Better yet, it turned out that he loved to smoke marijuana.
Aaron himself had not broken the habit. He had not stopped associating with his friend and weed dealer, Alexander Bradley. He was still spending time with Charlie Boy Ortiz, Bo Wallace, and TL Singleton. And, according to Bradley, Hernandez had stuck to his old ways in other respects.
For one thing, he was still paranoid, and still had difficulty trusting people. People were trying to use him, Aaron would say—strangers as well as old friends who were ungrateful for all that he had done for them.
Soon after moving into the house, he installed an extensive surveillance system, with cameras inside and out.
Hernandez also convinced himself that he was being tailed by the feds, that helicopters were following him, and that iPhones could be hacked to record his conversations.
Hernandez warned Bradley not to use his iPhone when he came around. But, before long, Bradley’s iPhone became the very thing that came between the two men.
Chapter 39
On January 20, 2013, the Patriots hosted the Baltimore Ravens in the AFC Championship Game and lost.
It was the end of Aaron’s third season in the NFL.
Three weeks later, Aaron and Alexander Bradley flew to Miami. The Ravens had gone on to win the Super Bowl and Deonte Thompson and Pernell McPhee, who played for Baltimore, were hosting a Super Bowl party in West Palm Beach.
Deonte Thompson and Aaron were tight. They had started for Florida at the same time, and Aaron was close enough to Deonte to call him “D.” But when Thompson and some of his friends picked Hernandez and Bradley up at the airport, Bradley realized that he did not know any of them:
A man named “Papoo.”
D’s nephew, Max “Black” Brown.
Two men, Tyrone Crawford and Je’rrelle Pierre, who had grown up with D in Belle Glade, an hour west of West Palm Beach.
A man who simply said “Soldier” when asked for his name.
They were all strangers to Bradley, who was not sure how he’d be received. More and more, he was uncertain around Aaron, and around Aaron’s acquaintances. Just a few weeks earlier, he had been hanging out in Aaron’s kitchen when Shaneah and her boyfriend, Odin, had come in. They were there to see Shaneah’s sister, and as they passed through the kitchen, Shaneah said “hello.”
Odin—who had met Bradley before—did not acknowledge him at all. Even Aaron had said, “That was rude.”
Bradley agreed that it was.
Locals called Belle Glade “the muck,” or “muck city,” because of the dark color of its soil. But the town had another distinction: it produced more NFL athletes than any other place in America.
Papoo’s house in Belle Glade was where the pre-party would be.
Papoo’s government name was Oscar Hernandez, but he was not related to Aaron. Although he had been D’s roommate in Gainesville, he was one of the few men who’d gathered that day who did not play football. But Papoo was in awe of the players, especially Aaron and D. When D asked Papoo if he could borrow a handgun, “for protection,” Papoo had handed his own gun over immediately.
Down in Belle Glade, football players tended to get what they wanted—and what Aaron wanted was to get wasted. Before long, all of the players were wasted. They stayed that way, too, for several days of partying.
During those days, the men made several trips to Miami. A cavernous Miami Gardens strip club called Tootsie’s Cabaret became their favorite after-hours destination. The group caravanned there on February 11, and again on February 12, staying deep into the night on both nights and drinking enough to get sloppy. But the drinking did nothing to dispel Aaron’s paranoia.
During their first visit to Tootsie’s, Hernandez told Bradley that two customers at the strip club were undercover cops.
According to Bradley, Hernandez thought they were following him.
“If they are,” Bradley told him, “it’s because of the stupid shit you did in Boston.”
On their second night at the strip club, as Bradley sat in a top floor VIP room with Aaron, Je’rrelle, Tyrone, and Soldier, he asked one of the waitresses for a cell phone charger. The waitress said she would look, but never came back. Bradley ended up leaving his phone on the table, and forgot it was there when something else caught his attention: the check. It was for $10,000, or something close to that amount. Hernandez asked Bradley to split it.
“I don’t even know these people,” Bradley replied.
Why should he have to pay five grand to buy drinks and dances for Hernandez’s friends—a bunch of guys he did not even know?
Hernandez was less than thrilled with Bradley’s response, but ended up paying the bill himself. Then, Aaron and his friends piled back into the SUV they’d taken to the club. Bradley recalls riding in the back, beside Soldier. Hernandez was up front, in the passenger seat. Je’rrelle was driving. It was late—almost dawn—and he was tired. But, before they had gone more than a couple of blocks, Bradley realized that he had left his phone in the club.
“Let’s go back,” he said.
“Nah,” said Hernandez.
Hernandez and Bradley argued about it. The car’s other occupants took Aaron’s side.
“I’ll buy you a new phone,” Hernandez said.
“I don’t want a new phone,” said Bradley. “I want my phone. It’s got my kids’ pictures in it.”
Hernandez did not want to turn around. Bradley was outraged, and told Aaron so. But Hernandez did not turn around, and Bradley stewed, in the backseat, until he finally fell asleep.
He woke up as soon as he felt the SUV stop moving.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Aaron.
Hernandez was pointing a semiautomatic pistol at Bradley’s face. Just as Bradley threw his right hand up to cover it, Aaron pulled the trigger.
The blast was deafening. The bullet tore through Bradley’s hand, blew off part of one finger, passed through the bridge of his nose, and exploded his right eye in its socket. Soldier leaned across and started to push Bradley out of the car.
Hernandez got out on the passenger side, grabbed Bradley from the other side, and pulled.
There was light in the sky now. It was 6:30 a.m.
Chapter 40
Kevin Riddle bent over his computer, a mug of coffee steaming beside him on the countertop.
At six thirty, it would be time for Riddle to open up his John Deere Landscapes lot.
“Mingle,” he said. “You want to go out and get the back gate?”
Mingle Blake, the company truck driver, went out the back door. A moment later, Riddle heard what sounded to him like a gunshot. Worried for Blake, he ran out back. Together, the two men set out to investigate.
“Maybe it was a just a car backfiring,” said Riddle.
“I’ll unlock the gate,” said Blake.
A few minutes later, Blake rushed back toward Riddle. He was out of breath. “There’s a body,” he said.
Riddle followed him back, sprinting toward a scrubby spot west of the building. When he got there he saw a man, curled up in a fetal position on the far side of a chain-link fence.
The man’s hands and face were covered in blood. Both of his eyes were swollen shut.
To Riddle, it looked as if the man had been beaten, shot in the head, maybe the hand, too, and left for dead. But the man was alive.
“Call 911,” the man managed to say. “Tell them to hurry—I’m gonna bleed out.”
The 911 dispatcher told Riddle to ask the man his name.
“Alex Bradley,” the man replied.
“Do you know who shot you?” Riddle asked.
“No.”
“Why would somebody do this to you?”
“I don’t know,” Bradley said. “I’m done talking, it hurts too bad.”
The 911 dispatcher told Riddle to make a compress and put pressure on the man’s wound. Riddle ran back inside the landscaping shop for a towel. When he came back, a few moments later, the police were already there.
The police asked Bradley the same question Riddle had: “Who did this to you?”
“It hurts,” Bradley said. “It hurts too much to talk.”
“Paramedics are on the way. What’d they look like?”
“They looked like, uh…big…”
“Big what?”