The Truth About Aaron

by Jonathan Hernandez

  Aaron was thrilled that we took the time to visit him. He was convinced that everything was in God’s hands. In college he had In God’s Hands tattooed on his right forearm.

  There were so many things I wanted to say to Aaron but I knew I couldn’t. Getting mad at him wouldn’t do any good for any of us. So at first I sat there simply looking at his face, trying to read how he was feeling. He started smiling and cracking jokes like he did when we were younger. It was almost like he went back to the kid I knew on Greystone Avenue, sitting across from me at the dinner table making me smile as we completed our homework assignments.

  I stood up to get a clear view of him. He did the same. Now I saw him, and I noticed his face shift. I felt his sadness, like he knew this was his new reality. I could tell it was a side of him that he didn’t want us to see because he quickly snapped out of it. He said something funny and I started joking around, too, telling him amusing stories about anything I could think of, trying to get him to smile and to get my mind off this tragic situation. I wanted him to be able to close his eyes and have something positive to think about back in his prison cell, isolated and alone.

  Visiting hours ended. This was going to be the last time I would see him before I traveled back to Iowa, and I didn’t know when I’d be in a room with him again. Since our father passed, we never said good-bye to each other—it was too concrete. So I said, “I love you. I’ll see you later.”

  As Aaron walked out of the room, I tried to freeze the image of him through the glass in my mind. I didn’t want to let go.

  Chapter 30

  FALL 2013

  I FLEW BACK TO IOWA. I found a thick stack of sympathy cards stuffed in my mailbox, which I read at my desk. I was reminded again of what I wanted to forget—my brother was in jail.

  There were times I would walk past a TV in the lobby that was tuned to ESPN and hear commentators talking about Aaron’s downward spiral.

  Shortly after returning, a few recruits and their families were touring the facility. ESPN was on again and the topic was my brother. I ran into our recruiting coordinator’s office and asked if we should change the channel on the television, because I didn’t want them to think negatively about the university.

  Three days a week, I jogged around campus, and I started getting texts from friends asking how my run was going? I later found out that people had been tweeting that Aaron Hernandez’s brother was jogging through campus. I couldn’t outrun the reality even in Iowa.

  I was worried that my tight ends wouldn’t respect me anymore or that they would be afraid of me because of everything my brother was involved in, so one afternoon I called all six of them into my office. I stood in front of them and said, “My brother’s situation has nothing to do with us as a team. We must dominate this season.”

  “Coach,” one of the players said, “we have your back.”

  Our season flew by. We finished 8-5 and lost in the Outback Bowl to LSU, 21–14. My brother tried to watch as many of our games as he could, and I always looked forward to discussing our performance with Aaron.

  I had been dating a girl in Iowa for several months. After the season, for her birthday, we went to Formosa restaurant near campus with her sister and her sister’s fiancé.

  We were seated at a table, which faced a floor-to-ceiling window. Midway through our meal I noticed a group of people outside on the sidewalk stop in their tracks and point at me. They pretended to shoot and kill each other and fall to the ground dead. My body turned stiff and our conversation turned awkward.

  After dinner, we moved to a nearby bar for a nightcap. As I stood inside, a few people approached me and asked how it felt to be a murderer’s brother.

  I told my girlfriend, “I’m outta here.”

  I rode in a taxi to my apartment at 906 Benton Avenue. I entered the door, threw my Christmas tree to the other side of the living room, and walked to the kitchen. I grabbed the largest knife from my wooden knife block and stormed into the bathroom.

  I turned the light on and stared at myself in the mirror. It was like I was seeing past myself into a dark place. I visualized pushing the knife through my chest. I tightened my grip with my right hand, squeezing the knife so hard that my fingernails were pressing into my palm, nearly causing it to bleed. I was ready to end the pain. I was convinced that the blade was my escape, my only answer.

  I extended my right arm away from my body before bringing it back into my chest. My hand nicked the bottom of the mirror, and like that, I snapped out of the dark world I was in, like I woke up from a blackout. I remember seeing my cheeks covered with tears in the mirror. I dropped the knife into the sink and stumbled into my bedroom, where I sat on the floor, rocking back and forth.

