My Stolen Son

by Susan Markowitz

  Again, in January 2010, the judge granted the defense more time to come up with a motion for a new trial, even though the district attorney’s office had pled for an end to all this on our behalf.

  I received a card from Christina Pressley letting me know that she was thinking about me and telling me about the pain in her own life. Her family had not pulled through the tragedy very well, and she was doing her best to find something in her life that mattered.

  “I wish I could bring Nick back,” she wrote. “I wish all of the pain would just stop, but it doesn’t, does it? It just pops up whenever it feels like it, grabs you by the neck, and won’t let go. I am sure it is much more difficult for you when it comes. I often think about how life used to be, before Nick died, before everything, when our families were together and happy. . . . The best thing I know how to do is to keep going. I’m helping kids get sober. I’m helping meth-addicted kids, too. I feel like it’s for Nick. In fact, whenever I help another one, I say it out loud while alone in my car: ‘For Nick.’ ”

  Her letter ended with “I love you.” I could feel the depth of Christina’s heart, and I wished that any of the other families had shown just one-tenth of her compassion. It would have meant so much. But her friendship is important to me, and it made me feel so good to know that there was someone out there, like me, dedicated to making a difference in Nick’s honor.

  While I waited for the next court date, I worked on my “Victim’s Impact Statement,” the last one I would ever have to write. It would be the first time I would face Hollywood and his family directly and get to say the things I had wanted to for almost ten years. For days, I wrote and rewrote, asking friends for feedback and trying to get it just right. Jeff wrote one, too—shorter than mine, more to the point and poignant. And so did Leah. Hers was focused on Nick’s life, not on Hollywood.

  On February 5, 2010, we headed back to court again, not knowing whether or not this would be the day that Jesse James Hollywood would finally be sentenced and we could put an end to this long nightmare. The defense had submitted their motion for a new trial, which included about eight different points about why they thought it was warranted.

  The judge dissected those points one by one. Among the most important were the claims by juror 3, who thought that some of the other jurors might have been reading outside material about the case—but what it came down to was that she was only guessing. None of the other jurors had actually said anything about reading material about the case. And as for juror 5, who made the comment about the “one last electrical job” for Hollywood, she was also questioned, and the judge didn’t believe that she had been unfair in her deliberations. He thought that she just made an inappropriate comment in the context of a pressure-cooker climate where emotions were high and jurors had no way to vent.

  The judge acknowledged that there were some moments of misconduct throughout the trial, but that none of it rose to the level of throwing out the whole trial. “This is a human endeavor. We are not robots. There are going to be mistakes,” he said.

  There would be no new trial granted.

  We squeezed each other’s hands in relief.

  I clutched my impact statement, knowing this would be the time to get up and read it. Instead, just as we were about to start, the defense objected. As always. Kessel said we’d already had our chance to speak during the penalty phase—which was half true; we had been allowed to answer questions that were asked of us, but we were not allowed to speak freely.

  But the heartbreaking part was that the judge agreed with his objection. Prosecutor Josh Lynn said he had never had a case in all his years where the judge didn’t allow the family to read their impact statements. The judge said it wouldn’t serve any purpose to the court, considering the sentence was already decided and this was basically a formality. We wondered if the judge just didn’t want to incite any more conflict because Hollywood’s family was there and might be angered by things we had to say.

  Ben was so upset by the ruling that he walked out of the courtroom. I stuck around to hear the sentencing but was deeply disappointed. It had meant a lot to me to be able to speak.

  The judge said that he was upholding the jury’s recommendation for sentencing: life in prison without the possibility of parole. Thank God for that. It was finally over.

  We did an interview outside of the courtroom, as did Jack Hollywood and Laurie, whose last name was now Haynes. We said we were thankful to the jury; Hollywood’s mother, Laurie, said she was confident her son would win on appeal. With a detective standing by Jeff’s side, Jack Hollywood walked over and shook Jeff’s hand.

  “I’m just really sorry,” he said.

  Jeff had no idea how to respond. He said it felt like when ball players lined up to shake hands and say “Good game” after it’s over. Like Jack Hollywood was conceding that we had won this “game.” I didn’t see it happen, and as usual, no one from the Hollywood family approached me. I don’t know why I held out any hope, but for so long, I kept thinking that one of them would turn out to be decent enough to say to me, “I’m sorry for what happened to your son.”

  Then we headed home to celebrate and unwind. When stories began popping up online about the verdict, I decided to make use of that impact statement after all: I pasted it in the “comments” section of every article I could find that had that feature, along with putting it in my Facebook notes.

  In part, it read:My son, Nicholas Samuel Markowitz, is dead because of Jesse James Hollywood. Jesse had him murdered to cover up his own crimes and stay out of prison. And worse, he had someone else do the dirty work, and then took off to let him take the consequences. Little did I know that as I was paging my missing 15-year-old son, he was on his way to his execution. . . .

