9 seconds

1. ‘Why did he shoot?’

2. Jordan

3. Oliver

4. A trial to prepare

5. The defense

6. ‘Cannot lose’

7. The trial

8. ‘Vindication’

9. The verdict

10. A church celebration

11. Deployed again

12. The death of a son

Click for audio

Warning: This video contains explicit language 9 seconds A cop raised his rifle and Jordan Edwards lost his life. Inside the quest for justice in an American killing.

1 ‘Why did he shoot?’ At first, they weren’t sure what they were looking at. The images on the screen were dark and blurry, but the sounds were clear. Gunfire. Girls screaming. A cop shouting “Stop that f---ing car.” More shots. It was a sunny Monday afternoon in May 2017, and a half-dozen prosecutors and investigators sat around a mahogany table. At the head was their boss, Dallas County District Attorney Faith Johnson. They had just received two bodycam videos that were key evidence as they tried to decide whether a crime occurred two days earlier, in America’s latest killing of an unarmed black male by a white police officer. They knew very little. They had a dead 15-year-old, Jordan Edwards, who’d been a passenger in a car and seemed to be, from what the news was saying, a good kid. They had a police officer, Roy Oliver, 37, who said he fired to save his partner as the car moved toward him. Swiveling in their black leather chairs, the prosecutors played the videos over and over, trying to distill the flashes of chaos into answers of law and justice. The whole thing lasted 54 seconds. “Wow,” a prosecutor said. “Why did he shoot?” Jordan Edwards, 15, was shot on April 29, 2017, by Balch Springs police Officer Roy Oliver. (Edwards family and Dallas County photos) That single moment — a cop raising his rifle and firing into a car filled with black teenagers — echoed across the nation’s history of racial division and oppression and rekindled an ongoing culture war over whose lives matter. Black Americans would come to see the case as a referendum on whether people like them can hope for justice. But even as his name was becoming a symbol in the streets and on the internet, Jordan Edwards’ life and his death were before prosecutors who had to decide: Was this killing murder? Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. Tall with wavy black hair that framed her serious face, Johnson, 67, watched the videos in silence. She’d had a feeling this day would come. When she’d been appointed district attorney five months earlier, she became Dallas’ first black woman in the role. She’d had a feeling deep in her spirit, she said, that she would face a questionable, race-related police shooting. God had put her in that office, she felt, for a reason. Emotions were raw. A year earlier, Dallas lost five police officers who were gunned down at a march protesting the killings of blacks by police in other cities. A former longtime judge who was active in a black megachurch, Johnson knew that regardless of what she did, she couldn’t avoid angering the police, the black community, or both. Arresting a cop for murder would enrage the officers whose cooperation her office relied on to put away bad guys. She knew that some would question her motives with the racially charged case because of her looming election in which she, a Republican in a blue county, faced a black Democrat former judge. More than anything, she said, she needed to do what was right. As the prosecutors considered what to do, they tried to imagine what could have justified the shooting. Police officers’ actions were supposed to be judged by what they knew in the moment. Maybe, someone suggested, Oliver had chosen to pull the trigger when the car Jordan was in was moving toward Oliver’s partner. So by the time the car no longer posed a threat, it was too late for him to undo it. No, said Tommy Le Noir, a former cop turned district attorney investigator. He pointed out that Oliver’s tracking of the car with his rifle showed that he was repeatedly making the decision to shoot, even after the car passed both cops. This wasn’t a split-second decision, they reasoned. Oliver had time to think about what he was about to do. Officer Roy Oliver shot Jordan Edwards while he was riding in the front passenger seat of his family's 2004 Chevrolet Impala. (Dallas County evidence photos) From the time the video showed Oliver start to run with his rifle up, to the time he pulled the trigger, nine seconds had passed. Nine seconds. “This is murder,” Johnson said. What next? Ordinary defendants were arrested immediately, but police who were accused of crimes in Dallas County typically were allowed to remain free until a grand jury decided whether to indict them months later. Johnson wanted Oliver arrested that week. We’ve never done it that way, her prosecutors said. Why not? she asked. Is there some benefit to that? That’s just how it’s always been done, they said. “Just because you haven’t done it that way, does that make it right?” Johnson said. She thought about the civilians who killed someone. “If it’s right in that case to go and arrest a person, why would it not be right for Roy Oliver?”


