By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Dulce Paloma Baltazar Pedraza
By Ray Stern
His accomplice, Gregory Acevedo, went to trial in 1997, and was sentenced to consecutive sentences of six years in prison for killing one youth, and seven and a half more years for stabbing another. Acevedo is Mexican-American; Shoemaker and the victims are white. The length of time it took to bring Shoemaker to justice and the disparity in the two men's punishments have prompted Acevedo's attorney, Al Flores, to declare racism.
"From the very beginning, this case had severe racial undertones," says Flores. "I can point out to you cases where there are guys driving down the street in South Phoenix, pulling out weapons and firing them indiscriminately. But you know what? They're not hurting any white people up at Paradise Valley Mall, and so they get probation, they get five years, three years.
"I'm not saying that's right or wrong. What is wrong is when a sentence is based on the color of the skin of the people who are involved, either as defendants or as victims."
Ironically, one mitigating factor in Shoemaker's relatively light sentence is that his victim's mother asked the court to send Shoemaker to therapy and not to prison.
Shoemaker, then 17, and Acevedo, then 16, both students at Moon Valley High School, had gone to the mall with another friend named Tommy Lopez. In the mall food court, Lopez literally bumped into a group of basketball players from Shadow Mountain High School. Words were exchanged, and the boys agreed to take the argument outside.
Shoemaker was punched by a youth named Patrick McCarville, and he responded by stabbing McCarville in the side, piercing his liver. Acevedo squared off with another named Danny Richardson, whom he stabbed in the chest and killed, and then he stabbed Richardson's twin brother Paul, who was being held in a headlock by Lopez. As the three athletes lay bleeding on the sidewalk, the other three youths fled in Lopez's car. Acevedo and Shoemaker were arrested days later; Lopez was never charged.
The incident rocked the normally placid neighborhood between Shadow Mountain High School and PV Mall, a mostly white, upper-middle-class enclave unused to violence that, at the time, was still grieving yet another teen murder.
McCarville and the Richardsons had been eyewitnesses just three months earlier when a Shadow Mountain basketball player named Ryan Winn had been shot to death at a beer party after punching a gangster wanna-be named Chris Colombi.
Then, when lightning struck for the second time, the neighborhood erupted in community meetings, questioning the outside influences that could have led to such deadly outbreaks. The high school invited motivational speakers to counsel students on how to deal with rage. The mothers of the victims campaigned vigorously to change state law so that minors who commit deadly crimes would automatically be tried in adult court. Tempers raged.
"The parents at Acevedo's sentencing were so mad at him, when in fact, if they'd looked at themselves and the way they raise their own kids, maybe--in a perverse sense--they're partly to blame," says Flores.
The victims--McCarville and one of the Richardson twins--had been drinking, and they had thrown the first punches in fights against much smaller opponents. The opponents, however, were carrying weapons.
None of the boys had been in serious trouble before, and all of them might have grown into responsible, productive men if they hadn't been waylaid by boyish posturing and dog-sniffing territorial marking. One of them died; two of them suffered the physical and emotional wounds of the stabbings; and one of them went to prison. One was never charged. And one evaded punishment for three and a half years.
Acevedo went to trial in 1997. Flores was able to work Acevedo's murder charge down to negligent homicide, which earned him a sentence of six years in prison. But the prosecutor argued that Acevedo stabbed his second victim more in cruelty than in self-defense, and also that he had shown no remorse for his actions during the trial. Subsequently, the court sentenced Acevedo to seven and a half more years for aggravated assault, more than the presumptive sentence. At the time of his sentencing, he had already spent 236 days in jail.
"By all reports, this kid had a bright future ahead of him," says Flores. "He was intelligent. He was going to school. He was doing well. He had never ever had any problem with the law. And he had a knife; unfortunately, he had a knife."
Shoemaker, on the other hand, was released on bail, went to live with relatives in the Seattle area, finished high school as an honors student and attended at least one year of college. His attorney was able to delay his trial for three and a half years and ultimately struck a deal to lower the charge from aggravated assault to endangerment, which earned him one year in Maricopa County jails.
Shoemaker's case benefited by the delay in his trial. His attorney, Michael Black, capitalized on hazy memories and re-remembered testimony that emerged not only in Acevedo's trial, but also in an unsuccessful civil lawsuit in which the victims sued Paradise Valley Mall. "Which, when you combine them all, significantly weakened the state's case," Black says, "because we had conflicting statements of the witnesses, which weren't available to Acevedo."