The Bell Tolls for Thee, Taosenos

Nostalgia: Gringo Lessons, August, 2003

The Bell Tolls for Thee, Taosenos

Murder & Mourning in the Barrio

The Grim Reaper Gang

“What a tragic weekend. First, we learned of the death of a hiker, Ryoji McCormick, who lost his life in a fall in El Salto. As his family recalled for Reporter Chandra Johnson, Ryoji taught them about love and kindness.

Then, the call came in about a double homicide: two teenagers found shot to death in a car at the Pot Creek area. The Taos County deputy found the victims as he was driving home from his shift.

These were the fifth and sixth homicides reported in Taos County this year, and Chandra will have updated info from the sheriff’s department, which is handling this case.”– Joan Livingston (The Taos News)

The following Aug. 15, 2003 story from Horse Fly  reminds us of the recurring tragedies, we call homicide. The young people mentioned below might have left town but they have not been forgotten. None of us quite knows what the answer to youth violence is. But July is well known as the month wherein young people are sacrificed to the grim reaper.

By: Bill Whaley

LeAnne Martinez candle light vigil

While the tourists stalked the art galleries on Paseo del Pueblo Norte or shopped for fancy trinkets on Kit Carson Road; while curio seekers drifted round the Plaza in search of jewelry or kitschy memorabilia; while second-homers drank martinis on their sundecks or studied the menus at chi-chi cafes, getting ready for the annual home and garden tour; while the town council discussed festival banners and swimming pools, and the county looked for gravel to fill potholes, and neighborhood activists protested loopholes in subdivision laws; and, while the community began to celebrate the traditions of Las Fiestas de Taos de Santiago y Santa Ana, the Grim Reaper Gang came to town looking for a few young men to fill its July quota. The hot days of July have become a time to celebrate the day and death of young people. Truly, July has become a time to die in Taos

In July 2000, Robert Miera (26) and Jeremy Trujillo (17) were shot and killed in the “El Prado Trailer Park Murders.”

July 2001 began as pedestrian Joe Henry Thomason (66) was run down and killed by a drunken driver. Daniel Medina (37) was run over and killed by his spouse. Nicole Medina (18) was shot and killed by her husband.

During July of 2002, two different knife-wielding assailants slaughtered Marioara Shand (38) and LeAnne Martinez (23).

In Act I of this year’s (2003) three-act Festival of Death, Albert Trujillo, 19, was shot on June 6 at approximately 5:30 a.m. in a disagreement about when it was time to quit drinking beer. In Act II, the night before Fiesta on July 24, Nathaniel Maestas, 14, Eric Tollardo, 22, and Alfred Little Eagle Rael, 23, died in a hail of gunfire—shot and killed as they sat in a car in an incident known as “The Mustang Murders.” In Act III, the night after Fiesta, at 1:30 a.m., Lorenzo Maestas, 16, was shot and killed by a friend, who insisted on showing his buddies his pistola.

Nathaniel Maestas burial

This writer attended four funerals and one burial after Las Fiestas this year. The gut-wrenching guilt, the fear, and the despair that comes with the death of young people cannot be dispelled by prayer alone. The tourists may be attracted to Taos for the natural beauty of its landscape and the multi-story monument to labor at Taos Pueblo, or to the ripe fruit of the acequia culture, the charming farms and local villages, or the aesthetic tradition that gained momentum with the advent of the broken-wheel artists. But, today violence—homicide—prompted by contemporary attitudes and bolstered by its deep roots in Northern New Mexico is gaining momentum among this polyglot people who live in Taos. At the funerals, Our Father, Our Lady, and Jesus were much invoked by priests and parishioners. Jesus said: “The tree is known by its fruits.” But this year’s fruit—the product of labor and love—Albert, Nathaniel, Eric, Little Eagle, and Lorenzo—weren’t allowed to ripen.

Albert Trujillo, 19

Abert & Sammy

Albert’s good friend Sammy is the 20-year-old daughter of Tupper and Richard Hawley, granddaughter of Sammy and Bill Heaton, not to mention Dr. Hawley, and related to all the Heatons and Hawleys in Taos. Sammy’s adult relatives used to attend the movies at the Plaza and El Cortez theatres in Taos and Ranchos where I worked in the ’70s and ’80s. Sammy came to the Horse Fly offices and showed me photographs of 19-year-old Albert Trujillo, his art, and the tattoos he did for friends. She showed me photographs of her friends at parties and at recent funerals. “Albert’s best friend [Antonio “Manges” Romero] shot himself last year,” she said. Although Sammy wasn’t present the night Albert died, she said, like everybody else, she heard the alleged shooter, another teenager, Earl Romo, shot Albert when he was asked to leave Albert’s trailer at 5:30 a.m.

