Melinda Abdallah’s son Jacob was shot while driving in Little Village in 2019. In the hospital, detectives questioned his motives for being in the area, and treated his fiancé with disrespect, Abdallah said. The officers’ demeanor changed when they learned that Jacob had grown up not in Little Village, but in the Chicago suburb of Round Lake Beach.
Little Village is a predominantly Spanish-speaking community that faces a high number of shootings. “They shouldn’t label a person just because of where they may be living at,” Abdallah said.
Several survivors of gun violence described interactions like Abdallah’s, saying the justice system can be cold, unfeeling, and hard to navigate. That lack of empathy, they said, can darken the memories of their toughest moments, like when they’re notified of a violent death, or face their child’s alleged shooter in court. Three mothers from The Trace’s Chicago Survivor Storytelling Workshop said city and state officials should hire more survivor advocates to guide them through court proceedings and police investigations. They wished there had been someone by their side explaining each step of the process.
Survivors want people who work in the justice system to remember that the cases they’re paid to investigate and solve represent real people coping with sudden deaths in their families. “Be a little more compassionate,” Abdallah said. “Be willing to work with the families and not show up like it’s just your job.”
‘They don’t get to choose who they protect and serve’
Sometimes, survivors say, careless words from law enforcement or court staff haunt them long after they’ve been said. A single interaction with a police officer made Estela Díaz feel guilty about the death of her son, Fernando Zadkiel Vega-Díaz.
On Oct. 6, 2022, Zadkiel was shot and killed while waiting for the bus. A police officer grilled Díaz about his whereabouts, asking why he was in a dangerous area late at night. She explained that he was on his way home after dropping off his girlfriend. The officer told her: “That’s why I don’t let my son go anywhere.”
His words pierced her heart. “It was as if it was my fault my son had been there,” Díaz said in Spanish. “As if it was my son’s fault. He can’t go out anywhere? Like he looked for it by being there at that moment.”
Díaz had originally planned to do laundry and pick up Zadkiel that day. But she was tired from work and decided not to. So the officer’s comment hurt her. For a long time, she said, his words reverberated in her mind, making her wonder, “If I had picked him up, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”
Because Chicago police officers regularly witness death and violence, Díaz said she understands that they may become numb. She suggested that the Chicago Police Department regularly train officers on how to deliver terrible news more delicately and how to interact with the bereaved.
Delphine Cherry felt that law enforcement treated her two children’s homicides differently. She thinks police put more effort into the case of her daughter, Tyesa Abney, because her family was living in a predominantly white area at the time, and the case received significant media attention.
With Tyesa, Cherry got constant communication from the police. With her son, Tyler Randolph, she didn’t. “It seemed like Tyler was just another Black and brown person,” Cherry said. “I don’t want my son to always be a case number.” Tyler’s killing remains unsolved.
“They don’t get to choose who they protect and serve,” Cherry said.
Cherry, who is advocating for a police transparency bill, said police should regularly update families on their investigation.
Abdallah’s son’s slaying also remains unsolved. That case went cold for a while, Abdallah said. But it became active again after she, her family, and law enforcement allies pressured the department. Part of the problem, she said, was that detectives cycled on and off the case.
Consistent staffing would help survivors “not have to retell our story again,” Abdallah said. “That’s probably the worst thing you ever have to do.”
Although state law mandates that Illinois law enforcement officers offer information on victim services, including the Illinois Crime Victim Compensation Program and the Mychal Moultry Jr. Funeral and Burial Assistance Program, Abdallah said she never got this information. But she found the police family liaison officer assigned to her to be helpful. “They’re very sincere and compassionate,” she said of her liaison, who had also lost a child to gun violence. “It’s because they know the pain and the suffering.”
Last year, Chicago’s family liaison officers were tasked with helping families through nearly 3,000 shootings. The Chicago Police Department said there are currently 17 liaisons available to help. Abdallah suggested opening the position to civilians outside the police force who’ve faced similar tragedies. The Homicide Victims’ Families’ Rights Act, which is making its way through the Illinois Legislature’s veto session, would require agencies to set a minimum number of family liaison positions based on the five-year average number of homicides in their jurisdiction.
Courtrooms need more advocates
In 2022, Chicago Police made arrests in 18.6 percent of fatal shootings. But even for the few whose relatives’ killers are caught, arrests mark the beginning of what survivors called a long and painful process in court.
This September, the city began court proceedings against the person police suspect is responsible for killing Zadkiel. Díaz quickly accepted an invitation to attend the trial. But she soon realized she wasn’t sure how she would relive the pain of her hardest day.
Through the Statewide Victim Assistance Program, Illinois provides survivors with notifications, advocacy, and assistance in court. Advocates can tell survivors what to expect, and help them communicate with the prosecutor.
Additional services vary by county. The Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office said its Victim Witness Unit, which helps victims and witnesses, employs 68 specialists. Some organizations, like Chicago Survivors, give survivors free advocates to join them in court.
While Díaz was assigned a victim specialist for her court dates, she said there wasn’t enough time to ask all her questions. “You’re crying, you’re in shock, you don’t know what to do,” Díaz said. “You’re alone, because that person has to quickly move on to help another person.”
The specialist told Díaz that she could call them with questions, but when she did, no one picked up. Before The Trace told Díaz about the county’s victim advocacy program, she, like many other survivors, wasn’t aware it existed.
“In the moment that you see the evidence, you hear what they say, you relive the day that your son did not return,” Díaz said. “The world falls on top of you.” Díaz ultimately found comfort in her therapist, who attended several court dates with her.
Cherry found presenting her impact statement in court to be particularly daunting. “My emotions were all over the place,” she said. Her best friend ended up writing and reading it on her behalf.
One line stuck with Cherry: “You’re being sentenced today,” her friend told the court, “and our family is going to be sentenced the rest of our life.”