Her team agreed, but Johnson then had to persuade another group of officials: the sheriff’s department. They were the designated investigators on the case, and it was their job to secure an arrest warrant. They still weren’t convinced it was murder. Johnson, a Republican, called a meeting the next day with then-Sheriff Lupe Valdez, now the Democratic candidate for Texas governor. Valdez’s top brass joined them. Valdez sat at the head of the table and listened to the prosecutors explain why they felt the shooting was murder and why Oliver should be arrested. Her team explained that they were still gathering information and weren’t sure yet that it was murder — and anyway, arresting cops had never been the practice. “I’m asking you, Sheriff,” Johnson said, “Will you please look at coming on board with us on this?” Valdez said she’d think it over. She didn’t want to force her detectives to do anything they didn’t have the evidence to support. Roy Oliver turned himself in at Parker County jail. Johnson’s team returned to the sheriff’s office at least twice more that week. The first assistant DA, Mike Snipes, made the argument, he later recalled, that in Texas murder wasn’t just defined as the intentional killing of a person — it could also be that someone intended to badly injure a person and committed an act “clearly dangerous to human life” that killed the victim. On Thursday, the lead detective decided he had the evidence to support an arrest warrant for murder. The next day, six days after Jordan was shot, State District Judge Brandon Birmingham signed the warrant. Oliver turned himself in at the Parker County jail, west of Fort Worth. He gave his fingerprints and stood for a mugshot with the crown of his head touching just under the 6-foot line on the wall. Staring at the camera like a person in shock, his blue eyes were half-closed and solemn, with puffy bags below. 2 Jordan Like most Saturdays, April 29, 2017, was chore day for the Edwards kids. The family had four children. Korrie was 5, Jordan, 15, Kevon, 16, and Vidal, 16. They weren’t all blood-related, but they were closer than many biological siblings. Their parents, Charmaine and Odell Edwards, met in 2002, when they both worked at a trucking company. They were married in 2009 and had a daughter, Korrie. Odell later started his own business, driving a package-delivery truck around the country. As young children, Odell’s sons, Jordan and Kevon, quickly became close with their new brother, Vidal Allen, Charmaine’s son. The family settled in Mesquite, in a two-story brick house in a hilly, quiet neighborhood. They got a pit bull, Kayla, and went to church on Sundays. Odell would take his sons to throw a football around at a field down the street. He and Charmaine relished time with their kids, taking them on family vacations every summer. A freshman at Mesquite High School, Jordan studied hard and made the honor roll. He would always greet his teachers with a smile and tell his Spanish teacher, “Buenos dias, señora.” He didn't shy from reading the Bible in school. He was a standout on the football team, having played every position from running back to linebacker. At 5-foot-9 and 146 pounds, Jordan stayed late at the school’s gym after practice to become stronger. He was outgoing, enthusiastic, polite and smart. He had a pet iguana, Roxie, and tons of friends, and a new girlfriend. He was known by the nicknames J-Money, J-Bird, and most of all, Smiley. He smiled wide and often. He dreamed of playing football for his favorite college team, the University of Alabama. He told his dad he wanted to become a helicopter pilot. He was often the only kid who laughed at his mother’s corny jokes. That weekend, word had spread among high school kids in Mesquite that someone whose mom was out of town was having a house party in Balch Springs. Jordan’s girlfriend would be there. A flyer circulated on Instagram for “THE PARTY NEXT DOOR,” charging $1 for girls and $2 for boys: “Time 8 pm Till whatever.” Jordan wanted to go to the party with his brothers. He begged Vidal, who asked their dad if they could go. Odell wanted his kids to experience life and enjoy high school. His wife, who was stricter, usually said no to things like this. But she wasn’t home that day because she’d taken Korrie to a birthday party. The photos of Jordan Edwards that Dallas County District Attorney Faith Johnson saw often captured his radiant smile. In one photo, Jordan laughed as he lifted weights. His shirt read, “You Only Live Once.” (Dallas County evidence photos) “The house got to be clean before y’all go out,” Odell said. A self-described “neat freak,” when Odell told his sons to clean, he meant they had to haul their beds and dressers out so they could clean the floors underneath. Vidal, as usual, took longer than his brothers. “Why are you always the last one?” Jordan said to him, laughing. Jordan was excited about the party. He went into his room and took off his black and red gym shorts. He tried on some light-blue jeans but decided against them and chucked them on the bed. He chose white shorts, white sneakers, a white tank top and a baby-blue hoodie. That night, Odell let Vidal drive his black 2004 Chevrolet Impala. He gave them his typical lecture to be home by midnight, and: “No drinking, no drugs. If anybody’s doing that, just leave.” Odell ended his goodbye like always: “I love you.” Then he picked up some chicken wings and relaxed in his living room, watching TV. A few hours later, at 11:18 p.m., his phone rang. It was Vidal. He sounded panicked. “Dad,” Vidal said. “Jordan’s been shot by the police.” Odell sat straight up. What? He hoped Vidal was mistaken. He knew Jordan wouldn’t have done anything criminal or violent. Vidal said he was still driving and didn’t know what to do. “Stop the car,” Odell said. “Do whatever the police say.” 3 Oliver April 29, 2017 started as a normal shift for Officer Roy Durwood Oliver II. He got on duty at 6 p.m. and would get off at 6 a.m. He’d spend his shift responding to 911 calls and patrolling in his police Chevrolet Tahoe in an assigned patch of Balch Springs’ roughly 10 square miles. Bald with a square jaw and gray-blue eyes, Oliver had the stoic face of an ex-soldier who’d been to war. He rarely showed emotion, unless he was with his kids or his wife. Oliver grew up in Fort Worth and Arlington. He was raised by a single mother who relied on food stamps and public housing vouchers before becoming a school librarian. When Oliver was 12, his father, Roy Durwood Oliver Sr., was sentenced to eight years in prison for sexually assaulting his daughter, Oliver’s half-sister, Wendi, when she was 12. (Wendi Oliver agreed to be named for this article.) During his time at Paschal High School, Oliver worked at Six Flags amusement park, cleaning restrooms and hauling trash. He liked earning money. He dropped out halfway through senior year to work full time at a music store, then switched to a department store catching shoplifters and became a volunteer firefighter. At 24, Oliver joined the Army. He married his girlfriend, Amy, and deployed twice to Iraq, surviving bombs and gunfire when some around him didn’t. He was discharged in 2010 and came home to work as a police dispatcher, then a police officer, in Dalworthington Gardens, a sleepy town outside Arlington. A friend who was familiar with the Balch Springs Police Department recommended Oliver apply there because the force was short-handed and the city, though tiny, was plenty diverse so, Oliver would later recall, “you see so much.” Roy Oliver with his daughter, Alexa, in 2015. (Oliver family photo) In 2011, Oliver joined the Balch Springs police. Two years later, he divorced Amy, but they remained on good terms. When she wanted to have a child, he later testified, he agreed to be a sperm donor for her through artificial insemination. He would also say from the stand that he didn’t continue a sexual relationship with Amy after their divorce, something she later said was false. The two did use fertility treatment to conceive their daughter, Amy Oliver said, but their sexual relationship continued after the divorce, and four months into her pregnancy, because he led her to believe that they would get back together. As his marriage to Amy came apart, Oliver would regularly stop in at a 7-Eleven for energy drinks and cigarettes, and he’d chat with the cashier, a pretty brunette Ecuadorean named Ingrid Llerena. Her English wasn’t perfect, but they understood one another. One day, Ingrid said, Oliver asked her to the movies. They fell in love and moved in together, calling each other spouses though they never made it official. They had a son, Tab, in July 2015. That was a busy time for Oliver, he later testified, as his ex had their daughter, Alexa, 12 days before Tab’s birth. Oliver and Ingrid later learned that Tab had autism. They moved to a low-slung brick home tucked into the green pastures of rural Kaufman County, amid fields of grazing cows and giant cylinders of baled hay. Ingrid kept working at 7-Eleven while Oliver patrolled overnights on the force. The night of the shooting, Oliver drove with his department-issued carbine rifle, unloaded, in a rack between the two front seats. He’d qualified to use the weapon just a week earlier. The department wanted its officers ready to respond to high-powered rifles at a moment’s notice. Gangs had been feuding in the area recently, Oliver’s colleagues told him. Oliver had worked a shooting a month earlier where the victim refused to say who’d shot him in the hand. He’d also heard of a recent slaying at a house party in Mesquite. Oliver was on duty that night with Officer Tyler Gross, a fellow Iraq War veteran who he knew well from working bike patrols together during the summer. Oliver started his shift helping a woman who said her neighbors shot a BB gun at her car, then a man whose truck was stolen, then a woman missing her tablet computer.

