AARON’S END
Ex-Pat’s journey from Bristol to NFL stardom ends with murder, suicide
A look back at Hernandez’s spiraling journey that ends in murder and suicide
BRISTOL, Conn. — Candles burn as day cools into night by Casey Field following Aaron Hernandez’s funeral. White balloons are filled with helium from a pink tank in the parking lot. Men and women, boys and girls, don New England Patriots’ jerseys, navy and white, Nos. 81 and 85, the digits that identified Hernandez as a tight end in the NFL. A high school classmate seizes a microphone with a speaker sitting atop a car’s trunk. She sings The Lord’s Prayer; a Pop Warner coach offers a testimonial before he grows overwhelmed. He hands off the mic and wire. White ribbon strings are cut before being tied around the ends of the balloons. Farewells addressed to Hernandez are written in permanent marker on the rubber. A sunset sends ripples of pink, orange and purple across a darkening sky. Marijuana smoke wafts through. A moment of silence yields to chants of his name and his old team.
“Let me hear you say Pa-tri-ots!” Germeil Smith says.
“Pa-tri-ots!” the crowd of more than 100 friends and family members replies. “Pa-tri-ots!” Smith says. “Pa-tri-ots!” the crowd says. “Aar-on!” Smith says. “Aar-on!” the crowd says. “Let’s go, man!” Smith says. “He caused an impact!”
It is part prayer service, part pep rally. Visitation hours at O’Brien Funeral Home across town were private, but Hernandez remains a public spectacle in death. Convicted of first-degree murder on April 15, 2015, and acquitted of a double homicide on April 14, 2017, he is soon to be cremated. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts recognizes his death as a prison-cell suicide — asphyxia by hanging — Hernandez’s bed-sheet doubling as a noose that he dangled from when discovered at 3:03 a.m. It was five days after he was found not guilty of a drive-by ambush in Boston. He is remembered in his hometown as a heralded prep star for collecting the most receiving yards in a game (376), season (1,807) and career (3,677) in Nutmeg State annals. They recall dimples in his cheeks and diamonds in his ears. He attracted college recruiters as a tight end at Bristol Central High. Locals looked on from cold metal bleachers then. He later drew Massachusetts State Police investigators to Pine Lake. On site, Connecticut State Police dive team members slipped on scuba gear to search murky waters for a pistol linked to Hernandez and six .45-caliber bullets he pumped into Odin Lloyd, a landscaper who was dating the sister of Hernandez’s fiancée. Diehards turned out then, too, bringing beach chairs to watch while their brakes were fixed. Now they trace Hernandez’s transition from Muzzy Field to murder scenes.
“Heavenly father God, we’re gathered here in your holy name to honor Aaron,” says Scott Ritchon, a family member. “Heavenly father God, we ask of you to rest his soul, to have his soul. We ask of you to embrace his family, to embrace us as family. Embrace his fans and loved ones. Aaron was so special and meant so much.”
Tears fall for an unrepentant triggerman. Hernandez is gone after splitting 1,374 days between four correctional facilities. He follows his father, Dennis, who is referred to in town as “King,” into death 11 years after Dennis was felled by infections and complications from a routine hernia operation, an event that friends and family members finger as the start of Aaron’s decline. He is survived by his fiancée, Shayanna Jenkins-Hernandez, a Bristol native he met in elementary school. He leaves behind a four-year-old daughter, Avielle, and an 11-yearold godson, Jano. Sara Vazquez introduces herself as Hernandez’s half sister, a 34-year-old daughter of Dennis. She wears a white T-shirt decorated: “Rest In Peace Lil Brother.” She asserts that she was not invited to the funeral parlor with the family. The back of her tribute shirt reads “Like it or not” on top of the Hernandez surname and No. 85.
“It was like I was his mistress sometimes,” she says. “He respected me when others didn’t.”
