Woman who underwent botched cosmetic surgery by fake NYC doctor has died, police say
A woman who underwent a botched cosmetic surgery by a man posing as a doctor in New York City has died, police said.
According to a spokesperson from the New York Police Department, the office of the Chief Medical Examiner will determine the victim's cause of death. She was identified by WABC and the New York Daily News as Maria Penaloza Cabrera.
The woman's death comes weeks after Felipe Hoyos-Foronda, 38, was taken into custody on March 28. He is accused of "performing medical procedures without a license," causing severe injuries, the spokesperson added.
Hoyos-Foronda was arrested at John F. Kennedy International Airport while allegedly attempting to flee by taking a connecting flight to Colombia. He was charged with second-degree assault and unauthorized practice of a profession.
Previously: Fake NYC doctor charged after botched butt implant procedure leaves woman brain dead
According to an internal police report obtained by The New York Times, the woman visited Foronda's home on 35th Street in Queens between 1 p.m. and 3:15 p.m. on March 28 to have "butt lift implants removed."
Once there, a police detective wrote in the report that Foronda administered lidocaine to the woman through a syringe, causing her to go into cardiac arrest. Lidocaine is a local anesthetic that stops pain by blocking the signals at the nerve endings in the skin, according to the Mayo Clinic.
The woman was then taken to a hospital where, the detective wrote, a doctor told police she was intubated, had no brain activity, and was "not likely to survive.'
Foronda promoted cosmetic surgery services on social media sites, including TikTok. His page, which appears to have been deleted, advertised prices for procedures including Botox and more. It also included videos and photos of people undergoing a slew of procedures, according to the police report.
The Queens District Attorney's Office told the New York Daily News that they are reexamining Hoyos-Foronda's charges as an investigation continues.
According to the outlet, Penaloza Cabrera of Colombia had two young children.
A GoFundMe created by her family revealed that doctors disconnected her on April 11. The fundraiser has raised just over $6,200 to help her family members in Colombia travel to the U.S. to say their final goodbyes.
Taylor Ardrey is a news reporter for USA TODAY. You can reach her at tardrey@gannett.com.
This article originally appeared on USA TODAY: Woman dies from botched butt implant surgery by fake doctor: Police
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USA Today
2 hours ago
- USA Today
Reunited, a family bands together to care for a lost sister's kids
Chapter 3 | Reunited, a family bands together to care for a lost sister's kids A tragedy means Amy must take in her nieces and nephews. She and her sisters fight to give them a better childhood than they had. The last time Kay K called the older sister who raised her, she asked for help. 'I hated she had been through so much,' Marlena, 44, said. 'She would go from foster homes to the street to self medicating and being mentally unstable.' The 31-year-old was pregnant with her tenth child and wanted to straighten out her life. But she disappeared after that call. A few months later, her remains were found rolled in a rug on an overgrown Mississippi hillside. 'I know I can't save the world,' Marlena said. 'But I tried to save her.' Kay K's four sisters had hoped taking in eight of her kids would be temporary. That she'd stabilize enough to care for her children and be an aunt to theirs. But now, it was up to them to raise the nieces and nephews, ages 1 to 13, alongside their own daughters and sons. To protect the privacy of sensitive health and social information of minors too young to consent to having it appear online, USA TODAY used first names for adults and middle names for kids. USA TODAY does not name survivors of sexual assault. An estimated 2.4 million American kids are being raised by relatives, not their parents. Most 'kinship families,' or "grandfamilies," are formed suddenly, without planning. Grandmas, aunts, brothers and cousins take in young relatives amid crisis. When parents die from car wrecks or overdoses. When mom is jailed or loses the job that pays for rent. Sometimes, government child welfare agencies take kids from parents if social workers decide they can't provide basic needs and safety. An update to federal law in 2018 re-emphasized that agencies should provide the same assistance to relatives that is given to strangers who foster or adopt. Kids taken into foster care have better outcomes when raised within their family. Yet not all relatives are offered help to do so. And those who seek aid could instead be deemed unfit to parent. Amy, 37, had never planned to raise eight kids, four of whom are Kay K's. She is determined to keep the family together despite broken government promises and America's blind spot for kin caregivers. She doesn't want her nieces and nephews to lose family bonds like she did by growing up with strangers in foster care, living hundreds of miles from her sisters. 'If we'd had a family member that thought like that, we woulda never had to go to the shelter,' Amy said. 