Meanwhile, Volz rented a car in Managua and set out for San Juan del Sur, stopping in Rivas to pick up Jimenez’s father Ivan. When they arrived at the scene at around 6 PM there was still a crowd in front of the store, but police had the entrance blocked off. A take-charge sort of person, Volz demanded to be let in. The police refused; when Volz kept asking questions, he says, they turned hostile.
“I know the rules,” says Volz. “You’re not supposed to get involved here, you’re not supposed to get hands-on with a police investigation. But Doris’s family wasn’t doing anything, the police weren’t giving them any answers.”
From this point on his actions would be carefully scrutinized. Spying Sobalvarro, he gave her a brief hug. “He was very cold, very unemotional,” she says. “He didn’t even cry. He asked me if I had eaten, if I was hungry. I thought that was strange.”
The next day, Volz says he was in Rivas when a friend called, saying he’d received a threatening text message: “Your girlfriend, is next.” Alarmed, Volz, his friend, and the girlfriend went into the police station to report it and spoke to a commissioner of investigations named Emilio Reyes. The meeting quickly turned sour. “You drink a lot, don’t you Eric?” Reyes asked, according to Volz. “Do you get violent when you drink? How many times have you hit Doris? Are you a jealous guy? Are you jealous enough to kill someone if they cheated on you?”
Reyes also wondered aloud, “Why don’t Americans take showers very often?”
That set Volz off. “I know my rights, and I stood up for them,” he says. “I was like, ‘I don’t like the way you’re talking to me. If you’re going to accuse me of something, if you’re implying something, do it directly. I’ll get an attorney if I need to.’” He left in a huff, refusing to sign a statement Reyes had given him.
At Jimenez’s funeral on Thursday, Volz helped carry the casket and cried at the grave site. Afterward the police asked him to come back to the station to resume his conversation with Reyes. Volz realized he was in trouble when the police put him in their pickup truck and paraded him slowly through the center of San Juan del Sur, as his friends and acquaintances gaped.
“It was a strategy to immediately build support [against me] and have people start spreading rumors,” Volz says now. The police brought him to the Rivas station and charged him with murder. “I was totally shocked,” says Volz. “I was not expecting that at all.”
The police also charged three other men, including a wealthy student named Armando Llanes, whose father owns a nearby hotel, and who Doris had dated after she and Volz broke up. They also picked up two local hangabouts, Nelson Lopez Dangla, a known drug user, and Martin Chamorro, who had a long-standing crush on Jimenez and who had chided her publicly for dating Americans. Chamorro had scratches on his face, while Lopez had marks all over his body, including his penis. According to the police, the four had allegedly raped and killed her together, led by Volz. In a statement to police, Chamorro alleged that Volz and Llanes had paid him $5,000 to help them do the deed.
It wasn’t long before all of the attention settled on Volz, especially, he says, after a local police official told Jimenez’s mother that Volz had confessed to the crime (which he hadn’t). A few days later the Sandinista paper El Nuevo Diario published a front-page story accusing Volz of leading a brutal gang-rape and murder of “this ‘sirenita’ of San Juan del Sur.” The newspaper’s version was accepted as gospel.
Jimenez’s mother Mercedes Alvarado, 45, appeared often on TV, appearing to sob exaggeratedly—despite the fact that she and Jimenez had been estranged and rarely talked. A volunteer Sandinista organizer, she lives in a small house on a dirt street with a huge picture of President Ortega on the wall. She had met Volz only a few times, but that didn’t stop her from relaying lurid tales of his disrespectful treatment of her daughter, from midnight booty calls to supposed beatings. (Jimenez in fact spent most nights at Volz’s place when they were together, and roommates say they got along well.) Alvarado organized the truckloads of protesters who were brought in for Volz’s preliminary hearing.
“This is my town, and these are my people,” she says. “It was a show of solidarity and support from the people. We knew if the judge found him innocent, he would go free.”
He ended up in El Chipote, the Sandinistas’ notorious underground torture prison in Managua. Clad only in boxers and a tank top, Volz was thrown into a tiny, windowless concrete cell, which he shared with two scorpions and a tarantula. The lights stayed on 24 hours a day, and the dripping moisture bred mosquitoes that feasted on his exposed flesh.
