Favorite Sons (37 page)

It was well after dark when I cruised past Tappan Lake and hopped on Interstate 77 north toward Akron. The radio station I had been listening to had turned to static; the puddle of fast-food
coffee in the bottom of a large Styrofoam cup had gone cold. For the tenth time during the trip, I patted my jacket pocket and checked the whereabouts of my digital recorder. I was feeling guilty about recording the conversation with Carson Nash, too, but felt I needed the backup. As Congressman Botticelli had made very clear, they were playing hardball, and I was the outsider. Once upon a time I had been part of the team, but no longer. The recorder would go into the safe with the copies of the campaign contributions as insurance policies. Unfortunately, I had no such policy against Jack Vukovich.

The windshield wipers swatted at the steady rain that I had driven into just east of Cadiz. The rain increased in intensity the further north I drove, the drops sounding like marbles pelting the Pacifica. As I neared Canton, I called Shelly Dennison; the call rolled to voice mail after just one ring. “Hey, it's me. I'm back in town. Give me a call, please.” She had hit the “ignore” button, still aggravated at me, no doubt. I was being punished. She would return the call when it was convenient for her. Shelly only played by Shelly's rules.

I pondered my trip to Crystalton. In reality, I could have just picked up the phone and told Deak and Pepper about Vukovich's threats. A psychologist would probably say I was seeking support, hoping one of my childhood friends would tell me to do the right thing. Deak had, but I was still struggling. I had not pursued charges against Elmer Glick because of a lack of evidence, even though I believed him to be guilty of murder. Under law, I believed I was obligated to give Jack Vukovich the same consideration if the DNA tests were negative. But I knew this was different. I didn't like being threatened and pushed around, especially by someone like Jack Vukovich, who was standing directly in front of me, an index finger jabbing me in the chest. If the evidence wasn't there and I didn't pursue charges, he would think I had backed down out of fear. I couldn't win.

I pulled the Pacifica into the garage and walked back out into the rain to collect the newspapers I had forgotten to put a hold on before leaving. The rain had left them swollen and plastered to the sidewalk. I peeled them off the concrete and dropped the wet glob
in the trash on my way inside. All I wanted was to crawl into my own bed.

*    *    *

“Oh, my God. What happened to your face?” Margaret asked.

“It had an unfortunate collision with a very large, very hard fist.”

“Whose?”

“A guy I hope never to cross paths with again.”

“No doubt.” She arose and followed me into the office, updating me on a host of minor inter-office squabbles and personnel matters that needed attention. As she ticked off the items on the list she kept in her notebook, I rolled through the combination on my office safe and placed the digital recorder on a shelf with the envelope that contained the copies of Botticelli's campaign contributions.

“Order me another digital recorder, please.”

Margaret nodded and I saw her catch a glance of the inside of the safe as I closed the door. Her eyebrow raised in that familiar quizzical way, but she didn't ask any questions. “I need some time to catch up on work, Margaret. No calls or visitors unless it's an emergency.”

“Understood,” she said as she walked out and pulled my office door closed behind her.

The edict didn't last five minutes. I hadn't even gotten my computer booted up before my phone rang. “You have a visitor.”

She didn't have to identify the visitor. I knew. “Send her in.”

Shelly Dennison was all drama. She walked in and shut the door, slowly, so the latch scraped the strike plate and fell, creating a tiny echo in the room. The look on her face was a contrived combination of disgust and disappointment. She walked across the room with her arms folded over her breasts. “So, you've decided to return. How thoughtful of you.”

“Hello, sweetheart, it's good to see you, too.”

“You . . . ” She stepped closer and squinted. “What happened to your face?”

“Some guy didn't appreciate my sense of humor. I'm fine.”

“It looks horrible.”

“Thanks for the concern.”

She planted her fists on her hips. “Do you know how much ground you've lost while you were out tilting at windmills?”

“No. How much?”

She ignored my flippant response. She didn't know, and if I had lost any ground at all it was infinitesimal.

“Just tell me this, Hutchinson, what were you hoping to accomplish?”

“Who's asking, my campaign manager or my girlfriend?”

“On this point, we are one and the same.” I had my doubts. “So, what's going on with your little investigation?” she asked, a mocking tone to her voice.

