A Death in Valdosta
Multisport athlete Kendrick Johnson was found dead in his Georgia high school's gymnasium in January. Authorities ruled it an accident, but Johnson's family believes something very different — and a second autopsy appears to support their suspicions.
By Jordan Conn on September 4, 2013
Part I
At Sunset Hill Cemetery, dawn breaks with headlights.
It's just after 6 a.m. on a muggy June morning in Valdosta, Georgia, when two Altimas and an F-150 roll up the hill and past the headstones. Other cars follow, heading west and then north, past Nicholas George (1904-1938) and Nancy V. (1943-2008) as they turn back east and brake to stop. The passengers exit and gather around the grave of Kendrick Johnson. The police chief had been clear: Only immediate family would be allowed, but here stand cousins and grandparents alongside adopted aunts and football teammates.
"I'm gonna let y'all say a little prayer," the police chief announces. "Then we'll get going."
Heads look toward Grandma Barbara, then bow. The headlights have been shut off, the sky has turned orange, and for a moment all is silent but the screeching rattle of cicadas.
"Lord Jesus, we lift this child to heaven," Barbara begins, and all around her the others nod. There is no tent, no hearse. There are no pallbearers, no black suits. There are two backhoes — an orange Kubota and a yellow Deere — and there are empty faces and swollen eyes and T-shirts that call for justice.
"You seen him," Barbara calls out, her voice stretching thinner with every word. "You seen how he looked. You seen his face."
Kendrick's cousin Solomon Arrington stands 20 feet away, near the parked cars. Ever since the morning the detective knocked on his door, he still can't sleep in his own bed. His mother, Keisha, will find him sitting up on the couch late at night. What would have happened, he wonders, if he'd been in school that day?
Tra Durden wipes his brow and stares ahead at no one. Freshman year, Durden was out on the football practice field with Kendrick. Months later, after he heard Kendrick had been found dead, Tra punched their high school's walls.
"You know the truth, Lord," Barbara says. "We pray that you bring justice. We magnify you, Jesus. We praise you. We pray this in your name. Amen."
Shovels break the earth. Jackie Johnson looks on for a moment, then away. Her shirt says "KJ's mom" and her eyes are wet with tears. Her husband, Kenneth, studies the crane operator's every move.
The orange backhoe plunges into the dirt. Scoop after scoop, the hole deepens and the mound of displaced soil grows. Then a man in a brown shirt and brown gloves drops into the hole, his head poking out just above the ground. He connects a pulley and begins yanking the chains, right hand over left, then left over right, then right over left again. Inch by inch, the casket rises from the earth.
They didn't come to bury Kendrick. They came to dig him up.
This is what we know:
Kendrick Lamar Johnson was 17 and muscled and often quiet. He was 5-foot-10 and 160 pounds — an undersize power forward, a seamless hurdler, and a safety who hit like a linebacker. His favorite hamburger came from a truck stop down I-75, just on the other side of Wildwood. He rarely started fights, but when provoked he ended them. His favorite college football team depended on when he was asked: Some days it was Florida, other days Ohio State, and every now and then he'd say he favored UNLV. He hoped to someday learn to grill as well as his father, to win state, and to go to college. He would do none of those things. We know that on the morning of Thursday, January 10, he arrived at Lowndes High School wearing three layers of shirts — a white tank top, an orange T-shirt, and a white T-shirt — as well as a belt, jeans, black gym shorts, and boxers. Somewhere on him, he had a Starburst wrapper. We know this from the initial autopsy report, though that document's assertions have now been called into question.
We know he attended classes that day. We know he talked with friends. And we know that at 1:09 p.m., he walked into the school gymnasium.
Exactly what happened next — that's unclear.
More here:
The mysterious death of a 17-year-old football player from Valdosta, Georgia - Grantland
Bit of a long one, but so bizarre. It could just be a grieving family looking for someone to blame but there enough strange components and circumstances that lend to this being a real mystery.
