The Truth About Aaron

by Jonathan Hernandez

  We were guided to another room because it was almost time to start pushing. I was getting nervous, all I wanted was for Karen and the baby to be healthy. I could feel Karen’s pain as she squeezed my hand during contractions.

  Suddenly I felt like a cheerleader. “Babe, I can see her head,” I said. “She is coming; keep pushing, babe. Keep pushing.”

  I was so excited I didn’t know what to do. I looked back up at Karen and said, “Keep breathing, keep pushing. I can see her shoulders, babe.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Parker, as the nurse raised her to Karen. I was in awe. Karen had a look on her face I had never before seen—one of accomplishment, exhaustion, and maternal love.

  Parker weighed six pounds, three ounces. She was so precious. A nurse put a diaper on her. Parker looked like a little peanut with a hat.

  A nurse took us to a private room on the maternity ward, and I held Parker for the first time. It was perfect. Like many new dads, I worried about dropping her, but I held on. For the first time, I knew what Aaron meant when he said that he didn’t want anyone to drop his princess, because now, with Parker in my arms, I didn’t want anything to happen to her. I never wanted to let go.

  Two days later, we loaded Parker into her car seat, buckled her in, and then drove home. I was the slowest driver on the freeway, the cars racing past us as we turtled along in the slow lane. I constantly checked the rearview mirror. Karen’s face hovered over the car seat with the biggest smile I had ever seen.

  Chapter 38

  MARCH 2017

  FOUR MONTHS LATER, I was in my office at Ledyard High School in Ledyard, Connecticut, when my phone rang. I had only been on the job for four weeks—I was the head football coach and an academic and behavioral support supervisor—and during my interview I promised the superintendent that Aaron’s situation wouldn’t be a distraction or bring unwanted publicity to the school.

  I answered the phone. “Two officers are en route to the school to speak with you about your brother,” the school principal said.

  Aaron’s second trial began one month earlier, and I had no idea why police officers would want to visit me. I wondered if I had made the right decision to move my family back to Connecticut a month earlier to be closer to Aaron and my mother. The principal popped her head into my classroom.

  “The two officers are waiting for you in an office just a few doors down,” she said.

  I entered the room, shut the door behind me, and shook the officers’ hands. “How can I help?” I asked.

  THE TRIAL FOR AARON’S double murder had started on February 14, 2017. I didn’t know anything except what Aaron had told me; he couldn’t believe he was even going to trial for this. The prosecution alleged that in July 2012, Aaron was at a Boston nightclub when Daniel de Abreu spilled a drink on Aaron. They claimed that two hours later, Aaron, enraged over the incident, opened fire from his silver Toyota 4Runner on De Abreu’s silver BMW, killing De Abreu and Safiro Furtado.

  The officers who met me at Ledyard read a packet of information that stated the date and time they wanted me to appear at Suffolk County Courthouse—March 23, 2017, at 9:30 a.m. Prosecutors wanted to speak with me.

  A few days later, I went to the courthouse at 3 Pemberton Square in Boston to meet with prosecutors. I took a seat in a small room at a rectangular wooden table. Then Assistant District Attorney Patrick Haggan entered.

  “I just want to ask you a few questions about your brother. I’m not sure whether or not I’ll call you to the stand. I understand how much your family has been through and I know you just accepted a position at Ledyard High School.”

  On a TV monitor, he displayed images of Aaron’s tattoos. He asked me if I knew the meaning of his various tattoos, which covered his body from neck to toe. “I have a lot going on in my life,” I said. “And studying my brother’s tattoos isn’t one of them. He has too many for me to keep track of.” I told the officer I only knew of a few.

  “Do you know of any nicknames that your brother went by?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I call him ‘Air’ at times, which is short for Aaron, and his teammates called him ‘Chico.’ I have no idea why they called him that.”

  He then read off a list of nicknames. I told him I didn’t recognize any of them.