According to reports, Romo threatened Albert and Albert said, “I’m not afraid to die.” Albert was standing next to his mother, Cathy, at the time of his death. Sammy said Albert’s mother, Cathy, has a head injury. “Albert got paid by Ideal Home Care to take care of his mother,” she said. According to Sammy, Albert also helped take care of foster children, one of them, Mariah Baker, since she was four years old. Sammy said she was supposed to go back to Talpa the night that Albert died. “He wanted me to come and change Mariah’s diapers,” she said. “I never made it back to Talpa.”

Albert’s death was not gang-related, according to Sammy. “Albert was out of the gang. He never went to parties. He didn’t like to go anywhere. He lived at home with his mother in a trailer. People still owe him money for tattoos,” Sammy said. “He didn’t charge much. Twenty dollars. He taught himself. He only had one needle.” Sammy said Albert “didn’t like to get out of the car when we went to Raley’s. If he got drunk, he wouldn’t start fights. ‘Take me home,’ he’d say.” After one of the many funerals, Sammy said she asked some gang members what they disagreed about, why Albert was scared and dropped out of the gang. “It was something stupid,” said Sammy. “They couldn’t remember. ‘We’re so sorry, Sammy,’ they said.”

“Everyone is precious, has gifts, regardless of who his friends are,” she continued. “It’s like a hate crime but they are from the same culture. His dad has never been there. His mom couldn’t be.” When Sammy urged Albert to get a job, he told her, “nobody would hire me.” Sammy said she told him, “You can’t wear baggy pants, boxer shorts showing, and a wife-beater t-shirt.” Sammy said the kids who are members of the gang culture never learned to read and write well. “Nobody pushed them,” she said. “They are taught that there’s racial discrimination. They don’t feel like they have a chance.” Referring to the kids she knows who attended Eric Tollardo’s funeral, she said, “Everyone is going nowhere from here but to the grave.” She paused and said, “I’m here because I want it to stop.”

Triple Murder:  Alfred Little Eagle Rael, 23; Nathaniel Maestas, 14; Eric Tollardo, 22.

Albert Trujillo’s father, Pat Maestas, is also the father of 14-year-old Nathaniel Maestas. Nathaniel is one of three victims, killed on July 24 at 10 p.m. by the alleged two-gun kid, Jason Perea, 25, during the Mustang Murder incident. Jason, 25, hails from Albuquerque. He also, allegedly killed Eric and Alfred Little Eagle, along with Nathaniel, when he fired 19 rounds at the three young people. Eric’s girlfriend, 14-year-old Cassandra Martinez, who was sitting in the passenger’s seat, reportedly escaped unharmed as did another male juvenile. Eric was sitting behind the steering wheel. Little Eagle and Nathaniel sat in the back seat.

It is generally believed that Nathaniel and Little Eagle were accidental victims. Jason, evidently, ran across the tarmac toward the car, brandishing a 40-caliber and 9-mm Glock, while firing at Eric, who may have fired back. Cassandra was talking to either a female friend or relative of Eric’s who was standing between the Eric-driven vehicle and another car. Eric may have picked up Nathaniel a short time before the incident at the movie theatre. Reportedly, Nathaniel was hit twice. Little Eagle, reportedly, was hit once in the heart.

The sheriff, Charlie Martinez, says that Perea told him that Tollardo had broken into his apartment, earlier, and stolen some videos. The word on the street says cocaine and cash were the objects of Tollardo’s curiosity. Allegedly, Perea put the word out that he was looking for Tollardo. Tollardo is known variously as a charismatic leader, bad ass, and a charming rogue. Prior to the deadly shooting, Tollardo, either by himself or with friends, may have busted in and confronted Perea at the latter’s apartment. Perea evidently told the sheriff that Tollardo forced him to kiss Tollardo’s feet and beg for his life. After humiliating the dude, Tollardo left. According to the legend, the two-gun kid didn’t do drugs, though he distributed them. They say Perea had no other choice. Asked why he didn’t call the sheriff when Tollardo broke into his place, Perea asked the sheriff, “What good would it do?” When Tollardo got out on the street, Perea said Tollardo would come looking for him. More than one cop or citizen has said that Tollardo threatened people with their lives. Nobody expressed surprise at Tollardo’s violent demise.