Volz believes Emilio Reyes, commissioner of investigation for the Rivas police—the same man he thinks ordered his arrest and leaked his “confession”—may have sent him there.
MORE AKIN TO A FOURTH-GRADE classroom than a house of law, the Rivas courtroom seats about 25 people, on metal chairs, and testifying witnesses are within arm’s length from both the judge and the court reporter. A large, colorful poster tacked on the courtroom door depicts a hand offering money to a faceless judge, with a stop sign in between. According to the U.S. State Department, judicial corruption is rampant in Nicaragua.
On February 14, the first day of his trial, Volz entered the courtroom wearing a brown long-sleeved parka zipped up to his chin that concealed a bulletproof vest. After the mayhem following the preliminary hearing, Volz and the police weren’t taking any chances. The police took the further precaution of blocking off the streets around the courthouse.
There was no jury, only the judge, a woman from Rivas named Ivette Toruño Blanco. And the four initial suspects had been whittled down to two: Volz and Chamorro. On the day of the preliminary hearing in December, Llanes had shown up with his father and a lawyer and a paper showing he had been registering for classes on the day of the crime. After a closed-door meeting with the prosecutor he was let go. Charges against Lopez Dangla had also been dropped, and in an unlikely twist, he was now going to testify against Volz.
It appeared at first that Volz might have a fighting chance. The medical examiner and the police testified that there was no physical evidence linking Volz to the killing. None of the 100-plus hair samples matched his. There was no semen found in Jimenez’s body, but because she had been embalmed, a full examination was not performed. And the only blood found at the crime scene besides Jimenez’s was type O. Volz is type A. Also, Volz had signed credit card receipts for the rental car; the contract was printed at 3:11 PM. The only physical evidence the prosecution presented regarding Volz was photos of scratches on his back. (He claims they were from carrying Jimenez’s casket.)
Soon it was clear that this was not going to be an orderly, Law & Order-style trial, but more of a theatrical performance. After she finished answering questions, Sobalvarro announced dramatically that Jimenez had confided that Volz had threatened to kill her if she went with another man. Jimenez’s mother echoed that statement, adding that Volz’s family had offered her $1 million to drop the charges against Volz, a claim Volz’s family adamantly denies. At one point during the trial gunshots were fired outside—apparently by police trying to control the crowds—and while the judge retreated to chambers, Alvarado launched an impromptu news conference.
Things became even more bizarre when Lopez Dangla took the stand. According to defense attorney Fabbrith Gomez, he was “visibly incoherent” and “agitated” during his testimony, continually pleading his innocence to the judge even though he was not on trial. Lopez Dangla said he had seen Volz coming out of the victim’s store at 1 PM, and that Volz had paid him about $3 to dispose of two black bags he was carrying. He did not mention Llanes. “I may be lazy and a drug user,” he said, “but I’m not a liar.” (Contacted by Men’s Journal, Lopez Dangla said he stands by his testimony.)
Volz sat patiently through the testimony, consciously controlling his body language. By U.S. standards he had an airtight defense. Records from cell phone towers showed that he was in Managua at the time of the murder, as did testimony from sev
eral witnesses, including Ricardo Castillo, who said he had lunch with Volz that day. Several others had also seen him, but the judge disqualified them because they worked for him.
On Friday, February 16, the third day of the trial, Judge Toruño Blanco reached her decision. In open court she either discounted or dismissed most of the defense’s evidence. She discredited the alibi witnesses, claiming they all had business relationships with the defendant, including the journalist Castillo. She dismissed the phone records saying there was no proof that Volz had actually made the calls. (The defense did not call witnesses who could confirm having spoken to Volz on his cell phone.)
She instead chose to accept Lopez Dangla’s testimony, despite the fact that he was incoherent on the stand and had everything to gain by testifying against Volz. The scratches on Volz’s shoulder constituted further proof that he had committed the crime, she said; no mention was made of Lopez Dangla’s numerous scratches. “Nelson Dangla and [another witness] have all the credibility necessary,” she asserted. She found Volz and Chamorro both guilty.
Volz stood blinking in disbelief. “Once I heard the initial part of the verdict, I stopped paying attention,” says Volz. “I immediately started preparing for what was next. It was back to survival mode, focusing all my energy on staying alive.”
