At odd times, and not too infrequently, I remember Andrew Riess.
In May, coming home from my granddaughter’s soccer tournament, I slowed the car some as we drove past the cemetery at Winters where Andrew is buried. I calculated it had been nearly 40 years since his funeral, but I remember that raw November day in 1973 well, how the wind whipped around us at the gravesite, a reminder of how lonely it was going to be when we left and only hinting at how very long it would be that Andrew was going to be separated from us.
My brother served as pallbearer for Andrew. So, it’s always been that when I process memories of Andrew, I begin with the grim, unflinching expression of my brother’s young face, though it’s only now that I consider the youth part. Eric and Andrew graduated together from Sanderson High School in 1968 and had been roommates for a while at UTEP. Eric’s 63 now. Andrew will always just be 23.
These last several weeks as George Zimmerman was tried, and ultimately found not guilty for the murder of Trayvon Martin, I’ve found myself making comparisons between Martin’s death and what happened to Andrew in the wee hours of a Saturday morning in 1973.That fall, Andrew was attending Angelo State. The Friday morning before he was killed, we visited in the University Center and I actually declined his generous invitation to whatever party he was going to on that night. The story as we know it now, is that after the party Andrew and his friend brought their dates back to the Women’s High Rise and were at a convenience store on Beauregard, buying gas – maybe cigarettes, maybe more beer. I don’t know.
Anyway, two juveniles in the parking lot at the same store got in a fight and Andrew, always the hero, stepped in to try and separate them. One of the juveniles stabbed Andrew and killed him.
Both boys were arrested, and I don’t remember all the charges, except one was held on possession of a prohibited weapon. If I knew their names then, I don’t recall them now. Besides, I get an odd satisfaction by not mentioning their names. I don’t care enough about them to consider their names significant. I can only hope the incident woke them up enough to consider taking a better path than the one it seemed they were headed down.
In the process of the juvenile’s defense, Andrew, the dead victim, seemed to actually be the one on trial. Yes, he was a football player in high school; yes, he was bigger than the boysand should have been able to overpower them; and yes, he should not have gotten involved. I know the defense attorney carefully selected a sympathetic jury, and proceeded to plant all kinds of reasonable doubts.
When it was all said and done, the boys were acquitted, free to go and liberated to live the lives they chose to live, a freedom they had stolen from Andrew.
Fair? Oh, I don’t think so. Justice served? How could it be? Andrew was dead, and nothing was going to change that. The verdict was what it was. I can’t imagine anyone considering a rally to cry foul, or any audience who would have stood still to listen if there had been.
Life went on, and it goes on. The service station/convenience store closed close to 20 years ago and sometime in the last 10 years, Pierce Miller had the triangle of land where it stood landscaped into a desert garden. I’ve thought of calling Pierce and thanking him for that.
I consider the garden a memorial to Andrew. Every time I drive by, I give pause to what might have been and vow to appreciate all the more what is. Perhaps, if we all could do that, it could be considered justice for John Andrew Riess.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Candace Cooksey Fulton, formerly from Brownwood, is a freelance writer living and working in San Angelo. She may be contacted at ccfulton2002@yahoo.com.This column was originally published on Thursday, July 25, 2013, in the San Angelo Standard-Times and is published here with special permission.