Little Eagle’s auntie, Trudy Healy, said Little Eagle had worked out of town during the last few years and the family had high hopes for him. That day, July 24, Little Eagle had been up working on his grandfather’s roof. He was in town for Fiesta. The car, an old Taurus, belonged to Little Eagle’s mother, Stephanie, who is married to Eagle Rael of Picuris Pueblo. It may, however, have been registered in Juan I. Valerio’s name. Juan I., the 40-year mayordomo from Ranchos, lives right across the street from the Mustang gas station where his grandson died. His daughter, Aunt Trudy said Little Eagle couldn’t see well enough to drive at night. “He didn’t like to wear his glasses because he said they made him look like a nerd. Ed and I bought him contacts.”

When they found Little Eagle’s body in the back seat, there was a cocked, though unloaded, sawed-off shotgun next to it, according to reports. The sheriff hypothesizes that Jason got rid of his two guns when he fled the scene. The deputies recovered a holster allegedly belonging to Eric. Of the 19 shell casings recovered at the scene, some of them belonged to that of a third handgun, which was fired but not recovered, and may have belonged to Eric also.

The Arraignment

Jason Perea arraignment

On July 25, at 10 a.m., outside Judge Betty Martinez’s courtroom, we were waiting for the arraignment of the shooter, Jason Perea. He was picked up in the company of his father after the sheriff issued an APB. Rosie Duran Tollardo Valdez came into the waiting room and said hello. “Eric was always good to me,” she said of her grandson. Rosie makes tin angels and sells them in the old courthouse on Taos Plaza. She was accompanied by numerous relatives, including her brother, former Taos County Democratic party chair, James Duran. (Rosie’s work has been featured in Horse Fly, and in the early ’80s, like many, I had turned to James for help with a political problem having to do with KVNM-FM.)

We sat down inside the courtroom. The shooter arrived, crew cut, pencil-thin goatee circling his mouth, small of stature, and dressed in orange-and-white jail garb. He was surrounded by six sheriff’s deputies with their Smokey the Bear hats. Assistant District Attorney Mark Lovato charged Jason with five felonies: three counts of murder 1, tampering, and shooting at a motor vehicle. Jason pleaded not guilty. Lovato mentioned Jason’s history—assault with a deadly weapon, contributing to the delinquency of a juvenile, aggravated battery—and asked for a $1.5 million cash bond. The judge granted the Assistant D.A.’s request.

The deputies whisked away the little shooter in a three-car caravan destined for an out-of-town jail. They weren’t taking any chances with potential gang retaliation.

Little Eagle

The Office of the Medical Examiner in Albuquerque needed to see the body of 23-year-old Little Eagle, whose father, Eagle Rael, is a former Picuris Pueblo governor. So Little Eagle was not buried by sundown on Friday, according to tradition. The funeral was scheduled for 10 a.m. on Saturday, July 26. At the viewing before the funeral at Sisneros-LaFollette funeral home in Taos on Saturday morning, I ran into Little Eagle’s aunt and uncle, Trudy and Ed Healy; cousins Lee and Felice Knox; and brother John Herrera, among others. Cars arrived to fill up the dirt parking lot around the funeral chapel. Inside, more friends and relatives filled up the wooden chairs and couches. Eagle, blanket around his shoulders, and his wife, the mother of Little Eagle, Stephanie Valerio Rael, and her father, Juan I. Valerio, old, dignified, wiping away the tears, bent over the body. The crying, the tears, and the moaning rose up—keening on the wind: it seemed as if a restless soul swirled above Little Eagle’s blanket-wrapped body. (In 1979, Stephanie and I served on the Fiesta Committee together with a group of citizen-volunteers to keep the Fiesta going at a time when both locals and businesspeople were willing to let it die.)

Then the cars formed the funeral procession and left the chapel for Picuris Pueblo in the Peñasco Valley. At the left turn on 518, where you go east past Talpa and up U.S. Hill, a man dressed in fatigues and a t-shirt, who was working at the corner adjacent to the old Ranchos Trading Post, spontaneously stepped into the highway to stop traffic for the procession. Taoseños know what to do for funerals.