  After a while, I called my mother. She answered, but I couldn’t talk. I just sighed heavily into the phone over and over and over.

  “Are you okay, DJ?” she asked.

  I didn’t respond.

  “D, what is wrong?” she asked.

  “I can’t take this anymore, Mom,” I said, as I cried uncontrollably.

  “You’ve got to go to counseling, DJ,” she said. “I went and it helped me. You’ve got to go.”

  Instead of attending class the next Monday—I was working on a second master’s—I drove to the campus counseling department. In the parking garage, I pulled the hood of my black Iowa sweatshirt over my head because I didn’t want anyone to recognize me. I didn’t want to appear damaged or weak or as if I couldn’t handle what was going on in my life.

  I walked up a flight of stairs and into the counseling office. I filled out paperwork but didn’t sign my name, afraid someone would call it out loud. As I sat in a chair with my head buried in a magazine, one of the counselors came to the waiting area and asked if she could help me. I said yes and followed her into her office.

  I told her I couldn’t think for myself, I couldn’t focus, and I couldn’t control the negative thoughts attacking me. It was like something had taken control over my mind and was continuing to pump it with the worst images from my life.

  After speaking a short while, she explained that after my third individual session I would have to transition to group counseling. There was no way that was happening. I feared word getting out on social media that “Aaron Hernandez’s brother has entered counseling.” I thanked the counselor for her time and left the office.

  I found a different counselor who could meet with me first thing in the morning. I had never lied to our offensive coordinator or head coach before, but now I told the staff I had a morning class. I didn’t want them to know I was seeking help.

  During our first session I remained closed off; there was no chance I was going to tell him how I had almost ended my life a few nights before. But over time I began to open up about Aaron and the negative thoughts I had. I explained how it felt like every person I was close to had left me—my dad, my ex-wife, and now my brother. I began to push everyone in my life away, because I didn’t want to take the chance of getting hurt again. It was a relief to let all of this out.

  After a few weeks, I had hope for better days and for a dramatic change in my life, a change I needed personally. It was the start of a long process of finding balance and overcoming my depression. The books my counselor recommended for me—The Secret, The Four Agreements, The Fifth Agreement, and The Mastery of Love—were the same books Aaron was beginning to read in prison.

  Chapter 31

  JANUARY 2015

  ON THE MORNING OF January 19, I exited the elevator at the Justice Center in Fall River, Massachusetts. Today was a big day: the beginning of opening statements in Aaron’s trial.

  Wearing a gray sport coat, a button-down shirt, and dress pants, I pulled opened the courtroom door. As I neared the front of the room, I saw a lady in a blue dress—Odin Lloyd’s mom. My heart broke for her and the entire Lloyd family.

  I sat in the first wooden bench on the left side of the courtroom, six feet behind where Aaron and his defense team would be st
ationed. For several minutes, I rocked back and forth, my nerves on edge. I looked at the empty seats that would be filled by the jury and watched the prosecution organize their notes.

  Aaron entered the room. The first thing I noticed were the tattoos on his hands—tattoos he had dating back to college that from a distance looked like different shades of black ink. I wondered what the jurors’ first impression of my brother would be when they saw him. Aaron was big with broad shoulders and still looked like he could play in the NFL; he had kept in shape during his nineteen months of incarceration.

  Before Aaron took his seat next to one of his defense attorneys, Charles Rankin, he looked back at our family section—I was there with our mom, Jeff, Shayanna, our uncle David, and our aunt Lisa. Aaron mouthed the words “I love you” and “Thank you.” He sat down.

  Judge E. Susan Garsh appeared and the jurors filed in. It was now time for the prosecution to give opening statements.

