Angel's Truth

By Bob Irelan

Angel Gonzales is charged with heinous crimes that law enforcement, the media, and most folks in Richmond, Texas, and surrounding communities are certain he committed. The crimes and trial dwarf anything that has happened in that part of the Lone Star state in anyone's memory. When, against all odds, the jury renders "not guilty" verdicts, shock escalates to anger.

In the minds of many, justice has failed, and a brutal criminal is being set free. For Angel and his court-appointed public defender, Marty Booker, being judged "not guilty" isn't enough.

Together and with help from an unanticipated source, they attempt to prove Angel's innocence. In the process, they butt up against prejudice, deceit, and a sheriff and district attorney who put politics, ambition, expedience, and arrogance above responsibility to do their jobs.

It's a story of horror, hatred, belief, and persistence - a story of a Mexican-American teenager who nearly loses his life on the way to becoming a man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outer Banks Publishing Group
• Release date: Feb 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370166633

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The crimes were heinous - the most vicious any of the locals could remember.

The teenager on trial already had been judged guilty by the media and by most people who crowded into the Fort Bend County Courthouse in Richmond, Texas. They wanted their pound of flesh. Death by lethal injection would be almost too good for him.

Angel Gonzales, now 18, stood bravely erect, facing the jurors.

The courtroom hushed. Not so much as a whisper or a cough.

Then came the initial verdict. No one would remember the brief preamble. All they would remember were the final two words.

Not guilty.

Silent disbelief was momentary, followed by an ear-splitting eruption of angry screaming and yelling that could be heard throughout the stately old building and out on Jackson and 5th streets.

Angel's shoulders slumped as he covered his face with both hands and nearly collapsed. Against all odds and despite the incessant media and prosecutorial leaks having branded him guilty, the justice system had worked. Twelve people with whom this young Mexican-American had next-to-nothing in common had given him his life back, such as it was, such as it would be.

The outcome answered Angel's prayers. But he was totally unprepared for the ugly outburst it produced. Throughout his pre-trial incarceration, his family had consciously shielded him from the hatred that had grown stronger with each passing month. Now, amid all the noise in the courtroom, he was exposed to it. And it scared him. Maybe being found not guilty wasn't enough. Maybe it never would be.

Marty Booker, Angel's public defender, threw his arms around Angel. Hot damn! Oh, my God, we did it… we did it! You’re free! Thank God.

At the time Marty had been assigned the case, he had been less than enthusiastic. Based on what he had read and seen on television, he was both repulsed by the crime and resigned to the fact that here was another loser. Marty was determined, however, to do the best he could. That was his job, and, over time, Angel and his family had made him a believer. After that, his terrible fear, which he tried not to show, was that Angel's fate had been sealed.

But, against all odds, the jury had believed Angel or, at least, had concluded he wasn't guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. It was an improbable victory. That was certain. But now Marty and Angel would face another test. Would the hatred directed at them and the jurors persist unchecked or could even the most opinionated somehow be convinced that Angel was innocent, not just not guilty. Marty didn't know whether this battle could be won, but the courtroom crowd's hostile reaction demanded he and his teenage client fight it.

Seconds after hearing the jury's verdict on the first count, Angel turned and looked over Marty's shoulder at his mother, Maria. She, too, had let out a scream. Hers was of happiness, accompanied by a flood of tears. Angel was her first born, her only son. No one knew him as well. No one loved him as much. He simply couldn't have done what he was accused of. She trusted him; he wouldn't lie to her or, for that matter, to anyone. She had taught him that. But, despite her deep religious faith, she had been scared to death the jury would be swayed by all the awful things said about him. And, yes, she worried that Latino lives were valued less than those of whites. Although less-often spoken than in years past, this devaluation was a fact, especially in border states like Texas.

Angel's father, Ramon, bowed his head and pressed his hands together in prayer. He had been less able to handle the ordeal than Maria. His personality had changed. Before that night, he was by any measure good-natured, optimistic, someone who enjoyed life and made life enjoyable for those around him. But the tension of the arrest, the horrible charges attached to it, the wait for the trial, the makeup of the jury, and then, each day, sitting through the trial, fearing the worst, and dreaming about it night after night had taken a heavy toll. He had become short-tempered, uncommunicative, insular. He couldn't sleep without nightmares and the energy he'd always felt had turned to near-constant fatigue. On top of this, he couldn't bear watching the news or reading the paper.