Loose ends linger. Two Bristol residents remain incarcerated after being beckoned to Massachusetts by Hernandez. Ernest Wallace, known as Bo, short for Hobo, serves time in Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center, the same complex where Hernandez hanged himself. Wallace was acquitted of Lloyd’s murder, but found guilty of serving as an accessory. Carlos Ortiz, also of Bristol in the Section 8 housing of Davis Drive, goes by Charlie Boy. He is in North Central Correctional Institution after pleading guilty to being an accessory after Lloyd’s murder.
In Hernandez’s wake, there are lawsuits and allegations, a Hummer and a house, deletions and denials. Hernandez’s mother, Terri, did not attend one session of his second trial that lasted six weeks. JenkinsHernandez heads his estate. An appellate attorney seeks to have Hernandez’s conviction vacated. Another vows to investigate how he died. The saga that has included a one-eye witness, a lawyer named Fee and accusations of a dead man’s brain being held illegally continues on.
“Whether (Hernandez) did it or not, we know the truth,” Smith says. “Let’s not look at this as a tragedy. We gonna continue to build this city in Aaron’s name.”
There is a gathering of friends and family members across the street from the youth football field. A blue, Cape-style house at 114 Lake Ave. is where Hernandez ate breakfast on weekends with his father and extended family members as a child. It is also where Ortiz returned to after Lloyd’s killing. While executing a search warrant then, police collected Ortiz’s prison ID card, a letter from Wallace to adult probation and a Kel Tec gun box. Police also
seized a silver Toyota 4Runner with Rhode Island plates believed to be linked to the 2012 double murder in Boston. Hernandez was charged with those killings. His cousin, Jennifer Mercado, testified at both trials, and is among the congregants by the front porch. She once served as team mother for Hernandez’s buddies, handing out water and fruit at games. She mingles among friends who embrace her. There is a short countdown and 60 or so balloons are released. They twist upward at twilight. One man dons a black Tshirt emblazoned with an image of Hernandez with angel wings celebrating a touchdown.
“ROCK THE HEAVENS,” it says.
“You have to wonder what he was thinking when he looked out of this window with bars on it,” says Colonel James Lancaster of the Bristol County Sheriff’s Department. He stands inside Cell G-1 in the Special Management Unit at the county’s House of Correction in North Dartmouth, Mass. It is the first cell Hernandez was held in after being arrested on June 26, 2013. He was apprehended and hauled out of his North Attleboro, Mass. manse that measures 7,100 square feet and into a 7-by-10-foot cell that morning. The Patriots cut him once cuffed. The view is of a fire hydrant, green grass and concertina wire. Inside, there is a desk, bed, funhouse mirror and sink-toilet combo. “There’s a vortex guys fall in. Some smear feces, throw urine, worst of the worst. They act out, but we try dangling carrots for them to help.”
Sheriff Thomas Hodgson recalls putting Hernandez on suicide watch immediately as a precaution. He was unsure how No. 81 would adjust to being No. 174954. Sentenced men in jail wear tan jumpsuits. Hernandez, awaiting trial, wore green. He started off in the medical unit, where doctors evaluated his mental health; a gang intelligence unit inspected his tattoos for affiliations that could inspire jailhouse violence. One read: “IF IT IS TO BE IT IS UP TO ME.” Another read: “Mind on my money.” There were dollar signs, a revolver and a spent shell casing inked in. Born Nov. 6, 1989, his right knuckles bear tattoos: “Est.” His left read: “1989.”
Most inmates in S.M.U. are restricted to a chain-link pen for recreation time. Hernandez was afforded more roaming area, but it was limited, as well. There was an electric fan running most summer days in his cell, and Hodgson provided him a copy of “Tuesdays With Morrie.” Hernandez read it, as well as a Bible. Hernandez’s ability to adapt surprised the mustachioed Hodgson. He figured a Patriot accustomed to luxuries might crack when walking by sheets of paper affixed to the wall that list ways to add to his lockup canteen: “SEND MONEY YOUR WAY!”
“He turned out to be a master manipulator,” Hodgson says.
