The Truth About Aaron

by Jonathan Hernandez

  That night I couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning, I prayed that my brother had nothing to do with Odin’s death, that it was one big misunderstanding. I had no reason not to believe him.

  I feared how Coach Kirk Ferentz would react to the news and how he would confront me the next day. I thought he might call me into his office and say, We have to let you go. Our program can’t be associated with the negative attention surrounding your brother.

  I wasn’t sure if I would still have a job in a few hours. I couldn’t believe how one short phone call could completely change my life.

  The next morning, June 19, a Wednesday, my mom was getting ready for work in Bristol when Aaron called her.

  “He said it would be nice if I could come to his house for support if I wanted to,” my mom said. “I went to work and told my boss that I was going to Aaron’s. On the drive there I had a knot in the pit of my stomach. I just knew that our lives would never be the same again. I just knew because it didn’t add up. Something was wrong. I prayed to God that if Aaron was guilty and he really did this, that he would be put away.”

  As our mom neared Aaron’s house, she saw about a dozen television trucks parked near his driveway. A news helicopter hovered above. A swarm of reporters and strangers stood in the street, gawking at the house. My mom squeezed through the crowd and went inside.

  Aaron wasn’t home; he was at the stadium with the team.

  “Aaron called the house and asked me to come and pick him up,” my mom said. “Once he came out and got in my car, I started asking him questions. As always Aaron said, ‘Everything’s going to be okay, Mom.’ I drove to his house crying and placing my hand on his leg just above his knee, like I always did when I was driving with you boys.”

  I had to go home. That morning I explained the situation to Coach Ferentz and he couldn’t have been more supportive, telling me to take as much time as I needed to be with my family. At the airport, it seemed like every television was tuned to a station that was showing pictures of my brother. I stood there staring at Aaron and then looked around and saw dozens of others stopped in their tracks by this breaking news.

  A few days later, state police entered the front door of Aaron’s house with search dogs to look for possible evidence. I watched it all on television from a friend’s home in Connecticut. I wanted to be there with Aaron, but I knew I couldn’t do anything for him. That time had passed. And I was worried about my face being plastered on television if cameras caught me exiting my car and walking into his home—the same thing that had happened to my mom.

  As the police conducted their search, Aaron, Shay, Avielle, my mom, Shay’s mom, and Shay’s sister were ushered into the sunroom. They all sat in silence except for Aaron. “Aaron was acting like everything was perfectly fine,” my mom said. “He made jokes and was his regular self.”

  That night my mom stayed at Aaron’s. He brought her a small yellow bag of Lay’s Classic potato chips and relaxed with her on the bed in a spare bedroom. They watched the news that was being broadcast from the front of Aaron’s house as my mom rubbed Aaron’s back.

  She asked him if he was scared.

  “I was, but not anymore, Mom,” he said.

  Chapter 27

  JUNE 2013

  FOUR DAYS LATER, A Sunday, my mom left Aaron’s home and drove back home to Bristol. She was convinced that this had all been a mix-up and that Aaron would not be arrested. She thought the only reason his name had been associated with Odin’s death was that she saw Aaron hand Odin the keys to the black Suburban eight days earlier.

  On the morning of June 26, a Wednesday, I went to the beach, hoping to escape everything for a few hours. But within minutes of placing my towel on the sand, my phone rang. It was my mother and she was screaming.

  “They are taking him!” she said. “They are taking my baby. They are coming to arrest him!”

  “I’m coming home now,” I said.

  I grabbed my sandals and ran to the car. I flipped the ignition and pushed the pedal to the floor with my bare foot. I wove through traffic on the highway, concerned about only one thing: reaching my mother, whose screams echoed in my ears the entire drive.

  When I got to her house, my mom was clinging to the living room wall like she had no strength in her legs. I wrapped my arms around her before we settled on the couch to watch what was happening to Aaron.

