 Paula Sheil - A Killing on Daggett Road |
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Paula Sheil Note from Paula Sheil on the next article: This is the story that won second place in California in 2003.
The award for "General Writing" (not beat journalism, came from the
California Newspaper Publishers Association (CNPA) and my story was The Record Sunday, June 8, 2003 E1 A killing on Daggett Road By Paula Sheil "There were two sides to DJ. He was charismatic. The other side could be mean and ugly, very angry." If anybody had a piece of Dedrick "DJ" Rico Jr., other than his killer or killers, he might be alive today. Rico was stabbed to death May 17 in Stockton . And while police attempt to sort it out, his friends and family struggle with more questions than answers. The husky, affable Rico was a 17-year-old contradiction, certainly not uncommon in a teenager. But his behavior over an eight-month period was so erratic, so puzzling, that few people close to him could really say they knew him. He was many things to many people. To the police -- who are not talking about the case -- he was a scam artist who masqueraded reform while really living the life of a gangster. To the teens who heard him speak, he was an inspiration. To his mentors, he was a kid trying to stay on the right path. To his friends, he was a player with innumerable girlfriends. The face he showed his family and mentors was at odds with his behavior. "There were two sides to DJ," said Alicia Arong, DJ's maternal grandmother. "He was charismatic. The other side could be mean and ugly, very angry." Consider the two faces of DJ: DJ's death earned front-page coverage in The Record as a former gang member who had turned his life around and was lauded for his community work with other troubled teens. In a subsequent article two days later, he was relegated to the back page as a former gang member allegedly selling stolen property. In August, he marched in Sacramento in support of farm workers with his great-aunt Dolores Huerta, co-founder with Cesar Chavez of the United Farm Workers. But police say he is suspected of robbing migrant workers on Charter and Wilson ways. As a peer educator for Delta Health Care, DJ advocated abstinence and safe sex. At the same time, one of his girlfriends had his baby. He also warned young people of drug abuse but failed to appear in court on marijuana charges. No one, it seems, was quite sure which person he was. For a while, though, DJ made every attempt to turn his life around. When he served time in juvenile hall for robbing another teen, former Delta health educator William Lattimore gave a moving talk about life on the right side. It got DJ's attention. He volunteered at Delta Health Care that spring. His charisma quickly brought him public attention and admiration and, more importantly, a paying job. He earned public praise for educating teens about sex and leaving his life of crime. On March 15, he spoke at Stockton Mayor Gary Podesto's third annual youth conference. That was his last public appearance as the reformed DJ. He veered off the path to salvation. Slowly, he detached himself from those who could help him the most. In the end, DJ was on the run. Though he had dozens of family members who could have sheltered him, he was sleeping on friends' sofas and doing one-nighters in local motels two weeks before his death. He'd completely slipped family ties and the knot of authority. DJ went from child victim to the city's 16th homicide of the year -- dead less than three weeks before his 18th birthday. Everyone who loved him harbors guilt and regret. "Regardless of what happened or why it happened," Arong said, "there could be something good to come of this." His death "We've had 11 girls come up and say they were DJ's girlfriends. Two say they are carrying his baby." Four days after DJ was found beaten and stabbed on Daggett Road , his body filled a white satin-lined coffin at DeYoung Funeral Chapel downtown. Even in a freshly ironed khaki shirt and pants, DJ looked bad. His body was bloated. His left ear had been severed and reattached. There were gashes just visible at the back of his neck. His left eye was swollen. The makeup was two shades darker than his skin to hide the bruises on his face and hands. Yet his mother, Debra Yapit, wanted the casket open. His sisters had contacted a psychic who told them DJ wanted whoever killed him to see what they had wrought, and he wanted his friends to take heed that this, too, could happen to them. Everyone was cautioned not to touch him. The room was freezing. Outside, the temperature hit 90 degrees. Sobbing, shaking girls arrived to view him, claiming to have been his girlfriend at one time or another. Valerie Spatola, who knew him since the sixth grade, was his first sex partner. Corrina Zapata ironed his shirts. Another girl, tears streaming down her face, said she broke up with him just a month ago. "We've had 11 girls come up and say they were DJ's girlfriends. Two say they are carrying his baby," Yapit said. The place where he died is less forgiving than the cold room where everyone got their last look at DJ. Daggett Road is a destination for drinking, drug deals, hurried sex and death. Serial killers Wesley Shermantine and Loren Herzog murdered two men here in 1984. Broken bottles and empty condom wrappers line the two-lane road off Highway 4. Its deeply potholed asphalt divides the city from the county at the west end of the city's sewage ponds. Even the sunset stinks. His body was thrown into a ditch