Eight years later and all is good?

May 1, 2017, was a Monday. I was finishing my first year of law school at St. Mary’s University School of Law in San Antonio. The day was already significant for two reasons. First, my wife and I were celebrating our son turning eleven-months-old that day. Second, my daunting property law final exam was scheduled for that afternoon. 

Law school exams come with an enormous amount of pressure; the butterflies in my stomach that morning seemed to have a reason for their existence. 

Like my preparation for other exams, my morning was spent on campus reviewing my property notes one last time. When it came time for testing, my classmates and I filed into the classroom like cattle in a slaughterhouse. But as I took my seat, and the proctor read instructions, the strange feeling in my gut intensified. It was a feeling that I had never experienced before. It was more than just a manifestation of my exam anxiety. I simply could not shake the feeling off. 

The exam began, but my ability to pay attention and recall information became increasingly more difficult. I could feel it in my bones that something, somewhere in the universe, was terribly wrong. It was about that moment, when I looked up from my test, to find the proctor staring down at me. In her hands, she held a folded piece of paper. She passed it to me; and I opened it up. The message read, “You have an emergency phone call. Call your wife immediately.” 

I darted out of the classroom to call my wife. While waiting for her to pick up the phone, I began imagining many of the horrible scenarios about why she might call. My first thought— our son fell down the stairs and was in the emergency room getting stitches. Then, I thought that something had happened to my dad. My dear daddy was in the final stages of Lou Gehrig’s disease. He was confined to a powerchair, unable to walk, speak, eat, or breath on his own. I feared that he had fallen out of his chair and injured himself, or worse that he had passed away. But my wildest imaginations could not have been further from the truth. 

When my wife finally answered my call, she told me, in a calm and collected voice, that my little brother had been stabbed. Harrison, a freshman at The University of Texas at Austin, had just finished a game of basketball and was walking out of the Gregory Gymnasium when a fellow student came up to him and thrust a knife into his chest and stabbed three other students. She could not tell me where he was or his condition. I left St. Mary’s campus and headed to Austin—I would be there for my little brother. 

While battling my way through I-35 traffic, I just remember repeating out loud, “Don’t worry Harrison, big brother is coming, big brother is coming” and offering prayer after prayer. Despite my prayers and incantations, the strange feeling remained in my gut. Only now, I understood what the feeling represented. I knew that something horrifying occurred. 

Then my phone rang. My phone was mounted on the dashboard of my car and I could see that it was my wife calling. The moment her name came up on the screen of my phone I knew what she was about to tell me.

I answered her call and said nothing. She said, with sheer horror in her voice, “John,” she paused to take a deep breath, “Harrison died. He didn’t make it.” 

Kendrex White, who murdered my little brother, was subsequently found not guilty by reason of insanity. In reaching that verdict, the evidence clearly established that Mr. White possesses a history of aggression, suffers from mental illness and believes he is Jesus Christ. He was transferred to a maximum-security prison in Vernon and later transferred to an inpatient facility in Kerrville. 

This past May 1, marked the eight year anniversary of Harrison’ murder. For eight years, the hand that handed out so generously to others has been stilled. For eight years, the voice that sang songs of hope and encouragement has been hushed. 

Despite this tragedy, we have persevered. My mother continues to teach fourth grade at the same elementary school in Graham. I’m a practicing attorney in my hometown and am involved in my community. My wife and I celebrated 10 years of marriage this summer, and we are the parents of three happy children and are expecting our fourth child next April. 

But the most baffling thing of all, is the person who murdered my little brother may be released to outpatient care, and then turned to the streets. 

A hearing on whether that should happen is scheduled to take place on Oct. 1 at 9:15 a.m. in the 427th Criminal District Court at the Blackwell-Thurman Criminal Justice Center in Austin. 

The question burning in my mind, is what changed? How did a person who believes he is Jesus Christ, possess a history of aggression, murder an innocent 19-year-old boy and stab three other students, become miraculously healed? Do our laws open the doors for that person to be released to the public? What if he believes he is Jesus Christ still? What if he murders another young person? What if he stabs three other people in another stabbing spree. Does justice and public safety not require that he remain where he is? 

As a Christian, I am called to forgive my little brother’s killer, and I do. Notwithstanding, public safety requires that he remain in inpatient care. My mother and I will do everything in our power to ensure that the victims, their families and our communities are protected. 

Just like that fateful May 1 day, I will travel to Austin on Oct. 1, and be there again for my late little brother. Big brother is coming, Harrison. Big brother is coming.