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Grief and Struggle: Family Remembers Mario Madrigal, Jr.
By Eduardo Barraza August 25, 2006
The family of Mario Madrigal, Jr. (left)
held a protest outside the Mesa
Police Department. The teenager was
killed by Mesa police officers when he
allegedly attacked them with a
kithchen knife in August 2003.
Photo by Eduardo Barraza | Barriozona
held a protest outside the Mesa
Police Department. The teenager was
killed by Mesa police officers when he
allegedly attacked them with a
kithchen knife in August 2003.
Photo by Eduardo Barraza | Barriozona
Published by the Hispanic Institute of Social Issues in Phoenix, Arizona
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Eduardo Barraza is a journalist and writer,
Barriozona Magazine's editor, and director of
the Hispanic Insitute of Social Issues.
E-mail: editor@barriozona.com
Barriozona Magazine's editor, and director of
the Hispanic Insitute of Social Issues.
E-mail: editor@barriozona.com
|
Mesa, Arizona. Blue and yellow flowers adorn the grave of a 15-year
old boy at a cemetery in Scottsdale, Arizona. Sitting around the
gravestone –a shiny bronze plate, the parents of the deceased
teenager meticulously clean his grave, and deposit a bouquet of
fresh, bright flowers in a metal vase. This is the burial place of Mario
Albert Madrigal, Jr., the youth who three years ago, on August 25,
was shot and killed by three City of Mesa Police Department officers.
Mario Sr. and Martha Madrigal visited their son’s resting place to
commemorate the third anniversary of his death, a date that lingers
an unfathomable and beyond healing wound in their memory and
their lives. Their son’s death was a painful and heartbreaking event
in itself; the circumstances surrounding it, devastating to the
extreme. In front of their very eyes, the three police officers shot a
total of 15 rounds, hitting Mario’s 115-pound body ten times. The
officers’ reason: he approached them with a kitchen knife. The parent’
s reason: none.
Mario Albert’s was not an ordinary death. From the very moment of
this tragic incident, the community, the authorities and the media
knew the depth of what –three years later– remains an almost
polarizing issue with no healing or closure in sight. One may think
that on the third anniversary of the passing of a loved one, the wave
of sorrow would have declined. In the Madrigal’s family case, the
wave keeps on taking force.
Visiting the “Preppy Boy’s” grave – as Mario Albert was nicknamed in
High School–, is a terrible reminder –as terrible as it gets– of the
night when the chain of events that ended the teenager’s life began.
Mario Albert’s relapse with alcohol came back strong and
unexpectedly for his parents, who just two months before had taken
him to Banner Desert Behavioral Center, in Mesa. The
encouragement to keep him away from alcohol included taking Mario
Albert for a vacation to the Pacific’s coast of Mexico that same
summer.
The problem thought overcome, took the Madrigal’s by surprise
around midnight on August 25, 2003. A 9-11 telephone call followed.
Mario Albert hid. Another call prompted a second response by officers
who were called to take him to the behavioral center. It took only
seconds for the crisis situation to escalate from a plea to help him to
an astonishing finale: Mario Albert’s death. His young and small body
pierced by ten bullets, fell in the family’s dining room, between the
kitchen and the carport.
Authorities –from the Maricopa County Attorney’s office to the Mesa
Police Department– concluded that the teenager provoked his own
death: he disobeyed officer’s commands to drop the kitchen knife; he
advanced in a threatening manner toward them. This was the
reasoning of the three police officers who, before the door was
opened by Mario Sr., had guns drawn, ready in their hands.
According to Rick Romley –the county’s attorney at the time– the
killing of this small-built teenager who was under the influence of
alcohol, by three officers who shot 15 rounds in 2.2 seconds, “was
justifiable under Arizona’s law.” Richard Henry, Mark Beckett, and
Sgt. Orlando Dean –the Mesa Police officers who pulled the trigger a
total of 15 times– were cleared of any wrongdoing. Romley’s
statement suggested the Madrigal family did not tell the truth, when
they affirmed that Mario Albert’s body –who had been already
impacted by a Taser gun– was shaking from the effect, and falling to
the ground when the rain of bullets came upon him.
