“If you do anything stupid,” the boy warned, “I know where you live and I will shoot your mom.”
Ford bowed his head toward the pavement. “You don’t need to talk any shit, man,” he said to his mugger.
The boy quickly responded in a calm manner, “Fuck you. I will kill and rape your mom.”
Ford recalled that the boy seemed to relish the thought.
The boy pointed at Ford with his left hand, but did not say a word. Ford began to remove the Raiders jacket. He rolled it up and looked up at the boy. He motioned as if he were going to hand the jacket over. Instead, he threw the jacket straight up in the air to distract the boy while he took off running for cover behind one of the parked cars. He changed his mind, however, and decided to take on his assaulter. Ford charged toward the boy. He knew he had the steak knife in his pocket, so he felt he had a chance. He tackled the boy, the two collapsed to the pavement, and the gun fell loose from the other boy’s pants. The revolver skidded down the pavement about three feet away from the two boys. Ford began to lunge for it when a maroon car pulled up in front of him and a “bunch of Mexican dudes jumped out.”
Ford realized he was outnumbered. “Fuck this,” he said, and took off running. He spotted a trash can and aimed to jump behind it for cover. As he leapt over the can, he heard several popping sounds. It was gunfire.
Ford became distracted, crashed into the garbage can, and crumpled to the ground in the heap of trash. He thought the extra pops! were simply him smashing into the garbage can.
Ford rolled around in the trash until he was able to orient himself. He looked up, only to see a group of kids running toward him. Instinctively, he clutched the knife and turned toward the mob so as to protect himself.
“Yo, man. You been shot,” one of the kids told him.
Ford was confused. He thought these people were the same group of guys who had hopped out of the car. He looked over the kids’ heads and saw the boy who mugged him jumping into the car, which sped off. He then looked back at the street and flopped down on it.
Ford had been shot in the chest and in the middle of his shoulder blade. He was bleeding badly.
“Call 911!” one of the kids shouted.
Several people in the neighborhood poured out of their homes to help the boy.
“Get away from me!” Ford screamed at the onslaught of more than one hundred people rushing toward him. It was only a matter of seconds before Ford began to feel woozy and nearly blacked out. He could barely lift his arm. “I am shot! I am shot!” he screamed out. “Somebody get my mother!”
The next thing he remembered was being whisked away in a Life Flight helicopter and taken to Memorial Hermann Hospital. While in a severely groggy state, he was interviewed by a reporter from the Houston Chronicle and also a local television news station.
“What happened?” the reporter asked.
“I told that dude that I don’t like gangs and that he wasn’t gonna mess with my mom,” Ford sputtered.
He was relieved to find out the other kid had not stolen his jacket.
He was less thrilled to find out he would have to undergo surgery to his stomach to stop some internal bleeding. The doctors also searched around to locate and remove the bullets. They found them, but determined they would not be able to take either one out.
Ford did not have a clue that the person who approached him in the street and attempted to steal his jacket was Efrain Perez. He did not even know Perez. He did believe the man who approached him was also the same person who shot him.
Perez would never be caught for the attempted murder of Gary Ford.
By the spring of 1992, the Eisenhower High School administration had had enough of Perez’s absenteeism. He was expelled from school for nonattendance. He sat out that spring and summer and hung out even more with Medellin and Cantu.
Eisenhower High School allowed Perez to reenroll the following September. It was not long before Perez found himself in trouble again. Just a few weeks after the semester began, Perez got into a big fight on campus between guys from his Heather Glen Subdivision and a group of boys from a nearby subdivision. The animosity spilled over from the streets onto the school grounds.
The brawl started at 7:15 A.M., with more than a dozen boys wailing at one another. The fight escalated, teachers came rushing outside their classrooms to stop it, and the groups broke off and started fights in different locations. After the melee seemed to die down, Perez broke off from the pack and started another brawl.
Greg Colschen was alerted to this fight via his walkie-talkie. When he arrived at the scene, he spotted Perez standing by two other boys who were fighting. Perez was not partaking in the action, just standing there observing. Colschen managed to break up the fight.
Suddenly Perez took a swing at one of the boys. Colschen quickly restrained him, which was not too difficult considering Perez was clutching his left hand. It appeared to have been broken. Colschen rushed the boy over to the nurse’s office to have his hand examined. Colschen knew that Perez’s hand was in bad shape, so he went to his office to contact Perez’s parents. However, there was no telephone number to call because they did not own a phone.
After the nurse checked Perez out, Colschen informed the boy he would drop him off at his home. When they arrived at the Perez house, a young man answered the door. Colschen had no idea who he was, and Perez was not talking. Perez sauntered inside and did not bother to thank Colschen for bringing him home or even bother to glance back at him.
According to Colschen, Perez was expelled from Eisenhower High School for fighting. The school followed up with a certified letter informing Perez’s parents of a hearing date for his possible expulsion. The letter was received, but neither Perez’s mother nor step-father responded to it.
When Perez’s expulsion hearing date arrived, no one—not even Efrain—showed up for it. He was expelled from school and placed on home-based instruction for the rest of the school year. Perez made no attempt whatsoever to comply with the home-based instruction, and his parents never pushed it on him. Eventually Efrain Perez Jr.’s educational career had ceased. He was now officially a “dropout.”