Spring Branch Dr. Shepherd Ln. Baron Dr. Squire Dr. Bishop Dr. DALLAS Balch Springs A party, shots fired and an innocent boy dies Just 12 minutes pass from the time police arrive to the time Jordan Edwards is killed. 1 Balch Springs police officers Roy Oliver and Tyler Gross pull up to the house reportedly hosting a teen house party at 11:06 p.m. on April 29, 2017. Oliver's SUV blocks the street. At least 100 teenagers leave the house. 2 While Oliver and Gross are inside the house, witnesses said, gang members yelling “Bank brothers” exit an SUV in a nursing home parking lot and fire at least 12 shots into the air. Teens run away from the gunfire, screaming. 3 Oliver and Gross rush out of the house. Oliver retrieves his police MC-5 carbine rifle from his patrol SUV. 4 Jordan Edwards’ older brother, Vidal Allen, drives forward in a 2004 Impala, but the street is blocked, so he backs up slowly, with Jordan in the front seat and three teenage boys in the back. 5 Officer Gross, believing Vidal’s car may have been involved in the shooting and is fleeing police, walks toward the car yelling for it to stop as it backed up. Meanwhile, Officer Oliver chambers a round in his rifle as he walks to back up Gross. 6 Vidal steers away from police and into the wrong lane to avoid the officers, witnesses said, when Gross hits the car’s rear passenger window with his gun, accidentally shattering the glass. Within the next two seconds, Oliver fires five shots because he believes the car will hit Gross, Oliver would later say. Jordan yells, “Duck, get down!” Oliver's second shot hits Jordan on the right side of the back of his head, killing him. No one else is struck. 7 Vidal drives away and turns right, then makes a U-turn and stops. Vidal’s friend sticks his hand out of the window and waves down police. Vidal yells, “Sir, one of your officers shot my brother!” SOURCES: Witness testimony, police bodycam and dashcam videos

Shortly before 11 p.m., Oliver and Gross were dispatched to a business burglary alarm, which turned out to be nothing. Then the dispatcher came over the radio asking the officers to respond to a house party where a neighbor was reporting drunk kids stumbling around. Each officer drove his own patrol Tahoe to the house on Baron Drive. Oliver and Gross pulled up to the house at 11:06 p.m., blue-and-reds flashing, sirens screaming, so the kids would hear them coming. At least 100 teens, mostly black, streamed out of the house. Many of the kids tried to avoid a patch of mud in front of the door, but the officers, in a jovial mood, told them to just walk through it. The two officers went inside. As Gross spoke to the host, a high school student, Oliver walked around the darkened house with a flashlight. He was surprised to see no signs of alcohol or drugs anywhere. “They keep walking out there stepping in that mud,” Gross told Oliver. “It’s hilarious.” “I stood there and made them go right into it for a few minutes, just to have some fun,” Oliver said. “All these millennials are like, ‘It’s muddy!’ Uh huh, it ain’t gonna hurt you.” Gross warned a kid, “Don’t do this again.” “Yeah, this was a one-time deal, sir,” the kid replied.