  The first six and a half years after hearing of my son’s murder, I wanted to die, and almost succeeded several times. I would mix alcohol and pills to the point where I had to have my stomach pumped. Thirteen times, I ended up in the hospital because of suicide attempts and depression. I hung on solely because I wanted to make sure there would be justice for Nick. He deserved this, and so much more. It was the least I could do, but I didn’t realize it would take so long.

  For five years, while Jesse was one of America’s Most Wanted, I drove with “Wanted” poster billboards on my car. When I was not looking for Jesse Hollywood, I went to every trial and parole hearing for the other selfish cowards involved. I traveled as far as Canada. I believe that Hollywood may have taken the ferry that I was on in Canada shortly before me.

  I left thousands of “Wanted” posters and key chains everywhere I went, and it didn’t frighten me to think we might bump into each other one day. I knew I was not capable of committing murder for revenge as he had done. I also knew I would not lower myself to the embarrassing level of immaturity and callousness that his family had. . . .

  My son, Nicholas Samuel Markowitz, would have been 25 on September 19, 2009. These past nine years have been filled with thoughts of who he’d be today. Would he be in the film industry, a psychiatrist, or still working with his dad? My heart still skips when I see a teenager with a backpack and grocery stores still have me cry over his favorite foods. I wonder, of his size 14 shoes and height of six feet, when would he have stopped growing? And it tears at my heart to wonder what he would have named his babies.

  What it comes down to for me is that my son was murdered, for no good reason, because this man didn’t feel like dealing with any consequences. My son was tricked into thinking he was safe and would be going home. Instead, he was marched up a mountain and shot. Later, Hollywood was out partying with his friends as usual. As soon as my son’s body was found, Hollywood skipped the country. While I was in a mental hospital struggling to find a reason to live, this man was living it up on the beach in Rio. . . .

  When it comes to justice, it should not enter into the equation how much money you have, or the attorney you hire to make a wrong into a confusing right. . . .

  I am ve
ry thankful that the jury in this case was able to see through the nasty tactics meant to confuse them and allow Hollywood to get away with murder. It was not until this trial that I witnessed such heartless attacks directed to the victim and his family.

  I now ask for an appropriate sentence to put an end to this very long quest for justice. My son was stolen from all the people who loved him, and we are irreparably broken. But despite the terrible picture the defense team attempted to paint, we are together. We are grieving and we are aching, but we are all doing our best to honor Nick, and we love each other. I wish Nick could have known his nieces and nephews, and been the best man at his best friend’s wedding. I wish for things every day that will never come true because my son was stolen from me.

  I hope it is not forgotten that this would never have happened if it were not for the orders given by Jesse James Hollywood.

  Nine years later I still wake up every morning with a gut-wrenching emptiness. But I must continue to be strong and share the story about my stolen son, and encourage people to think of the consequences before making a choice.

  Nick, I promise you will never be forgotten.

  Nick deserves justice and as the voice of my son I am asking the court to sentence Jesse James Hollywood to the maximum extent of the law.

  —Susan Markowitz, Nick’s mom

  Most of the responses were supportive, but there were a few very cruel ones, like someone who called me a “wacko drama queen” whose fifteen minutes of fame were up. Did anyone really think I wanted my son to be murdered so I could be on the news?

  I awoke excited on the morning that I was scheduled to speak to the group Action, the same support group I’d joined in 2006 after one of my hospital stays. “I’m Nick’s mom,” I told the audience before me—mostly troubled teens and their parents. The organizer had asked me to come speak, and I was finally ready to do it.

  Nervous but honored that they wanted to hear what I had to say, I told them, “I hope that somehow, somewhere in asking me questions, you grasp hold of something worthwhile.”

  My talk was about choices and consequences—about how all the decisions we make as parents and as teens have consequences that we may not foresee. I told them about my own story, and Nick’s. Then I told them that no question was off-limits and they could ask me anything they wanted.

  I told them the lessons I had learned about putting children first when there are problems between parents or step-parents. I urged the parents to pay attention and be present for their teens, guiding and disciplining them even when they don’t like it, because the investment in keeping a connection with your child has rewards that will last a lifetime. And I told them about how some unbelievably stupid choices led to my son’s murder.

  I looked around the room, and it seemed no one was even breathing. They were listening so intently, so sympathetically, and I knew that I was reaching them. The tears spoke silently on several cheeks.

  I’m reaching them, Nick.

  My life wasn’t over. There was a strange calm there now, where all the years of fighting for justice had been displaced. Jeff and I had made it. Ben and Leah had made it. All of us, one way or another, had found our way back into the world. We step forward, one step at a time, building bridges where there weren’t any before. We teach and share and remember and cry and love.

  And we do it for Nick.

  EPILOGUE

  The whole legal process took just about ten years . . . and I am so thankful for that.