According to Colschen, Perez’s “reactions were always more of nonreactions. He just was not really interested in being in school and it really didn’t matter what the consequences were” for his actions. Colschen added that Perez never expressed any hostility toward him or anyone on the staff. He believed Perez was just unaffected by most other people.
Colschen wondered how much negative influence Perez’s friend Joe Medellin had on the former honors student. The assistant principal described Medellin as a person “not interested in being in school.” Colschen added that Medellin “caused problems for other students at school.”
It appeared that Efrain Perez was one of them.
Perez lied to his probation officer, Maria Guerra, about his expulsion. He told her he wanted to drop out of school so he could go to work with his stepfather, Ismael Castillo.
Guerra was skeptical, but Perez was a smooth talker. Eventually he convinced the seasoned officer it would be the best move for everyone. She agreed on the condition he attend night classes to help him prepare for the GED. Perez agreed, but never showed up for the classes.
Guerra described her situation as “having her hands tied.” She bemoaned the fact that she could not truly punish Perez for his inability to do what the judge ordered him to do. “He might have been violating some of those rules of probation,” she recalled of Perez, “but he had not really officially violated the law enough for our legal department to accept it.”
Perez routinely failed to show up for his monthly meetings with Guerra. He skipped out in July, August, September, and November of 1992, and never showed up. According to Harris County assistant district attorney (ADA) Marie Munier, Perez’s probation record was terminated on February 3, 1993. Munier criticized Guerra’s handling of Perez’s probation and believed she “let him slide,” when there was no app
arent effort to extend his probation.
Friday, December 4, 1992—4:00 P.M.
Oak Forest Apartments
Afton Street
Houston, Texas
Thirty-six-year-old Jose Arellano drove all the way from Fresno, California, to Houston, Texas, in his big 1985 red Blazer just so he could attend the wedding of his cousin Jose Acosta and spend some time with his other cousin, the similarly named Jose Ariel Acosta.
The husband and father of three was looking forward to seeing his cousins and relaxing at the wedding. He had driven straight through and the wedding was about to happen the next day. Arellano was also excited because this was his first time in Houston.
After the wedding ceremony the following day, a group of three teenage boys walked intently toward Arellano and Ariel Acosta. Arellano did not think anything of them until one boy dressed in a long coat and a backward baseball cap walked right up into his face.
“Give me your money,” the first boy demanded.
Arellano was dumbstruck. Since he only spoke Spanish, he did not understand the boy. When he did not respond appropriately, one of the two boys behind the lead boy pulled out a gun. Arellano saw the weapon and instinctively thrust his hands up toward his chest to protect himself.
The gunman held the weapon with both hands and fired it at Arellano’s chest. The bullet ricocheted off the bone of his upper arm, which caused the bullet to slow down when it entered his body. Arellano rolled to the ground in an attempt to get away from the shooter. He hoped he could make it underneath a flatbed truck, which was parked in the street. As he rolled onto his stomach, he saw the third boy coming in his direction.
He’s going to kill me, Arellano thought as the three boys quickly advanced toward him. He painfully attempted to roll toward the truck. Without warning, another pop! was heard. He instantly felt a searing white-hot pain in his upper back. He had been shot, a second time, between the shoulder blades by the second boy in line.
Arellano passed out on the street.
At the same time, the first boy pointed his gun at Ariel Acosta, pulled the trigger, and slammed a bullet into Arellano’s cousin’s chest. It was the last sound and last sight Arellano remembered before he fell unconscious.
Efrain Perez, a boy Arellano did not even know, shot him in the arm and chest. Arellano later cried as he realized Perez had killed his cousin Jose Ariel Acosta.
Perez and his two companions, Joe Medellin and Peter Cantu, took off running and never collected any money from Arellano. Jose Acosta ran to his brother’s side.
He was too late.
No one was ever charged with the murder of Jose Ariel Acosta or the attempted murder of Jose Arellano.
Sunday, June 6, 1993—10:30 P.M.
Memorial Hermann Northwest Hospital
North Loop West
Houston, Texas
Peter Cantu swerved his red Ford pickup truck into the emergency area of the Memorial Hermann Northwest Hospital. In the backseat of the car were Joe Medellin and Frank and Ramon Sandoval. In the passenger seat sat Efrain Perez. He was bleeding from his chest. He had just been shot.
Cantu pulled up to the curb and jumped out of the car. He was joined by Medellin and together they removed Perez from the front seat.
“Those motherfuckers,” Cantu swore through gritted teeth as he assisted his friend into the hospital.
They managed to escort Perez into the emergency room (ER). Cantu was getting impatient.
“What is taking so long?” he screamed at a nurse. Eventually some medical personnel came out to tend to Perez. Cantu and Medellin stood by their friend and began to talk about who shot him.
“We’re gonna make them pay,” Cantu said. Both he and Medellin were getting more incensed. They were also obstructing the hospital staff.