Ten seconds later, at 11:17, rapid-fire gunshots rang out outside. Immediately, the officers ran toward the shots. They knew they had just sent dozens of teens in the direction where the gunfire was coming from. Witnesses would later tell investigators that the shots were fired by gang members who spilled out of an SUV in the parking lot of a nursing home, yelled “Bank brothers,” and fired at least 12 shots in the air. Teens ran away from the gunfire, screaming. Oliver retrieved his rifle from his SUV. Meanwhile, Jordan, his two brothers and their two friends had piled into his dad’s Impala. Jordan sat in the front passenger seat. Vidal drove forward on Baron Drive but the street was blocked, so he backed up slowly onto Shepherd Lane. Gross, believing the Impala may have been involved in the shooting and was fleeing police, walked toward the car yelling for it to stop as it backed up. He drew his gun and pointed it at the car. “Stop!” he yelled. His voice grew more urgent, his pitch higher. “Hey, stop that f---ing car!” he shouted. “Stop that f---ing car right now!” Oliver chambered a round and walked toward his partner. When he heard Gross’ voice shift, he raised the rifle’s barrel and started to run.

A year after Jordan Edwards died, lead prosecutor Mike Snipes walks between two houses on the street where the shooting happened. “His teachers loved him, his coaches loved him, and quite frankly,” Snipes said of Jordan, “I love him.”

4 A trial to prepare It was a crisp Tuesday afternoon in April, a year after the night Jordan was killed, and prosecutors were preparing for the murder trial, now just a few months away. The team included at least five veteran prosecutors led by Snipes. Snipes, 64, wore thick-framed glasses and a black suit and tie. A West Point graduate, Snipes rose to colonel and was a judge in civilian life before joining the DA’s office. An admittedly impatient man with a sharp demeanor, Snipes became obsessed with the case and could hardly speak about Jordan without coming to tears. On his iPhone, Snipes kept photos of Jordan laughing at the gym, Jordan smiling at school, Jordan posing with an honor roll card. Snipes would scroll through the photos for inspiration. To him and to his boss, Faith Johnson, this case was the most important of their lives. It was also Snipes’ first murder trial. Snipes stood before a conference room crowded with three dozen prosecutors, investigators, aides and secretaries. It was time for a focus group, something of a dress rehearsal for the trial. Snipes told his colleagues they were his practice jury. He wanted their honest feedback. “I’m going to show you, in my 40-year law enforcement career, the most wonderful victim I’ve ever seen in my life,” Snipes said. “His teachers loved him, his coaches loved him, and quite frankly” – he took a deep breath – “I love him.” A TV behind Snipes showed a school photo of Jordan wearing a blue buttoned-up polo shirt, smiling with his mouth closed. “Look at this guy,” Snipes said. “This picture is actually misleading — he was nicer than that.” A woman in the back row sighed. “And that’s him dead,” Snipes said. Lead prosecutor Mike Snipes, shown driving in the neighborhood of the shooting, thought Roy Oliver should get a 60-year sentence. “A lot of people have said this is an important case for our country politically. If we’re not going to take up for a black kid on this case — if not now, then when?” Mike Snipes, First Assistant District Attorney The screen flashed to Jordan slumped in the passenger seat of his dad’s car, wearing a bright-blue hoodie. Blood was splattered over the tan car seat. A Fanta bottle sat in the center console. “A lot of people have said this is an important case for our country politically,” Snipes said. “If we’re not going to take up for a black kid on this case — if not now, then when? “I’m not doing this for politics,” he continued. “We’re doing this because it’s the right thing to do. The right thing is to get justice for Jordan Edwards.” Snipes played Oliver’s bodycam video. The prosecutors and investigators leaned forward in their chairs. When the first sounds of gunshots rang out from the screen, they gasped and murmured. Some blinked back tears. Others scribbled notes. When the video timestamp showed 11:18:28, Oliver started running. Jordan had nine more seconds to live, Snipes said. “Right there, Oliver had already made up his mind that he was going to shoot to kill,” Snipes said. “That’s when he started his death sprint.” Snipes described his concerns about the case. The gang members’ 12 rounds fired outside the nursing home did legitimately throw the officers into a dangerous situation in which they had a right to be on edge. And, Snipes said, there was another issue: Jordan’s brother Vidal failed to stop the car, even though, as Vidal later acknowledged, he heard Gross’ commands. “Why didn’t Vidal stop the car?” one woman asked. “He’s 16 years old,” Snipes said. “The cops told him to go home. He was in fear. He can’t sleep at night. He blames himself. I want him to stop blaming himself.” Another woman asked: “Has Oliver shown any remorse?” “No,” Snipes replied. Oliver hadn’t given any indication he’d done anything wrong. “But if he did do that, he knows I could use that. He’s got good lawyers.”

Roy Oliver’s defense team: (from left) Bob Gill, Jim Lane and Miles Brissette. The team knew they couldn’t argue with the fact that Jordan Edwards was innocent. The only solution, Gill said, was to show that Oliver’s actions were reasonable.