'It's a lonely life.' Kinship caregivers keep family together but don't get help they need A Mississippi couple took in a relative's kids to keep them out of the foster care system. They say parents like them deserve more support. Trying Kay K's sisters reported her to child welfare officials for neglect several times but saw no intervention. Marlena called the state hotline instead, after seeing her infant nephew left playing alone with a cup of water and an uncovered outlet. Kay K's three children went to a foster home in a city an hour away. Their mother had a breakdown and was committed. It was almost a year before Marlena convinced the children's caseworker to grant a family visit in a state office. She was shocked to see they were 'a mess.' The baby's diaper was full, and she was 'raw from front to back.' Makay, 4, had bright white scars on her head, neck and hand from severe burns sustained while in foster care. Soon after, a caseworker called on a Saturday and asked, Can you get the kids today? They arrived with a small duffel bag of clothes. Marlena took the girls. Amy cared for the boy. An official told the family that they could become licensed foster parents if they wanted to receive monthly assistance payments for the kids' care. Today, Mississippi pays between $750 and $5,600 a month to foster parents or group home companies, depending on age and therapeutic needs. The sisters decided they didn't need the cash or the headache of getting licensed. Their own experience with 'the system' as kids had been rough. Anyway, they were too busy with college and family to attend the infrequent, mandatory classes. 'I wasn't there for the money,' Marlena said. 'I was there for the kids.' Still, it would have helped. Marlena, a registered nurse, worked nights at the hospital five days a week. Amy was in nursing school and working part-time jobs. They lived near or below the federal poverty line for families with so many kids. When the kids needed clothes, or the grocery budget was a little tight, relatives, members of their church or a community nonprofit would help. Sometimes, after repeated calls, the kids' caseworker would take Amy to Walmart to buy necessities, like a car seat or diapers for a newborn. Around the same time, Mississippi officials had to change how the state foster care system handled relatives in response to a 2006 settlement that is still under court monitoring. The original lawsuit was filed on behalf of thousands of former foster youth. One of their complaints was that social workers placed kids with relatives without background checks and home-safety reviews. Because relatives weren't put through the licensing process, they had to care for children without the aid given to strangers who foster kids. Sometimes, case workers closed cases after a relative agreed to take in a child, lowering the official number of kids in state care by shifting the responsibility to unsupported families. Researchers call this diversion tactic 'hidden foster care.' Amy and Marlena were caught in an awkward transition as Mississippi began to change state policy. A couple years after taking in their nieces and nephews, Marlena received a letter telling her the kids would be taken unless she attended a training session in two days. They weren't licensed foster parents so they could not have their nieces and nephews. The child welfare agency issued a removal order a few days before Christmas. A judge, however, sided with the sisters. He said they needed to be given reasonable time to complete the training and home inspections. It took months, but they did just that. Now that they were licensed foster parents, the sisters began receiving foster board payments, which turned out to be less than the rates they saw posted. The kids stayed with family. For now. Licensed Many kinship foster parents say being licensed is a hassle and a risk. When the state has custody of kids, caseworkers and birth parents must sign off on decisions about education and health care. Legally, foster parents, including relatives, have the same power as babysitters. Often, each child has a separate caseworker, who is supposed to visit at least once a month. Sometimes other officials do, too. And then foster parents must schedule their lives around calls and case review meetings. Social workers seem to nitpick the kind of child safety locks on cabinets, how old kids must be to sleep in a top bunk and the rating of a fire extinguisher kept in the kitchen. Since 2023, federal rules have given states flexibility on some of these details when licensing relatives, but not all of them use it. As state officials placed more of her sister's kids with Amy, their apartment no longer met licensing standards for the number of children in each room. The paradox was frustrating. 'You requested I take in my niece and nephews,' she said. Being in the child welfare system also means kids could be taken away at any moment. About two years after starting to raise her sister's kids, Amy was told her license was at risk because of cockroaches at her apartment. Amy provided proof that the property manager had sprayed repeatedly at her request. But because of neighbors' uncleanliness, the bugs kept coming back. Still, caseworkers terminated her license and removed the kids – biological and fostered. To Amy, it was the same kind of faulty premise as the first time caseworkers removed her from home as a child. 