by Robin Yocum
“It’s a step, my dear, it’s a step.” Fran explained that his father had negotiated a deal for him. In exchange for serving two terms as sheriff, the Jefferson County Democratic Party had promised to support him in a run for the US Congress on a platform of returning jobs and prosperity to the Ohio River Valley. If this proved successful, the party also would back him for a bid for governor. “And you know, Allison, it’s a short leap from the governor’s mansion to the White House,” Fran said.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one to whom he told this. Behind his back, his deputies called him “Mr. President” and “Honest Abe.” I pleaded with him not to tell anyone else about his political aspirations.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Fran, people get suspicious of those with great ambition,” I said.
He nodded and said, “Okay. Yeah, you’re right.”
In reality, I just didn’t want people making fun of him.
I love my husband. He is mostly loyal—there was one indiscretion of which I know—and a dear man. He is a good provider, he doesn’t drink to excess, he doesn’t take drugs, and, to the best of my knowledge, he has never taken a bribe or a kickback. And he treats me like I am the Queen of Sheba. But he scares me because he thinks he’s a lot smarter than he is. When I first took Fran home, my dad said, “Nice boy, but he’s got more ambition than brains, and that’s a very dangerous combination.” That’s true. Fran gets careless because he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. This is the attribute that’s going to get him in a peck of trouble someday.
Shortly after we moved to Steubenville, I was bemoaning the fact that our youngest boy would be heading off to kindergarten in the fall and I would have nothing to do. Fran said, “How would you like to go back to work?”
“I’d love to. Do you know of something?”
“In fact, I do. You’re going to be my chief dispatcher.”
“You can’t do that,” I protested. “That’s nepotism.”
“Nepotism is a long-standing tradition in Jefferson County. You’re my wife. It’s expected that I’ll give you a job in the department.”
I took the job, and I can tell you the exact time and date that I decided that my days in the synthetic leather chair were numbered. When the revelation came to me, I looked at my watch to note the moment—10:13 a.m. on Tuesday, April 11, 1989. I was taking my morning cigarette break in the alcove, huddled against the back wall, shivering in the morning wind, and avoiding the cold rain that was slashing in from the west. The sky over Steubenville was its usual gray, and the air was pungent with sulfur from the Koppers plant across the river in Follansbee. The events of the previous night had pushed me over the edge. We’d been attending the Daughters of the American Revolution pancake supper in the Presbyterian Church basement when I looked across the room at my husband, a man who for as long as I have known him has had the posture of a Marine, and he was slouching, his belly beginning to protrude over his belt. This man, who used impeccable grammar and corrected our sons’ misuse of the English language at every opportunity, was speaking with that cursed Ohio Valley twang, and I swear to Jesus that I heard him say, “Ain’t no way I’m gonna stand for that.”
Two nights before the pancake dinner, Fran and I had gotten into a horrendous argument—perhaps the worst of our marriage—because I wanted to take the boys out of the Steubenville School District and enroll them at St. Paul Elementary School. “Why in God’s name would you take them out of Steubenville?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because it’s the academic equivalent of a Nazi death camp?”
“I graduated from Steubenville High School.”
“I rest my case.”
“Well, they’re not transferring, and that’s that. I’m the sheriff, for God’s sake. How will it look to the voters if my kids aren’t in school in the community?”
“I’m glad you’re able in good conscience to sacrifice the education of your children in order to further your political aspirations.”
This came within a week of a downpour that flooded our basement and we were informed that we would have to jack up our house and rebuild the entire foundation. I cried for two days. It was another disaster in our ordeal to rehabilitate the old Kensington house. Shortly after we moved back to Steubenville, we bought the grand structure at the crest of Church Hill. It’s three floors of red brick with six bedrooms and a ballroom on the top floor. By the time we bought it, the old place had been sectioned off and converted to apartments and allowed to fall into disrepair. At first, I romanticized about how wonderful it would be to return the house to its former splendor. I was a damn fool.
