needed. The detectives asked him to read and initial any changes. Toward the end of his statement, Jeff said something curious: “I don’t blame the Spanish guy [Lucero] for swinging the belt at us. It was obvious he wanted to get the fuck out of there. He was ready to defend himself, but we just didn’t back down.” It is clear that, for the briefest time, in the heat of their fierce and uneven encounter, Jeff had felt something akin to admiration for a man he knew only as a “beaner.”
Once Jeff signed his confession, McLeer went to his gun locker and retrieved the knife, which was inside a latex glove to preserve DNA and fingerprints. He showed it to Jeff, who recognized it as his. At 6:50 a.m., they were done. The handcuffs went back around Jeff’s wrists and around the chain that kept him tethered to the table. Then the detectives left the room. Six other teenagers needed to be interviewed.
By that time, McLeer and Faughnan had already spoken to a shaken Loja, whose first question had been, “How’s my friend?”
“I’m sorry,” one of them told him. “Your friend passed away. He’s dead.” 15
When Loja heard the news he felt angry, but then, more than anything else, he felt sadness. Overwhelming sadness. Just a few hours before, he had gone shopping with Lucero, they had shared a meal and drinks, they had talked about the future, about life and work and home. Now, sitting alone under the unnaturally bright lights of a police station in a town where he felt he was no longer welcomed, Loja pondered how he could go on whenthe very color of his skin, the language he spoke, the slant of his eyes, and the texture of his hair had turned him into the victim of a hate crime.
Everything he had ever suspected or feared about the United States had just come true in one terrible, terrible moment in which he had lost not only his innocence but also his best friend. He thought of his journey of eighteen days from Gualaceo to New York, the hours of thirst and hunger crossing the desert, the nights when he thought he couldn’t possibly survive such perilous conditions. He also thought of what his life had been since he had left home: a succession of poorly paid jobs, abusive comments from insensitive bosses, and resentful stares from some people who hadn’t adapted to the idea of seeing Latinos walking down Main Street. Did they belong there? Did he? Did he really belong in a place so far from home? Perhaps it was time to give up the American dream.
All he knew that night as he contemplated his callous hands—still red with Lucero’s blood—was that his friend was dead and that his own life had changed. He would no longer be an anonymous immigrant trying to make a living in a New York suburb. From now on, he intuited, he would be known as the man who was with Marcelo Lucero the night he was killed, the man who had been unable to keep Lucero alive.
“Kuvan and I probably started the whole thing,” Anthony Hartford, who was a big seventeen-year-old at about six foot one and 175 pounds, told detectives during his confession. “Kuvan hit one of them in the face and he started bleeding a lot. I swung at the other guy and missed.”
Anthony said that he and Kuvan had been hanging out together since the early evening of November 8, along with another friend named Bobby. Jordan had later joined them and given them a ride to the Medford train station. On the way to the station, where they met the others, they had stopped at a gas station by the Long Island Expressway and bought an eighteen-pack ofBudweiser.
He also said that the last time he had been out “jumping beaners” had been five days earlier. On Monday, November 3, he, with José and Kuvan, had attacked a “beaner” on Jamaica Avenue. José had punched the man so hard he “knocked him out,” Anthony said, and he added a chilling thought: “I don’t go out doing this very often, maybe only once a week.”
Kuvan’s confession closely mirrored that
Once Jeff signed his confession, McLeer went to his gun locker and retrieved the knife, which was inside a latex glove to preserve DNA and fingerprints. He showed it to Jeff, who recognized it as his. At 6:50 a.m., they were done. The handcuffs went back around Jeff’s wrists and around the chain that kept him tethered to the table. Then the detectives left the room. Six other teenagers needed to be interviewed.
By that time, McLeer and Faughnan had already spoken to a shaken Loja, whose first question had been, “How’s my friend?”
“I’m sorry,” one of them told him. “Your friend passed away. He’s dead.” 15
When Loja heard the news he felt angry, but then, more than anything else, he felt sadness. Overwhelming sadness. Just a few hours before, he had gone shopping with Lucero, they had shared a meal and drinks, they had talked about the future, about life and work and home. Now, sitting alone under the unnaturally bright lights of a police station in a town where he felt he was no longer welcomed, Loja pondered how he could go on whenthe very color of his skin, the language he spoke, the slant of his eyes, and the texture of his hair had turned him into the victim of a hate crime.
Everything he had ever suspected or feared about the United States had just come true in one terrible, terrible moment in which he had lost not only his innocence but also his best friend. He thought of his journey of eighteen days from Gualaceo to New York, the hours of thirst and hunger crossing the desert, the nights when he thought he couldn’t possibly survive such perilous conditions. He also thought of what his life had been since he had left home: a succession of poorly paid jobs, abusive comments from insensitive bosses, and resentful stares from some people who hadn’t adapted to the idea of seeing Latinos walking down Main Street. Did they belong there? Did he? Did he really belong in a place so far from home? Perhaps it was time to give up the American dream.
All he knew that night as he contemplated his callous hands—still red with Lucero’s blood—was that his friend was dead and that his own life had changed. He would no longer be an anonymous immigrant trying to make a living in a New York suburb. From now on, he intuited, he would be known as the man who was with Marcelo Lucero the night he was killed, the man who had been unable to keep Lucero alive.
“Kuvan and I probably started the whole thing,” Anthony Hartford, who was a big seventeen-year-old at about six foot one and 175 pounds, told detectives during his confession. “Kuvan hit one of them in the face and he started bleeding a lot. I swung at the other guy and missed.”
Anthony said that he and Kuvan had been hanging out together since the early evening of November 8, along with another friend named Bobby. Jordan had later joined them and given them a ride to the Medford train station. On the way to the station, where they met the others, they had stopped at a gas station by the Long Island Expressway and bought an eighteen-pack ofBudweiser.
He also said that the last time he had been out “jumping beaners” had been five days earlier. On Monday, November 3, he, with José and Kuvan, had attacked a “beaner” on Jamaica Avenue. José had punched the man so hard he “knocked him out,” Anthony said, and he added a chilling thought: “I don’t go out doing this very often, maybe only once a week.”
Kuvan’s confession closely mirrored that
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