Hernandez’s outlet to the world was a blue phone affixed to a unit wall. A sheet of paper informs inmates: “All calls made on the blue phones except attorney and consulate calls are recorded and subject to monitoring.” Hernandez was a frequent caller. His brother, D.J., and mother also visited him, as did his attorneys. Lancaster remembers a moment that gave him pause. He was driving down the entry road toward the jail, past the immigration detention center building. He spotted Hernandez’s mother and brother, a Hernandez doppelganger, at the wheel.
“I literally stopped,” Lancaster says. “I thought it was Aaron Hernandez.”
Hernandez is in the jail’s blotter for a fight. It involved three inmates, and Hernandez was the only one charged. Hodgson fingered Hernandez for assault and battery regarding his role, and the former Patriot eventually transferred to a Suffolk County jail in order to be closer to his attorneys’ offices. He returned to North Dartmouth once the Lloyd case reached trial. During his 10-week trial, Hernandez’s defense team brought him dress shoes and a daily suit-shirt-tie combination on a hanger to change into from his jail sweats. Once convicted on April 15, 2015, and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole, Hernandez’s hands and feet were shackled in a Fall River Justice Center courtroom. He was shuttled to the Massachusetts Correctional Institute’s Cedar Junction facility in Walpole. It stands 1.6 miles from Gillette Stadium, but Hernandez’s stay was short near Foxborough.
His last stop was at Souza-Baranowski, a maximum-security prison in Lancaster, Mass., that is named for two corrections staffers killed in an aborted jail escape by a convicted murderer, a week later. A guardhouse and razor wire can be seen through a thicket of pine trees from Route 2, but Hernandez learned its inner workings in two years as inmate W106228. The security system is operated by 42 graphic interfaced computer terminals, which operate a keyless security system. It controls 1,705 doors, lights, receptacles, water, intercom, fire alarms and vehicle gates. There is a matrix system of 366 cameras recording live 24 hours a day. In January, inmates rioted for three hours before being quelled with pepper spray.
Worcester County District Attorney Joseph D. Early Jr., Col. Richard McKeon, superintendent of the Massachusetts State Police, and Secretary of Public Safety Daniel Bennett maintain that Hernandez’s death came by suicide. He was locked in his cell at 8 p.m. on April 18. No one entered the space until a correction officer observed him at 3:03 a.m. and forced his way through an impeded door; cardboard was jammed in the door tracks. Hernandez was rushed eight miles to UMass Memorial
HealthAlliance Hospital. He was declared dead at 4:07 a.m. He was 27. The prison cell was processed by State Police Detectives and Crime Scene Service Troopers. They found three hand-written notes next to a Bible. A prison-wide lockdown followed. Massachusetts added another suicide to its tally. According to the Bureau of Justice, there were 32 suicides per 100,000 state and federal prisoners in the commonwealth from 2001-14. It was the fourth highest rate in the country.
“There was no sign of a struggle,” Early Jr. says.
More attention is being paid to prisoners with mental health concerns. Back at the Bristol County House of Correction, there is a renovation going on inside the S.M.U. A mental health unit is being formed in cells where Hernandez was kept. The project started a year ago. Windows into cells on both tiers are being replaced with wider frames.
“Easier to eyeball on suicide watch,” Lancaster says.
Inside Cell G-1, Hernandez’s old haunt, there are messages left by an unidentified past detainee. On the desk, several are written in blue ink. One reads: F--- the C.O.S. F--- the police. Don’t let ‘em make u stay. End jail abuse. — Anonymous
Tradition calls for the court cry — “Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye!” — to commence proceedings in Room 906 at Suffolk County Courthouse in Boston’s Pemberton Square, but no such formality is employed on city sidewalks. Out on Albany Street, Hernandez’s lead defense attorney, Jose Baez, arranges a press briefing in front of the Commonwealth’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner the day after Hernandez died. It is shortly after noon; sirens wail and lights flash. Baez is flanked by Ronald Sullivan, a Harvard professor who helped defend Hernandez in the double homicide case. In court, Judge Jeffrey Locke had ruled by gavel next to his coffee mug that boasts, “John Adams is my homeboy.” Now, Baez blasts away at Massachusetts officials without worrying about objections. Decorum be damned.