filled with garbage, tires and broken furniture. Shaded by a weedy copse of trees, a junked big-screen TV lay on its side next to a stained mattress. DJ's last girlfriend, 17-year-old Vanessa Fortney, a St. Mary's High School junior, was the first to arrive at Daggett Road . Vanessa, described by her mother as an honor student involved in student government and community work, met DJ at a Delta Health Care teen function. DJ had her car, a 2000 tan Mitsubishi Mirage, and her cell phone -- items she let DJ use anytime he wanted. Late in the morning of May 17, Lupe Hall, Vanessa's mother, said Vanessa called him to ask where he was. DJ said he was on Daggett Road . She had errands to run before her prom that night and wanted her car back. When DJ didn't show up, Vanessa borrowed a friend's car and cell and drove to the road. He was dead when she got there. Three dozen quarter-sized blood splatters marked the road about 5 feet from the mattress. Another few feet away, a pool of blood stained the road. Smeared blood led from the pool to the roadside. DJ, sprawled in the ditch, was wearing his red United Farm Workers T-shirt. Nearby were beige shorts that had come off when he was dragged and heaved into the trash. Police and DJ's family were not Vanessa's first concerns. Vanessa called her mother. She left Daggett Road and returned with her parents and three friends of DJ's mother to look at the body. It was nearly 35 minutes before police were called. DJ's mother arrived just after the police and found herself outside the yellow crime tape. More and more of DJ's family arrived and were stopped even farther up the road by a second layer of crime tape. Several Hells Angels roared up, all friends of DJ's father, Dedric Rico Sr. They waved at officers who were watching the gathering crowd through binoculars and snapping photos of those at the scene. The righteous path "I keep on thinking about the duality in each of us. We all have the potential for good and for bad." DJ was a street-smart survivor. His expansive energy filled the room when he entered. His expressive face and firm handshake exuded confidence. His smile was wide and frequent. When he shared his life story, people -- especially teens -- listened. For several months, DJ was walking a narrow path with Delta under the mentorship of Sammy Nunez, manager of community services. "He wasn't an image of perfection, but ... he did as much as anybody could for other kids while he was here," Nunez said. Nunez, an ex-gang member himself, saw his own life repeating in DJ and wanted to save him. Nunez was DJ's boss, but he was also a surrogate father. He pulled a picture from his breast pocket of himself and DJ crowded together on Nunez's living room couch. Better times. "I keep on thinking about the duality in each of us. We all have the potential for good and for bad," Nunez said. DJ's gang education began in south central Los Angeles in 1999, when he was 14. His mother moved there to work and took DJ along with her. Until then, he'd seen trouble at school with teachers and grades, but he had stayed away from the law. In Los Angeles , he was supposed to be going to school, but he never got beyond the eighth grade -- a grade he completed at Webster Middle School with his grandmother attending his classes to make sure he didn't cut. When DJ returned to Stockton a year later, on a Greyhound bus with a ticket paid for by his father, he had "CWV" (Citywide Vandals) and "Rico" tattooed on his back, his mother's name scrawled across his neck and "Thug Life" inked on his arm. He bounced from his father's house to an aunt's. He took his aunt's car for a joyride and hit another car. He was fined and sent to a juvenile work program in January 2002. During this stint, DJ and another teen robbed a third youth, and he was sent to juvenile hall. There, he heard the word from Lattimore and promised to check out Delta's programs when he was released. He showed up in an ankle bracelet, under house detention, with his grandmother to meet Nunez. The two connected instantly. DJ began training with other peer educators and quickly caught on. Now his life, instead of going nowhere, had meaning, if only to warn others. But his volunteer time was brief. DJ returned to juvenile hall to complete his sentence. When he was released, he joined the Delta staff with a paycheck. This was the promise year, the life raft that would save him from the streets. He'd turned 17 and was hitting his stride to come of age with a clean slate. He tried attending Model Alternative High School , then Stagg, but neither worked out. In the fall, Vanessa persuaded him to get his GED at San Joaquin Delta College . He was interviewed in August with several other peer counselors about sex, and again in December as the subject of The Record's "Spirit of Giving" holiday series. Both times, he was forthcoming about his experiences, stating bluntly that he'd had sex when he was 12. His mother, he said, was a recovered heroin addict; his father, out of the picture. Audiences paid him rapt attention. He could break up a room. He could induce introspection. "He had all the power within him to be whatever he chose to be," said Irwin Staller, director of the agency. "The work he did while he represented Delta was genuine." Delta Health Care, a multifaceted agency, provides family planning, reproductive health services and drug, crime and violence prevention education. It employs many people from the community who have dealt with the problems of the clients and patients. Using