Favorite Sons (29 page)

“I'm out of town for a couple of days working on a case,” I said.

“Where, exactly, is out of town?”

“Steubenville.”

“You know that you're supposed to speak at the Youngstown Chamber of Commerce tonight?”

“I know. I had Margaret cancel it.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

“Because at the moment I have more pressing matters.”

“More pressing than winning this election?”

“Christ Almighty, Shelly, I'm up eighteen points in the polls and it's the Youngstown Chamber of Commerce.” My voice climbed. “How many businesses are left in Youngstown? A couple dozen? I'll make it up to them; I'll pay each one of them a personal visit.”

She ignored my flippant response. “Does this have to do with that guy? The rapist?”

“Yes, it does.”

She cleared her lungs into the phone, a cleansing breath of exasperation. “Just let it go, Hutchinson. Please, just . . . let . . . it . . . go.”

“What if I do, Shelly? What if I let it go just this one time? Do you honestly think that he won't come at me again, especially if I'm
elected attorney general? Of course he will. That's what people like Jack Vukovich do. They find a weakness and they hammer away at it. He'll blackmail me again at the first opportunity.”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

It was pointless to argue. She had her eye on the prize and would not be distracted. “I've got to get some work done, Shelly. I'll try to call you later.”

“I want you back in town tomorrow.”

The line went dead.

As I walked to the courthouse I passed the statue of Edwin M. Stanton, Lincoln's secretary of war, which dominates the southeast corner of the square. The right arm of Stanton's statue is held near the chest and in such a manner that the hand can hold a beer bottle, which it does several times a year. This causes a flood of letters to the editor about the disrespect for the man who had been Steubenville's favorite son until he was unseated by Dino Crocetti, a local club singer who became known to the world as Dean Martin.

The Jefferson County Board of Elections is on the third floor of the courthouse, where, upon entering the room, I was greeted by the blank stares of two obese women who lapped over the seats of their chairs. They blinked in unison, like a pair of curious owls wondering if the stranger was going to upset their morning routine and force them to uproot from their chairs before lunchtime.

“Good morning,” I said.

The closest one said, barely audibly, “morning.” The one nearest the window just continued to blink, her eyes magnified through a pair of heavy glasses that rested on puffy cheeks.

“I'm interested in researching some old records of campaign contributions.”

“How old?”

“About thirty-five years.”

“Oh, my,” gasped the woman nearest the window, snapping out of her trance. She put a pair of flabby forearms on the desk and frowned. “Do we even keep records going back thirty-five years?”

The closest owl spun slowly in her chair, turning away from me, and said, “We're supposed to keep them forever. If we have them, they'd be over at the warehouse.” She grabbed the corner of the
desk and spun herself back toward me. “I suppose you want to look at them?”

“I do, please.”

“Do you want me to take him over?” asked the woman near the window, as insincere an offer as ever I've heard.

“No, I'll do it,” said the closest one. Over the next several minutes, she dug through her desk for a key, groaned as she pushed herself out of her chair, and slowly walked around the counter, her upper body rocking from side to side with each step. I followed her to the elevator, which we took to the first floor, then headed out a back door. She struggled down the concrete stairs, taking them one at a time. By the time we walked a couple hundred feet to a three-story brick-and-mortar building built hard against the alley north of the courthouse square, she was crimson-faced and puffing for breath. Little beads of sweat appeared on her upper lip and brow.

She unlocked the door and flipped on the light switch. The room smelled heavily of dirt and mold. A patina of dust covered the hundreds of cardboard boxes and accordion folders that were stacked on steel shelves, many of which were starting to list. The majority of boxes appeared not to have been touched in many years. “Have at it,” she said. “The second and third floors are full of files, too. There's a ladder in the corner if you need it. Try not to break your neck. Are you going to need copies?”

“I might.”

“Bring them up to the office.” She quit talking momentarily to catch her breath. “It's a dime a page. Let me know when you're done and I'll come lock up.”