We’ve replaced the roof, front porch, back porch, eaves, windows, wiring, light fixtures, plumbing, doors, and walls. We’ve stripped to the studs and remodeled the entire kitchen and the three bathrooms. We’ve endured tens of thousands of dollars in cost overruns, hundreds of excuses from incompetent contractors, and invasions of bats, rats, sparrows, raccoons, mice, mud daubers, termites, chipmunks, squirrels, and black snakes. Dirt, drywall dust, sawdust, and plaster have taken turns covering my food, hair, and furniture and seeping into my body crevices ever since Dave Delaney and his crew of mouth-breathers entered my house. The dirt and dust were so bad that some days I would blow my nose and find a glob of black goo in my tissue. When longtime Steubenville residents came up to me and said, “Oh, you’re doing just a great job fixing up the old Kensington place,” I wanted to thank them and then rake them across the teeth with a backhand.
The continual repairs to the house, the arguing over the schools, his posture, and his grating accent all contributed to my decision to get Fran to the United States House of Representatives and get me out of Steubenville. But the real spark was when Fran had an affair with Dena Marie Conchek Androski Xenakis. There was a two-week stretch earlier in the year when he started making excuses and going out in the evening, supposedly to check on his patrols. It seemed unusual but not totally out of character.
Bella Figerelli was my afternoon dispatcher. She had a platinum hairdo held in place with a gallon of hairspray; sharp, harsh features; and a corrosive voice graveled by forty years of sucking down two packs of non-filtered cigarettes a day. She had been married to four different Jefferson County deputies. Three of those unions had ended in such spectacular divorces that they were still gossip fodder at the Starlighter Bar. One day, she strolled into the radio room, looking more sinister than usual, and leered at me with a little smirk, and said, “So, Princess, I hear there’s trouble in Camelot.”
I could feel one corner of my lip curl, and I asked, “What are you talking about?” though in my heart I knew she would only confirm my suspicions. Bella didn’t like me as much as I didn’t like her, and I knew she loved slapping me with bad news.
“Under no circumstances can I be your source. I don’t want to lose my job.”
“Agreed.”
“Say, ‘I promise.’”
My jaw tensed. “I promise.”
She couldn’t wait to blurt it out. “Your husband’s screwing Dena Marie Xenakis.”
I could not believe my good fortune.
I realize that most women would have been outraged to learn that their husband had been unfaithful. Not me. It was a gift from heaven, and I was so giddy that I could hardly catch my breath. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. Now, I had Francis Roberson’s balls in a death grip, and I planned to twist them until the day he got me out of Steubenville. I had never wanted to move to this godforsaken place, but Frannie wanted to chase his political aspirations, and I had played the dutiful wife. Not anymore. His ass was mine.
I marched right into his office, closed the door, and asked, in an extremely civil tone, “Are you screwing Dena Marie Xenakis? Don’t lie to me, Fran.”
His face went ashen. Then, with all the phony indignation he could muster, he stuttered, “What? No, no, of course not. That’s ridiculous. Where did you hear that?”
He would make
a terrible president, because he’s such a bad liar. “It had better stop, Francis, and I mean today. I’m taking the car and going home. I’m not hanging around here and waiting for another lie to come out of your mouth.”
I walked out of the office, got in my car, and drove to the A&P, where Dena Marie was a checkout clerk. She was snapping her chewing gum and looking bored, pretending not to see me coming. I leaned over the counter, put my nose within two inches of hers, and said, “If you ever see my husband again, I’m going to call Children Services and tell them you’re an unfit mother and you neglect your kids.”
She looked bored with the confrontation. I doubt it was the first time she had been in that type of situation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a married woman. And I’m a good mother, too. They won’t—”
“You’re missing the point, chicky. I don’t give a shit if it’s true or not. I’m the sheriff’s wife, and by God they’ll listen to me, and I’ll have them all over your ass. I’ll make sure it gets in the newspapers, too. Stay away from my husband.”