“I don't know what's going to happen.”

She shook her head. “We're supposed to be at a rally this afternoon in Columbus. If it's not too much trouble, do you think you can throw a little makeup on your cheek and nose and work that into your schedule?”

“What time are we leaving?”

“I'll pick you up at two, and change that necktie before we leave, it's hideous.” She left without another word.

I worked at my desk undisturbed the rest of the morning. Margaret brought me a cheeseburger from the diner next door for lunch, along with a list of people who had called for me that morning. There were a dozen names on the list, one of whom was Jack Vukovich.

I dialed the number of the man who was the source of my intestinal troubles. “Jack, Hutchinson Van Buren.”

“You get to the office at seven forty-five in the morning and don't call me until nearly one fifteen in the afternoon? I still don't think you're taking me very seriously, Mr. Prosecutor.”

“What do you want, Jack?”

“I swear to Jesus Christ, if you ask me that question again I'll be in the lobby of the
Beacon Journal
in ten minutes. What the fuck do you think I want?”

“I'm afraid I don't have any news.”

His breathing was labored, the sound of a man struggling to control his rage. “That's not what I wanted to hear.”

“I'm sure it isn't. Do you think this is an easy process, Jack?”

“I'm not stupid, Van Buren. I know how the system works. If the county's top law enforcement officer kills an investigation, it's dead. Period.”

“You said I had a week, Jack. My week doesn't end until Wednesday afternoon. Sit tight. I'll be in touch.”

The phone went dead.

It was just before two when Shelly returned. She was carrying a plastic bag from a department store. She handed it to me and said, “Put it on.” It was a necktie—navy and gold diagonal stripes. Classy and conservative. There was nothing wrong with the tie I was wearing—red with gold fleurs-de-lis—except that she didn't like it and had been looking for something to pick at that morning. I put on the new tie in the restroom off my office. When I emerged I asked, “Better?”

“Much,” she said, with little more than a glance my way. I went back to my desk to put on my jacket and throw a few documents in my briefcase. “We don't have all day.”

As I came around the desk I said, “I can see this is going to be a pleasant trip. What about these bruises?”

“We'll touch them up when we get there,” she said, leading me out the door to her car. I felt like a scolded second-grader following a teacher to the principal's office.

I was a sideshow at the rally, which was held on the west lawn of the Ohio statehouse and timed for coverage by the evening news. Don Dunfee, the Republican candidate for secretary of state, was the primary beneficiary. He was in a tight race with the incumbent, and the party was hoping for a final surge leading up to election day. My role was to stand up and give a rousing endorsement speech for Dunfee, who I secretly disliked and believed to be a total boob who had no business running for a local sewer board, let alone secretary of state. This is why I hated politics. To be a good team player I was duty bound to stand up and tell a crowd of people that Don Dunfee was not only a great American, but also the only logical candidate for Ohio secretary of state. I gagged my way through the entire speech.

It was a good event for Shelly, who received many kudos for running such a great campaign on my behalf. This put her in a good mood for the ride home, at least until my phone rang just as she
drove past the first Mansfield exit. I didn't recognize the number, but whoever it belonged to had tried to call me twice during the rally. This time I answered.

“Jesus Christ, where the hell have you been?

“Who's this?”

“Jerry Adameyer. I've been trying to get a hold of you for two fuckin' hours.”

“I've been busy, Jerry. What's up?”

“Want some good news?”

Again, my gut began to constrict. “I always want good news.”

“We've got Vukovich. The DNA results came back positive.” He sounded like a kid who had just gotten a pony. “We've got him nailed, right to the fuckin' wall. The lab found a pubic hair follicle in the encrusted blood in the kid's underwear. It's Vukovich's.”

I thought I'd vomit. “That's awesome, Jerry, just awesome.”

“Damn lucky, I'd say. I wanted to touch base with you before we head out to arrest the bastard.”

Jerry talked so loud that Shelly was hearing every word. Her jaw flexed and she rolled her hands over the steering wheel.

“Let's hold up on that, Jerry. I want to take this one to the grand jury.”

“What? Why wait? He's toast. Let's get the perv off the streets before he does any more damage.”