5 The defense By the time Jim Lane’s phone rang, news of the shooting had been all over the papers and TV stations for a few days. Yet another unarmed black male killed by a white officer. Lane didn’t know all the details, but he didn’t have to. He knew it would be big. A white-haired Vietnam veteran and former Fort Worth councilman who in his trademark cowboy hat looked the part of a Cowtown lawyer, Lane, 74, often defended cops in trouble. After the shooting, Oliver chose Lane to take on the case. Oliver was a member of the Combined Law Enforcement Associations of Texas, which would partially fund his defense. Lane knew he’d need help. He approached Bob Gill, 62, a well-respected former longtime judge and capital murder prosecutor, and Gill’s law partner, Miles Brissette, 46, a highly regarded and tech-savvy attorney who had led the Tarrant County DA’s forensic sciences unit. Neither had defended a police officer before, but both wanted to. “Welcome to the Super Bowl,” Lane told them. They gathered in Lane’s office, near the Fort Worth Stockyards, decorated with cowhide rugs, portraits of cowboys and Indians, and artfully arranged saddles and horseshoes. They sat around a large dark-wood table, poring through thousands of pages of records. As they prepared their defense, the attorneys came across a worrisome obstacle — state law removed a person’s right to defend someone if, in doing so, an innocent bystander was killed. They knew they couldn’t argue with the fact that Jordan was innocent. The only solution, Gill said, was to show that Oliver’s actions were reasonable. They figured that for Oliver, the car was what posed a threat to his partner and Oliver aimed at the car, not at any particular occupant, since it was dark and he couldn’t see inside. The attorneys knew, though, that had Oliver shot the driver, it would have been much easier to persuade a jury to acquit him. Brissette thought about what he wanted to get across while questioning Gross, Oliver’s partner. He couldn’t talk to Gross before trial but he knew that since the Columbine mass shooting in 1999, police responses to active shooters had changed dramatically. Where they used to wait for backup and assess a situation, officers now were trained to rush toward gunfire to try to kill the shooter and protect lives. This was what society expected cops to do. Brissette decided he would try to flip the narrative in the jurors’ minds, from “White cop shoots black teen” to “Cop protects teens from gunman.” Another problem for the defense: Jordan truly was a great kid. It weighed on them heavily as fathers of sons. They knew his death would haunt the jury too. And, they said, Oliver felt awful. “I wish I could trade places with Jordan Edwards,” Oliver told them, more than once. The lawyers decided that their first words at trial would be to offer their deepest sympathy to Jordan’s family.

Dallas County District Attorney Faith Johnson poses with prosecutors (from left) George Lewis, Mike Snipes, Brian Higginbotham and Jason Hermus at the Frank Crowley Courts Building in Dallas. Johnson took an active role in the trial to send a message about the importance of the case.

6 ‘Cannot lose’ It was 6 a.m. on a Tuesday in mid-August, two days before trial. At her Cedar Hill home, District Attorney Johnson sat in her bedroom in her pajamas. Like every Tuesday, she was on the phone with her “prayer partners,” about 60 people she had gathered as her spiritual support after she was appointed district attorney by Gov. Greg Abbott in December 2016. The Oliver trial was coming up, the prayer leader said, adding: “Pray that DA Johnson’s team will be victorious.” That morning, across town, Snipes awoke at 5 and put on a Dallas police T-shirt, shorts and sneakers. He’d been working on the case almost exclusively seven days a week, coming into the empty, dark office on weekends to hunch over his desk and write his arguments while classical music wafted from his radio. He’d grown laser-focused on Jordan and the future that was stolen from him. Snipes needed to win. In the dark, Snipes strode onto the trail behind his East Dallas home that connected to White Rock Lake. He mumbled prayers out loud as he walked. Prosecutor Mike Snipes works in his office the weekend before the trial of Roy Oliver. “Take Jordan Edwards into your arms, Lord,” he whispered in broken phrases. “Number 11. Alabama football. Heisman trophy. … Lead my team to victory, Lord. The Jordan Edwards trial. Cannot lose.” That afternoon, Johnson sat in her 11th floor office overlooking the Dallas skyline, staring at photos of Jordan. She was planning the closing arguments she’d deliver in the punishment phase of the trial if Oliver were convicted. It was unusual for a big-city district attorney to take an active role in a trial, but she wanted to send a message to the jury and to the public that this case was highly important. She mulled what sentence she wanted the jury to impose. She focused on Jordan’s radiant smile. Look at this child whose life Oliver cut short. In one photo, Jordan laughed as he lifted weights, wearing a shirt that read, “You Only Live Once.” In another, he beamed in a white vest as he held an honor roll award. Just then, Snipes walked by, his blue tie loosened. Johnson called him in and asked how many years in prison he thought they should ask for. “I like the idea of saying, ‘Hey, I think this case is worth life,’” Johnson said. “‘If you think there’s any reason why we need to knock off six months, another six months, maybe another year, but you start there and you look at the facts.’ But I don’t think you want me to ask for life, is that correct?” “Well, the downside to that, judge, is you risk looking a little unreasonable,” Snipes said as he took a seat on the cream sofa in her office, his shoes resting on a plush emerald carpet. “The jury might think we’re asking for more than it’s worth.” When Dallas County District Attorney Faith Johnson was weighing whether to ask the jury to impose a life sentence for Roy Oliver, lead prosecutor Mike Snipes suggested a 60-year sentence. No matter what Johnson decided, Snipes said, Oliver should be sentenced to "a pile of years — a big pile — because that dude is dangerous.” “This kid would’ve been a future leader of this country. His life was stolen from him and stolen from us. And this guy needs to pay for that.” Mike Snipes, First Assistant District Attorney “What do we think this is worth?” Johnson asked. “Sixty,” Snipes said. “That makes him parole-eligible in 30. So by the time he got out, assuming he got parole, he’d be older than me and you — excuse me, judge — older than me.” Johnson nodded. “Well, no matter what, a pile of years — a big pile — because that dude is dangerous,” Snipes said. “That’s what I’m requesting that you really focus on. Look at his pattern.” Snipes ticked off some stains on Oliver’s past that he planned to present to the jury during the trial’s punishment phase, if Oliver was found guilty. Two weeks before the shooting, Oliver pulled a gun on a woman who accidentally rear-ended him on a rainy day. Oliver used force against a guy whose daughter had called 911 for medical help. And in 2013, Snipes said, Oliver lost his temper while testifying during a drunk-driving trial and said in front of a jury, “I don’t understand the f---ing question.” “I’ve never seen anything even remotely close to that during my 324 jury trials, judge,” Snipes said. “He thinks he’s a bad dude so we can’t let him get out there. That’s the main thing we need to emphasize, is, ‘Protect us from him.’ This kid would’ve been a future leader of this country. His life was stolen from him and stolen from us. And this guy needs to pay for that.” Snipes stood to leave. “OK, judge?” “OK,” she said. “Good.”

