AARON BURIED
Hernandez funeral met with mixed emotions
FORESTVILLE, Conn. — Morning breaks with white Bristol Police barricades sitting on the grass outside O'Brien Funeral Home. It is the day of Aaron Hernandez's funeral. Closure comes to Lincoln Ave. at 10:31 a.m. One city cop blocks off the East Main St. intersection; a second police SUV is pulled up to Route 72. Hernandez's mother, Terri, and brother, D.J., arrive early. A traffic officer sets the streetlights to blink yellow. Andy Shorey, a homeless man, drinks in the efforts for Hernandez, a native once feted as a phenomenon at Bristol Central High. Shorey, 56, carries a bag of empty Natural Light cans in each hand. His recycling route is interrupted.
“All of this for a murderer,” Shorey says after walking across the manicured lawn instead of his usual path up the driveway. “If I die, you think they'll close the road? They'd spit on my grave.”
Blue and red lights flash atop six police cruisers; mourners file in as cloud cover comes overhead. One by one, family members, former teammates and friends provide security guards with driver's licenses in order to pass the checkpoint and a policeman on motorcycle. Entry is by invitation only. Terri Hernandez steps out onto the wraparound porch at the 127-year-old Victorian house. She is dressed in gray and wears dark sunglasses. She draws from a cigarette. Across the street, a resident wears a “SONS OF BELCHICK” T-shirt. Another denizen stands on his car's bumper to snap a photograph. His black T-shirt is emblazoned “SUICIDE SILENCE.” It is an American deathcore band. He winces when he looks at Hernandez's mother.
“I probably shouldn't have worn this today,” says John Burns, a 19-year-old local living across the street.
Hernandez is dead five days now. The Chief Medical Examiner in Boston maintains that Hernandez, 27, committed suicide. The cause is listed as asphyxia by hanging inside his cell at Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center. Hernandez was serving a life sentence after being convicted of shooting Odin Lloyd, a landscaper, six times. The killing happened on June 17, 2013, hours after Hernandez completed his first Father's Day with an eight-monthold Avielle back at his suburban manse.
Avielle and Hernandez's fiancée, Shayanna Jenkins-Hernandez, come to the funeral home in a black Mercedes Benz Sprinter van. Shayanna, dressed in black from top to heels, wears white pearl ANDREW SAVULICH/DAILY NEWS bracelets on her wrists. They are accompanied by Hernandez's former Florida teammates, Maurkice and Mike Pouncey. Mike is on crutches. Shayanna holds her four-year-old daughter's hand.
“Poor Avi will carry his name with her her whole life,” says Kristen St. John, a family friend who met Hernandez when he was 11. “His name is not going to be forgotten.”
Hernandez's attorneys from his second murder trial are present. They arrive separately 10 days after gaining an acquittal for Hernandez, who was tried for a double homicide. A jury of 12 found Hernandez not guilty. Not five days later, Hernandez was discovered dead in his cell, dangling by a bedsheet at 3:03 a.m. He was declared dead an hour afterward. His lead attorney, Jose Baez, promises to probe Hernandez's death amidst Boston's “culture of misconduct.”
A vigil is held across town at Casey Field at 6 p.m. Friends and family members who were not invited to the funeral home gather together. They blow up white balloons from a helium tank and affix ribbons to them. They scribble messages to Hernandez in permanent marker. Candles are lit. More than 100 Bristol residents arrive. Day cools into night. Flames flicker in the wind. T-shirts are emblazoned “LONG LIVE THE LEGEND.” The friends and family members count off 1-2-3 before releasing 60 balloons into the sky at sunset.
“Deepest condolences to his family,” says Patrick Keithan, a high school classmate, as he addresses the crowd on a microphone. “Especially to that baby girl.”