Chapter 9
Country Roads
On July 25, 1985, thirty-five-year-old Janet Stokes of Tracy, California, was pulling a double shift at Tracy Beauty Supply and Gifts. She started work at 5:00 A.M. in the morning on what promised to be a hot summer day in this Central Valley town. As if her day wasn’t already long enough, she drove over to her employer’s house at 5:00 P.M. and began some housework for his wife, Anna Bucklin.
At least here Stokes was able to take a short break, drinking a couple of beers just to cool off and relax before returning to ironing the Bucklins’ laundry. Mr. Bucklin unexpectedly returned to the house around 6:00 P.M. and sighed that he was going back to the store to do some more work. Surprisingly, Stokes announced she would accompany him and help out. It would be an incredibly long day, but she would appreciate the extra money on payday.
From about 6:00 P.M. until 11:00 P.M. Janet Stokes helped with clerical work, UPS shipping and unloading packages until even Mr. Bucklin grew tired of the drudgery and called it a day.
He drove her back to his house and said good night. As she got into her car, she had a decision to make—drive home for some well-deserved rest or out to nearby Joey’s Bar for some fun and relaxation.
Joey’s Bar won out. Located on Grant Line Road and MacArthur Avenue in Tracy, it wasn’t much to look at and the interior was still warm after a hot day, but at least the beers were cold. Stokes sauntered up to the bar and asked for a beer and some quarters for the cigarette machine. The bartender shrugged and said he didn’t have any change. But a patron did. In her own words, “I met a nice man . . . and this nice gentleman offered me the quarters.”
The nice gentleman in question was James Daveggio.
He was seated at the bar with a friend, John Huffstetler, who for the most part was very quiet and aloof. But not Daveggio. He was talkative and friendly. He soon had Stokes engaged in a cordial conversation and she found him quite charming. True, his voice was kind of rough, but he had a fairly handsome face, blue eyes and long blond hair. He also seemed to be quite taken with her, which after a long hard day of hot work was gratifying.
One beer led to another. After about thirty minutes Stokes asked Daveggio if he wanted to follow her to Bill’s Club across town. It at least had air-conditioning, something she truly desired at this point.
Daveggio said he’d be glad to.
Her offer was more or less for Daveggio alone, but as she looked back, Huffstetler was tagging along as well. Stokes walked out to the parking lot, saw both of them climb into a car, and as she drove the five miles to Bill’s Club, she kept glancing in her rearview mirror. Daveggio’s car was right behind her the whole way.
Tending the establishment that night at Bill’s was David Bradshaw. He looked up to see three new customers sitting at his long bar, asking for drinks. He recognized Janet Stokes slightly, having seen her in the tavern a couple of times before, but the two men were complete strangers. He served up the mixed drinks they ordered, and before long the blond-haired young man had him engaged in a conversation about bartending. It turned out that the stranger also tended bar once in a while at Sunol, about forty miles away.
Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Huffstetler had loosened up enough to engage Stokes in a game of pool while Daveggio spun stories about bartending. Bradshaw remembered everyone having a good time: “It looked like they were having an evening on the town. A nice evening.”
But lack of sleep, hard work and alcohol began to have an effect on Stokes. She’d already drunk two beers at the Bucklin residence, two beers at Joey’s Bar, and now three Separators (brandy, kahlua and cream) at Bill’s. Feeling a bit tipsy and light-headed, she began to worry about the lateness of the hour, and she harbored a knowledge of her limit for alcohol. She’d never passed out from drinking before, but sometimes if she drank too much, she did get sick and would vomit. This was not an appetizing prospect. It was time to call it a night.
She thanked the “nice gentleman” for a good time and started to exit the back door. She knew she was in no shape to drive, but at least she could make sure her car was locked before she walked the few blocks to her home. In her tired haze she almost didn’t notice that Daveggio and Huffstetler were right alongside her as she departed.
Checking her parked car as planned, Stokes suddenly found Daveggio looming right in her face, insisting that he give her a ride home. She resisted at least twice, but the tiredness and alcohol were beginning to take their toll. And Daveggio was very insistent. In almost a complete daze now, Stokes somehow found herself sitting in their car, squeezed in between Daveggio and Huffstetler. Daveggio started the engine and quietly began to roll down the street.
Nothing was said as the car passed one street corner, then another, until it was motoring out of town past the city lights and into the dark country.
Janet Stokes began to get scared.
“Let me out. I want to go home,” she implored, but the only response she received from Daveggio was, “Shut up!”
Her initial uneasiness now turned to sheer panic.
“Please, if you let me out right now, I won’t say a thing,” she pleaded.
Huffstetler told her to shut up and Daveggio kept right on driving down Tracy Boulevard into the darkened orchards and farmland.
Stokes was thoroughly scared and crying, but it brought no sympathy from the two men. They continually told her, “Shut up and you won’t get hurt.”
As if to emphasize the point, Huffstetler suddenly brandished a large handgun. With its appearance Janet Stokes knew that her “fun evening” had taken a terribly wrong turn. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she wondered how all this would end.
She didn’t have long to find out. Daveggio pulled the car off the road into the orchards and parked by the side of the road in a deserted area. Only the reflection of the moon shone into the car’s interior, highlighting the chrome pistol in Huffstetler’s hand.
Daveggio stared over at Stokes without a trace of pity, even as she continued to cry. Then without any preamble he ordered, “Suck my dick.”
Stokes rocked backward and summoned up her last reserves of dignity. She remembered later, “I was cocky and said no. But then I started to cry because he started to slap me and pull my hair.”
She continued to beg, “No, no,” but he simply replied, “Oh, yes, you are.”
Everything was becoming a horrible blur for Stokes now. Huffstetler was lifting her blouse and removing her bra. In another moment she felt his cold hand on her breast. Daveggio unzipped his pants and pulled his penis out. She tried to move away, but he grabbed her hand and placed it on his genitals. She couldn’t stop crying and he repeatedly beat her about the head, grabbing her hair and pulling her face down toward his crotch. Huffstetler was laughing at her all the time and constantly repeating, “Shut up and you won’t get hurt.”
She tried pulling her head back, but Daveggio’s grip was too strong. Afraid now for her life, she finally decided to give in and did what he wanted.
When asked later in court by a prosecutor, “When you were sucking his penis, was it soft or hard?”
All these years later, one can still hear the outraged anguish in her reply, “Oh, God! I don’t know. I can’t remember!”
Afterward Stokes was sick. Huffstetler, for some reason, had departed the car and she begged him to let her out so she could urinate. He thought about it for a moment and then said OK. As she started to move toward the back of the car, his pistol suddenly erupted right behind her ear. Stokes dived to the ground, shivering like a wet puppy, while Daveggio ripped out from the driver’s side and began yelling at Huffstetler for his stupid bravado. Daveggio was so mad he looked as if he could kill Huffstetler. Stokes prayed the next bullet wouldn’t be in her head or in her back.
The argument seemed to go on forever—both Daveggio and Huffstetler wildly gesticulated. Finally, Daveggio won out and ordered Stokes and Huffstetler back into the car.
Daveggio was still angry and swore at Huffstetler as he started the engine, pulling back onto the roadway. He had hardly driven a mile toward Tracy when red lights flashed in the rear window. John Huffstetler had picked the worst possible moment to fire his pistol into the night. A San Joaquin patrol car had been cruising by at just that moment and heard the gunshot. Unlike the incident at the Black Angus restaurant in Pleasanton, Daveggio was not going to be able to get out of this accusation.