'You're taking my children because I'm poor,' she said. 'I'm in public housing and there's roaches running around here. That's everywhere you go, pretty much. That's something you really don't have control over.' Luckily, state officials let the kids stay with an aunt. Amy lawyered up and got them back within two weeks. Stability Soon after, Amy bought her first house, moving in with her husband and seven kids. The 1,300-square-foot home had tan brick and four bedrooms. A garage was converted into extra living space. Three chest freezers lined the wall under the dining room window, stocked with food for the large sat on a large lot in a quiet neighborhood outside of town with mature trees and green lawns. An eighth child moved in about a year later. And Kay K's ninth kid stayed there after birth before being taken in by another relative. For years, the kids built family memories at this house. Makay, now 16, remembers the birthday when she came home from the skating rink with her friends to find a tent filling the living room. "We had pillows in there and drinks and all our snacks and all that," she said. For another birthday, she vaguely remembers Kay K, her biological mom, came to the house. She's not sure which birthday it was. She can't picture it. 'I don't really remember a lot about her,' she said. 'Amy is my mom. I really love her. 'She's been taking care of me and providing for me,' she said. 'Her and my dad have been trying to guide me.'Amy wanted to adopt her nieces and nephews. They deserved stability. After years of repeated delays, a state worker finally filed the court paperwork Amy had waited on. It wasn't what she expected. State officials had decided to terminate Kay K's parental rights for one child, but not the rest. At the time, she was alive and caseworkers hoped she might one day be prepared to parent. Amy decided not to waste more time under state supervision. The court agreed to release the kids from foster care, letting them live with Amy as their legal guardian. Caregiving This spring, Amy parked outside the garage-turned-office where she works seasonally as a tax preparer. Before going in, she planned the monthly budget in a notebook propped on her steering wheel. She would have to skip buying a costly lupus medication and risk an episode because the state had recently terminated the family's Medicaid coverage. Two teens who needed therapy might have to wait. It was on Amy's to-do list to visit the local office to sort out the issue. A few minutes after settling at her work desk, Amy received a call from Marlena about their mom. The woman had gone to the county courthouse to pick up routine paperwork. But the visit triggered her paranoid schizophrenia and she began yelling, making threats. She was detained and taken to the local hospital. Marlena said their mom would be sent to an out-of-town psychiatry facility unless she could quickly secure power of attorney. She needed Amy's help, including to make sure their mom's home was locked up while she was away. More: The caregiving crisis is real. USA TODAY wants to hear from you about how to solve it. Amy's phone dinged often. Her husband checking on how she was doing. The teen twins asking for a ride to get their nails done. Her oldest son, living on his own, talking about trouble finding work that paid enough to cover rent. The high school called about one of the boys. A resource officer had misinterpreted an autistic reaction, escalating a communication difference into a chase down the hall. Amy left work early to try to talk school officials out of suspending him. Home Back at home, dinner prep started. Amy dumped a package of cornbread mix into a plastic bowl while Bertram, 15, waited to add milk and stir. Lamar, 13, but just as tall as his cousin-brother, waited near the stove for water to boil so he could pour in three boxes of spaghetti. The teen twins had left early for a hair appointment. They had to look Gucci for their 18th birthday the next day and high school graduation in a few weeks. Ronald walked in from work and gave her a hug before going to shower and change. Makay, 16, and Nicole, 10, leaned on the kitchen island as they watched Nathaniel, 5, ham it up, waving his arms with oven mitts up to his elbows. We didn't have this growing up, Amy said when reflecting on the kids. The closeness. The dependability. Somebody to talk to. To lean on. 'I tell them all the time,' Amy said. 'You don't have anybody else. Rely on your brothers and sisters.' Amy was proud of the kids. They still had struggles. They were kids after all. Kids who had been through a lot in their short lives. She tried to pass on what she'd learned in college and therapy about brain development, healthy relationships and healing from trauma. Her kids have more stability than Amy had known. At about Nathaniel's age, a cop and caseworker took her from home into foster care. By Nicole's age, she had spent years apart from her sisters and had lived in many shelters and strangers' homes. She had just reunited with her family at Lamar's age, trying to build bonds with people she barely knew and starting to care for a nephew. Makay is a little younger than Amy was when she moved out of her sister's house to live on her own with her infant son and to attend college. Amy was glad to see her children have kid-sized problems: school gossip, playful digs at each other and requests for more snacks they could sell at school for a profit. 