When I finally got home, I locked the door and danced. Now, I had a legitimate reason to make his life miserable. It was too lovely, too delightful. He was going to stand up straight and use proper grammar. He was going to run for Congress, and so help me Jesus, he was going to get me the hell out of Steubenville.
Thus, at ten thirteen that morning, while standing in the alcove and pulling on a cigarette, I began planning our escape. I vowed to lose some weight, get my teeth straightened, and quit smoking. Ultimately, I would resign as the chief dispatcher, too, because I would need the time to organize my husband’s campaign for Congress. And after I had gotten him elected to Congress, I would start on his campaign for governor. I must admit that the idea of becoming Ohio’s first lady was growing on me. Did I think he was going to be president of the United States? No, of course not. But governor? That seemed doable. For the first time in my adult life, I had direction and purpose. I was getting the hell out of Jefferson County.
CHAPTER FIVE
JOHNNY EARL
It was a beautiful day in the Ohio River Valley. The blue sky stretched across the windshield of my battered Camaro, the sun warming my face. It was good to be alive and free. I had spent the day alone, cruising around and thinking of black widow spiders. Following the mating ritual, female black widow spiders frequently devour their mate. You would think that over the millions of years that black widows have scurried over the earth, the males would wise up. Perhaps they understand this and consider being consumed alive an acceptable exchange for sex, but I doubt it. The natural calling is simply so overwhelming that the male black widow simply cannot control its urges.
Dena Marie was my female black widow. I wanted desperately to climb into her web. The only real difference between me and a male black widow is that if I did have sex with her, I would want someone to kill me.
It had been more than eight years since I’d had sex with a woman. Okay, just for the record, it had been more than eight years since I’d had sex with anyone. Things never got that bad in prison. There were many times, however, when the mental vision of Dena Marie helped get me through the night. I didn’t crave her because I was in love with her. I craved her because she was close and because I knew if I made the first move she would be readily available. Availability is very important to someone who hasn’t been with a woman in more than eight years.
I would not, under any circumstances, go see her, but I secretly hoped—and feared—that she would come visit me in Aunt Connie’s garage apartment and I would bed her on the inflatable mattress. I fantasized about sliding between her thighs, and that mental image gave me an erection harder than the bars of my prison cell. My dad used to tell me, “Be careful in life, because God gave you a penis and a brain, but not enough blood to operate them both at the same time.”
It was time to say good-bye forever to Steubenville. I would slip out of town weeks ahead of the crazy behemoth of a white supremacist who wanted my money and to whisk me off to God-knows-where, Montana, and position myself far from any happenstance meetings with Dena Marie.
Once upon a time, I wanted to get out of Steubenville because I believed it couldn’t hold me. It was too small for my rising star. I would leave to become a major leaguer, and when I came back they’d have a parade in my honor. I’d sit in the back of an open convertible, and it would pass a baseball-shaped sign that read, Hometown of Johnny Earl—Major League Baseball Star.
I knew what a disappointment I had been to my parents, my friends, and myself. I had been the guy everyone looked up to. Now, I was the guy people pointed at and said to each other, “There’s what happens when you think the rules don’t apply to you.” I was embarrassed about that. Even though I hadn’t made it in the major leagues, I could have been the guy they pointed to and said, “You should have seen him play ball.” I could never have that. No matter what I did with the rest of my life, people were going to walk through the halls of the high school, point to my photo, and say, “Hell of an athlete, but dumber than a post hole. Boy, did he screw up his life.” When I was in prison, I received an unsigned letter that read, among other venomous lines, “You should just kill yourself and relieve your parents and all of Steubenville of the embarrassment you have caused us.”
It was hurtful but true.
Two days before I planned to leave town, after my folks returned to Florida, I heard Aunt Connie trudging up the outside staircase. She was panting when she opened the door and said, “telephone.”