  If there had been just one killer and one trial and all of it had been over soon after Nick’s execution, I know I would have killed myself. But the way that this dragged on year after year turned out to be a blessing in disguise; it meant that I had to keep hanging on and on, telling myself that I couldn’t kill myself until it was all finished.

  Even this book made that list of chores to do before I left this earth; I figured that I had to write down Nick’s story so that he would not be forgotten and so my memories wouldn’t die with me. Most days, I just wanted to hurry up and get it all finished—I wanted to get the book done, but I couldn’t, because Jesse James Hollywood hadn’t been caught yet, or hadn’t been convicted yet, and there was no ending to the story.

  And then, suddenly, there was.

  We finally got him. Every one of Nick’s killers and accomplices were finally either in prison or had served their time. William Skidmore and Graham Pressley were both out in the world again, getting their second chances (unfortunately, both of them were soon cited on separate charges of driving under the influence). The book was just about finished. But . . . I didn’t want to die anymore.

  I used to feel such guilt for having fun after Nick’s death. If I had a good day, it would be tempered with thoughts that I shouldn’t have a good day. But finally, I have allowed myself to live, to embrace the life I have left. It’s not the same life I would have had, and I will never “get over” Nick’s death—you don’t ever “get over” a loss like that—but it is still a life worth living.

  I think back to the dream I had where Nick told me that I was doing so well, and I believe him. I am doing well.

  In 2010, Jeff and I were honored with Citizen of Courage awards from the Santa Barbara County district attorney’s office. Our victim’s advocate, Joan, nominated us with a beautiful letter describing our tireless fight and the odds we overcame in our quest for justice for Nick. In reading it, I thought, We really have come a long way. Am I all the way over here now? Have I made it to the other side of grief?

  The award was so meaningful to me, both because it made me feel proud that we were recognized in this way by people we respected so much, and because it represented a new step forward for us.

  My life now seems brimming with possibilities and hope. I know I want to do good in this world in Nick’s honor, and I am just taking the first baby steps in that direction. I’ve begun attending Toastmasters meetings and learning how to speak in front of groups so I can carry the messages I’ve shared here with people in person. I have been asked to speak before, but I wasn’t ready. Now I am.

  Until you make it through, you cannot know how strong you are. I’ve found a strength in my spirit that is bottomless and undefeatable. There are still days when I cry, or when I feel wiped out by the aches of missing my son, but I am not letting that stop me. I have things to do. Big things.

  I have to believe someday I will see my son again, in heaven. He’ll stand tall over me, his widow’s peak grown back in and a smile on his beautiful face, and he’ll be surrounded by stacks of books. He’ll wrap his arms around me and tell me he’s proud of me. And I will tell him that the greatest thing I’ve ever been in life is Nick’s mom.

  This is one of my favorite memories of Nick’s writing, and I’d like to share it with you. He wrote it when he was eight years old.

  Tigers, Teeth and Tails

  By Nick Markowitz

  There is a jungle

  with a tiger

  so big

  so big

  so big

  They’re my favorite.

  He had eyes

  so dark

  so dark

  so dark

  They’re my favorite.

  He had claws

  so sharp

  so sharp

  so sharp

  They’re my favorite.

  His stripes

  so black

  so cool

  so bad

  They’re my favorite.

  He had friends

  the leopard

  the jaguar

  the ocelots

  They’re my favorite friends.

  They all live

  in the forest

  in the dark

  green forest

  It’s their favorite.

  The bugs

  that live

  in the forest

  with them

  Bite.

  In the forest

  where I have

  nev
er been

  sounds scary

  so scary

  Oh, so scary!

  They tell me

  it’s not

  for kids

  no kids

  allowed.

  So

  I think

  I’ll stay

  right here

  where it’s

  safe

  with my

  Nintendo.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FROM SUSAN MARKOWITZ :

  Nick, thank you for all the beautiful memories. I will cherish them in my heart and share them with the world to honor you. I am so grateful to have had you in my life. You are worth living through this emptiness I now wake up to every morning. Baby, this is for you, all for you.

  Jeff, my husband and Nick’s dad, thank you for your love and your belief that I had what it took to survive this. You are what every woman wants in a man, where two souls become one. Your patience helped me to not make a fatal quick-response decision. You gave me room and the time to help me find my own way. Today I am more known as “Nick’s Mom” than the Susan you married more than twenty-five years ago. I will forever be so thankful for our Nick that I would do it all over again. For the rest of our days, know I love you with all my heart.

  Ben, thank you for turning your life around, and being a good husband and father. Thank you for humbling yourself, sometimes above the call of duty regarding your feelings about Nick’s death. Know that without your turnaround, I would be so lost and confused. You have my heart and compassion always.

  Leah, I know it was difficult for you to make it to Santa Barbara for each of the trials and motions with two children to take care of. I want you to know it was so comforting having you with me. We did it together, just as it was meant to be and will continue to be. Thank you for your ability to understand or at least tolerate my need to separate myself from some of the family gatherings during this unbelievably long journey.