'That's all we ever want, if you have children: Them being able to be successful in life,' Amy said. 'That's my ultimate goal. That's what makes me happy. When they succeed, I succeed in what I was meant to do.' Amy sat in her computer chair and leaned back as she watched her kids spoon spaghetti onto paper plates. They all sat at the folding table or the island, eating together. Caring for Kin, Chapter 3: Rebuilding | Earlier: Chapter 1: Breaking | Chapter 2: Surviving This article was produced as a project for the USC Annenberg Center for Health Journalism's 2025 Child Welfare Impact Reporting Fund. Jayme Fraser is an investigative data reporter at USA TODAY. She can be reached on Signal or WhatsApp at (541) 362-1393 or by emailing jfraser@
Chicago Tribune
19 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
Portage man walking to Washington to raise funds in brother's memory
It's a long walk from Portage to Washington, D.C., but for Antonio Gutierrez, it's a step – a lot of steps – in support of the Portage Recovery Association. Gutierrez is raising funds in memory of his brother Erik. Gutierrez was in Greensboro, West Virginia, on Thursday. He plans to reach Washington on Tuesday. 'That will mark two years to the day that I came home and found him dead,' he said. Erik suffered from mental illness and alcoholism, Gutierrez said. 'My parents got divorced when I was about 9 years old,' he said. Their mother was a 'horrible alcoholic' at the time but has been sober almost 40 years now. Gutierrez and his siblings were raised by their father. 'A couple of my siblings are in recovery, and they've all been sober a couple of years,' Gutierrez said. He has abstained. 'I can count on one hand, and I still have a couple of fingers left over, how many times I got drunk in my life.' 'You will not find one Republican in Porter County who will say, yeah, I've seen Antonio drinking at an event,' he said. As of Friday morning, Gutierrez had raised $820 toward his $1,000 goal on his GoFundMe campaign. It's his fifth time doing this kind of walk for charity. The previous times were to support pediatric cancer research. The trek isn't easy. Sleep accounts for just three or four hours a night so he can continue to make progress. 'I walked through Ohio in three days,' he said. 'I'll be getting into a second pair of shoes in another day or two.' 'I'm physically and mentally in the best shape of my life,' he said. 'When I'm at home, I work out at the gym seven days a week.' But even that isn't the same as hiking a long distance. 'You try to do all the training you can do on treadmills, on the local trails back home,' Gutierrez said, and get a false sense of being prepared. 'When you're out here carrying a backpack, 30 pounds on your back,' and you're straining more than just walking at home in flat Indiana. The mountains don't offer support when you're walking uphill, but downhill takes a toll on the joints. Gutierrez has been liberal in his use of tape to add some extra support for his limbs. 'This one here, it's physically demanding on me for some reason,' he said. 'I eat healthy, I take care of myself, and this is the hardest one I've ever done.' When he's done with this hike, he said, 'It will put me right around 4,500 miles total.' Gutierrez is carrying four liters of water, one liter in each bottle, plus a tent and toiletries. He generally sets up the tent and camps along the trail. In the mountains, he's found, there are rocks everywhere. 'When I'm around a hotel, I'll get a hotel,' he said, to sleep on a bed, launder his clothes and take a shower. 'You start smelling pretty quick.' The weather hasn't been kind. 'No more rain. Please, no more rain,' Gutierrez said. 'I have been soaked and drenched four or five times.' 'I've got a poncho, and you still get soaking wet,' he said. Even wet, though, Gutierrez's face still brightens when he meets strangers on the trail. He tells his story, especially his brother's story. 'Men, it's OK to speak up. We don't have to hold it in all the time,' Gutierrez said. 'We tend to hold it in, but we need to speak up more. It's OK to tell a man that you love them without feeling any other way.' If you're near Portage, he said, the Portage Recovery Association can help. Even to those who live far from Portage, he said, 'I still say, call the Portage Recovery Association' to get help finding needed resources to help with addictions. 'Quite a few people hear the story, and they're all in recovery, too,' he said. To anyone who plans a long-distance hike, Gutierrez offers his wisdom. 'Make sure people know what your route is, that somebody is tracking your route,' he said. 'Always have as much water on you as possible,' and make sure you're in great shape. 'Keep it slow and steady,' he said. 'Stretch, stretch, stretch is the key thing.'
