It was December 13, 2012, when 40-year-old Sunjee Louissaint, a soft-spoken woman with gentle eyes, looked across the front yard of her West Palm Beach home and saw two green-and-gold-striped Palm Beach County Sheriff's cruisers.Two deputies had pinned her 17-year-old son, Devin, to the ground. She heard a bang and, suddenly, his body shook violently.

Louissaint thought he had been hit with a Taser. Then she saw the blood. He's been shot, she thought.

"I ran over and put my face on the ground," she recalls, "because his face was on the ground, and I saw his eyes were dilated. He was gone."

(Skip ahead to 8:30 for video of the shooting.)

Devin Jolicoeur died of gunshot wounds in the early evening that Thursday. Four bullets pierced his chest and one his hand. Not only his mother, but also his grandmother, aunt, and best friend were there. So were several other family friends and neighbors who had come out to see why police were questioning the teen.

After a brief investigation, Palm Beach State Attorney Dave Aronberg ruled the shooting justified. Josh Kushel, the deputy who had fired the gun that killed Devin, claimed the kid had pointed a gun at his partner, Sgt. James Hightower.

But many questions remain unanswered. Several witnesses said they never saw the boy draw a gun. Officers seemingly contradicted one another in testimony after the shooting. And they either lied or were mistaken about the presence of marijuana, which they used as a basis for the interrogation. "They murdered my son, and then they lied about him," Louissaint insists. "It just didn't happen like they said it did. Not at all."

The Palm Beach Sheriff's Office did not respond to three phone calls seeking comment. Written inquiries also went unanswered. Teri Barbera, a spokesperson for the PBSO, repeatedly said nobody was available.

Devin Jolicoeur was born January 31, 1995, in Westchester County, New York. Bearing a child was an unexpected life event for his mom, Sunjee Louissaint, who was then 25 years old. She had a severe strain of sickle cell anemia that inhibits blood cells' ability to carry oxygen. During pregnancy, this can often cause miscarriage.

"Doctors told me I wouldn't be able to have a baby," she says. "That's why I always called him my 'miracle baby.' "

When Devin was 7 years old, he and his mother moved to Palm Beach County. Because of her anemia, New York weather caused Sunjee severe pain. Sunny Florida was enticing. And several family members, including her parents, lived in the area.

Devin grew up in a West Palm Beach home with his mother, uncle, and grandparents. His biological father lived in Haiti and occasionally visited, but Devin's grandfather was the man of the house. An eclectic man, also from Haiti, who worked in a pharmaceutical factory for 20 years, he considered Devin a son.

At Jeaga Middle School, Devin played basketball and ran track. He was fast too. His speed earned him the nickname "Devin Dash."

Devin attended Mavericks Charter High School in Palm Springs. Although he went to class and earned good grades (he was just one semester shy of graduation when he died), he had been in trouble with the law. On September 2, 2011, he was picked up for having a fake license plate and briefly sent to jail. A week later, police said he acted as a lookout in the burglary of a home. He was arrested and sent to jail again, for 30 days, but never charged.

About four months later, he was picked up with two other boys trying to sell a gold coin at a pawnshop. His mother says those charges were also dropped. "Devin had some friends from middle school that he got in some trouble with, but he was straightening out," she says. "He was growing up; he was really starting to mature."

The night of the shooting, quite a few visitors were at the family's house on Orchard Way. When one of Devin's friends, Andre Shanks, pulled up, the driveway was full, so he parked his car halfway on the front lawn.

As Devin walked out to meet Shanks, Devin's grandmother, Gladys, asked if he was heading out.

"No, I'm not leaving. I'll be right here," Gladys recalls him saying. He left behind a cell phone and a miniature Bible he often kept in his pocket.

After the boys sat down in Shanks' car, a neighbor grew nervous and called police to report suspicious activity. Soon, PBSO Dep. Josh Kushel arrived. The six-year veteran had gained a reputation for trouble. More than 50 complaints had been lodged against him before that night -- most related to rudeness and disrespect, but there were also allegations of reckless driving and four for excessive use of force.

In one, Kushel allegedly slapped a woman and threw her to the ground. Twice he was accused of drawing his gun unnecessarily. And once he tasered a suspect who was already handcuffed. None of those complaints was substantiated by investigators.

In August 2011, a girlfriend filed an informal complaint, saying she was concerned about behavior-related drugs Kushel was taking. Details are not discussed in the records, but PBSO concluded, "Her concerns about the medication were addressed at our level, and we did not find cause to go any further."

When Kushel pulled up -behind Shanks' car, the dashcam video recorded Devin opening his door halfway. Kushel immediately drew his pistol and approached, shouting a command to shut the door. Devin did as he was told.