  “Would you mind listening to a recorded phone conversation to see if you can identify the voices?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  He played the conversation on a computer. It was a conversation between my brother and mother, which was what I told him.

  He then asked how everything was going at the school. “Good,” I said. He mentioned that he grew up close to Ledyard, and we talked about the area. He said that he would let me know if I’d be called to the stand.

  I had chosen not to be in the courtroom for the first few weeks of Aaron’s second trial. It felt like I was being pulled in two directions. Half of me wanted to see Aaron’s face, to make eye contact with him, to let him know through my presence that I loved him. But the other half of me couldn’t do it. The thought of stepping in that courtroom made my body pulse harder and shake.

  Over the weekend, after being interviewed by the prosecution, one of Aaron’s lawyers, Ronald Sullivan, called and told me that Aaron would really like to see me in court. I told him I was planning on attending and was going to see if any other family members would want to join me.

  He also asked me what I knew about his tattoos. I told him I knew the meaning of only a few. He told me that the prosecution was trying to link Aaron to the murders by his tattoos, specifically one of a gun chamber they believed Aaron had gotten that commemorated the crime. Aaron’s defense team argued that the tattoo was just one of many he had put on his body because he liked the look.

  “Aaron was addicted to tattoos,” I told one of Aaron’s lawyers. “There was a time I asked Aaron about a particular tattoo and what it meant. He said, ‘I don’t know, but it looks cool and I got the same tattoo a few times.’” Dating back to when Aaron was a kid, he loved to cover his body with fake tattoos. His obsession never stopped.

  Aaron’s lawyer thanked me and said the prosecutors wanted to call me to the stand to give the impression that I was testifying against Aaron. Then, a few days later, he sent me a text saying that I was not going to have to speak at the trial. I was beyond relieved.

  Chapter 39

  APRIL 2017

  ON APRIL 1, WITH the trial nearing its conclusion, I called my mother and asked if she would go to support Aaron with me. “I can’t do it again,” she said. “One murder trial was enough. I can’t do two. I can’t hurt like that anymore.”

  I begged her, but she was adamant about not attending.

  On April 3, I began my morning leading the Ledyard football team in spring workouts. Then, after showering in the coaches’ locker room, I changed into my jacket and tie, and met three family members in the school’s parking lot—my uncles David and Vito and my aunt Lisa. Together we drove to the courthouse in Boston.

  On the way, I thought about the magnitude of this case. If Aaron was found guilty again, he would never come home. If he was innocent, he then would have a chance to appeal the Odin Lloyd case and seek a new trial.

  We arrived at court and sat on Aaron’s side. Once the testimony for the day ended, I waited in my seat hoping Aaron would turn around. He remained facing forward until one of his lawyers whispered into his ear to tell him we were present. Aaron stood up from his chair, looked at us, and quietly mouthed “thank you” over and over, his eyes traveling to each of us. He then looked back at me and flashed a smile—one that brought me back to Greystone. “I love you,” he mouthed. We stared at each other for several long seconds.

  “I love you, Air,” I mouthed back.

  I watched him as he walked out of the courtroom. I wanted to soak this time up. I hadn’t seen him in ten months. But then, too fast, he was gone, the door closing behind him.

  AFTER ATTENDING ONE DAY of trial—I was the only
certified coach on staff, which meant the kids wouldn’t be able work out if I wasn’t present—I received a text on April 5 stating that closing arguments would begin.

  The prosecution’s main witness was Alexander Bradley, aka Sherrod. He testified that he pulled up to the side of a silver BMW and from the passenger’s seat Aaron leaned out of the driver’s-side window and began shooting into the car. Aaron’s team of lawyers, led by Jose Baez, poked holes in Sherrod’s testimony, questioning the authenticity of his statements and the quality of his character.

  Aaron and I didn’t talk on the phone during the trial, at the request of his lawyers. But the one time I met with Aaron’s lawyers, they told me that the prosecution was desperate and the case against Aaron was weak. I had no idea what the jury would decide, especially following the guilty verdict from Aaron’s first trial.