USA Today
19 hours ago
- USA Today
Conman who killed 2, raped girl, then hobnobbed with Masters fans in Augusta is executed
Conman who killed 2, raped girl, then hobnobbed with Masters fans in Augusta is executed While prosecutors painted Stanko as a cold, calculated psychopath at trial, his attorneys at the time argued that he was insane when he committed the rape and murders. Show Caption Hide Caption US expands execution methods Most death row inmates faced one execution method in modern history. Now, there are many alternative ways to die. Stephen Stanko, 57, was executed in South Carolina for the murders of Henry Lee Turner and his girlfriend. Stanko was the 23rd inmate put to death in the U.S. in 2025 and the third in South Carolina. His final words expressed remorse and a hope for forgiveness from the victims' families. Stanko's attorneys argued against the execution methods, claiming they were cruel and unusual punishment. Stanko had a criminal history, including a prior conviction for kidnapping and attempted murder. South Carolina has executed a conman-turned-murderer convicted of killing two people and raping his girlfriend's 15-year-old daughter. Stephen Stanko, 57, was executed by lethal injection on Friday, June 13, for the murder of 74-year-old Henry Lee Turner, a retired Air Force master sergeant and father of three. Stanko was sentenced to death separately for the murder of his 43-year-old girlfriend, whom USA TODAY is not naming to protect her daughter's privacy as a rape survivor. He added: "Not a single day − NOT ONE SINGLE DAY − has gone by that (the victims) have not been in my thoughts and prayers. If my execution helps with closure and/or the grieving process, may they all move forward with that being completed." Stanko became the 23rd inmate put to death in the U.S. this year and the third in South Carolina. He was pronounced dead at 6:34 p.m. While prosecutors painted Stanko as a cold, calculated psychopath at trial, his attorneys at the time argued that he was insane when he committed the murders. His current lawyers argued that his life should have been spared because the execution methods in South Carolina amount to cruel and unusual punishment in violation of the U.S. Constitution, an argument refuted by state officials and rejected by courts. Here's what else you need to know about Stanko's execution, including his last meal and more of his final words. Stanko's last meal, last words It took several minutes for Stanko's attorney to read out his extensive final words. "What I hope and pray that is known and understood about me − and every death row inmate and inmate in the world is that we are not the sum of one moment in time," wrote Stanko, who served on death row for 20 years. "We execute people in this country for moments in their life ... I have lived approximately 20,973 days but I am judged solely for one." He said that as a youth, he was an honors student, an athlete, the president of the Spanish club and was on the math team and in an engineering club. As a young adult, he said he volunteered at an orphanage, coached youth baseball and "saved a drowning child in Augusta." And on death row, he said he tutored inmates and developed a relationship with God. "I do NOT say this to brag. I say it because I was not what people see me as now − in this moment," he wrote. He added that he hopes his surviving victim and the victims' families forgive him. "The execution may help them. Forgiveness will heal them," he said. To read Stanko's complete final words, visit here. Stanko's last meal, served to him on Wednesday, consisted of: fried fish, fried shrimp, crab cakes, a baked potato, carrots, fried okra, cherry pie, banana pudding and sweet tea. Stanko's final breaths came during a busy week for the death penalty in the U.S., with four executions between Tuesday and Friday. Two were executed on the same day on June 10: Anthony Wainwright in Florida by lethal injection and Gregory Hunt in Alabama by nitrogen gas. Oklahoma executed John Hanson by lethal injection on Thursday, June 12. What did Stephen Stanko do? In the middle of the night on April 8, 2005, Stanko attacked his girlfriend's 15-year-old daughter as she slept in her bed at home in Murrells Inlet, an unincorporated seaside community just south of Myrtle Beach. The girl later sobbed and clutched a white teddy bear as she testified about the hours-long attack, which ended after Stanko pinned her body to the bed with his knee while he strangled her mother in front of her, according to coverage by the Sun-News. "I said, 'Please God, take me and not her,'" the girl testified as people in the courtroom cried, the newspaper reported. "I fought hard but she stopped making noises, and that was it." After he killed his 43-year-old girlfriend, Stanko then drove 25 miles north to the Conway home of one of her friends, Henry Lee Turner, whose