“The culture of misconduct and the culture of negligence that goes on in this town is befuddling,” he says. “It’s unbelievable.”
He is upset that the medical examiner released Hernandez’s body, but not his brain, following the state’s autopsy.
“If we don’t get answers and answers quickly, we’re going straight to court,” Baez says.
Baez, a Floridian, is comfortable in confrontation. He was hired last June when Hernandez shifted from the team of Charles Rankin, James Sultan and Michael Fee that failed to gain an acquittal in the Lloyd case. Baez, best known for clearing Casey Anthony, a Florida mother accused of killing her two-yearold daughter, introduced himself as representing “Aaron Rodriguez” in his first pre-trial hearing. The defendant laughed it off with his attorney, and Baez wasted little time attacking Boston’s prosecutors. In his opening statement at the trial, he lambasted the district attorney for “making a deal with the devil” by granting Alexander Bradley, a former right-hand man of Hernandez and felon, immunity to testify. Baez established a combative tone. Two days in, jurors prepared for a tour of key sites in the case. Baez eyed all of them and braced for a 30-degree day by wearing layers underneath a coat. “I’m a wuss,” he says. He heated up as the trial went along. Wind blew in through a back window and was audible throughout the courtroom for the trial’s duration. Family members of the victims, Daniel de Abreu and Safiro Furtado, who were both from Cape Verde, wore earphones with sanitary covers on them to hear a translation of all testimony. Baez countered the prosecution’s theory that a spilled drink by de Abreu inspired Hernandez to stalk them and fire away. Baez challenged it all. By his closing, he alleged that assistant district attorney Patrick Haggan handed out immunity “like its Halloween.” He jumped up and down as if riding a horse, telling the jury that Haggan would ride Bradley, a “three-legged pony” in Baez’s eyes, to the verdict. Jurors deliberated for a week and rendered Hernandez not guilty. Baez re-introduced himself post-suicide. By 9:30 that morning, he spoke for Hernandez’s family.
“Aaron was looking forward to an opportunity for a second chance to prove his innocence,” Baez says of the Lloyd appeal. “Those who love and care about him are heartbroken and determined to find the truth surrounding his untimely death.”
Baez remains on the case. Following the state’s autopsy, Hernandez’s body was moved to Faggas Funeral Home for a whistle-stop and second autopsy in Watertown, Mass., before being moved home to Connecticut. Baez visited the parlor with Sullivan and announced that Hernandez’s brain would be donated to Boston University’s Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy Center for research. Sullivan stood by Baez outside the Chief Medical Examiner’s office as Baez promised to probe.
“We’re investigating everything,” he says.
An hour later, the commonwealth released Hernandez’s brain, but Hernandez’s legal team continues to object. George Leontire,
You get changed by the Bill Belichick way. You get changed by the Patriot Way. AARON HERNANDEZ, AFTER SIGNING CONTRACT EXTENSION WITH PATRIOTS MONTHS BEFORE ODIN LLOYD MURDER
another member of the defense, is unsatisfied still. In a New Bedford, Mass., court appearance soon after, he harangues the state’s attorney, charging that the corrections department failed the Hernandez family by allowing details of Hernandez’s death to leak into the press. Day in, day out, legal motions fly as Baez beats back speculation that Hernandez was bi-sexual and that the late tight end left a suicide note for a gay lover.
“These are malicious leaks used to tarnish someone who is dead,” Baez says.
There is no end in sight to the legal wrangling. Next up is the status of Hernandez’s guilt regarding Lloyd. There is a legal principle called “abatement ab initio” — Latin for “in the beginning” — in Massachusetts. It means that upon a person’s death, if all legal appeals have not been exhausted, the case reverts to its status at the start. The commonwealth had yet to perform a direct review of Hernandez’s conviction. A hearing is scheduled for May 9 in Fall River, where he was convicted. There will be a court cry echoing inside courtroom No. 7 at 10 a.m.