  AFTER WORK ON APRIL 14, Karen was driving and I was in the passenger’s seat on our way to an appointment to look at an apartment. I received a text from my mother telling me that the verdict was in. I went to a link on Twitter and watched it live. Staring into my iPhone screen, I heard “Not guilty; not guilty.”

  Aaron was nodding his head up and down as he began to cry. I was taken by my brother’s emotion. I realized that we now had a slim chance to one day be reunited outside the prison walls.

  ON SATURDAY, APRIL 15—ONLY one day after the verdict—Karen, Parker, and I drove to my mother’s condo for Easter weekend. That afternoon we went to the Westfarms mall so we could take pictures of Parker with the Easter Bunny for the first time. Waiting in line, I couldn’t believe it: a few feet away in front of us was Avielle, Shay’s mother, and Shay’s younger sister.

  We all hugged and I just stared at Avielle. My mother smiled the entire time, saying over and over, “I know your daddy loves you. I know your daddy loves you.” We took a picture—me holding Parker and Shay’s younger sister holding Avielle. In that instant, I felt happiness, pain, and the distance that had grown between all of us.

  The next day, Easter Sunday, my mother came running into the condo from the garage. She had her phone on speaker. It was the voice of the automated recording from jail preparing us to receive a call from Aaron.

  Then Aaron said, “Hello.”

  “You did it, you did it!” my mother shouted. “I’m so happy for you.” She told Aaron about Parker and Avielle seeing each other at the mall for the first time and started talking about how excited she was for Aaron and his lawyers to start working on his appeal in the Odin Lloyd case.

  “Slow down, Mom,” he said. “Let’s just enjoy this outcome right now.”

  My mom handed me the phone. “Congratulations,” I said. “I love you more than anything in the world. I’m going to come visit you soon.”

  “I love the both of you,” Aaron said. “I don’t have much time left, and I need to call Shay and Avielle.” And the call ended.

  THREE DAYS LATER, ON April 19, 2017, my brother died by suicide in his prison cell.

  Chapter 40

  APRIL 2017

  ON APRIL 23, 2017, the funeral director at O’Brien Funeral Home in Bristol pointed down the long hallway, past the wooden chairs, and at the same white French doors that led to the room that had housed our father’s casket nearly eleven years earlier.

  I pulled the door open and immediately shifted my eyes to the right, away from my brother’s body. I couldn’t look at Aaron. I wasn’t ready. I moved to the back of the room, behind the eight rows of chairs, where I paced and paced and paced, trying to build up the courage to kneel by his side.

  I slowly stepped closer. I reached the casket and looked at my brother for the first time. I saw his stiff hands interlocked on his chest, his sunken cheeks, and his scrunched little forehead. I lowered to my knees.

  For thirty minutes, I rested my head on his chest and closed my eyes. So many snapshots of Aaron flashed in my head: his smile, his laugh, his competitiveness, and his emotional response when he heard the verdict in his second trial. Holding him, tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping onto his chest. I whispered, “I love you Aaron. I love you Aaron. I love you Aaron.”

  Still kneeling, I raised my head and noticed a petite shadow appear through the long white curtains covering the window behind my brother. I had asked my mother to give me an hour alone with Aaron, and it was now her time to join us. I gave Aaron a kiss on his cold forehead as I rubbed my right hand over his thin black hair. It was time to back away from the casket.

  Wearing dark cat-eye sunglasses, my mother entered the room. She turned her face to Aaron, paused, and then looked at me. My emotions erupted; I started bawling and wiping tears away with my hands.

  My mom removed her shades and took several hesitant steps closer to Aaron’s body. She fell to the kneeler cushion in front of the casket, dropped her neck down, and began to rub Aaron’s right hand. Sitting in a chair a few feet away, I buried my head in my hands and quietly asked, “Why did you have to leave us, Aaron? Why?”