body was found fatally shot about 24 hours later. Stanko fled scene, went to Augusta during Masters week Stanko fled the scene, setting off a nationwide manhunt that made national headlines. Four days after the murders, federal authorities tracked Stanko down about 200 miles west to Augusta, where he was hobnobbing with Masters golf fans, introducing himself as Stephen Christopher, and lying about his wealth. Stanko had also already wooed a woman, moved in with her and had even gone to church with her on the Sunday before he was captured, authorities said at the time. "She said he was the nicest, most courteous young man," the woman's grandmother told Knight Ridder at the time. "You would never know he was a fraud." Charles Grose, Stanko's attorney, said that experts have diagnosed the inmate with brain damage, 'likely from numerous brain injuries including from a troubled birth, a blow to the back of the head as a teen while shielding a classmate from an assault, and repeated traumas from serious sports-related head injuries.' He said that problems resulting from the brain damage were manageable in a controlled environment like prison and that he "productively used his years on death row to repent of his crimes and seek God's forgiveness, help other inmates and write about his experiences.' Grose added: 'While nothing excuses Stephen's terrible crimes, his execution will not make South Carolina safer.' Stanko described as conman, psychopath Archived news reports citing courtroom testimony and interviews describe Stanko as a con artist who had a knack for reeling in women. Stanko's various lies included, according to archived news accounts: that he was a millionaire, he owned multiple hamburger restaurants, he had an engineering degree from a prestigious university, and he made big-time deals in oil and real estate. "He has a need for grandiosity," one forensic psychologist observed on the witness stand, according to a 2006 report in the Myrtle Beach Sun-News. Another one simply said: "Mr. Stanko is a psychopath." Although Stanko was adept at charming some, others didn't buy his act. "He was smooth and he was slick," John Gaumer, a colleague of Stanko's slain girlfriend, told the Sun-News. "It's a puzzle to everyone I know what it was that he had − that he was able to exercise so much control over her was a mystery.' Her ex-husband told the paper that he met Stanko at her home. "I didn't like him. He knew that I knew what he was,' he said. 'When we looked at each other, I just could sense that there wasn't something right here. But at the same time, you are being told that he is OK, and you want to believe that." He said that Stanko had admitted to having a criminal past, likely as part of a plan to gain her trust. "The snowing ... obviously it drew her in. It was all part of the barrage, the seduction," he said. Stephen Stanko had criminal past, helped write a book from prison It's unclear just how much of his criminal past Stanko shared with his girlfriend. He had served more than eight years in prison for kidnapping and trying to kill another girlfriend in 1996. He had been living with the woman in Goose Creek when they got into an argument about his involvement in theft and fraud, and she told him he had to move out, according to police reports obtained by Knight Ridder in 2005. The next morning, they fought again, and Stanko soaked a washcloth with bleach, put it over her mouth, and tied up her wrists and ankles before he left. The woman, who told police that Stanko had tried to suffocate her, was able to break free and get help, Knight Ridder reported. Stanko pleaded guilty to charges of assault and battery with intent to kill and kidnapping, and was ordered to undergo a psychiatric evaluation, according to online court records reviewed by USA TODAY. During Stanko's time in prison for that case, he became an author and co-wrote a book called "Living in Prison: A History of the Correctional System with an Insider's View." On Amazon, the book is described as "a rigorous exploration of our correctional system" from Stanko's perspective "on the harsh realities of prison life." Who were Stephen Stanko's victims? USA TODAY was unable to reach family members of either of Stanko's murder victims. Archived news reports about who they were are limited, but both Stanko's girlfriend and Henry Lee Turner were described as trusting and caring people. Her ex-husband told the Sun-News that the mother of three had a great sense of humor. "She was a vivacious, intelligent, compassionate woman who was a very good mother," he told the newspaper. Turner's daughter, Debbie Turner Gallogly, told the Sun-News that her dad met Stanko when he and his girlfriend went to Turner's house to help him with computer problems. "He's a very trusting person, a very welcoming person," she said. "He loved inviting people into his home for meals."