Today, in the quietness of the cemetery, Mario Sr. and Martha can
still hear the commotion, the screams, and the gunshots. They still
hear their child’s last words before the deafening sound of bullets
being fired, agonizing echoes of not only a tragedy, but an
incomprehensible injustice that turned a simple request into a
disastrous sentence, a death sentence. They still can see their son’s
face in anguish, his fragile body being massacred, his bones broken,
his youthful life departing his body. An episode they deemed so
unnecessary, unjustifiable, and unbearable in their lives, and that
has prompted them to protest, to fight, and raise their voices for the
last three years.
In the midst of a community that has proven largely indifferent, a
local leadership virtually inexistent, and an alienating attitude from
the authorities, the Madrigal’s have continuously demonstrated in
front of the police station in Mesa. A small crowd composed of
friends, members of their church’s congregation, and a group of
anarchists with their own agenda, have been the loyal minority of a
family in search of justice. Signs, chants, fists raised and prayers
have been the peaceful instruments employed against a monumental
injustice that appears as an impenetrable wall.
On Saturday, August 26, 2006, for the third consecutive year, the
Madrigal family held a protest outside the police station. Behind a
large sign held by two young men, Mario and Martha marched
around the parking lot and the southbound lane of Hobson Street,
followed by a group of approximately 75 demonstrators. The group
marched around seven times, symbolizing the seven times the
Israelites marched around the biblical city of Jericho, a symbolism
that also seeks a similar and desperate effect: making the wall of
injustice collapse. From above, police officers limited to look from
behind the glass windows of the police station, while TV news crews
covered the protest.
Having refused to accept a financial settlement from the City of Mesa,
as well as a civil trial, the Madrigal’s –both U.S. citizens and USPS
carriers– definition of justice in this case would only mean to
criminally prosecute the officers involved. They know they are dealing
with the improbable, as the Mesa Police Department considers the
case closed, and the officers who killed Mario were just assigned to
other areas in Mesa. This suggests that the family of Mario Albert
Madrigal, Jr., will have to live with the affront and the contradiction
that their son was brutally killed by those who were called to protect
and to serve.
As Mario and Martha were getting ready to leave the cemetery the
day before the protest, they observed how beautiful the flowers
looked on Mario Albert’s gravestone, and consoled each other with
Bible verses. Martha quoted Revelation 21:4: “And God shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death,
neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for
the former things are passed away.” Mario got close to the
gravestone and, in tender tone of voice, he whispered: “bye Mayito,”
as he used to call his son. The sunset added a dramatic touch to
their departure, as they headed to their car, and toward their search
for justice.
old boy at a cemetery in Scottsdale, Arizona. Sitting around the
gravestone –a shiny bronze plate, the parents of the deceased
teenager meticulously clean his grave, and deposit a bouquet of
fresh, bright flowers in a metal vase. This is the burial place of Mario
Albert Madrigal, Jr., the youth who three years ago, on August 25,
was shot and killed by three City of Mesa Police Department officers.
Mario Sr. and Martha Madrigal visited their son’s resting place to
commemorate the third anniversary of his death, a date that lingers
an unfathomable and beyond healing wound in their memory and
their lives. Their son’s death was a painful and heartbreaking event
in itself; the circumstances surrounding it, devastating to the
extreme. In front of their very eyes, the three police officers shot a
total of 15 rounds, hitting Mario’s 115-pound body ten times. The
officers’ reason: he approached them with a kitchen knife. The parent’
s reason: none.
Mario Albert’s was not an ordinary death. From the very moment of
this tragic incident, the community, the authorities and the media
knew the depth of what –three years later– remains an almost
polarizing issue with no healing or closure in sight. One may think
that on the third anniversary of the passing of a loved one, the wave
of sorrow would have declined. In the Madrigal’s family case, the
wave keeps on taking force.
Visiting the “Preppy Boy’s” grave – as Mario Albert was nicknamed in
High School–, is a terrible reminder –as terrible as it gets– of the
night when the chain of events that ended the teenager’s life began.