  Chapter 41

  DECEMBER 2017

  ON DECEMBER 15, I pulled out of my driveway in Pawcatuck, Connecticut, and steered through the snow in search of answers. The day my brother passed, my mother signed forms to release Aaron’s brain to the “brain bank” run by the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, Boston University, and the Concussion Legacy Foundation in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts.

  I needed to connect the dots, to understand my brother’s erratic behavior. I sought out Dr. Ann McKee, the director of the foundation and the nation’s foremost expert on chronic traumatic encephalopathy—CTE.

  I drove to the hospital in Jamaica Plain. Could detailed stories of my brother’s life help Dr. McKee and other doctors better understand CTE? Would this information help other families whose loved ones were experiencing similar symptoms?

  I had read news reports detailing how Dr. McKee had found that Aaron suffered the most severe case of CTE ever discovered in a person his age. She had said that the brain damage was most severe in the frontal lobes of his brain, a brain area critical to decision-making, judgment, and cognition.

  CTE is a degenerative brain disease most commonly found in football players, soldiers, and other individuals who have experienced repeated blows to the head. Aaron had been diagnosed with severe CTE, stage 3 out of four possible stages. Stage 3 CTE is usually found in football players who pass away at the median age of sixty-seven and played at least a decade in the NFL.

  Aaron wasn’t a ten-year NFL veteran. He played in only three NFL seasons—thirty-eight total games—and he was only twenty-seven years old. Aaron is one of the hundreds of former athletes who are part of the VA-BU-CLF brain bank and have been diagnosed with CTE. Were Aaron’s problems in life—depression, sudden aggression, impulsivity, impaired moral judgment, memory loss, difficulty planning and carrying out tasks, substance abuse, suicidal thoughts or behavior—clinical features of CTE? Were these difficulties found in other football players diagnosed with CTE?

  Aaron began playing tackle football at age seven, and he missed only one season, eighth grade because he weighed too much to participate in the league. His NFL career was short, but in total, he played tackle football for more than fifteen years. He played in more than 130 youth, high school, collegiate, and NFL games combined. His long-playing career put him at a high risk for CTE.

  How many blows to the head did he take in his career? What is CTE’s magic number? How many hits does it take until a brain is damaged? Does it matter that he started to play football at such a young age?

  I took a seat in Dr. McKee’s office at Boston Medical Center. She showed me images and slides of Aaron’s brain, explaining that, if Aaron had lived, he was “most likely ten years away from being totally impaired.”

  Thirty minutes into our conversation, I started to tell Dr. McKee some of Aaron’s personal history.

  “There were times as early as second and third grade when we would be playing video games and Aaron would just snap,” I said. “He would take hi
s Sega Genesis controller and beat me with it.”

  “Anything before that?” she asked.

  “The top of a hammer hit him in the head when he was about eight,” I said. “He dropped to the ground. Blood came out of his ears and nose.”

  “Did he go to the hospital?”

  “No. We were both very young,” I said. “I brought him inside and did my best to help clean him up.”

  “Was he normal at birth?” she asked. “Did he hit his milestones for crawling and walking and talking?”

  “Everything was normal, according to my mother,” I said.

  “You noticed these episodes when he would snap?”

  “He’d have episodes where he’d say, ‘D, it’s like I black out,’” I said. “He’d cry afterward.”

  “This happen frequently?”

  “About four or five times.”

  “You didn’t think this was him having a short temper?” she asked.

  “It usually built up and then it was like a light switch went off inside of him.”

  “Was he good in school?”

  “He was lazy at times but was very smart and an honor roll student.”

  “Do you remember any time when Aaron saw stars after he was hit?”

  “No, but he was diagnosed with one concussion in high school. I remember him becoming frustrated because he couldn’t return to the game.”

  “What else can you tell me about Aaron’s childhood?”

  I detailed the night terrors when Aaron woke up yelling, “They’re going to get me! They’re going to get me!”

  “Did he walk around in his sleep?” she asked.

  “Yes. He was in his own little world when he’d have these episodes. This was in second and third grade.”