  The Bristol County prosecutor Patrick Bomberg said that Aaron orchestrated Lloyd’s murder and was the triggerman. The state laid out what it believed happened in the early-morning hours of June 17, 2013, presenting a timeline:

  On June 16, after having dinner and drinks with a few friends, Aaron returned home. He texted two other friends—Ernest “Bo” Wallace and Carlos “Charlie Boy” Ortiz—and they drove from Bristol to Aaron’s house. Aaron had met Bo through Tanya years earlier and had only recently started spending time with Carlos. Both Bo and Carlos had criminal records.

  The three of them then picked up Lloyd just after 2:30 a.m. and drove to a secluded industrial park less than a mile from Aaron’s home. The prosecution claimed that Lloyd had recently said something to Aaron that had angered him and caused Aaron to lose trust in Lloyd. Because of this, the prosecution said, Aaron fatally shot Lloyd six times.

  Video surveillance showed a Nissan Altima, which was rented in Aaron’s name, outside of Lloyd’s house at 2:33 a.m. About an hour later, more video surveillance revealed Aaron, Bo, and Carlos returning to Aaron’s house without Lloyd in the car. A text message that Lloyd sent to his sister indicated he was with someone he referred to as “NFL” before he was killed.

  The prosecutor also presented an image from Aaron’s personal home surveillance system that revealed Aaron carrying a dark-shaped object in his hands as he stood in his front foyer. The prosecution alleged that it was the Glock used in the killing of Lloyd. They went on to allege that the gun was disposed of by Shay the next day. (Shay was charged with perjury, but the charge was eventually dropped.)

  Aaron’s lawyers went next.

  “Aaron Hernandez is an innocent man,” said Michael Fee, one of Aaron’s lawyers. “The evidence will show that Aaron Hernandez did not murder his friend Odin Lloyd, nor did he ask or orchestrate anyone else to murder him. Aaron Hernandez is not guilty. We are here because the police and prosecutor targeted Aaron from the very beginning. As soon as they found out that Aaron Hernandez, the celebrity football player, the New England Patriot, was a friend of Odin Lloyd’s, it was over. Aaron never had a chance.”

  After the opening statements, Judge Garsh gave the jury instructions. “The commonwealth is not required to prove that the defendant himself performed the act that caused Odin Lloyd’s death,” she said. “However, to establish the defendant is guilty of murder, the commonwealth must prove two things beyond a reasonable doubt. First, the commonwealth must prove that the defendant knowingly participated in the commission of that crime and, second, the commonwealth must prove that he did so with the intent required to commit that crime.”

  Walking out of the courtroom after the first day, I was torn. The timeline and information the prosecutors presented raised questions about what happened on that early morning. And when they showed Aaron with what looked like a gun in his front foyer, I felt a punch to the gut. I knew that any picture of my brother holding a gun was not going to help his case. It looked bad, but I needed more information.

  For the first few days of the trial I sat in the courtroom and hoped the jurors were not like my mother, who believed Aaron was probably guilty before the trial even started because of all the negative articles she had read about him. All I wanted was for the jurors to have open minds and determine the case based on the facts presented, not what had been previously reported in the media. But I understood that was going to be difficult to do, because of the extensive coverage Aaron’s case had received from the moment his name was first tied to Odin’s death.

  After several days of sitting behind Aaron, I had to return to work in Iowa. But my heart never left Aaron’s side, and my mind never left the courtroom.

  A few nights later, in my Iowa City apartment, I dropped to my knees, said my nightly prayers, and climbed into bed. Exhausted from the day of work—and the mental energy I expended keeping up with the trial—I quickly drifted asleep.

  The places I went in my sleep haunted me.

  I’m standing on the gravel in the industrial park, headlights blinding my eyes. Cold and nervous, I don’t know what to do as a man points a gun directly at me. I sense death coming.

  Shots are fired at me—blasts that echo through the darkness as bullets rip through my skin.

  As I lie on the gravel, my neck grows weak and then I’m paralyzed. Pain courses through me as I feel the heat radiating from each gunshot wound. I taste blood coating the back of my throat. Tears stream down my cheeks as the headlights of the car back away, driving off into the night.