Mario Albert’s relapse with alcohol came back strong and
unexpectedly for his parents, who just two months before had taken
him to Banner Desert Behavioral Center, in Mesa. The
encouragement to keep him away from alcohol included taking Mario
Albert for a vacation to the Pacific’s coast of Mexico that same
summer.
The problem thought overcome, took the Madrigal’s by surprise
around midnight on August 25, 2003. A 9-11 telephone call followed.
Mario Albert hid. Another call prompted a second response by officers
who were called to take him to the behavioral center. It took only
seconds for the crisis situation to escalate from a plea to help him to
an astonishing finale: Mario Albert’s death. His young and small body
pierced by ten bullets, fell in the family’s dining room, between the
kitchen and the carport.
Authorities –from the Maricopa County Attorney’s office to the Mesa
Police Department– concluded that the teenager provoked his own
death: he disobeyed officer’s commands to drop the kitchen knife; he
advanced in a threatening manner toward them. This was the
reasoning of the three police officers who, before the door was
opened by Mario Sr., had guns drawn, ready in their hands.
According to Rick Romley –the county’s attorney at the time– the
killing of this small-built teenager who was under the influence of
alcohol, by three officers who shot 15 rounds in 2.2 seconds, “was
justifiable under Arizona’s law.” Richard Henry, Mark Beckett, and
Sgt. Orlando Dean –the Mesa Police officers who pulled the trigger a
total of 15 times– were cleared of any wrongdoing. Romley’s
statement suggested the Madrigal family did not tell the truth, when
they affirmed that Mario Albert’s body –who had been already
impacted by a Taser gun– was shaking from the effect, and falling to
the ground when the rain of bullets came upon him.
Today, in the quietness of the cemetery, Mario Sr. and Martha can
still hear the commotion, the screams, and the gunshots. They still
hear their child’s last words before the deafening sound of bullets
being fired, agonizing echoes of not only a tragedy, but an
incomprehensible injustice that turned a simple request into a
disastrous sentence, a death sentence. They still can see their son’s
face in anguish, his fragile body being massacred, his bones broken,
his youthful life departing his body. An episode they deemed so
unnecessary, unjustifiable, and unbearable in their lives, and that
has prompted them to protest, to fight, and raise their voices for the
last three years.
In the midst of a community that has proven largely indifferent, a
local leadership virtually inexistent, and an alienating attitude from
the authorities, the Madrigal’s have continuously demonstrated in
front of the police station in Mesa. A small crowd composed of
friends, members of their church’s congregation, and a group of
anarchists with their own agenda, have been the loyal minority of a
family in search of justice. Signs, chants, fists raised and prayers
have been the peaceful instruments employed against a monumental
injustice that appears as an impenetrable wall.
On Saturday, August 26, 2006, for the third consecutive year, the
Madrigal family held a protest outside the police station. Behind a
large sign held by two young men, Mario and Martha marched
around the parking lot and the southbound lane of Hobson Street,
followed by a group of approximately 75 demonstrators. The group
marched around seven times, symbolizing the seven times the
Israelites marched around the biblical city of Jericho, a symbolism
that also seeks a similar and desperate effect: making the wall of
injustice collapse. From above, police officers limited to look from
behind the glass windows of the police station, while TV news crews
covered the protest.
Having refused to accept a financial settlement from the City of Mesa,
as well as a civil trial, the Madrigal’s –both U.S. citizens and USPS
carriers– definition of justice in this case would only mean to
criminally prosecute the officers involved. They know they are dealing
with the improbable, as the Mesa Police Department considers the
case closed, and the officers who killed Mario were just assigned to
other areas in Mesa. This suggests that the family of Mario Albert
Madrigal, Jr., will have to live with the affront and the contradiction
that their son was brutally killed by those who were called to protect
and to serve.
As Mario and Martha were getting ready to leave the cemetery the
day before the protest, they observed how beautiful the flowers
looked on Mario Albert’s gravestone, and consoled each other with
Bible verses. Martha quoted Revelation 21:4: “And God shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death,
neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for
the former things are passed away.” Mario got close to the
gravestone and, in tender tone of voice, he whispered: “bye Mayito,”
as he used to call his son. The sunset added a dramatic touch to
their departure, as they headed to their car, and toward their search
for justice.
| Documented Dreams |
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