The San Lorenzo church at Picuris is in the center of a single-story adobe village on a dirt plaza. The pallbearers transferred Little Eagle’s body from a gurney to a wooden ladder before entering the adobe church under the wooden beams and latillas. There’s one turquoise beam, carved with signs of the Picuris, over the front pew. There are only a few chairs in the church, in front of the wooden cross, painted altar screen, and wooden table used by the priest to prepare the body and blood of Christ. Instead of the usual wafers, Father Tim Martinez broke bread for the communal celebration of sacrifice. Felice Knox, Little Eagle’s cousin, gave a short, sweet eulogy for his “short life.” Most of the crowd from Picuris and Taos stood during mass.

After mass, a child stood on the roof of the church and marked the slow beat of the procession by ringing the bell with a gong as the mourners trailed out of the church and up the hill to the cemetery above the village, surrounded by piñon and smelling of sage. After Father Tim spoke one more time, a Picuris elder blessed the gathering in Tiwa. The sun was warm, the breeze light. At the gravesite, the mourners passed by, throwing a handful of dirt onto the body. Even as you could see Little Eagle’s feet disappearing from sight beneath the dirt and the blanket, you could feel his spirit in the hearts of friends and family. The ceremony for Little Eagle was primordial: nothing but the passion was present. It was as otherworldly and as ancient as the chthonic spirits that live beneath the desert and mountains of Northern New Mexico.

Lorenzo Maestas

Lorenzo Maestas, 16 at the time of his death . Monday early morning July 28th 2003. Copy of Photos by Laurent Guerin for The Albuquerque Journal, courtesy of the Family.

At one a.m. or so, on Monday, July 28, just as Fiesta was ending, it was reported that another young man, Lorenzo Maestas, 16, had been shot and killed more or less accidentally, by a friend, also a teenager, who said he was showing off his gun.

A film documenting YouthBuild’s June 2003 trip to Brazil is dedicated “ to the loving memory of Lorenzo Maestas, 1986-2003.” YouthBuild, a Taos County-HUD program, provides at-risk youths with a chance to learn construction skills and an opportunity to obtain a GED. Very often, YouthBuild is the last stop for these kids  before going to jail, to prison, or to the cemetery. Lorenzo says on camera that he was told by his juvenile probation officer to find a job. “I screwed up so many times. It’s a last chance. Doing better. My ankle bracelet was taken off. Earned that. Brazil, too. Gives me a chance. Helps me out. JPO said get a job. YouthBuild’s helping me out a lot. I’m in Brazil. Things are going good. Fun.”

Nathaniel Maestas

As I walked through the portals of St. Francis of Assisi in Ranchos de Taos on Monday morning, July 28, at 10 a.m., there in the open casket I saw fourteen-year-old Nathaniel Maestas for the first and last time. So young, still with his baby fat, I thought. Nathaniel’s youthful pallbearers were dressed  in baggy pants and white shirts with carnations, or in white t-shirts with the legend, “In Memory of Albert M. Trujillo.” The legend on the t-shirt spoke to the breadth and depth of tragic gunplay that had infected this family, who had only recently celebrated the life and death of Nathaniel’s older brother, Albert Trujillo. St. Francis de Asis, the high wooden beams, the stark white walls, the finely executed altar, so celebrated by artists, so well remembered by those who spent time across the street at Old Martinez Hall, where the locals taught this gringo so many lessons, so many years ago. But it was the kids that caught my eye with their shaved heads, strands of black hair swept back, the differing hairstyles adopted from television shows and rap videos that depict the ‘hood. A 10- or 11-year-old swaggered by, head down, eyes up, his hands shoved in his pockets, his open-armpit white t-shirt hanging on his narrow shoulders. A woman leaned gently over Nathaniel’s body, stroking his head. Sisneros-LaFollette, again; the mass by Father Tim, again. This time a guitar accompanied singers, unlike Picuris, where the vocalist sang accapella. When I saw Cleo, Mayor Bobby Duran’s wife, I realized that, as he later told me, he and his wife, like many Taoseños, were related to all the dead and most of the mourners, and knew all the folks who came to pay their last respects. The impact on the community cannot be measured.

Eric Tollardo

A friend of Eric Tollardo wears a t-shirt with his picture at the funeral mass at the Four Squares Church in Taos, Monday afternoon, July 28th 2003. Tollardo,22, was killed at the gas station Thursday night. Photo for The Albuquerque Journal by Laurent Guerin.