“Who is it?”
“I didn’t ask.”
It was my old classmate, Jimmy Hinton, who had become the editor of the Herald-Star. He wanted to do an interview with me on my time in prison. “Are you kidding me, Jimmy?” I said. “Hell no, I’m not doing an interview.”
“A lot of kids could learn from your mistakes, Johnny,” he said.
“I don’t want them to learn from my mistakes. I’m not sure that I’ve learned from my mistakes, and don’t quote me on that, goddammit.”
“Well, think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it.”
“If not an interview, then maybe you could do a first-person column about your life.”
“You know, Jimmy, I want to take this opportunity to apologize to you for being a dick with ears and squealing my tires on you that day back when I was eighteen. That was the wrong thing to do. But just so there aren’t any hard feelings or misunderstanding, the next sound you’re going to hear is me hanging up on you.”
CHAPTER SIX
ALLISON ROBERSON
Three months later, my plan was moving forward. I had braces on my teeth, I had lost fifteen pounds—though I still wasn’t happy about the dimples in my ass—and I had cut back to about four cigarettes a day. I was still the chief dispatcher, and I planned to hold the job until the end of the year, when Fran announced his candidacy for Congress.
Then one day at work I got a call from a woman in an absolute panic, screaming about a dead body at Jefferson Lake State Park.
“Ma’am, you need to calm down,” I said.
“Oh, God, all we wanted to do was have a picnic lunch and there’s a body. I think my daughter might have touched it.”
“Ma’am, I need you to—”
“My son said, ‘Mommy, there’s a man sleeping over there in the weeds.’ I’m thinking it might be a child molester, so I ran over and my daughter’s squatting down beside it, poking at him with a stick.”
“Ma’am, how do you know that he isn’t sleeping? Or passed out?”
“Because he’s riddled with bullet holes and covered with flies!” she screamed. “That’s why. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Jefferson Lake State Park is a nine-hundred-and-forty-five-acre park outside of Richmond in the far western part of the county. The park is several miles off the main road and, frankly, the ideal place to murder someone or dump a body.
“Where are you calling from,
ma’am?”
“The convenience store in Richmond.”
“Okay, I’m going to send a cruiser out. Stay there, please.”
I radioed Fran’s chief deputy, Toots Majowski, and sent him to the convenience store. “The lady says she is going to take you to the location of a ten-nineteen,” I said, using the police code for a corpse.
I grabbed the phone book and called Minelli’s Restaurant. The owner’s wife, Millie Minelli, answered the phone. “Millie, this is Allison Roberson. I need to talk to the sheriff, ASAP.”
This is going to sound crass, but after making the decision to get Fran elected to Congress, I didn’t want him to miss a media opportunity. A murder was big news in Jefferson County. The newspapers from Steubenville and Wheeling would be out, and maybe so would the television stations.
“Roberson here,” he said.
“I just sent Toots out to Jefferson Lake State Park. A woman called and said there’s a man lying in the weeds, shot to death.”
“Suicide?”
“I don’t think so. She says there are multiple wounds.”
“Okay, I’m heading that way.”
In the old days, when the county was full of miners, steelworkers, potters, beer joints, and whores, shootings were a lot more common. Now, they are rare. Most of the calls to the sheriff’s department were either nuisance calls—barking dogs or loud music—or domestics. A favorite pastime in rural Jefferson County was getting drunk and going to a Friday night football game. Another favorite pastime was getting drunk and beating the living bejesus out of your wife or girlfriend.
There had been fewer than thirty homicides in the seven years that Fran had been sheriff. The only time I ever saw my husband waver in his belief in justice was during the investigation of one of those homicides. Bella Figerelli called the house one night and said there had been a shooting on Kenton Ridge. “The Goins place?” I heard him ask. He hung up the phone and asked, “Want to ride along?”