Angel's sister Margarita’s first reaction was to mouth the word yes and punch the air with her fist. At 15, she was nearly three years younger than Angel. Until his arrest, he had been her protector and, at times in a mischievous, teasing way, her tormentor. She never remembered him saying he loved her, but she knew he did. What they shared was trust. She felt she could talk to him about anything. Any secrets she chose to share with him were secure.

The judge gaveled for quiet, pounding away just long enough for the jury foreman to answer, Not guilty to the remaining two counts.

Now, after 6 months, 14 days, and 9 hours, Maria, Ramon, and Margarita began to believe their ordeal was over. The assumptions others had made and the accusations they had so freely spewed were insufficient for the jury to find Angel guilty. Maybe now the hateful, threatening calls would end and at least some of the frayed friendships could begin to be stitched back together.

But, not so fast. Not by a long shot. Because for most in the courtroom, those two not guilty words from the jury foreman for each of the three charges were a shock, a crushing blow, a horrible disappointment that the system had failed. They believed that, somehow, the jury got it wrong. An unspeakable injustice had been done.

Opinions had been locked in and the only hope for changing them was for someone, anyone other than Angel to be found guilty. Lacking that, Angel would continue to be despised as a murderer and Marty and those 12 jurors would be reviled for setting a vicious killer free.



Spring days in that part of Texas, a 30-minute drive on Route 59 southwest of Houston, often were cloudy, sometimes rainy. But, for more than a few locals and transplants, those conditions were far preferable to the hot, shirt-drenching humidity of what would soon enough become the five months of August.

The trial had seen a mix of clouds, morning rain, and a few crystal-clear days. The day the jury handed down its verdict was the clearest possible - the kind that beckoned folks to walk in the park, lunch outside, bike along the riverbank, anything outdoors.

Inside the packed courtroom on that final day, Joan and Wilson Sorenson, the parents of Denise, slumped in their front-row seats, denied of at least some closure they believed would result from a guilty verdict. Rekindled anger would come later but, for now, there was only shocked surprise and paralyzing disappointment. It had been their daughter, after all, their beautiful daughter, and a boy they both liked and trusted, who were the victims.

Denise had just turned 17. Against her parent's wishes, she had dated Angel for nearly a year. Joan and Wilson at first had tried to mask their prejudice against Angel, but Denise had recognized it and rebelled against it. The arguments became a daily battle, accompanied by threats and from Denise, tears. But, finally they had the desired effect. Angel and Denise broke up after their own heated argument four weeks before that awful night.

That unbelievable sickening night. It was Denise's second date with Rob Porter. Joan and Wilson had known Rob and his parents, George and Evelyn, ever since they moved to nearby Rosenberg, Texas, seven years earlier. They were neighbors and Rob was a great kid. He was from a family like theirs, not Angel's. He was white, not brown.

The Porters, seated next to the Sorensons, appeared to be in a state of shock. Their son had been viciously disfigured, senselessly murdered. He had been all smiles that evening, kissing his mother, accepting the car keys and a pat on the back from his father, and promising to be home before midnight. They were so proud of him. He excelled in his studies, especially math and chemistry, and was vice president of his class. Whether or not he earned a scholarship, George and Evelyn were committed to having him attend their alma mater, Rice University in Houston.

Fort Bend County Sheriff Joe Bob Bohanan's reaction was both visual and verbal. His face reddened and his eyes squeezed shut at the same time he mouthed the words, Those dumb shits. How in God's name? He was a big man, a couple of inches over six feet, overweight by 40 or 50 pounds, whose well-fed belly protruded over and concealed his Go, Aggies silver belt buckle. This had been his biggest case. Because the murders had been so grizzly, they had attracted primetime local, state, even some national coverage, and Joe Bob had loved every minute of the attention. He had been sheriff for 14 years, succeeding his uncle, Walter Big Walt, who had served for more than 20 years before resigning himself to the fact that he couldn't win re-election after being caught screwing an 18-year-old inmate. Joe Bob had learned to be more discrete about such things - or at least to not get caught. He had solved this highest of high-profile cases, but those dumb-ass jurors were letting a guilty, no-good Mexican go and, in the process, killing his hopes for a bigger job, maybe in Galveston. Hell, maybe even in Houston or Austin.