FOLLOWING HIS CONVICTION Volz was sent to the El Modelo maximum-security facility. After fighting with his first roommate, he was paired with a 35-year-old man convicted of attempting to murder his wife. “He keeps the place clean, he respects personal space, he doesn’t use drugs, and he’s not gay,” says Volz. “It’s a good situation.”
His parents have hired someone to bring him fresh vegetables and water to supplement the single plate of rice and beans he’s allotted each day. Once a week he gets two hours in the yard; he spends the whole time running. He does yoga stretches in the morning and uses meditation and visualization to try to keep himself centered. “I don’t really have time to spend with the other prisoners,” he says. “Prison is a time to self-explore and really try to make sense of it all.”
Volz isn’t the only one trying to make sense of things. His mother and stepfather Dane Anthony have launched a media campaign on his behalf, beginning with a website, friendsofericvolz.com, that’s regularly updated with news about his case, and lists of things that visitors can pray for if they choose.
The U.S. embassy is tight-lipped, but the embassy monitors his treatment in prison, and legal observers attended his trial. Volz’s lawyers have appealed the conviction, in the hope that—barring further lynch-mob shenanigans—cooler heads will prevail. (Chamorro has also appealed.) “I don’t think [the conviction] was politically motivated,” says Castillo. “This type of thing happens to a lot of Nicaraguans, and it’s really a problem. It needs to change.”
Then again, cooler heads might not prevail. The media campaign has stirred up a backlash in San Juan del Sur; one American journalist had his tires slashed, and a photographer was threatened—by an expat. Local opinion seems to have solidified against Volz. A recent headline in El Nuevo Diario condemned “Pure Lies From the Volz Family.” “I’d say about 85 percent of the Nicaraguans here think Eric Volz is guilty,” says one San Juan del Sur native. “Maybe more.”
To their minds, everything adds up. Volz and Jimenez had split, she was seeing someone else, and he was jealous. He also was said to show no emotion at the murder scene, which struck people as suspicious. He asked too many questions, acted too bossy, and dared to tangle with the cops, which any Nicaraguan knows is tempting fate. Something was up. And, finally, the judge found him guilty. “Justice was served,” says Jimenez’s mother.
In the short run some Nicaraguans might see the case as a victory against the rich Americans who are buying up the country, one quarter-acre beachfront lot at a time. “The locals are starting to realize how much money the gringos are making in Nicaragua,” says one expat. “I don’t think they really knew before. Maybe there is some animosity when a gringo buys land for $20K from a local and turns around and sells it for $50K to another gringo. The local made $20K for land they’ve owned their whole life and the gringo made $30K in five minutes. This has happened plenty, and I’m sure the locals have felt ripped off as a result.”
“I think locals are starting to realize that they’re getting left behind,” Volz agrees. “There’s been more crimes and other things that seem related to the social inequity. I think there’s an underlying tone to the whole real estate boom, and me being a member of that community working for Century 21. They just chose to see this so-called privileged, moneyed real estate guy.”
Volz is annoyed that fellow expats are keeping quiet about his case; he thinks they’re afraid to spoil their budding boomtown, which local real estate websites liken to Cancun in the ’60s. There are miles of unspoiled coastline waiting to be snapped up. One day there will be highways and condos, and the pristine kilometer-long beach that’s listed for $2 million will seem like an incredible bargain. Or so they hope.
DEAN LATOURRETTE is a freelance writer living, working, and surfing in San Francisco. He has written for Men’s Journal, San Francisco magazine, Sunset, and The Surfer’s Journal, among others. He is coauthor of Time Off! The Upside to Downtime and Time Off! The Leisure Guide to San Francisco, and considers himself a leisure connoisseur.
Coda
Unlike most real-life crime stories, “A Season in Hell” actually has a happy ending. On December 21, 2007, after spending a harrowing year in a Nicaraguan prison for the reputed rape and murder of his ex-girlfriend, Eric Volz was released—his case having been overturned by a Nicaraguan appeals court. Thirteen months after Volz’s nightmare first began, he enjoyed Christmas dinner in the United States with his family.