“Now it is time to do something perhaps a little unusual but in our estimation appropriate,” says Doug Sheff, a wrongful death attorney. He is in his office on the seventh floor at 10 Tremont St. in Boston. Hernandez is dead two days. Sheff’s client is Lloyd’s mother, Ursula Ward. She is pursuing a civil lawsuit against Hernandez in light of her son’s murder. “We want to issue a very friendly challenge to the New England Patriots, the best team in the NFL. Nothing like them. C’mon. Nothing like them. Undisputed world champions of football. But we want to provide them with an opportunity to become something more. Not just to become champions of football, but to become champions of justice. We urge the New England Patriots to work with the players association to voluntarily make these payments.”
Ward looks up to the ceiling as Sheff speaks. She lives on Fayston Street in Dorchester, the last place Lloyd was seen before being murdered and left for dead in the undeveloped section of an industrial park. A red Red Sox hat rested by his side and gnats crawled up his nose when his corpse was happened upon less than a mile from Hernandez’s house. Ward remains quiet as Sheff continues on about the Patriots. When asked to speak about the team, she declines to do so. Hernandez’s house, which is valued at $1.3 million, is said to have a buyer. Lloyd died with $64.75 in his jeans pocket.
“No matter what, the jurors found him guilty,” Ward says. “That, in my book, makes him guilty.”
The Hernandez estate’s worth is listed at $0.00, per court records. He played three seasons in the NFL after being selected by the Patriots in the fourth round of the 2010 NFL Draft. His stock fell due to red flags regarding failed marijuana tests and behavioral issues while helping Florida win a national title under Urban Meyer. Upon being drafted, he waxed nostalgic about his first Patriots jersey — No. 11 Drew Bledsoe — and wearing it around his childhood house. In two seasons under coach Bill Belichick, Hernandez established himself as a tight end capable of turning the cor- ner on linebackers and lowering his shoulder on cornerbacks. Paired with Rob Gronkowski, Hernandez caught a 12-yard touchdown pass from quarterback Tom Brady in Super Bowl XLVI, a loss. The double homicide occurred that summer, and Hernandez inked a five-year extension worth up to $40 million one month later.
“You get changed by the Bill Belichick way,” Hernandez said after agreeing to a $12.5 million signing bonus. “You get changed by the Patriot Way.”
Hernandez played another year and smoked a prodigious amount of marijuana. He ran up tabs at bars from Boston to Providence to South Florida, where he watched strippers spin The Wheel of Friction at Tootsie’s Cabaret. The fast life started to slow despite the flophouse he kept in nearby Franklin, Mass., soon after. He had suffered a shoulder injury that required surgery and rehabilitation. On June 16, 2013, he connected with Brian McDonough, a personal trainer in nearby Foxboro. Hernandez noted that he was “already behind” with his training heading into Patriots camp. Hernandez was scheduled for treatment with physical therapist Alex Guerrero from 9 a.m.-12 p.m. each day, and planned to start with McDonough June 17. Hernandez never showed up. Lloyd had been left dead in the dark around 3 a.m. and police paid Hernandez a visit at his house that night. Hernandez answered a few questions before declining to discuss further. The trainer checked back in.
“I imagine the Pats kept you late today,” McDonough wrote in a text. “I’ll start you up tomorrow, bud.”
Hernandez did not respond for hours, but apologized that night. McDonough informed Hernandez that there was no problem. They would start Tuesday. The trainer also told the tight end to bring cleats and gloves on Wednesday. McDonough had lined up a Boston College quarterback and a former NFL quarterback to throw to him. The next morning, though, Hernandez sent another text message.
“Something serious came up,” he wrote.
Hernandez was being probed as a murder suspect. The next day he stopped by Gillette Stadium, and team owner Robert Kraft sought him out by the weight room. Hernandez insisted that he was fine, that he was at a club at the time; Hernandez hugged and kissed Kraft. A week later, Hernandez was arrested. The Patriots cut Hernandez and held a jersey exchange for fans seeking to rid themselves of Hernandez garb. More than 1,200 fans participated. Kraft insisted he was “duped.” Belichick dubbed Hernandez a tragedy. Still, a legacy remains. When the Patriots signed tight end Martellus Bennett last year, he studied Hernandez.