Fired Balch Springs police Officer Roy Oliver motions during testimony describing his field of vision on the car that Jordan Edwards was in.

7 The Trial The trial lasted two weeks at the end of August. Every day, Jordan’s family packed the left side of the frigid courtroom gallery. Oliver’s mother and wife sat on the right side, behind him. A few older black women not related to either side attended each day. They were mothers whose sons had been killed by police. They were there to see “a real trial,” one said. Early on, the jury of 10 women and two men watched the bodycam videos. The jurors heard that 11 minutes after Gross and Oliver arrived to the party, the gang members’ gunshots rang out. Witnesses testified the gang members had fired from the nursing home parking lot, then sped off. Defense attorney Miles Brissette (left) questions Balch Springs police Officer Tyler Gross on his actions after being dispatched to a house where a teen party was reported. A state expert’s video analysis showed that Vidal had steered the car away from Gross when Oliver fired his shots. Vidal and other eyewitnesses testified that he drove into the opposite lane of traffic to avoid Gross, but Gross approached his car and hit the rear passenger window with his gun, accidentally shattering the glass. The car kept moving forward. Within the next two seconds, Oliver, who was standing 10 to 15 feet away, fired five shots. Jordan yelled, “Duck, get down!” before Oliver’s second shot hit him. The .223-caliber bullet had entered through the rear right side of Jordan’s head, pierced his skull and exploded into fragments, killing him instantly. No one else was struck. Evidence presented during the trial includes a photograph of bullet fragments removed from Jordan Edwards’ head. (Dallas County evidence photo) “You alright?” Oliver asked Gross after firing, the video showed. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Gross said. “He was trying to hit you,” Oliver said. Vidal drove away and turned right onto Bishop Drive, then made a U-turn and stopped. Vidal’s friend stuck his hand out of the window and waved down a police car. “Sir,” Vidal yelled out the window. “One of your officers shot my brother!” Gross testified that he wasn’t in fear for his life and didn’t feel the need to shoot. But under defense questioning, he also acknowledged the intense pressure he and Oliver were under that night, while an “active shooter” was out there, “to find the shooter and protect potential victims.” Later on, another Balch Springs officer, Jeremy Chamblee, took the stand. He testified that he joined Vidal in prayer right after the shooting, as Vidal sat handcuffed in the back of his patrol vehicle while the officers tried to sort out what happened. The moment was recorded on Chamblee’s dashcam video. “Dear God, I pray that you have my little brother in your arms,” Vidal said. “God, I pray that you watch over my brother, no matter what happens. I didn't get to say I love him but I do love him, God. I didn't mean for anything to happen like this. He wanted to go to the party, and I was supposed to supervise. God, I just pray that you keep your hands on him, and I pray that you help him pull through. And if he doesn't, God, release him into your kingdom. In Jesus' name I do pray. Amen.” Oliver took the stand. It was hard for Jordan’s family to watch him rationalize his decisions. As he discussed that night, Charmaine, the woman who had raised Jordan, bowed her head for a few minutes, then walked into the hall. Oliver testified that he regretted shooting Jordan, that if he knew then what he knows now, he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. At the time, he thought the car was a threat. Now, he knew it wasn’t. When he first saw Jordan, Oliver said, he felt sick. “My heart sank,” Oliver said. “It was hard to breathe. You just know. It was just an awful feeling all the way around.” Lane, his lawyer, said, “As far as a parent losing a child, there’s no word in the English language.” “No, none at all,” Oliver said. Odell could listen no longer. He stood and walked out of the courtroom to join his wife in the hall. Odell and Charmaine Edwards leave the courthouse during a recess on the fourth day of the trial. Every morning, defense lawyers Brissette and Gill would drive from Fort Worth to a parking lot where Oliver was waiting outside his pickup truck, always smoking a cigarette. Oliver was under tight security because of credible death threats against him. The lawyers’ intern would drive Gill’s Suburban, while Gill and Brissette sat with the overhead lights on, planning their questions and arguments for that day. At night, they would return to their office, working into the late hours. They got three or four hours of sleep a night. *** Charmaine Edwards would always start her day watching the TV news in her bedroom. One morning during the trial, her young daughter Korrie saw Oliver’s face on the screen. “Mommy,” Korrie said. “Is that the man who killed Jordan?” “Yes,” Charmaine said. “That’s the man who killed Jordan.” Then appeared Jordan’s smiling face. “Hi Jordan!” Korrie said. Charmaine looked away. “Mommy, don’t cry.” *** Closing arguments were set for Monday. After that, Oliver’s fate would rest in the jury’s hands. That weekend, Oliver and Ingrid hung out at home with their son, Tab, playing Thomas the Tank Engine videos while they built tracks around the living room and rolled the trains around on them. They also put together puzzles and pushed Tab on the swingset outside. They went to the grocery store and stocked up on juices, probiotics and other things Tab needed. Oliver mowed the lawn. They didn’t discuss what would happen if he were convicted of murder.

