A sad story indeed, being used as a lever for gun control

The road to forgiveness; Gun-control backer’s change of heart toward son’s killers: ‘I forgive them’ WHY?

When Andrew Young of Evanston was fatally shot in 1996, Stephen Young called for the ‘severest penalty’ for his son’s killers. Then, he met them. And he believes they’re sorry. 

By Frank Main  May 15, 2020, 5:30am CDT

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WhenWhen Andrew Young was killed by two teenage gang members in 1996, his father called them “vicious, evil punks” and urged that they get the “severest possible penalty.”

But nearly a quarter century has passed. Stephen Young met the gunman and his accomplice, now both out of prison. And, in a remarkable change of heart, the father

believes they are sorry for the terrible crime and says: “I forgive them.”

Andrew Young, a former speedskating standout from Evanston, was 19 when he was shot in the heart on June 10, 1996, in Rogers Park. He died in the arms of his twin brother, Sam.

His father remembers the reporters and neighbors who swarmed his yard in Evanston. Later, a man whose sons knew Andrew offered to tap mob contacts to have the teenage suspects “taken out” in jail. Young says he didn’t consider taking him up on his offer. But he did want justice.

“Let the police have them,” he remembers saying.

Young got his justice. Triggerman Mario Ramos pleaded guilty and got a 40-year prison sentence. Accomplice Roberto Lazcano got 55 years after a jury trial.

Ramos completed his sentence in 2016. In January, he was arrested on charges of sexually abusing a 9-year-old girl, court records show. He’s back in the Cook County Jail, awaiting trial. Until his arrest, he was working as a big-rig truck driver in Chicago.

“I am in a much less forgiving mood about him now,” Young says. “A lot of people put a lot of effort into his rehabilitation.”

In March, Lazcano, too, was freed from prison, after his sentence was reduced — with Young’s blessing.

Roberto Lazcano.

 Illinois Department of Corrections

The law firm Jenner & Block worked for free on Lazcano’s behalf, persuading a judge and Cook County State’s Attorney Kim Foxx to cut about two years from his sentence. Last month, Lazcano was deported to Mexico. He has his own apartment in Mexico City and is putting together a resume, hoping to work in financial services.

For Lazcano, it’s a second chance. 

For Young, it’s one more step on a long journey of sorrow, anger and redemption.

“I truly believe he is sorry,” Young says. “I hope he does OK.”

Nearly 800 people were killed in Chicago in 1996 — many of them gang members killed by other gang members.

Andrew Young.

 Brian Jackson / Sun-Times file

Andrew Young’s killing got a lot of news coverage because he wasn’t involved in gangs. He was an Evanston Township High School grad who’d been a nationally ranked speedskater. He was taking courses at a community college.

Lazcano was a 15-year-old dropout and car thief who joined the Latin Kings. Lazcano and his family, undocumented, came to Chicago from Mexico when he was about 8. He didn’t fully learn English until prison. 

The day of the killing, he and Ramos, 18, a friend from the gang, were hanging out in Rogers Park, saw Andrew Young’s car and mistook the occupants for rivals.

Young was stopped at the light at Clark and Howard streets after cashing a check for his mom at a fruit stand. Ramos, armed with a 9 mm pistol, jumped on the back of Lazcano’s bike. Lazcano pedaled up to the car. Ramos jumped off and shot Young.

A Chicago cop saw the shooting, and Ramos and Lazcano were in handcuffs within moments.

Lazcano went to trial represented by a lawyer later disbarred for using drugs and stealing clients’ money. The attorney didn’t present any defense. He thought the jury wouldn’t convict an accomplice. 

He was wrong. The 55 years Lazcano got were 15 more years than Ramos’ sentence for pulling the trigger. 

At Lazcano’s sentencing in December 1996, Young spoke of his family’s suffering:

“My wife and I brought Andrew into this world, shared in his triumphs and setbacks at school, in athletics, raised him to near-manhood, only to lose him to a fool. There are days when I feel helpless, others when it seems as if I am losing my mind.”

Andrew Young.

 Sun-Times file

He told the judge he had to sell the car Andrew was shot in, even if he’d lose money on it. And he recalled traveling with Andrew for skating competitions.

“I miss him so much I ache inside,” he said.

“As far as I know, [Ramos] and Roberto [Lazcano] just felt like shooting someone, anyone, just to impress the Latin King elders. I want a message sent to that gang, the families and the two murderers that taking an innocent life calls for the severest penalty. I, my wife and my three remaining sons are damaged for the rest of our lives by this crime.”

Then, Young talked about Andrew’s twin brother, who was in the car with him and two of their friends.

“Poor Sam. He came into the world with Sam and held him in his arms when Andrew left it.”

Lazcano denied any role in the killing.

“I didn’t do nothin’,” he told the judge. “My crime was riding around on my bike in the place where the crime was.”

Retired Cook County Circuit Judge Henry Simmons Jr.

LinkedIn

But Judge Henry Simmons Jr. said Lazcano “lit the match that caused the shooting death of an innocent victim.”

He said Lazcano was “guilty as the day is long” and “very likely” to commit more crimes if given a short sentence. “I don’t believe he really understands the magnitude of what he set in motion on the date of this murder. Most gang members don’t.”

Lazcano entered the youth prison system at 16.

A few years later, he got a miracle of sorts. A man with a startup business befriended his mother at the Evanston coffee shop where she worked. They chatted in Spanish. In tears, she spoke of her son. The man decided to contact Lazcano in prison. They spoke by phone, sometimes weekly — when Lazcano wasn’t in segregation for misbehavior. 