“Do you just want to leave the key? I'll lock up and bring it back to you.” She pondered my offer, seeming to weigh leaving the key with a stranger, which probably violated county rules, and having to make another trip down the alley. “I'm very trustworthy,” I assured her.

“Be sure to turn off the lights,” she said, dropping the brass key in my hand.

The boxes containing the records of campaign contributions were surprisingly easy to find. The section of the warehouse dedicated to the board of elections was tucked into a far corner of
the first floor that was so far from the glass block windows facing the alley it was like searching a room at dusk. A cardboard placard held to the side of the steel shelves with brittle tape bore the words, “Campaign Contributions,” printed neatly in block letters with a black marker. Each box on the shelf was labeled by year, also with a black marker. They were in order by year, and I slid the one marked 1971 off a high shelf, sending decades of dust into the air and onto my head. The box was closed only by the top flaps being lapped over one another. Inside were cloth-covered ledger books, in no particular order. Alfred Botticelli's was in the middle of the box. The yellowing ledger sheets were separated by month. I found July, and a few days after the arrest of Jack Vukovich were two notable entries:

Carson Nash—$10,000

Crystalton Business Association Political Action

Committee—$10,000

Why would Crystalton's staunchest Republican donate ten grand to a Democratic prosecutor? I had never in my life heard of the Crystalton Business Association, and did not believe it ever existed. Even if it had, why would a village with a handful of businesses need a political action committee? My guess was it was a committee of one—Carson Nash—and a way to funnel money into Alfred Botticelli's campaign fund without drawing the attention of federal banking investigators.

I pulled down the 1972 records. Carson Nash donated another ten thousand dollars in March. The political action committee made a similar contribution in July. This pattern occurred again in 1973, 1974, and 1975. Afterward, there was simply a ten-thousand-dollar contribution from Carson Nash until 1982, when Botticelli Junior became the prosecutor. The contributions were made to the son each year until 2001, the last year I could find in the warehouse. The more recent records were probably in the office with the owl ladies, but I didn't need any more proof that Carson Nash had been steadily paying off a debt for three decades. Just to make sure my suspicions were correct, I pulled down the 1968, 1969, and 1970 boxes. Not
surprisingly, there were no contributions from Carson Nash or the political action committee prior to the arrest of Jack Vukovich.

Over the next hour, I removed the ledger pages showing the thirty years of Carson Nash's contributions, locked up the warehouse, and took the pages to Linn's Office Supply on North Fifth Street to have copies made. It would have been easier to take them up to the board of elections, but I didn't want one of the women to nib into what I was doing and call Botticelli's office. A tiny woman with several pencils stuck into the bun of her gray hair made the copies at Linn's, smiled, and told me to come back. I picked up a stray rubber band on the counter and rolled my copies into a tube while I made a detour on my way back to the warehouse, stopping by the Pacifica to drop the copies on the floor of the back seat. Having grown up in the area, I was no stranger to Jefferson County politics, and with a Botticelli still in office I didn't want to be caught with incriminating documents. It was just after noon when I returned to reassemble the books and restock the dusty boxes.

As I was headed back down the center aisle of the warehouse toward the door to the alley, I passed a series of shelves on my right marked, “Prosecuting Attorney.” Out of curiosity, I walked back into the row and on a low shelf found three boxes inscribed with, “1971—Capital Cases.” In the second box I examined, I found a prosecutorial file labeled:

Victim: Peter Eugene Sanchez
Defendant: Jack Carter Vukovich

Inside a thick accordion file were the original sheriff's report, black-and-white photographs of the crime scene, crumbling newspaper clippings, investigative files that included interviews with Vukovich, court documents, and a plea agreement signed by Vukovich and the senior Botticelli. Toward the back of the file was a manila folder with “Children Services” printed neatly on the tab.

Inside I found a cover letter on Jefferson County Children Services letterhead. It was addressed to the prosecutor and an emboldened subject line read: “Vukovich molestation victims.” When I turned to page two, my groan was audible. The header read:
“Interview with Dale Ray Coultas, Age 15.” I scanned through several typewritten pages of a transcript of a recorded interview. On page two the interviewer got to the heart of the matter.

