When the collateral damage is your Mom

By JASON MUNOZ-DeLEON

Losing my mother to an apparent stray bullet was easily the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. I hear someone say something like… “Now this is just one of these all-too-common tragedies that our society writes off as another tick on the collateral damage counter.” I simply can’t discount this tragedy because it was MY MOM this time. She was this wonderful innocent person having fun one evening listening to live music with friends at the neighborhood bar — loving life one moment. Then fighting for her literal life the very next. 

It was an early summer Friday night and I was at work when I got the call. The trusted voice on the other end of the line said the words, “Mijo, there was a problem at the bar and I heard your mom was shot.” My chest felt like it dropped to my feet. A heartbeat later I said, “Ok” and that I was on my way to where she was. I told my co-worker the situation and dashed to my car. I wasn’t too far away from where the incident took place — maybe a five minute drive — but it sure felt a lot longer.

As I drove I told myself to stay calm because maybe there was a mistake and mom wasn’t actually shot. Maybe she was mistakenly confused for someone else. Even if she was shot she’ll be ok. My mind was racing faster than I was on the dark streets rushing to see the woman who loved me unconditionally since the moment I was born. 

When I was driving up the hill and a couple of blocks away I could already see flashing police lights on the opposite side of the crime scene. I knew something bad had happened — but I wasn’t prepared to find out what. My door was already open when I put the car in park and ran to the front of the building where a small group of people was huddled — consoling each other. 

I shouted out to the crowd asking if anyone knew my mom or where she was. A nice lady about the same age as mom told me that they took her to the hospital. Still curious, I ducked under the police tape before an officer quickly came to stop me. I told them I was looking for my mother Elaine. After a long moment of confusion I was told that she was taken by ambulance to St Mary Corwin Hospital. 
With hope and prayer in my heart, I sped to the hospital. The drive was a blur because I was just laser focused on getting to her, to be with her, to tell her it’s going to be alright. When I arrived I was told by the front desk receptionist that my mom hadn’t been admitted there and that maybe she was at Parkview Hospital. 

Confusion, anger, and worry overtook me but I was determined to see my sweet momma. So once again I raced from one side of town to the other yearning for my mother like a lost child in the supermarket. I kept telling myself to stay positive. 

When I arrived at the ER there was a noticeably larger crowd of people waiting to be seen, compared to the last ER. I approached the front desk and asked the receptionist if my mom, Elaine, who was apparently struck by a bullet was here. A few rapid keystrokes later a strange almost confused expression fell on the receptionist’s face. I couldn’t help but think that that was a bad sign. The receptionist had to check with a co-worker on what to tell me before I received word that she had been admitted and that they had a separate, more private, waiting room for me.

When I reached the secluded waiting room my step-father and mom’s friend Karen were already there. It was obvious that they had been hysterical moments ago, but were leaning on each other for comfort. They greeted me warmly before going into their versions of what had taken place earlier that night. So the heavy truth came out: My mom Elaine Janvier (Muñoz) Masias was in fact a victim of gun violence. 

The three of us weren’t alone for long in that little private waiting room. Friends who were with mom at the bar that night began to show up. Family and friends who were at home in their pajamas rushed to the hospital in support of my mom who had been gruesomely assaulted.

Soon, our little private waiting room could barely hold our entire group. For one bizarre moment, though weighted in concern, it was as though we all could have been at a birthday party or out having a drink. This was a fleeting moment of levity filled with hugs, laughter, and hope for the safety of our dear loved one. Our little community came together out of concern for the well-being of my mother who was always concerned for others, and loved to see me happy. 

We had been waiting for quite a long time now. One friend kept the faith by telling us that it’s a good thing they are taking so long because that means they are working on mom and making sure they are doing everything possible to ensure her recovery. I suggested to my uncle that we should step out of the room to say a prayer for my mom and he agreed. At least half of the group stepped out, stood in a circle, held hands and bowed our heads in prayer. We prayed that God would be with the medical staff, and to give mom the strength to return to us. Perhaps this time our collective prayer was too late.

Less than five minutes after we finished praying, we received a visitor from the hospital staff for the first time all night. A doctor in a long white lab coat apprehensively turned the corner and faced us. We all looked at him patiently waiting and hoping for good news. Before he could speak two police deputies appeared behind him. It was at that moment when I knew everything was not ok. The doctor slowly began to say the words that forever changed my life. “We did everything we could, but her wounds were too great. I’m sorry.”

A collective shout of grief echoed in the halls. Shocked, we all started to sob and some were doubled-over in tears. The love and light that radiated from my mother had been extinguished on this Earth. Now the darkness of sorrow rolled over us like a midnight storm. 

After the funeral we still hadn’t heard anything from the authorities. About a week later I received a call that they had apprehended a suspect in the case of my mother’s murder. Reportedly, he had fired 11 shots into the bar from the dark alley. One bullet struck another woman in her hand, and one bullet killed my mom. When I heard that news, I was slightly relieved that an arrest had been made but I knew that the legal process would probably be a long arduous journey. 

The suspect pleaded not-guilty and hired some expensive lawyers to defend him. It took a little over a year for the trial to get underway. 

Once jury selection was complete and the trial began, I was determined to observe all of the proceedings. The trial was scheduled for two weeks with a witness list heavy on the prosecution’s side, and light on the defense side. This new experience of witnessing mom’s murder trial was nerve-racking, uncomfortable, sickening and, yet, somehow fascinating. It was such an ugly feeling to force myself to undertake the weary feelings of walking through the final events that led to mom’s untimely death. At the same time I felt a strong urge, like I had to be there, not just to see this case through but a duty to my mom. Like a commitment that I never agreed to but was obligated to attend in person — almost as if I was there to be with my mom. 

Hearing the details of evidence and how they apply to the case was the easy part. What was difficult to hear was the defense’s argument (or lack thereof) that the suspect was innocent. For example they pointed fingers at seemingly random people in the outer orbit, when video evidence clearly put the suspect in close proximity to the location of the crime at the time it was committed. 

A reasonable motive was established by the prosecutor. Evidence was presented showing that the suspect admitted to owning two weapons that could possibly have fired the round that took mom’s life. A police video of the suspect being questioned just before an arrest was made shows a fidgety and extremely nervous suspect answering questions while struggling to open a bottle of water. 

Throughout the nine days of trial and testimony, none of the evidence or testimony suggested that mom was the intended target. The prosecutor made the case that the suspect’s former girlfriend, who was in the bar at the time of the shooting, likely was the target and mom was hit by a stray round. Five of the jurors were unconvinced that the suspect fired the fatal shot and the jury was hopelessly deadlocked 7-5. The judge declared a mistrial and we left the courtroom without a verdict — without justice being served — without answers.

A retrial is scheduled for September 29th.