District Attorney James Franklin Gilmartin, known to all as Jim, jumped up, tipping over his chair at the same time he hammered the table with his fist, one, two, three times - each one with more force. What the hell just happened? What were they thinking. He was sure he had this one in the bag. He hadn't assigned the case to any of his assistants, though they had more litigation experience than he did and had assisted mightily in preparing the case. No, he wanted this one - all the credit - for himself. He had to run for re-election in a year and winning this high-profile case would deter any challengers and make success a certainty.

Among friends and spectators who were drawn to the proceedings because the murders were so gory and the trial so publicized, the cheers were clearly outnumbered by the boos. Some simply shook their heads and repeatedly said, No, no, no…

Judge Angus Walton, obviously surprised and looking all his 74 years after a contentious trial, swallowed hard, thanked the jury and dismissed them. His expression was pained and his disappointment clear as he instructed the marshals to usher the jury to temporary privacy and safety. He had cleared his docket so that this case could be tried with minimal delays in his courtroom. Hell, he had thought, this would be the one to retire on. They don't get any better.

For those who believed Angel committed those heinous crimes, no facts, however contradictory or compelling, would change their minds. Something that awful couldn’t go unsolved. Someone had to pay and pay with his life. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Isn’t that what they say? Isn't that what's right?

Angel would have to learn to deal with all the pre-judging, all the continuing false certainty of guilt. He wasn’t going to take the easy path, though. He wasn’t going to move away from the only home he knew, the only family and friends he had. No way. If he could survive the past 194 days of hell he could take anything. Despite the support of his family, the every-other-day visits by his mother, the 75 or so letters from Margarita, each of which he had re-read three, maybe four or five times, those days imprisoned and awaiting trial had been ones he would never forget or for that matter, forgive. He was innocent. Innocent! And whoever did what almost everyone outside of his family and close friends believed he had done was enjoying the freedom Angel had been denied.

CHAPTER 2

That fateful Thursday more than six months earlier had been relatively quiet at the Fort Bend County Sheriff's Department until the phone rang at 9:44 p.m. The caller didn't identify himself but said the sheriff had better send someone to the southeast corner of Riverside Park. Ida, the dispatcher who'd handled calls like this for 15 or so years, tried to get more information but the caller hung up in less than 10 seconds. She reported the call to the desk deputy, Ollie Holder. He thought for a minute and then told her to radio Walt Pritchard, the deputy who most likely would be within a couple of miles of the park.

Walt, I just got an anonymous call saying we'd better get over to the southeast corner of Riverside Park. Where are you? Ida asked, popping her chewing gum while she spoke.

I just stopped for coffee at Broadstone's. I'll get over to the park in a couple of minutes and let you know what, if anything, is going on. I'll lay you odds it's another son-of-a-bitch making a false report, Walt said. There had been a bunch of false alarms recently, and his patience was wearing thread-like thin. He wasn't the type to put up with crap, and these phony calls were adding stress to an already stressful job.

The park's lights turned off automatically at 9 p.m. so, after that, it became a relatively secluded place where teenagers from Richmond and neighboring Rosenberg would often frequent to exchange wet kisses and, if lucky, something more.

At first, Walt didn't see any car or any other activity. But then, with the help of his driver's side spotlight, he saw a late model Cadillac Escalade SUV pulled off the pavement, half of it up against some bushes.

As he drove closer, he turned on his body camera. That was normal operating procedure. The department had gotten these cameras a year earlier. Initially, he and most of the deputies regarded them as unnecessary and intrusive. No longer would they be free to beat the hell out of anyone who showed even the slightest sign of resistance. More recently, he and most of his cohorts had reluctantly accepted them as protection from trumped-up charges.

Stopping a dozen or so feet away, he grabbed his flashlight with one hand, loosened his holster snap with the other, and cautiously slid out of the car. Walking the few steps toward the vehicle, he directed his flashlight first at the driver's side and then over to the passenger side. Nothing. Then he pointed the light into the back, sweeping left to right. Still nothing except for some wadded up clothing and blankets. His first thought was that maybe this was a stolen car although, as far as he knew, none had been reported.

Walking around the back, he noticed that the leaves and underbrush had been disturbed. Then he saw what he didn't want to believe, and it immediately made him nauseous. At first, he thought it was a bloody finger sitting on the surface of the rear bumper. It wasn't. It was what remained of a severed human penis.

For what seemed like a full minute, Walt couldn't think. His stomach churned. He'd seen a lot of terrible stuff in his eleven years of police work. But this? Nothing like this.

Then his training took hold. Don't disturb the crime scene. Call for help. He took three or four fast but careful steps to his car and radioed Ida.

Get the sheriff. This is some bad shit. Tell him it looks like a homicide. Get someone else, anyone, so we can secure the area. And call an ambulance. I'm not gonna do a damn thing till they arrive.

What's going on? Can you tell me anything else? Ida asked.

"No, just get them the hell out here now!

CHAPTER 3

Detective Will Murray didn't waste any time responding to the dispatcher's call. Walt Pritchard wouldn't ask for help unless it was necessary. They knew each other well. Hell, they'd gone to Richmond High School together, played on the same football team, probably bedded some of the same cheerleaders. In their years with the department they had worked several cases together, even got together with each other's families from time to time. No, this was serious stuff. He just didn't know how serious.

The southeast area of the park is relatively remote, at least a couple hundred yards away from the ball fields and playground equipment. Picnic tables were placed where scattered trees would provide shade on hot summer afternoons.

Young lovers with romance on their mind drove through the paved parking lot toward a cluster of trees where they hoped for after-dark privacy. Occasionally, on especially slow nights, a deputy would drive to the area, shine his spotlight into the area and interrupt a couple of entangled teenagers or an adult being serviced by a prostitute. But, mostly, either because their findings almost never resulted in filing charges or because they regarded these as no harm incidents, the department looked the other way.

Tonight was different. Murray could see the taillights of Pritchard's vehicle and the reflection of its headlights on a vehicle facing the trees. Not wanting to risk any additional possible disturbance of a crime scene, he stopped short of both.

Okay, what you got? Murray asked.

So far, only this, Walt said, shining his light on the bloody penis.

Jesus! Is that what I think it is? Good God! Have you found the body it goes with?

It's not inside. That's all I know. I haven't touched anything. I wanted to wait till you or Joe Bob or Garcia got here.

Murray handed a pair of latex gloves to Pritchard and pulled a second pair on his own hands. Then he picked up the severed member and carefully placed it in an evidence bag. Okay, let's get busy.

The area here in the back and on the side of the car is disturbed, Pritchard said, but so far as I can tell, it's dry - no blood, no urine, nothing like that.

Did you look in the car? Murray asked, shaking his head and taking a deep breath.

Yeah, as I said, but I just looked. I didn't want to do anything without someone else being here. This kind of shit is a little above my pay grade.

Murray had never seen his friend tremble, but Walt Pritchard was having difficulty holding his flashlight steady.

The doors of the dark grey, luxury SUV were closed. The ground on the right side of the car seemed undisturbed, so Murray carefully stepped toward the rear and lifted the tailgate.

Inside, the backs of the rear seats had been lowered so the cargo area stretched out flat to nearly the size of a double bed. Clothes and two blankets were entangled, indicating a likelihood that sexual activity had occurred. Murray moved his flashlight back and forth, looking for blood or any other evidence. Neither he nor Walt saw any.

Then, after a deep breath, Murray looked again at the bloody evidence bag. Somebody sure wanted to make sure this guy's screwing days are history. Also, whoever did this wanted to be sure we got the message.

Just then, another vehicle approached, stopped abruptly and Chief Deputy Sheriff Jorge Garcia jumped out. He immediately nudged past Walt as Murray directed his light at the bumper and then to the bloody evidence bag.

"Holy shit. I've never seen anything like this. I'll get the coroner here and we'll need to take photographs and check the entire vehicle for prints. I'll also get our guys to ID the car's