Dale, did your uncle ever touch you or do anything improper?

(No response. The tape recorder is shut off at 10:12 a.m. The interview was resumed at 10:23 a.m.)

We are now resuming the interview with Dale Ray Coultas. Dale Ray, did your uncle ever touch you in an improper manner?

Yes.

In what way?

He made me touch his penis and put it in my mouth, and he put it in my rear end.

How many times?

I don't know. A lot. Many times.

More than ten?

Yes.

More than twenty?

Yes.

More than thirty?

Maybe. Probably.

More than forty?

I don't know.

Over what period of time did this happen?

You mean dates?

No, did this happen over the past couple of weeks, months, years?

Almost since he came back to Crystalton. A couple of years, I guess.

Why didn't you tell someone?

I was ashamed, and he said he would hurt me if I did. He also said he would tell my parents that I liked it and they would be embarrassed that they had raised a queer.

Being molested doesn't make you a homosexual
.

I was scared. I didn't know who to talk to.

The interview went on for six more pages, the interviewer attempting to extract specific information on the attacks. As I
read the transcript, my heart ached for Deak. I wondered why he hadn't revealed the attacks to his parents. However, I knew it was impossible to view the scenes of our youth through adult eyes. As we age, youthful scenes suffer from a distortion of perspective as we become more acutely aware of the realities and frailties of life.

I was eleven and helping Mom replace the linoleum in the kitchen. As she worked on her hands and knees with a putty knife, scraping off two layers of old flooring, I hauled the pieces to the garage and burned them in the cast iron stove. I had overloaded the fire pit and the flame had seemingly died and a heavy gray smoke rolled inside the stove. Believing the fire needed assistance, I poured a quart of gasoline into a plastic pitcher that was sitting on the workbench. At first I stood in front of the furnace, but for an inexplicable reason—divine intervention, perhaps—I moved to the side before throwing it into the stove. Instantaneously, the flames roared and leapt from the stove, following the fuel back into the pitcher. The flames singed the hairs on my wrist and forearm. I dropped the pitcher as I sprinted across the garage, and the pitcher melted into the concrete. It terrified me at the moment, but I forgot the incident in the days that passed. As an adult looking back on the moment, I realize how perilously close I came to disfigurement and even death.

Had I known when I was fifteen years old that Deak had been molested by his uncle, I would have felt a passing sadness and pity. I would have been embarrassed for him, but without appreciation for his own embarrassment and pain. I had not experienced enough of life to understand fully the psychological impact of such repeated violations. Like the flames leaping into the pitcher, I would have been jolted at the moment, but it would have faded in my memory as I went about the business of adolescence.

But as an adult, and one with decades of experience in dealing with pedophiles and sexual deviants who made it their cause to ruin the lives of the innocent, my gut burned, and I seethed with anger at Jack Vukovich. My own ignorance pained me. For decades Deak had endured in silence, and never once had I suspected that he had been a molestation victim. After reading the report, it seemed so obvious. I thought back on the days after Vukovich's arrest, and Deak's refusal
to support his uncle and his vehemence in keeping him in jail.
Jack Vukovich should be put away so he can never hurt another kid
.

I was squatting on my haunches, ready to tuck the documents back into the file, when the door opened, filling the aisle with light and temporarily blinding me. Two shadows walked into the warehouse, the door slamming behind them. The first man stood in the aisle, nattily attired in a custom gray suit with thin black pinstripes. As I considered him, I remembered the words of the former sheriff, who had called Botticelli Junior a weasel. He had been accurate in his assessment. Alfred Botticelli Junior was of slight build, chinless, with a large ski-slope nose and a weak moustache, the kind often sported by pubescent ninth-graders. Behind him stood a sheriff's deputy of considerable size, sporting a no-nonsense brush cut and thick arms covered with tufted blond hairs that resembled lamb's wool.