Multisport athlete Kendrick Johnson was found dead in his Georgia high school's gymnasium in January. Authorities ruled it an accident, but Johnson's family believes something very different — and a second autopsy appears to support their suspicions.
By Jordan Conn on September 4, 2013
Part I
At Sunset Hill Cemetery, dawn breaks with headlights.
It's just after 6 a.m. on a muggy June morning in Valdosta, Georgia, when two Altimas and an F-150 roll up the hill and past the headstones. Other cars follow, heading west and then north, past Nicholas George (1904-1938) and Nancy V. (1943-2008) as they turn back east and brake to stop. The passengers exit and gather around the grave of Kendrick Johnson. The police chief had been clear: Only immediate family would be allowed, but here stand cousins and grandparents alongside adopted aunts and football teammates.
"I'm gonna let y'all say a little prayer," the police chief announces. "Then we'll get going."
Heads look toward Grandma Barbara, then bow. The headlights have been shut off, the sky has turned orange, and for a moment all is silent but the screeching rattle of cicadas.
"Lord Jesus, we lift this child to heaven," Barbara begins, and all around her the others nod. There is no tent, no hearse. There are no pallbearers, no black suits. There are two backhoes — an orange Kubota and a yellow Deere — and there are empty faces and swollen eyes and T-shirts that call for justice.
"You seen him," Barbara calls out, her voice stretching thinner with every word. "You seen how he looked. You seen his face."
Kendrick's cousin Solomon Arrington stands 20 feet away, near the parked cars. Ever since the morning the detective knocked on his door, he still can't sleep in his own bed. His mother, Keisha, will find him sitting up on the couch late at night. What would have happened, he wonders, if he'd been in school that day?
Tra Durden wipes his brow and stares ahead at no one. Freshman year, Durden was out on the football practice field with Kendrick. Months later, after he heard Kendrick had been found dead, Tra punched their high school's walls.
"You know the truth, Lord," Barbara says. "We pray that you bring justice. We magnify you, Jesus. We praise you. We pray this in your name. Amen."
Shovels break the earth. Jackie Johnson looks on for a moment, then away. Her shirt says "KJ's mom" and her eyes are wet with tears. Her husband, Kenneth, studies the crane operator's every move.
The orange backhoe plunges into the dirt. Scoop after scoop, the hole deepens and the mound of displaced soil grows. Then a man in a brown shirt and brown gloves drops into the hole, his head poking out just above the ground. He connects a pulley and begins yanking the chains, right hand over left, then left over right, then right over left again. Inch by inch, the casket rises from the earth.
They didn't come to bury Kendrick. They came to dig him up.
This is what we know:
Kendrick Lamar Johnson was 17 and muscled and often quiet. He was 5-foot-10 and 160 pounds — an undersize power forward, a seamless hurdler, and a safety who hit like a linebacker. His favorite hamburger came from a truck stop down I-75, just on the other side of Wildwood. He rarely started fights, but when provoked he ended them. His favorite college football team depended on when he was asked: Some days it was Florida, other days Ohio State, and every now and then he'd say he favored UNLV. He hoped to someday learn to grill as well as his father, to win state, and to go to college. He would do none of those things. We know that on the morning of Thursday, January 10, he arrived at Lowndes High School wearing three layers of shirts — a white tank top, an orange T-shirt, and a white T-shirt — as well as a belt, jeans, black gym shorts, and boxers. Somewhere on him, he had a Starburst wrapper. We know this from the initial autopsy report, though that document's assertions have now been called into question.
We know he attended classes that day. We know he talked with friends. And we know that at 1:09 p.m., he walked into the school gymnasium.
Exactly what happened next — that's unclear.
More here:
The mysterious death of a 17-year-old football player from Valdosta, Georgia - Grantland
Bit of a long one, but so bizarre. It could just be a grieving family looking for someone to blame but there enough strange components and circumstances that lend to this being a real mystery.