Charmaine Edwards holds her daughter, Korrie Edwards, during a service at True Believers of Christ Community Church in Balch Springs on Sept. 2.

8 ‘Vindication’ That Sunday, before the verdict was read, Charmaine and Odell Edwards brought their daughter, Korrie, and son, Kevon, to church. The True Believers of Christ Community Church was a small brick building about a mile from where Jordan was shot. Inside, T-Boc, as its members called it, pulsed with energy that felt at once hopeful and nervous. Pastor M.L. Dorsey, a friendly and energetic man, had sat next to Charmaine and Odell every day in trial. Now he stood before about 100 of his parishioners and spoke of “trusting during trying times” such as this trial, and how hard but necessary it was. They needed to believe, he said, that God would lead the jury to do what few other U.S. juries had done before. A screen behind him flashed the words #JUSTICE 4 JORDAN and a picture of Popeye. Dorsey had made the spinach-guzzling cartoon character Jordan’s unofficial mascot at his funeral when Dorsey invoked Popeye’s exclamation, “That’s all I can stands — ‘cause I can’t stands no more.” That Sunday in church, some in the audience wore red T-shirts bearing the quote and a black Popeye, his arm tattooed with JUSTICE 4 JORDAN. “I’m believing that God is going to show us and give us the justice that we deserve,” Dorsey said. He raised his fist above his head and shook it. “Oh, how blessed we’re going to be when that verdict come in and we can shout, glory! Hallelujah!” Pastor M.L. Dorsey preaches during service at True Believers of Christ Community Church Sept. 2. “We need justice to lift her head above the waters of injustice. So that vindication can be rendered for the black race.” Pastor M.L. Dorsey, True Believers of Christ Community Church “Hallelujah!” the audience yelled and clapped. “We need justice to lift her head above the waters of injustice,” Dorsey said. “So that vindication can be rendered for the black race.” “Yeah!” the crowd bellowed. “Are you tired?” Dorsey said. “I’m tired of injustice.” “Yeah!” “I’m tired of certain lies as if they have no accountability,” Dorsey said. “I’m tired of watching African-Americans go down one at a time, while others try to hide behind the system.” “Yes!” Charmaine and Odell Edwards looked at their pastor, nodded and swayed.

Odell Edwards and prosecutor Mike Snipes embrace after the reading of the verdict.

9 Verdict The jury was composed of five white women, two white men, two black women and three Hispanic women. They were sequestered in a hotel with their cellphones locked in the judge’s chambers. They deliberated for 13 hours, with the option to convict Oliver of murder, manslaughter or aggravated assault with a deadly weapon — or to set him free. When the jurors announced they had a verdict, a dozen sheriff’s deputies in bulletproof vests fanned out in the courtroom. They’d been gearing up for the possibility of riots if Oliver were acquitted. “All rise,” a bailiff bellowed. The jurors walked in single file, their faces somber. Some looked at the floor. Fired Balch Springs police Officer Roy Oliver, who was convicted of murder, wipes away tears while his wife gives testimony during the sentencing phase of the trial. A bailiff passed a piece of paper to the judge. Oliver and his attorneys stood, praying to hear the words “not guilty.” If he were acquitted, Oliver would be whisked out a side door to avoid passing the supporters of Jordan’s family. “The verdict form reads as follows,” Judge Birmingham said. “‘We, the jury, unanimously find the defendant guilty of murder.’” It had been 45 years since a police officer in Texas was convicted of murder in an on-duty killing — that was the death of 12-year-old Santos Rodriguez in Dallas. Oliver, in a charcoal gray suit, blue tie and a puzzle-piece pin that said “autism,” clasped his hands in front of his body. He stared forward blankly, eyebrows slightly raised. He knew he was going to jail. He whispered to his attorneys: Make sure Ingrid and Mom are safe as they leave. Charmaine Edwards, stepmother of Jordan Edwards, listens to testimony during the trial. The jury acquitted him on two lesser counts of aggravated assault. “Sheriff, he’s in your custody now,” the judge said. A deputy pointed to Oliver then to the side door, reserved for inmates and jailers. Oliver walked to the door. Behind it, he would be handcuffed and guarded. His wife and mother sobbed and wailed and rushed from the courtroom. Odell and Charmaine hugged each other, hugged their family, hugged the prosecutors. Out in the hall, a woman yelled, “God is good!”

Choir members sang “God, you’ve been so good to me,” during service at True Believers of Christ Community Church in Balch Springs.