  The smaller the taillights become, the more hopeless I am. Who will save me? How can I survive? My breathing becomes labored. As I lie here next to a white towel, my eyes grow heavy and close.

  Then I feel a warm and familiar hand grab my arm. My spirits are lifted. I am transported to Aaron’s house. Suddenly, I am Aaron and my fiancée, Shayanna, is crying as she holds Avielle. Shay refuses to let go of my arm.

  A police officer places my hands together behind my back, snapping the handcuffs tight. I duck into the backseat of the cop car. I try to look out the window, but my knees are pressed against the driver’s seat, making it nearly impossible to move.

  I squeeze my eyelids shut, hoping this nightmare will end, but noises distract me. Voices bark from the police radio, a siren sounds, and the car vibrates from the thrum of the helicopter hovering above. I become light-headed.

  Now the doors open, and now I flash in and out of characters: I am Odin, I am Aaron, I am Bo, I am Carlos.

  I feel someone shaking me—it is my mother snapping me out of this terrifying dream.

  When I actually woke up, I was alone in Iowa City, my body and my entire bed soaked with sweat.

  Different versions of this dream tormented me nightly. The explicit details and the clear, cinematic quality of the visions made me afraid to fall asleep. I had become obsessed with the trial, thinking about it all day, and now I was living in it within my nightmares.

  DURING THE TRIAL, I asked a girl named Karen out on a date. I first saw her at a mall near campus where she worked in a retail store. Hesitant to approach while she was working, I contacted her over social media. I eventually asked her out to dinner and was delighted when she said yes. But on the designated night, as I was grabbing my coat from the closet to go meet her, she texted to cancel.

  Two months later, as the trial was nearing its end, she texted and gave me a second chance, with one stipulation: she wanted to bring a coworker.

  At first I thought she was joking, but then I realized I was the only one laughing on the phone. After our call ended, I put myself in her shoes and thought: Would I do the same thing?

  The three of us had a wonderful dinner. The conversation flowed naturally and I thought there was a chance that this might lead to another date. Walking Karen to her car afterward, I asked why she had canceled our first date.

  “I enjoyed our phone conversation and was really looking forward to dinner, but when I told my coworkers about a date with you, everyone started to panic,” she said. “I had no idea w
ho you were related to and initially I had no idea who Aaron was. Then my boss came to me and said, ‘Out of all of the guys in Iowa, you choose to go on a date with Aaron Hernandez’s brother?’ I just needed more time to think.”

  I understood and hugged her before she got into her car.

  Back home, I fiddled with my phone, not knowing if I should text her. I didn’t want to appear clingy. But then I felt my phone vibrate. It was a text from Karen.

  “I had a really good time,” she wrote.

  Excited, I gave myself a little fist pump and said aloud, “Victory!”

  Chapter 32

  APRIL 15, 2015

  IT BEGAN AS A normal Wednesday morning at the University of Iowa. I attended an 8 a.m. staff meeting. But as I sat in a corner of the conference room, I kept glancing at my phone, hoping to receive a text that the jury had reached a verdict.

  During the trial Aaron and I spoke at least once a week over the phone. We never discussed the details of the case, because Aaron knew his calls were recorded and was afraid anything he said could be taken out of context. But in his letters he expressed optimism about his innocence being proven.

  I knew it could go either way—it all depended on how the jury interpreted the evidence. Still, I had been confused from the opening statements. I didn’t understand how four guys could go into an industrial park and how the three who left would have different charges brought against them. Aaron’s charges were more severe than Bo’s and Carlos’s, in spite of no murder weapon being found or surveillance showing who actually pulled the trigger.

  The meeting at Iowa ended. I walked to my desk, which was in an open area clustered with eight other desks. As I approached my space, I looked at the television on my desk, tuned to a news channel. A scroll on the bottom read: “The jury in the Aaron Hernandez trial has reached a verdict.”

  My heart jackhammered. The television switched to the courtroom, where I saw my brother standing with his lawyers by his side as he waited for the jury’s decision. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, praying the jury would announce a “not guilty” finding. Then the words were read by the jury foreperson.