Volz phoned me out of the blue, about a month after his release. He would not divulge his location—he was still in hiding, fearing repercussions due to his release (a substantial portion of the Nicaraguan people still believe he’s guilty). It was only the second time I had ever spoken to him, the first being within the walls of La Modelo maximum-security prison in Tipitapa, Nicaragua, in March 2007. It was hard to believe the voice I heard on the other end of the phone belonged to the same individual I had interviewed in prison, when hope for a just outcome in his case was running thin. If speaking to him was surreal for me, I could only imagine how the implausible events of the prior year must have felt to him.
The absurdity surrounding the Volz case is difficult to describe. When I first learned about the story, I was convinced that there had to be more to the investigation than was first reported—that Volz somehow was guilty—and I set off for Nicaragua determined to dig up a smoking gun. That all changed, however, on my first day there, sitting in the courthouse, poring through the case files. What I found was shocking, as much for its incompetence as for its injustice. By U.S. legal standards, it was a slam dunk: The case should have been thrown out before it ever went to trial (in actuality it was originally thrown out, by a judge who was later “dismissed” from the case). But this wasn’t the U.S. legal system; it was a relatively callow and unsophisticated Nicaraguan system finding its way. And this wasn’t just any crime: it was the supposed rape and murder of a beautiful, innocent Nicaraguan woman, presumably by a rich and successful “gringo.” In many ways it served as a metaphor for U.S.–Latin American relations over the past two hundred years, and Nicaraguans were not about to take things lying down. Did anti-American sentiment play a significant role in the trial? Absolutely. But so too did primitive police work, botched legal processes, and small-town justice.
In the end, despite the stirred up anti-Americanism and strained U.S.-Nicaragua relations; despite a bungled investigation, irresponsible media reporting, and a trial gone awry, some very brave Nicaraguans ultimately risked their reputations, their careers, perhaps even their lives—to step up and fight for justice.
And that’s something Nicaragua should be proud of.
Justin Heckert
I
’M WITH THE STEELERS
FROM ESPN: The Magazine
SHE COULD TELL. But she couldn’t bring herself to believe it, even though the pictures she examined led to very simple observations: that the man in the photo had a head that wasn’t as square, for instance, and a nose that was longer and not bowed slightly to the right. And that his neck was stout but his jaw too strong. And she noticed that the face wasn’t framed by an almost horizontal hairline, like the one on the man she knew, the hair thinning and brown instead of a black flattop, thick and gelled back. This is what she thought, at first, that something was off, until he explained that pictures lie. Until he said the photographs of Steelers tight end Jerame Tuman that she found online were taken several years ago, when he arrived at training camp as a rookie with the features of a young man. Weathering those seasons had changed him, he said, and he was insulted, even a bit embarrassed, that she doubted him.
Kristin* didn’t have much to go on but the pictures. The Jerame Tuman she knew had a rounded stomach that fell below his waist, and arms and legs that weren’t trim. But he was tall, so she slowly convinced herself that if he said he was an NFL tight end, then this is what an NFL tight end must look like. He had shown her a cell phone full of numbers, after all—Jerome Bettis, Hines Ward, Ike Taylor—and bragged about “his boys.”
In the beginning, Kristin actually got a thrill from hanging out with him in the leather passenger seat of his white Denali, looking out the tinted windows as he navigated the nighttime traffic on the south side of the city, feeling the rap thrum from his extravagant speakers as he bounced in the driver’s seat while speeding through red lights, saying, “Nobody in Pittsburgh is gonna arrest me, I’m a Steeler”—because, well, she was with a Steeler. And when he began to phone her twice a day to wish her good morning or to talk about the upcoming divorce from his wife, Molly, or the custody battle over his son, or to recount the sad story about his mother and his sickly uncle who raised him, she believed. And when he explained that he was changing his cell number every couple of weeks because he was “tired of dating this other girl on the side who only likes me for what I am, not who I am,” she believed then, too. Because she thought he was confiding in her, because he was one of her best friends, and because he was sweet. He once called a 7-year-old family friend to wish him a happy birthday; “How’s my little buddy doing?” he asked. He couldn’t wait to show her his Super Bowl ring, and promised her season tickets, neither of which he followed through on. And she trusted him because while he was at times vapid, he wasn’t above revealing weakness. He once rang her at 4 a.m. to say, “I’m not married anymore. I’m 30. What am I doing with myself?”
The Best American Crime Reporting 2008 Page 5