10 A church celebration That Sunday, the mood at True Believers of Christ was unbridled and jubilant. The choir clapped and swayed as they sang in celebration. “Look what God has done for us,” Pastor Dorsey said. “Not just for T-Boc, but for the whole United States. Thank you, father God, for being a lawyer in the courtroom.” As the choir sang “God, you’ve been so good to me,” Charmaine Edwards, wearing a black floral dress, raised her hand in the air and sang along, smiling at Korrie next to her. Cassandra Preston, a church leader, asked Charmaine to join her at the front of the room. “At a time when freedom and equality are our nation’s birthright, and segregation shouldn’t be the norm, sadly there are still those who live in fear,” Preston said. She handed Charmaine a gold clock inscribed with Jordan’s name and date of death. “This clock represents a time for change.” “Although we’ll never truly understand how God determines his sacrificial necessities, we can rejoice in the comfort of knowing that Jordan’s death will never be in vain,” she said. “Because of him, others may live.”

Ingrid Llerena, wife of Roy Oliver, hugs their son Tab Oliver, 3, who is autistic, at their home in Kaufman County. She is resolved to visit her husband regularly, even if he gets moved to a state prison far away.

11 Deployed again After the trial, Oliver sat for a mugshot and was taken to his cell at the county jail — on his way to serve a 15-year sentence handed down by the jury. He could be eligible for parole in seven years. His wife and mother got in their cars and headed home to Kaufman County. Ingrid held their son, Tab, and sobbed. She prayed Oliver would be safe. In her ears echoed the words of Gill, Oliver’s defense attorney, as he begged the jury to go easy on him because he was a police officer — “Roy Oliver’s time in the Texas penitentiary system is going to be excruciatingly long, no matter the length.” A few days after the trial ended, Ingrid strapped Tab into the car and brought him to the jail. They checked in with a guard and were shown to a tiny room. There they sat on one side of a glass wall with small holes in it. Oliver sat on the other side. He wore faded black-and-white-striped jail scrubs. He broke down in tears at the sight of his wife and his son. “Daddy, Daddy!” Tab screamed, reaching for his father and hitting the glass. “Little man!” Oliver said. Ingrid began to cry. Tab started for the door to try to run around the wall to play with his dad, before Ingrid picked him up. It was nice to see them, he told her. He hadn’t seen much of anyone in awhile — they had him in solitary confinement for his safety. Anytime he left his cell, a few guards accompanied him. All he could do to pass the time was read. He had a Bible and his mom sent a few books — presidential biographies. At night, Ingrid prayed for strength to continue caring for Tab. The family had to drop the autism therapy that Tab was receiving. They no longer had health insurance. Oliver’s mother, Linda, decided in her mind to just pretend her son was deployed again. Ingrid resolved to visit her husband regularly, even if he got moved to a state prison far away.

Charmaine Edwards has left Jordan's room untouched at their home in Mesquite.

12 The death of a son The night the trial ended, Charmaine and Odell Edwards returned to their home in Mesquite. Charmaine opened the door to Jordan’s empty bedroom. His bed was still unmade from the last day he awoke there. The crimson University of Alabama sheets and pillows were strewn as he had left them. Charmaine gazed at the room. On the tan carpet were the red-and-black gym shorts he’d worn while cleaning his room. The light-blue jeans he’d tried on before the party were still draped on the side of the bed. The tank where his iguana, Roxie, once lived was dark. Roxie died a few months after Jordan. After all the protests, all the court dates, all the prayers, the Edwardses had finally been given some sense of justice for Jordan’s death, an accountability so many believed, and still believe, is impossible in America. They wished Oliver had gotten more years in prison, but they were gratified the jury agreed their son’s life was valued and that his death needed to mean something. Odell Edwards and Charmaine Edwards, with daughter Korrie Edwards, wish Roy Oliver had gotten a longer prison sentence, but they were gratified the jury agreed their son’s life was valued. But they knew then and know now that no racial-justice milestone nor any number of years in prison for their son’s killer can measure what they have lost. There will always be a void and an unmitigable pain where Jordan was. Odell no longer has his sports buddy. Charmaine no longer has her cheesy-Lifetime-movie-watching companion. Vidal no longer has his best friend. Kevon no longer has his video game partner. And Korrie no longer has the brother she ran to when she woke scared in the night. Odell likes to visit Jordan’s gravestone. He speaks out loud to his son, sitting on a rock, imagining his boy answering questions: “How’s it going? What you been up to?” Odell looks at the vast field and imagines Jordan running through it. One day, a little frog hopped by, and Odell told Jordan, “Don’t let them frogs get on me!” Charmaine, meanwhile, talks to Jordan in her head. The night the trial ended, she opened his closet door and leaned against the wall. She looked at his sneakers, neatly stacked on the shelf, just as he left them. She sat on his rumpled bed, and told him in her head: “We did it.” Follow Naomi Martin and Rose Baca on Twitter. Behind the reporting The reporting for this story began prior to the murder trial of former Balch Springs police officer Roy Oliver. Scenes described in the story were either witnessed by reporter Naomi Martin or reconstructed through dozens of interviews with participants, trial testimony and police bodycam and dashcam videos. The Dallas Morning News was present at scenes such as prosecutor Mike Snipes’ morning prayer walk, the Edwards family attending church and the prosecutors’ “dress rehearsal” trial. The reporting included interviews before, during and after the trial with prosecutors, defense attorneys and immediate family of both the victim, Jordan Edwards, and Oliver, the officer who killed him. Oliver declined to be interviewed by The News. Accounts of his life at home were based on interviews with his wife and mother and his court testimony.