“It's a touchy case, Jerry. Let's make sure we've got all the bases covered. One hair in the kid's underwear is not slam dunk evidence. Let's get together in the morning and talk about it, make sure we're square, and I'll take it to the grand jury.”

He exhaled into the phone and was, I sensed, trying to keep his temper in check. “I wish to God I knew what the deal is with you and this case. A few years ago you would have been in my office in ten minutes so you could go with us on the pinch.”

“With age comes caution. Can you and Officer Davidson be in my office at eight a.m.?” I asked.

“We'll be there, goddammit.”

I snapped my phone shut and looked at Shelly. She held her open right hand toward me and said, “Don't talk.”

Y
ears earlier, just after I was first elected Summit County prosecuting attorney, I attended a leadership and management conference. One of the seminars I attended was put on by a crisis communications and reputation management specialist, who spoke on how to deliver bad news. The one takeaway I recall from his talk was to get the bad news out in the open quickly and honestly. “Sometimes you have to fall on the sword,” he said. “Admit to your mistakes, apologize in earnest, show the proper amount of contrition, and state clearly why you will never again repeat the error.” It seemed simple enough, though I was reasonably certain that no amount of contrition would elicit any sympathy when the misdeed was allowing someone go to prison for a murder he didn't commit, then remaining silent for many years.

I sat alone at my desk, elbows on its polished mahogany surface, my fingertips touching, my index fingers planted between my brows. The only noticeable noise in the room was the inner workings of the large clock on the far wall. Tick-tock. I felt an odd inner peace. Having come to the decision to beat Jack Vukovich to the punch had oddly unknotted my guts. For the first time in several days, my breaths came without restriction.

It was the morning of Tuesday, September 21, 2004, and I had just met for nearly two hours with Portage Township Police Chief Jerry Adameyer and Officer Clarence Davidson. As I had said earlier, Adameyer was a hell of an investigator and the packet of information
they brought to my office was flawless. Under normal circumstances, I would have been thrilled to see such a complete workup. The grand jury was scheduled to meet on Thursday. I would present the case and seek an indictment of rape, assault, and gross sexual imposition with a minor, which was all but assured. “I'll call you as soon as I get the indictment and you can round him up,” I told them.

When they had left, I picked up the phone and dialed Margaret. “Would you come in here, please?” She walked in with her notebook and pen. “You won't need those,” I said. “Sit down. I want to talk to you for a while.”

We sat at the conference table, and I told her of the morning on Chestnut Ridge and how it had spiraled into my current dilemma, omitting nothing. “It's all going to hit the fan in a few days, Margaret; I just wanted you to be prepared.”

She had sat through the story, occasionally lifting her hands to cover her mouth, emitting a soft, “Umm-umm-umm-umm-umm,” or an equally soft, “Mercy.” Holding a hand to her ample bosom, Margaret said, “I appreciate you telling me all this, Mr. Van Buren, but you were only fifteen years old, for goodness sake, a baby. Besides, it sounds like prison was the perfect place for him.”

“Bless your heart, Margaret, but I'm not sure my opponent for attorney general or the electorate will share those sentiments. I'm going to get crucified.”

I called Pepper and left a message on his cell phone. “I'm taking the Vukovich case to the grand jury on Thursday. I'm certain they will return an indictment and he'll be arrested. What happens after that? Your guess is as good as mine.”

*    *    *

The Downtown Business Association of Cleveland held a candidates' breakfast on Wednesday, at which my opponent also was in attendance. Shelly said, “You should go over and congratulate her in advance for the miraculous comeback she is going to pull off after your dirty little secret becomes public.” I ignored her remarks, gave a five-minute version of my standard get-tough-on-crime speech, and got into Shelly's car for a painful two-hour trip to Toledo for a Chamber
of Commerce lunch, followed by a Q&A with the University of Toledo Young Republicans Club. All day Shelly punished me with silence and terse responses to any initiation of conversation. As we cruised along the Ohio Turnpike on the way back to Akron, I began a rambling monologue on the history of the Ohio judicial system in relation to the death penalty. I did this for no reason other than to get under her skin, and it worked magnificently. It took eight minutes before my beloved, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, said, “Hutchinson, shut the fuck up. I don't care.”