  The camera zoomed into Aaron’s front door. Then it opened and I saw Aaron appear. He was wearing long red shorts that bounced a few inches lower than his kneecaps. His shoes were black, a low-cut training shoe. He had on a white short-sleeve V-neck T-shirt, but the sleeves just draped over the side of his body because his arms were not in them. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back as two detectives in dark suits directed him out onto his porch and toward a police car parked in his driveway.

  We didn’t know what would happen next. I sat in front of the television and watched the footage of my brother being hauled away in handcuffs again and again. It was a nightmare on repeat.

  About an hour later, the live news coverage shifted to the inside of a Massachusetts courtroom, where Aaron was appearing for his arraignment. His lawyer put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder as Aaron stood in front of the judge licking his lips, his eyes straight ahead.

  “My baby, my baby, my baby,” my mom kept saying as we watched. “I can’t believe this is happening to my baby.”

  I turned up the television volume as the judge and the lawyers began talking.

  “I’m going to be sick,” my mom said and left the living room.

  I could hear her dry-heave in the bathroom as my eyes remained focused on the screen.

  A bald man stepped to the podium in the courtroom. “Your honor, the defendant is charged with the murder of Odin Lloyd,” the assistant district attorney said.

  I was horrified.

  About two hours later a camera showed a white van carrying Aaron to jail. He got out of the van, his arms now in the sleeves of his white V-neck T-shirt. I kept my eyes on Aaron, because I didn’t know when I would be able to see him again.

  THE NEXT DAY WAS a blur of events: Aaron was denied bail. His silver Toyota 4Runner was towed out of Tanya’s garage and was linked to an entirely different case, the 2012 drive-by double murder of Daniel de Abreu and Safiro Furtado in the South End of Boston.

  Reporters repeatedly knocked on our door on Greystone Avenue throughout the afternoon and into the evening. When we didn’t answer, they dropped their business cards on the front steps. By sundown, the steps were covered with cards.

  At one point my mother and I went out to our backyard. A man approached, claiming to be a friend of my father. He offered his condolences and then began peppering us with questions. My mom started to answer—she didn’t understand that this man was actually a reporter and didn’t know our family—until I told her to stop when I noticed him pulling a recording device out of his left pocket.

  Another reporter offered us Subway sandwiches in return for a few comments.

  My mom hadn’t slept in days—dark purple bags had formed around her exhausted eyes. We needed to go to the grocery store, so we waited until our street was clear of press. Once the reporters had called it a night, we hurried to our car and drove off.

  Once inside Price Chopper, I grabbed a ticket at the deli line and waited for my number to be called. The deli clerk turned to me and said, “I saw on TV that you were arrested. How did you get out of jail?”

  I stared at the clerk, unable to speak. My mom was speechless as well. I clenched my jaw, said nothing about her mistake, and we walked out of the grocery store empty-handed.

  My high school coach called. “Do you want to go out to dinner?”

  “That would be great,” I said. “I would love to. I need some fresh air.” I accepted his offer to pick me up.

  I went to the basement and found one of my father’s black baseball hats in a storage bin—I never wore hats—and pulled the brim low before I walked down the driv
eway and got into my coach’s car. I told him we should go to a restaurant that had dim lighting. I didn’t want to be recognized by anyone.

  Sitting in a corner away from the other customers, we ate chicken wings and I tried to make small talk—but I couldn’t. I could see my coach’s lips moving, yet I couldn’t focus on what he was saying. My mind was overwhelmed with one image: Aaron being led out of his house and into the police cruiser.

  After dinner, my coach dropped me off at a friend’s house. I needed company. We had several cold beers and then I felt myself breaking down. I went outside and, alone in the dark, sat against the side of his house. I cried and cried and cried.

  Brian Ferentz had told me to reach out to him if I needed anything at any time. In need of someone now, I called him.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  I couldn’t talk. I sobbed into the phone, and he patiently listened for a few minutes. Eventually I gathered myself and thanked him for answering and said I was sorry for calling.