“I’ve seen every catch Aaron Hernandez made in the offense,” Bennett says.
The Patriots continue to disentangle from legal proceedings, both civil and criminal. At the team store in Patriot Place, “Do Your Job” and “No Days Off” slogans mark merchandise. The only legal reference is to Brady’s fifth Super Bowl win after being suspended for the season’s first four games due to Deflategate.
“Vindicated once again,” encircles No. 12 on a shirt. It goes for $24.99.
Jeff Morgan marks time by three generations of Hernandez family members in Bristol, a town that boasts a past as the world leader in production of affordable clocks and watches and a present as the World Wide Leader in Sports. He attended Central when Hernandez’s parents did the same. He sold his first car to Terri’s brother, Pat Valentine, and later sold his first house to her late brother, Robert. Morgan removes an orange football helmet from a box. It is addressed “To Coach Morgan” from Aaron. Morgan pulls out a button he made for Hernandez’s daughter when she was born. An order of one hundred was done. It reads: Avielle Janelle Hernandez Morgan eyes one. “I bawled my head off the day Aaron was arrested,” he says.
Morgan, 57, wears eyeglasses with thick, black frames. He is bald with a soul patch on his chin. He owns Exper-Tees, a screen-printing company in the old Sessions Clock Co. building, and keeps team programs from his days mentoring the defensive line at Central. There, in black and white, are the Hernandez brothers, Nos. 14 and 15, maroon and white, sleeves rolled up above biceps to show developing muscles. They played together when D.J. was a senior and Aaron was a freshman, but one photo from the next year holds Morgan’s attention. Aaron sits next to Alex Ryng. Both played defensive end. A year after Hernandez was arrested, Ryng shot his wife, Kyla, and then himself, in a house on Henderson Street in Bristol.
“Two suicides,” he says. “Side by side.”
Morgan winces. When he learned Hernandez’s body was being brought back to Bristol, Morgan went to work. He took a white T-shirt and placed the letters “R.I.P Aaron” on it. He then picked up a photograph of Hernandez stiffarming a Jets cornerback that Hernandez had autographed for him. He put it on transfer paper, cut the edges with a razorblade and set a heat press to 385 degrees. He put down Teflon paper and dropped the press. Morgan then affixed the shirt to a fence across Main Street from O’Brien Funeral Home as a welcome. A black Cadillac hearse carried Hernandez to a back door of the funeral home after driving 111 miles in a cold rain.
“I still believe Aaron was murdered,” Morgan says. “I don’t care what the jail says. I don’t think Aaron would commit suicide. Nobody saw nothing until 3 a.m.?”
Morgan holds on to memories. He also hoards memorabilia. He bought two Patriots jerseys — one blue, one white, each for $40 — on eBay after the arrest. He also purchased a pack of U.S. Army AllAmerican Game cards featuring Hernandez.
“The opening bid was like $2.50,” he says, “so I said, ‘F--- it.’ I’m bidding.”
There is a repentant image that he stores. It is of Hernandez as a sophomore at the end of practice the day before the annual Thanksgiving game against Bristol Eastern, the big rival. Morgan’s golden rule was no cursing or use of the N-word at practice. Townswomen walked the track around the field, and Morgan believed they shouldn’t have to hear foul language. Hernandez caught a pass in a drill, turned and taunted a teammate by calling him a “n----.” Morgan heard it, and informed Hernandez that he would run the hills up to the tennis courts and back down as punishment. Hernandez took off his helmet and pads before dropping to his knees and pleading for clemency. Morgan took out his phone and threatened to call Hernandez’s father. It was a bluff. Morgan didn’t have Dennis Hernandez’s number.
“He took off so fast,” Morgan says. “Up and down, up and down.” He pauses. “If his father was alive, I can bet you all of this wouldn’t have happened,” he says. “But don’t tell me he got in all this trouble because his father died. I think it was the people he hung with. He wouldn’t have done that with his father around.”