The Truth About Aaron

by Jonathan Hernandez

  “So he was having nightmares and he didn’t remember those night terrors.”

  “He didn’t remember,” I said.

  “Did you ever notice a big change in Aaron?”

  “The first time I noticed a big change in him was when I went to his house and saw that he was sleeping next to a knife. This was in March 2012.”

  I described seeing the bags filled with marijuana at his condo and how he was convinced that people were after him.

  “This is way beyond normal paranoia,” she said. “According to research, he sounds affected by CTE at that point.”

  I told Dr. McKee that Aaron once asked me at a bar in Boston why I was talking to a college friend. I told him we were buddies, but for the rest of the night Aaron looked at him suspiciously, keeping his eyes on him for an extended period of time.

  “That’s really important,” she said. “According to our experience with CTE in over three hundred and fifty brains, I would say that it is very likely that he’s impaired at this point. Listening to you, the symptoms of CTE probably started in high school. We have found CTE in some high school football players. According to what you are telling me, it may have started earlier than high school with the early exposure to tackle football. CTE may have been developing in his brain and affecting his thought process by age twenty-two. Although we know that CTE is related to repeated blows to the head, there may be other factors that put Aaron at a higher risk for CTE, such as specific susceptibility genes, but at this point we don’t know.”

  “I became paranoid from his paranoia,” I said. “Something seemed wrong with him and I didn’t want to be around him. I assumed his paranoia was a result of the weed he had on him.”

  I told her about the night Aaron threw his mattress out of his bedroom because he couldn’t find his cell phone and how he apologized the next morning.

  “So a trivial thing and he has this very exaggerated reaction,” she said. “He seems really out of control. He sounds really frightening.”

  “Aaron said he was actually happy in jail for a period of time,” I said. “He thought being in prison brought the family back together. But he also said he would have ended it a long time ago if it wasn’t for his family.”

  “He clearly sounds affected by CTE,” she said. “People with this condition can be very obsessive and paranoid. He sounds self-aware that something is wrong but that he can’t control it.”

  I then explained that Aaron was repeatedly molested beginning at age six by an older male that we knew.

  “That can be extremely damaging psychologically,” she said. “He could have suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD can have many residual effects, including nightmares. His early problems with an explosive temper may have been caused by PTSD. The stress can cause changes in your brain’s wiring and can have very profound effects. Just imagine what he’s trying to deal with.”

  “And unfortunately there’s more,” I said. “Aaron grew up sexually curious. And in our household our dad said, ‘There are no faggots in our family.’”

  “I just can’t imagine what he was going through,” she said. “You just feel for him. He was going through so much.”

  I explained to Dr. McKee that near the end of his life Aaron’s memory appeared to be getting worse. I told her that on my last prison visit I shared childhood stories with Aaron, but he didn’t connect with them. He just stared at me with a blank look on his face, not remembering experiences from his own life that we discussed often.

  “For such a young guy, that’s a profound change in his cognition which correlates with the high severity of CTE in his brain,” she said. “We’ve never seen anything this bad with anyone under the age of forty-five, and I’ve seen a lot of damaged brains.”

  Dr. McKee emphasized that she didn’t have all the answers and that it will take years of more research to fully understand CTE. She added, “One thing we did note about Aaron was that the clearance system in his brain—it’s like a garbage network that clears out the bad protein and it primarily works at night when you sleep—his clearance system was almost nonexistent. That may be part of it. I don’t know why his clearance system was so bad but it was.”

  I asked her about the correlation between tackle football and CTE.

  “The evidence is mounting,” she said. “I do think football is really dangerous, especially for kids. The problem is, we can’t see the brain getting damaged. The brain is floating. You have tremendous movement of the brain when you have a collision in football. The brain stretches and tears the internal structures of the brain. The blood vessels and nerve cells get torn. Also, our research has also shown that if you start playing tackle football before twelve, the damage may be worse. CTE starts very focally but over time the disease spreads to affect large regions of the brain.”

  “CTE wasn’t even on the forefront of my mind when Aaron died,” I said.

  “CTE starts as small lesions in areas by the traumatic head blows, but over time, the lesions expand and can spread to other parts of the brain,” she said. “Once CTE is triggered, even if you don’t play football anymore, it will continue to get worse. CTE lesions are composed of an abnormal protein, called tau. At some point, the tau protein can spread to invade other brain cells. Many CTE lesions were in Aaron’s frontal and temporal lobes and amygdala, and it also looked as though the tau protein was spreading to other parts of the brain. If Aaron had lived longer, I think he would have become more impaired and had difficulties accomplishing daily activities. His CTE was spreading.

  “A person with CTE can become uncontrollably angry. They may have loss of memory. They may have social withdrawal and depression. Impulsivity is common. So is loss of control. And there were moments that you’ve described when Aaron just lost control. There is usually some degree of self-awareness, and it is likely that Aaron was aware that he couldn’t control all of his behaviors and thoughts. That is very disabling for a person. He couldn’t control his mind and he had to fight tremendous impulses. From what you describe it sounds like he was losing his ability to think clearly.”

