photos, and offering to send all sorts of books. In response, Hollywood thanked him for the photos and asked him to send more suggestive ones.

  In another letter, Hollywood wrote: I’m trying to get some funds together here for various reasons, and I was hoping you could help out by sending a couple of bucks my way. Western Union sent directly to my address goes on my books in 30 minutes. Any contribution would be greatly appreciated and of course used only for the most noble purposes.

  He ended his letter:

  Tell all my girls in Nepal I love them and Daddy will be home soon.

  Love and Respect,

  Alpha Dog

  P.S. If I ever get outta here, I’m going to Katmandu!!!

  When he didn’t sign his name “Alpha Dog,” he sometimes signed it “JJH,” followed by “818 SFV outlaw,” “Irish,” and a shamrock with a penis. SFV stood for “San Fernando Valley,” and 818 was the local area code.

  Finding those letters online had really blown my mind. Learning that Hollywood was allowed to receive gifts of racy pictures, books, and money in prison bothered me. It bothered me that murderers and rapists were allowed any sorts of entertainment or luxuries; as far as I was concerned, they should be stripped to the bare essentials.

  Up until the last posted letter in 2008, Hollywood expressed his confidence that the district attorney’s office would be thrown off the case and that he would prevail. As he put it, “I continue to be positive and never stray from my program. I know I’ll be blessed when it’s showtime.” And that’s what it was to him: a big show.

  His calls in prison were recorded, and when prosecutors reviewed them, they were even more bothered by Hollywood’s callousness. He would purposely mispronounce our last name, calling us “the Lef kowitze
s” and saying insulting things about us. Never once did he show any remorse or express any concern about what we were going through. He never called Nick by name, only “the kid” or “the boy.” His pity was reserved solely for himself, as he regularly complained about his predicament and how unfair it all was.

  The trial started in May of 2009. Hollywood wore a black suit and red tie to court and sat in between his two lawyers. It had taken two weeks and three hundred potential jurors before both the prosecution and defense came up with their final selections: nine women and three men who would now decide Hollywood’s fate.

  My job, as I figured it, was to make eye contact with Hollywood and not let him forget that I was in the room, watching him. Every time he turned to smile at his parents, he was going to see me—and the smile would fade. I wanted to keep him uncomfortable. If there were anything human in him, then it would be difficult for him to look into the eyes of the woman whose son he’d ordered to be executed. I was hoping it would be difficult to look into my eyes and lie.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s Jesse James Hollywood,” prosecutor Josh Lynn began. “Jesse James Hollywood murdered fifteen-year-old Nicholas Markowitz like he pulled the trigger himself.”

  In what he called a “highly low-tech presentation,” Josh put up his picture board showing photos of each of the defendants, plus Ben and Nick. He referred to it throughout his presentation to the jury to let them get an idea of who each person was.

  But then came a shocking tactic from the defense: they sank lower than even I’d thought possible. They were prepared to argue their case by attacking . . . me.

  The strategy the defense came up with was to make it sound as if Nick hadn’t really been kidnapped after all. Well, he’d been kidnapped at first, but then he could have left at any point, yet he’d chosen to stay because he hated Jeff and me so much that he’d rather be anywhere than at our house. Which meant that Hollywood had really been doing Nick a favor by having him beat up and thrown into a van—getting him away from his awful parents.