this kind of work force is more costly and labor-intensive. The employees require more training and supervision, but this buys insight and empathy. Some of Delta's staff, such as DJ, are only a few steps up the road from the people they help. Motivating change is easy. Change itself is tough. "It takes all your energy to change. It took me five years to quit smoking," Staller said. "If (DJ) was clean and straight for eight months, then that was progress." It didn't make DJ a saint, but he appeared to be on the road to rescue. And by all accounts, DJ was doing well. But by late February, eight months into DJ's transformation, Nunez was beginning to see the cracks. His new baby, much doted upon, divided DJ's attention. His youngest sister, Drena, was caught in a custody battle with their parents. He had some caustic moments with staff. Nunez rearranged his work team. "I took this kid, and I did everything in my power. It worked for a very short period," Nunez said. For several weeks, DJ's grandmother sensed the gaining momentum toward self-destruction. She called the Probation Office to pick him up, to drug-test him. She was told drug testing was not court-ordered, so it couldn't be done. Then DJ missed a couple of appointments and lied to Nunez about them. Nunez reprimanded him. DJ started to pull away. Instead of reining DJ in, Nunez cut him loose with an ultimatum. "Come back in two weeks and tell me why I should give you another chance," Nunez told him. DJ rebuffed the tough love. He wouldn't take responsibility for his actions. He wouldn't allow anyone to tell him what to do. Nunez experienced the same behavior that had DJ's relatives shuttling him back and forth. "The last thing I told him was, 'I love you,' " Nunez said. "I don't know where we failed him, but we did. We failed him. I'm sorry, DJ." At the March 15 Mayor's Youth Conference, DJ was a guest speaker, but he was no longer employed by Delta. Still, Nunez's telephone number was always at hand. Three days after the conference, DJ was cited for possession of less than an ounce of pot that deputies found under a bed at his grandmother's home. "After what I went through with my daughter (DJ's mother), there's no way I would tolerate that," said Arong, his grandmother. After the pot citation, he split. Vanessa came and picked him up. Arong said probation didn't do enough, especially since she was willing to assist them in keeping DJ on track. DJ called Nunez in Los Angeles , where Nunez was attending a conference, but he didn't get through. He did more time in the hall. In April, he was released to his mother's custody and placed on home detention with an ankle bracelet. He was also ordered to return to court but failed to show. He cut the ankle bracelet off and went on the run. "I am so angry about what happened," Nunez said. "I have asked myself, 'What did I do? What didn't I do? What could I do differently?' That's going to haunt me for the rest of my life." Marcos Lomeli, 18, another peer educator at Delta, served as a pallbearer at DJ's funeral. He's just as confused. Lomeli considered the two of them close friends. They met in elementary school and played Pop Warner football together on the South Stockton Vikings. Lomeli was with DJ two days before he died, playing handball at Van Buskirk Park. No matter how close these young men thought they were, Lomeli was surprised he knew nothing of DJ's circumstances. It was all, "Hey, dawg. Wassup." "We opened up in our stories when we did presentations, not as a regular thing that we did on our own," Lomeli said. "It boggles me; I should have known more." The family "All four of us had a hard life with my parents." Family members crowded around DJ's casket in two shifts. First, his mother's side paid their respects. Then his father's family filed in to view the body. With brief hugs and acknowledgments, the factions shared their grief. After the funeral, DJ's maternal relatives gathered at Karl Ross Post. His father's side went to the Moose Lodge on Thornton Road . After 24 years and four children -- Deilani born in 1980, Denee in 1982, DJ in 1985 and Drena in 1986 -- the breach between DJ's parents, Dedric Rico Sr. and Debra Yapit, has only widened. DJ's parents never married, and family members in both camps say the relationship was volatile. DJ and his three sisters were pawns in ongoing custody battles. "We never married, because for some reason I knew we weren't going to be together forever," Rico said. Rico did five days in jail for domestic violence in 1990. Yapit got the kids. Yapit did 18 months in custody in 1991 for grand theft. Rico got the kids. Rico was investigated in 1994 by Child Protective Services on suspicion of child abuse, and the kids were split up. The two oldest girls went to live with an aunt in Fullerton . DJ was shipped to Sacramento . The baby remained with Rico, since the investigation provided no evidence that she was threatened in his care. DJ stayed one year in Sacramento and, with one-on-one attention from a paternal aunt, learned to read before his mother filed papers to get him back. David Rico, DJ's paternal grandfather, once made a bid to raise DJ, providing their son and Yapit made him the legal guardian. They said no. In between custody battles, Arong opened her house to her daughter and her children. On and off, DJ lived by himself with Arong, with various aunts, with his older sisters. "All four of us had a hard life with my parents," said Denee Castillo, now 20. She and her three children moved in with Arong and DJ last August. While DJ was employed at Delta Health Care, he was a doting uncle who lavished time and money on his nieces and nephews. He took the kids for Happy Meals and to the park. He bought them toys and candy. "He was paid on Friday, and by Sunday he was broke," Castillo said. "DJ was a good uncle, even though he was always sneaking behind my back to give them what he wanted." During the week, Castillo loaned him a few dollars every day for the bus and a soda. After he left Delta, she often fed him from her tips at Denny's. She can't understand why, if he was committing robberies, he never had any money. "In the last couple of days, we all just kind of lost track of DJ," Castillo said. End of the road "He was allowed in my home, but I didn't approve of him." The Wednesday afternoon before DJ was killed, Jose Gomez, a youth outreach worker for the city's anti-gang Peacekeeper Program, spotted DJ at Second and San Joaquin streets. DJ waved him down. He offered to sell Gomez a Lincoln Town Car. All the windows were busted out, but DJ and his friend only wanted $3,500 for it. Gomez said no thanks. During the last 24 hours of his life, DJ hit the phone, calling family and friends. DJ's father and his girlfriend, Terese Madrazo, received a phone call Wednesday night with the caller ID "Howard Johnson." They thought it was someone's name until Delta's Nunez came by the next day to tell them that he'd heard talk that DJ had been at Howard Johnson's, the former Days Inn, at Weber Avenue and Center Street. Thursday morning, DJ called his sister, Deilani, and she picked up his red UFW shirt, beige shorts and black Nike Air Max sneakers from Denee at his grandmother's house. That night, DJ, Vanessa and another couple went to San Francisco to shop for prom shoes. When they returned, DJ stayed over with the couple at a motel on March Lane. Vanessa returned the next morning. She wasn't going to take DJ with her to the prom. She had another date. She said DJ wasn't cool enough to go, that he couldn't dance, that he would just start something. They fought. She called his mother names. He slapped her. He took her to school. After checking out of the motel, DJ spent some time Friday afternoon with his friend Alberto Correa at the mall. Later, he drove his younger sister, Drena, to his grandmother's house hoping to see his daughter, but he wasn't allowed. Everybody argued. He pulled up to his dad's home but didn't get out of the car. He told his dad he had to go pick up Vanessa. He spent Friday night on Correa's couch. Saturday morning, DJ called another friend, Amanda Larus. He wanted to take her to cash a check so he could loan money to Vanessa for prom. "He was allowed in my home, but I didn't approve of him," said Lupe Hall, Vanessa's mother. He showered at Vanessa's house that morning. At 12:30 p.m., DJ called his dad's girlfriend looking for her nephew, Timmy Moran, 18, to go riding with him. Headed to the movies, Moran declined. At 2:14 p.m., he was reported dead. Stockton police spokesman Doug Anderson said DJ had gang ties, although he would not provide details. He also said DJ remained a suspect in the migrant robberies, although no reports by workers were filed with police. Anderson said the information about the robberies and DJ's involvement came from the streets. The boy's family and friends are incredulous that DJ would be involved in such crimes. It doesn't jibe with the family's history with the UFW and the migrant worker movement. "There's stuff that has never been reported to us," Anderson said. Reggie Galindo, an outreach counselor for Community Works of the San Joaquin County Office of Substance Abuse, didn't consider DJ a gang member or a target. On the contrary, the standing-room-only rosary and the full pews at Annunciation Cathedral are measures of his worth in the community, Galindo said. A former east Stockton gang member who's shed the lifestyle, Galindo founded the Latino Movement for Stopping Violence in October. He believes DJ was a part of that in the beginning. "I do community outreach, and I run into a lot of people -- hundreds and hundreds -- where there's gangs and drugs. I never heard of him as being involved, as being active in anything," Galindo said. But Gomez, another reformed gang member who has his ear to the street, saw DJ's two sides. He ran across him at the annual Men's Conference in February, at youth events, different meetings and conferences. "When I hear people speak who are changing, I hesitate to believe everything that is coming out of their mouth," Gomez said. "There's not many of us (who have) been in that lifestyle and make the change. My character is either 100 percent committed to one thing or another. If I am not committed to something structured that is good, I am going to be my old self." When DJ flagged Gomez down on Second Street -- just days before his death -- he looked different, Gomez said. "He had the demeanor of someone who was back on the street. ... It wasn't the same DJ that was out there trying to help people." To reach reporter Paula Sheil phone (209) 546-8257 or e-mail psheil@recordnet.com* PHOTO: Daggett Road (Record photo by CRAIG SANDERS) PHOTOS: The people that mattered to DJ PHOTO: CONFLICTED TEEN?: DJ Rico, left, joins his great-aunt Dolores Huerta, co-founder of the United Farm Workers, at an August rally in Sacramento . After Rico's death, Stockton police said the teenager was a suspect in a series of robberies of farm workers. (Courtesy photo)
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