At first, Lazcano didn’t understand why this man was helping him. But he decided to take his advice, to read everything he could and get an education. On Lazcano’s 21st birthday, he asked the man for a subscription to The Wall Street Journal.

With good behavior, Lazcano was transferred to a medium-security prison in Danville, where he got a bachelor’s degree through Ohio University and tried to turn his life around. He tutored other inmates. He worked in a hospice where ailing prisoners were dying.

The businessman who became Lazcano’s mentor doesn’t want credit for what he did and declined an interview request.

He was instrumental in getting Jenner & Block, the high-powered Chicago law firm, to work on Lazcano’s post-conviction appeal in 2000.

John Legend, seen performing in Beverly Hills, California on March 5: “Roberto is the kind of person whom I am working to help with my own racial justice reform initiatives.”

 Getty Images

Singer John Legend wrote on Lazcano’s behalf in September after hearing about the case from the mentor, whose business now has $1 billion in yearly revenue and thousands of employees.

“Roberto is the kind of person whom I am working to help with my own racial justice reform initiatives,” Legend said in a letter to the Illinois Prisoner Review Board.

Mexico’s consul general for Chicago also wrote on Lazcano’s behalf.

Lazcano’s lawyers asked then-Gov. Pat Quinn to grant Lazcano clemency in 2014 and, in 2016 — the year Mario Ramos was freed — made the same request of Gov. Bruce Rauner. Both rejected clemency.

Last year, Lazcano’s lawyers tried a third time.

“I have faith that the legal system is not solely focused on punishment,” he wrote to the Prisoner Review Board. 

Through his attorney, Lazcano declined interview requests.

In the latest clemency petition, his lawyers pointed to U.S. Supreme Court decisions that juveniles should be held to a lower standard than adults for sentencing. They noted that the Illinois Supreme Court has found sentences of more than 40 years for juveniles unconstitutional. And they said it wasn’t fair that Ramos, the shooter, got a lesser sentence.

Mario Ramos.

 Illinois Department of Corrections.

Before Gov. J.B. Pritzker could decide Lazcano’s fate, a Cook County judge agreed to reduce his sentence.

In a court filing citing a change in state law, Lazcano’s attorneys said he was now required to serve only half of his sentence. They also said he hadn’t been credited with time spent in jail before his trial.

On March 19, Lazcano was paroled. In April, he was deported. 

More than a dozen relatives signed a letter to the Illinois Prisoner Review Board, saying they could provide housing for Lazcano in the town where they live outside Mexico City. A businessman in Mexico said he was willing to hire Lazcano, who wants to earn a master’s degree in business administration and one day work for his mentor.

It’s the right outcome, says Stephen Young, now living in Skokie.

“The first 10 years, Roberto was unrepentant,” he says. “Then, he grew up, expressed remorse. He basically turned over a new leaf.”

The Rev. Bob Oldershaw, Young’s pastor, says it’s been a long road for Young and his family.

“His journey was quite different from his ex-wife Maurine, who is much more emotional or feeling-oriented,” Oldershaw says. “She was ready to forgive and move on. I think he was, too, but it was different. He was approaching it much more from the head, and Maurine was from the heart.

“They say forgiveness is a gift you give yourself. You refuse to let a terrible event keep harming you the rest of your life. There is a lightness in his step now.”

In his letter to the Prisoner Review Board, Young recalled the day he made up his mind Lazcano should go free. In late 2015, Young — accompanied by his priest and Lazcano’s mentor — met Lazcano at the Danville Correctional Center.

Stephen Young, a founding member of People For A Safer Society, lost his son Andrew to gun violence.

 Sun-Times file

Young, 69, has spent much of his life working for gun-control, a commitment he made after his son’s death.

He wrote the board of meeting Lazcano: “I told him that ‘there but the grace of God go I’ because when I was young we got into fights but we didn’t have ridiculously easy access to handguns. Everybody lived to see the next day.

“So I took his hand and forgave him,” Young wrote. “He cried. Tears were dripping onto the table and his body shook. The immensity of his crime all came to him in that moment.

“He looked at me and said, ‘I’m sorry Mr. Young. I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you.’

“I believe he’s a changed man,” Young wrote. “He appeared to be rehabilitated and at peace with himself. Based on what I’ve witnessed I believe he will try to give back to the world once he is out. I don’t believe it serves any purpose for him to remain in prison.”

Andrew Young (in front) at a short-track race in Milwaukee.

 Provided

In 2016, Young spoke at his church, St. Nicholas Parish in Evanston, which Mario Ramos’ parents also attended. He described meeting Ramos and forgiving him.

Young also told the congregation he struggled with his faith after Andrew’s death. He didn’t understand why God would let that happen.

Then, he revealed a dream he had in the months after Andrew’s killing.

“I was on a footbridge over the pond watching him skate, but I was afraid. I feared the ice was thin. He’d break through and drown. I ran down the bridge to the shore and motioned for him to skate over to me.

“We communicated through our eyes, telepathically. No words were spoken, just thoughts. ‘Skate near the shore,’ I tried to tell him. ‘If the ice breaks, you won’t drown. You don’t have to die.’ 

“He looked deep into me with his beautiful blue eyes, ‘You don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’m safe now. I’m safe.’ ”

Andrew Young before a nationals speedskating competition at Lake Placid, New York, in 1993. 

Provided