Security guard Joseph Similien spotted the conundrum and approached. He was informed by one of the nurses that the two young men were in the way and they could not tend to Perez’s gunshot wound.
“Don’t tell them anything,” Cantu whispered to Medellin as Similien approached. The security guard overheard their conversation. “Don’t tell them what happened,” Cantu added, and then took off running. He yelled out, “I’m gonna get those motherfuckers!”
Similien did not attempt to stop Cantu, but called a patrol officer to locate him. He then walked up to Medellin and asked him to step away so the staff could help his friend. They walked to the lobby. Similien wanted Medellin to stick around so he could tell the police what happened to Perez, despite the fact the guard believed Medellin would lie to them.
Within a few minutes, Cantu reentered the hospital with the Sandoval brothers in tow. Soon thereafter, Houston police officer Mike Knehans walked into the hospital. He spoke with Similien to get the lay of the land; then he decided to go directly to Cantu.
“What’s your name, sir?” Knehans asked Cantu.
“What do you need to know that for?” sneered Cantu.
“I need to know this for the investigation. What’s your name?”
“Peter Cantu.”
“What’s your date of birth?”
“May 27, 1978,” Cantu lied, making himself three years younger.
“You’re fifteen?” Officer Knehans asked skeptically.
Cantu smiled back at the officer.
“Tell me what happened,” the officer queried.
Cantu began to spin three or four different versions of the incident. He would not give the officer a straight answer about how Perez had been shot. He told him it occurred near North Loop and Airline Drive. Then he changed it so it occurred closer to the hospital. The story never stayed the same two times in a row. He also lied about the car that pulled up next to them and whose passenger shot Perez. He first said he did not know the color. Then it was a gold car. Then blue.
Knehans could not believe the balls on this kid. The whole time Cantu was lying to his face, he was also acting “arrogant” and “cocky.”
“Son, I know you’re lying to me,” Knehans informed Cantu, who simply smiled sarcastically back at the officer. Knehans gave up and moved on.
Cantu walked away and grinned at Medellin, as if to gloat, You see, that’s how it’s done.
Officer Knehans never found out who shot Perez or why.
Perez’s wound was superficial and he was released within hours.
Chapter 6
Thursday, June 24, 1993—3:15 P.M.
Houston, Texas
Raul Villarreal finished up his game of Street Fighter II and headed out of the store. He was ready to walk back home. As he slipped out the door, he spotted Efrain Perez, who was still working on his ride. He walked back over to his friend.
“Dude, what’s wrong with this piece of shit?” he playfully asked his buddy.
“It’s a piece of shit.” Perez laughed.
Raul laughed as well. “So what you got goin’ on tonight?” the taller, heavier young man asked.
“Nothin’, man. Maybe drink a few beers. You wanna join us?” Perez asked.
Raul was excited. He knew Perez hung out with some pretty cool guys and he wanted to get into their inner circle somehow. “Yeah, man. I guess that’d be cool. Where and when?”
“C’mon over to my place around five-thirty and we’ll head on over to the house of a buddy of mine. Cool?”
“Yeah, dude, that’ll work.”
“And bring some beer,” Perez ordered, and then stuck his head under the hood yet again.
“All right,” Raul shouted back.
The video gamer had a loftier bounce in his step as he headed back to Chapman Street and his parents’ house. He hoped this night might lead to building some new relationships with some new friends so he could get out of the house more and get his parents out of his business. He was sick of feeling like a little kid.
Raul stopped briefly to speak with his mother. He told her he ran into Efrain Perez at the convenience store and that he was fixing his family’s truck. She again warned him to stay
away from Perez, and added that he was “bad news.” Raul ignored the comment and went into his room and waited.
The next two hours crawled by for Raul. He was itching to get out of the house and meet up with Perez.
Around 5:30 P.M., he took off. He did not tell his mom anything, and when she discovered he was not in the house, she became worried. She later said she “didn’t see him no more” and was very concerned because “he never disappears from the house.”
When Raul arrived at Perez’s, the first thing the tall and skinny Efrain asked was “Where’s the beer?”
“Dude, I’m not old enough to buy beer.” Raul shrugged.
“That is lame.” Perez snorted in disgust. “C’mon, I know where we can get some.” The two boys hopped into Perez’s car.
Perez drove over to the house of another buddy of his, Peter Cantu. If anybody would have beer on hand, it would be Cantu, Perez assured Raul.
“Cool,” the new guy said. The two young men sped out on the gravel as they headed for their first beers of the evening.
Thursday, June 24, 1993—5:30 P.M.
Houston, Texas
Elizabeth Pena and Jennifer Ertman, meanwhile, were headed for their first tacos of the night. The girls decided to walk to a nearby Mexican restaurant and buy some of their favorite food. They purchased it and were on their way back to the Pena home when a car pulled up directly beside them. The girls were a bit leery, but then Elizabeth began to smile.
The man in the car rolled down his window and said, “Hey, what are two cute girls like you doing walking down the street alone?”
“Dad!” Elizabeth squealed. “Leave us alone. We’ll see you later.” Elizabeth smiled and waved as her dad drove off. The girls kept walking and laughing.
Pure Murder Page 5