| Grief and Struggle |
| Text and Photographs by Eduardo Barraza |
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.
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 Madrigal, Jr. (Photoart by Yolie Hernandez/Photoshop) |
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.
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.
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 a 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.
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 a 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.
| BARRIOZONA |
| Bilingual Community Expression Published by the Hispanic Institute of Social Issues |
| A Mesa family marks the third anniversary of their son's shooting death by police |