  “I’m so sorry, DJ,” Brian said. “There is no need to apologize to me. Feel free to call me anytime.”

  Chapter 28

  JULY 2013

  I WANTED MY OLD LIFE BACK.

  A week after Aaron was arrested, one of my aunts in Bristol had a birthday party. Even with my own family, I became more guarded, more closed off. I would ask myself, Is it okay to be openly supportive of my brother? Is that right? Does that make me a cold person? I walked into the banquet hall and stood in the back, assessing the room. Music was playing, family members were dancing, and others were conversing at tables.

  After my aunt’s birthday party, I asked a friend out to eat at a local diner. She said yes. My cousin Jay and two of his friends—Todd and Alan—came along as well.

  As soon as we entered the diner, I felt every set of eyes shift in my direction. I put my head down. The hostess said, “I am so sorry about your brother,” and led us to a booth in the back corner. As I walked past the filled tables, I heard the whispers grow louder. “That’s Aaron’s brother,” one guy said. “That’s Aaron’s brother.”

  The five of us took our seats. “I don’t care if people say shit to me,” I said, “I am not getting involved. Remember that: I am not getting involved.” I knew if I got into a fight, it would make national news and I would lose my job at Iowa. Coaching was the only thing I had. It was my lifeline.

  As we were reading the menu, two strangers at a nearby table stood up and started walking toward us.

  One of them said, “Hey, DJ, how’s your brother?” He started laughing. I turned to everyone at the table. “Remember what I said.”

  The two guys stood over the end of our table and began making the sound of machine guns with their lips and slapping each other on the back like they had just come up with the joke of the year.

  My cousin turned to them and said, “Guys, DJ’s had a hard enough week as it is. Can you just leave us alone? We don’t want any trouble.”

  They laughed again and started making more machine-gun sounds. Todd, one of my cousin’s friends, looked at them in disgust. “That’s not even funny,” he said. “It’s immature. How old are you guys?”

  Just then, one of the strangers wound his right hand back and slapped Todd’s hat off his head, causing it to fly across the table. Todd rose to his feet and tackled the stranger. Jay jumped over the table and onto the second guy as they both began to gang up on Todd. Alan was walking back from the bathroom and ran at one of the aggressors, driving his shoulder into him, sending him to the ground.

  Still sitting in my seat, I saw Alan in a chokehold getting smashed in the face, fist after fist.

  “DJ!” Alan yelled to me. “Help me, damn it!”

  I shook my head, telling him no. I felt like the biggest coward, but I couldn’t risk losing my job at Iowa. Alan escaped the headlock, grabbed a ketchup bottle off the table, and rifled it at one of the guys who was charging toward him. He dodged the bottle, but it popped a customer in the head, dropping her to the ground.

  “She’s dead!” another customer screamed. It appeared that the lady who was knocked out on the ground had blood covering her face, but it was the ketchup that had splattered everywhere.

  As soon as I saw an opening, I walked out of the diner with my friend. It looked like a tornado had ripped through: tables were torn from the walls and overturned, booth cushions were spread across the floor, and plates of food and silverware were scattered on the ground. As the two of us drove away from the diner, I saw police cruisers rushing into the parking lot.

  The next morning, I went to my cousin’s house to make sure everyone was okay. Approaching the backyard, I saw my cousin’s friends sitting on the picnic table, still wearing what they had on the night before. They had bruises and cuts on their faces, their clothes were ripped and dotted with dried blood, and their knuckles were swollen.

  “You look rested,” Alan said sarcastically to me.

  “I told you before it all started that I was not going to get involved,” I said.

  “I was getting slammed in the head right in front of you and you just shook your head no and sat there?”

  “I told you I wasn’t getting involved,” I repeated.

  My cousin turned to Alan and Todd and said, “Enough, guys. If DJ had thrown one punch, it would have been national news because of Aaron’s situation.” To me he said, “You did the right thing, D.”