Later that day, at twenty-two-year-old Eric’s funeral service at the Four Square Church on Merced at 2 p.m., Pastor Norbert Garcia invoked the name of Jesus and referred to all those who had taken the Lord into their hearts. Church members sang, prayed, and raised their hands to Jesus. The large evangelical church was overflowing with mourners, including a plethora of alleged gang members, both Barrio Small Town (BST) and Varrio Cruz Alta (VCT). Mayor Bobby Duran gave the eulogy for Eric, referring, first, to his large family—Durans, Tollardos, Mieras, Valdezes, Silvas, and others. As Bobby said, “I’m one of twelve, number nine of twelve children.” Bobby referred to Eric’s grandmother, Rose, the mayor’s own sister, as Eric’s “spiritual anchor,” and said, “Eric inspired Rosie to do those signs (“God Bless You”) she gives away to people.” Bobby referred to Eric’s “happy, hyper, mischievous” personality, his artistic talent, his short but talented basketball career. The mayor remarked on Eric’s loyalty to friends and the young man’s charm for the girls.

Bobby also said, “Violence can’t be stopped by the law or elected representatives without you young people. Help us,” said the mayor. “I know all these families. Not any one person has the answers. In memory of Eric, help us solve this violence. I challenge all of you. We need more Jesus, more involvement. Hard work. We have to get involved. This is a sad event. Eric will give us inspiration. He’s better off than we are at this time. We need closer ties.” Earlier, Bobby said how Eric loved his Uncle Steve Tollardo.

Uncle Steve had been picked up on an outstanding warrant by the sheriff’s department on Saturday—after the shooting—to get him off the streets, according to Sheriff Charlie Martinez. At the funeral, Uncle Steve’s hands were shackled to his belt. He wore orange and red pants and a white t-shirt. He was accompanied by a large deputy sheriff. Although I was standing in the back, and missed some of Steve’s praise for Eric, he said, essentially, “I came here from jail. I’m a thug. Eric was a thug. He died for all of us. He has lots of friends in jail. They loved him.” Then, after laying it on the line, so to speak, Uncle Steve sat down.

Grandma Rosie got up and said, “Eric was a good boy with me. He’d say ‘I’m sorry grandma.’ He had a good heart.”

Outside the church, gang members, many in blue athletic jerseys, gathered around the Sisneros-LaFollette death wagon. Across the street I could see Town of Taos detectives photographing the funeral and the gang members. When the funeral possession came out, Steve pulled aside a couple of his “homies” and whispered in their ears. As Mayor Duran has pointed out from his point of view before, “Everybody in Taos is related.” Then the funeral procession went up to the cemetery in Las Cruces for the last goodbye.

Lorenzo Maestas

On Thursday, July 31, in the courtyard at St. Francis of Assisi before the 10 a.m. funeral mass, Lorenzo’s mother, JoAnn Gonzales, her face red from sleeplessness and tears, greeted her neighbors. She introduced me to Lorenzo’s father, Pat Maestas. Debbie, JoAnn’s sister, the new principal at St. Francis school, gave me a hug. Later, I saw another sister, Jeannie. Ted Gonzales, Lorenzo’s grandfather, shook my hand.

At the front door of the church, Lorenzo’s grandmother, Jean Gonzales, sobbed in the arms of each person who greeted her. Grandma Jean walked down the aisle with her three daughters. Her son Earl was one of the pallbearers for his nephew, Lorenzo. Grandmother Jean’s mom and dad, Frank and Mabel Duran, used to help me at the Plaza Theatre, beginning in 1969. Earl also helped out. Jean and the girls babysat my son Fitz, and even though they haven’t seen much of him in the last 20 years, whenever they saw me, they never failed to ask, “How’s Fitz” or “Where’s Feetz?”

Inside, Father Tim Martinez talked about the “salvation of Lorenzo” and how his life had changed but not ended. He said we must plead for understanding and that Lorenzo’s “soul was pleasing to the Lord.” The good Father also said, “We must learn to live with misunderstanding.” This time, Tim Rivera, of the Rivera-Hanlon funeral home, guided the family back through the church and out to the waiting hearse for Lorenzo’s last journey on this earth.

I can still hear the sharp pain in Grandma Jean’s voice that Thursday and feel her sobs. But I no longer feel quite so numb. Maybe it was taking communion, maybe it was my personal relationship with the family. Maybe it’s the difference between murder and manslaughter. Maybe I’m dreaming because the pain for the parents is no less. Maybe it doesn’t rain much anymore in July because God decided that moisture is unnecessary for Taos where mothers must cry so often for their lost children.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”