  “What about his suicidal thoughts?” I asked. “Does CTE help explain that?”

  “Aaron had all sorts of psychological and social factors that were contributing to his problems. You have this superego that tells you when something is a bad idea; the superego resides in the frontal lobes. Aaron had tremendous damage in his frontal lobes, which would have caused his judgment to be impaired.

  “We have never said that this disease caused his suicide. I’ll say this: with the amount of frontal lobe damage he had, research has shown that it would have been very difficult for Aaron to make decisions. He had nobody internally, so to speak, saying that he shouldn’t do this and he shouldn’t do that. This raises a question of his competence.

  “In terms of his suicide—how competent was he to make a good decision? I would say he was impaired.”

  Chapter 42

  MARCH 2018

  ON MARCH 22, 2018—NEARLY a year after Aaron’s passing—I sat in my SUV outside the Massachusetts State Police office in Worcester. I was hesitant to go inside to meet with Detective Lieutenant Allan D. Hunt and Trooper James J. Foley. I feared the pain, the nightmares, and the overpowering thoughts resurfacing, but I knew it was what I needed to do to find closure.

  Inside, I asked if I could view some of the images from Aaron’s cell. Trooper Foley opened his laptop, rotated the screen toward me, and then slid the laptop to my side of the table. Suddenly, I was staring at my brother’s world, cell #57.

  There was a window in the farthest right corner on the back wall. I saw a long white bedsheet intertwined and knotted around the bars on the window. My eyes traveled down the sheet to the dirty, brownish smear on the cement floor. The bottle of shampoo my brother poured out on the floor had become discolored from the circular rings of blood he had drawn on the bottom of his feet. I imagined him fighting the pain as his feet slipped out from underneath him.

&nb
sp; Below the window was a cement slab he used as a chair at his desk. His stool had something on it. I rotated the computer around and asked Trooper Foley to zoom in. It looked like two pennies. I wondered if they were resting heads up—and if the positioning of them had any significance.

  The top of his desk was clear. Beneath it, on the ground, books were piled in stacks. I wished I could have visited my brother moments before he ended his life and say, “Aaron, please don’t leave us.”

  I thought about how different this life had turned out from the one we had envisioned on the hill as children. I felt the hurt build inside me, like I was losing him again in those pictures and I couldn’t do anything about it.

  I focused on the big silver trunk labeled “G2 57” up against the white wall on the right side of the room—the same trunk Aaron brewed his strong coffee on, and where he stored his personal belongings, including letters I wrote to him.

  In the farthest left corner of his room, about four feet above the cement floor, I saw the two white drawstring netted bags with Aaron’s white clothes in them. The third hook from the left was empty, but on the forth hook was a long-sleeve black shirt. It hung there, lifeless.

  My eyes moved to his bed. I imagined him placing his four cups of water on the floor to drink during the night before making pillows by folding his shirts neatly at the far end of his bed. I thought about the nightmares he said he still had.

  I saw a plastic jar of peanut butter, packages of “Oodles of Noodles,” and snacks under his bed, the side closest to his cell door. I saw an empty plastic bottle with its label peeled off lying sideways in the middle of the room.

  A plastic spoon was on the floor. I wondered if he used the corner of the spoon to slit his right middle finger so he could mark his forehead and Bible with blood.

  The word “ILLUMINATI” was written to the right of the silver trunk positioned on the floor.

  I saw all I needed to see; I slid the computer back to the other side of the table. Aaron was not visible in any of the photos.

  I asked if I could read the suicide letters that had been left on the floor, to the right of his open Bible. An officer grabbed a manila folder, pulling out one of Aaron’s last letters.

  As my eyes traveled over the final word “GODBODY” and the two halos, the officers leaned over to me and asked if I knew what it meant—I didn’t. Everything was happening so fast. I didn’t know what to think. I was still struggling to erase the mental image of my brother dangling from his bedsheet.

  I was more lost, more hurt, than when I entered the interrogation room. The officers were very informative and helpful, but I now had more questions. Why didn’t my brother say good-bye? Was he mad at me? I became pissed at myself, because I didn’t do more for him when I had the chance.

  My body shook. I felt more information was out there. Something inside me was telling me to keep going, to keep searching. I wondered if someone was hiding information my brother left behind.

  I drove to the office of the district attorney, five minutes away. Walking up the hill to the front door, I didn’t hear the traffic or the sounds of construction or the flag snapping back and forth on the flagpole.

  I was directed through the security entrance. I went past the big white pillars and stairs leading to courtrooms above on the balcony. I stood silent inside the elevator going down to the office.

  I entered the doors to the DA’s office and walked up to the counter. A woman rose from her chair and asked how she could help. I told her that I had just finished meeting with two officers and they advised me to come here to gain access to the information I was seeking.

  “My name is Jonathan Hernandez. I’m Aaron Hernandez’s biological brother. I’d like to meet with the district attorney.”

  “I’m afraid he’s in a meeting,” she said.