  His friends didn’t agree. They shook their heads in disgust and limped inside.

  A few hours later I was back at my mother’s home when my iPhone rang. It was a local reporter. “Can you please comment about the brawl you were involved in?” he asked.

  I hung up the phone without saying a word and quickly called Coach Kirk Ferentz to tell him what had happened and that I had stayed out of the fight. “I don’t want to lose my job and I had nothing to do with it,” I said.

  “You did the right thing, DJ,” Coach Ferentz said. “I appreciate you calling. There is no need to worry. Be safe and let me know if you need anything.”

  That was impossible: I worried about everything, all the time.

  Chapter 29

  JULY 2013

  ON THE FOURTH OF July, my mother hosted a family barbecue at her house. I sat next to Shayanna and held Aaron’s eight-month-old daughter. I didn’t want to let go. I thought about how innocent she was and what effect everything would have on her as she grew older if my brother remained incarcerated. She was Aaron’s pride and joy but had no way of knowing it.

  My mom went inside for a few minutes and then came running out the back door with her phone in hand. “It’s Aaron!” she yelled. “It’s Aaron!”

  I handed Avielle back to Shayanna and followed my mother around the backyard as she spoke to Aaron, waiting for my turn. She gave me the phone. I needed to know how Aaron was holding up.

  I was surprised by the tone of his voice. He sounded upbeat. “I’m doing great,” he said. “I have to stay positive, D.”

  He asked me to put him on speakerphone. With eight of us huddled close, he asked how Avielle was doing. Then we heard an automated voice say, “You have one minute.” The prison timed his calls. We quickly said our good-byes and Aaron was gone again.

  One week later, on July 11, my mom and I visited Aaron for the first time. That morning, sitting in our childhood bedroom, I put on my outfit—the prison had a strict dress code. I never hated putting on nice clothes so much in my life. I tried to imagine how different things would be if our father were still alive. I heard my mother crying as she dressed in her room.

  I was afraid to see Aaron. For weeks, I’d type his name in my computer search browser because I still struggled to believe he was in this mess. It didn’t seem real; I needed proof. It was like I had become a motivational speaker for myself. I needed to reassure myself that I could keep my emotions in check while visiting my brother in the worst place imaginable.

  At just past 8 a.m., my mother and I got in her Nissan Juke
and headed to the Bristol County Sheriff’s Office in North Dartmouth, Massachusetts.

  My mother parked the car outside the facility. We entered the lobby of the jail and filled out forms requesting to see Aaron. The waiting room was dark and filled with corrections officers. I sat down and avoided eye contact with anyone.

  An officer asked me, “Are you here for Hernandez?” he said. “Gosh, you look just alike.”

  We placed our belongings in a small orange locker. I looked at the other visitors and wondered what their stories were. Were they as broken as I was?

  Waiting to enter the visiting area, my mother whispered to me. “How did our lives change so much?”

  They called our names. We walked over to the corrections officers and were patted down before being led into a small stall, where we would meet with my brother. There were two steel stools bolted side by side, about two feet apart. I took a seat on the left stool, my mother on the right. The stools were cold and uncomfortable. I didn’t want to touch anything.

  For several minutes, my mother and I waited without speaking. A glare reflected off the glass into our faces, making it hard to see through to the other side, where my brother would eventually be sitting.

  We heard a few loud bangs coming from somewhere out of view. My body grew tense. It was like I was meeting my brother for the first time. An officer led Aaron to the glass. I struggled to see his face as I moved my head to the left and then to the right, trying to find a clear line of sight. Aaron started laughing at me. He could see us perfectly from his seat. All I could see was a silhouette of his head.

  My mother grabbed the phone off the wall and held it between us. The silver cord was short and stiff, so I had to lean to the right edge of my stool to get my ear to the phone. It was quiet at first, and I didn’t know what to say. Aaron’s voice went in and out, like we had poor reception. So my mother hung up the phone and we talked the best we could through the glass.