  I told her I didn’t mind waiting. I was desperate for more information.

  The lady stepped away to make a call, then returned to the front counter, handed me her business card, and told me the district attorney should be back in about an hour. After thanking her, I walked back upstairs. I felt like I had been given surface information since the day my brother passed. I needed to see and hear everything with my own eyes and ears.

  Forty-five minutes later, I walked through security again, past the pillars again, and into the DA’s office. An older gentleman with glasses wearing a dark-blue suit noticed me and approached. The assistant DA said hello and offered me his hand.

  I followed him past the front desk and a warren of cubicles into his office.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  “I just met with two officers and they said you may be able to help me find the answers I’m looking for,” I said. “I would like to see any documents you have regarding my brother because I know it would help me find closure.”

  He escorted me across the hall to a conference room, where empty chairs surrounded a rectangular table. The walls had old paintings of former district attorneys. He left and then, a few moments later, the door opened behind me. He placed Aaron’s prison history documents on the table. He told me to take all the time I needed.

  At first, I stared at the packets trying to memorize every word. I realized I was studying information I had at home—packets I had filed in my office, information detailing his death and his time in prison.

  Then I saw the letters—Aaron’s final letters.

  I began to read. My body squeezed tight. I felt Aaron’s anguish and hurt through his words as he briefly described the severity of the pain in his life. As I was reading, it was as if I could feel loneliness, his life passing him by, him letting go.

  Afterword

  IN JUNE 2018, I sat in Coach Randy Edsall’s office—in the same leather chair at UConn, where eleven years earlier I had opened up to my former coach about my own struggles.

  During our conversation, I was silently gripped by the thought of my brother. What if Aaron had shared his problems with someone who could have helped him before it was too late? Would his story have been different?

  Before my brother was incarcerated, he appeared to have it all—a fiancé, a healthy daughter, a $40 million contract, and a smile that could light up a stadium. But the brightness of his smile blinded me. Only now do I understand that on the inside, he was full of self-loathing—an anger that built up over the years because he never reached out for the help he needed. He didn’t enjoy his life because every time he looked in the mirror he couldn’t accept the reflection.

  Every day I ask myself if I could have done more for Aaron—or was his brain already too impaired from CTE? Or was it something else perhaps that no one knew?

  I think back to our time in our childhood living room—what if our family had turned off the television? Would we have discussed our feelings and emotions? Would my brother have been more comfortable sharing his pain rather than living in fear of what his family members, friends, teammates, and fans thought of him? Would my young brother still be alive today?

  It is my sincere hope that this book—Aaron’s truth—will be a source of motivation, one that propels others to appreciate life’s blessings, to seek help during difficult times, and to work on finding inner-happiness.

  Acknowledgments

  WORDS CANNOT FULLY EXPRESS how appreciative I am for Lars Anderson’s friendship. Writing this book with him has been an emotional process, and without his patience and support, I don’t know if we would have been able to successfully complete a project that is so close to my heart. His ability to delicately challenge me to share the moments in my life I had worked so hard to bury has helped me move forward.

  Scott Waxman, my agent, believed in this story from the very beginning. He patiently read several drafts of the book proposal and each time gave me valuable feedback. This book wouldn’t have happened without his leadership, dedication, and guidance.

  Luke Dempsey, my executive editor at Harper, shared my vision for the book. His energy
and attention to detail are inspiring. Thank you, Luke. And this project wouldn’t have been possible without the dedication of the entire team at Harper, including assistant editor Haley Swanson, deputy general counsel Beth Silfin, publicist Leslie Cohen, production editor Nate Knaebel, interior designer Fritz Metsch, and cover designer James Iacobelli.

  Sheila and Gerry Levine, my lawyers, helped me navigate the world of literary contracts. Thank you both.

  My father, Dennis Hernandez, taught me the value of family. Dad, you will always be with me.

  My coaches and teammates at UConn helped me through some difficult times. The relationships I formed during college remain special because of the growth we experienced together. I love you all.

  Iowa coach Kirk Ferentz allowed me to become a member of the Hawkeye family. If it weren’t for the people inside that building in Iowa City, I would not be here today. In my darkest days, the program became the family I desperately needed in my life. At the time, I didn’t realize how vital they were to my emotional recovery, but now—after writing this book and reliving the difficult events of my past—I want everyone a part of the Hawkeye program to know how much you still mean to me. I’m especially in debt to Coach Greg Davis, Coach Brian Ferentz, Coach Bobby Kennedy, Coach Chris White, Coach Joel Welsh, and Coach Chris Polizzi. I also want to thank author and Iowa professor Travis Vogan for his support and inspiration to continue writing.

  Mike Bakaysa, my former high school coach, and his entire family treated me like a son. I’ll never forget the times you invited me into your house to spend time with your family. Thank you all for being a constant in my life.

  Jim Buonocore, the assistant principal and athletic director at Ledyard High School, gave me a chance when my brother was in the national news virtually every day. Thank you for believing in me.

  Chad Lockhart, thank you for helping me bring my visions, emotions, and ideas to life through your art.