
Outrage builds as video shows Idaho police shooting a knife-wielding autistic teenager
Idaho police officers opened fire from behind a chain-link fence just seconds after exiting their patrol cars and critically wounded a teenage boy — described by his family as nonverbal, autistic and intellectually disabled — as he stepped toward them with a knife, video from a witness shows.
Seventeen-year-old Victor Perez, who also has cerebral palsy, remained hospitalized in critical condition Tuesday after having nine bullets removed from his body and having his leg amputated, Ana Vazquez, his aunt, told The Associated Press. Doctors were planning tests on his brain activity.
'We don't know if he's going to wake up,' she said.
The shooting Saturday in Pocatello outraged the boy's family and neighbors as well as viewers online who questioned why the officers opened fire within about 12 seconds of exiting their patrol cars while making no apparent effort to de-escalate the situation or use less lethal weapons. Dozens of protesters gathered outside the police department Sunday, eastidahonews.com reported.
There is no indication the police were aware of the boy's conditions.
'The police barely spoke to anyone,' Vazquez said. 'They just said get back and they just, they shot to kill.'
In a video statement posted to the Pocatello Police Department's Facebook page on Monday, Chief Roger Schei said he wanted to 'provide clarity, share the information we can at this stage and address some misconceptions that have emerged.'
'We understand the concern and emotion surrounding the officer-involved shooting that occurred,' he said, adding, 'We are also aware of the video circulating online, which shows only one angle. The full picture requires careful review of all facts and evidence.'
Brad Andres, who took the video, has an auto shop nearby and told the AP he noticed a disturbance when he stepped outside to take a phone call around 5:20 Saturday. His 19-year-old son, Bridger, called 911 and reported it as a domestic dispute in a backyard.
The 911 caller said an apparently intoxicated man — the teen — was wielding a kitchen knife and periodically chasing a man and woman in the yard, according to audio of the 911 call released by the Pocatello Police Department.
'He seems pretty drunk,' the caller told a dispatcher. 'He's just running at them with a knife and then falling over. I think he just stabbed himself, actually.'
The 911 caller noted that the people in the yard were not speaking English.
'He looks like he fell on the ground and kind of passed out,' the caller said.
Perez was still on the ground when police arrived at about 5:25 p.m. Four officers ran to the fence — three pulling out handguns and another pointing what appeared to be a shotgun. They ordered him to drop the knife. Instead, the boy stood up and began taking steps toward them with the knife in his hand. The officers shot repeatedly.
Andres said the police 'appeared to be like a death squad or a firing squad,' adding: 'They never once asked, 'What is the situation, how can we help?' They ran up with their guns drawn, they triggered a mentally disabled person to react and when he reacted … they shot him.'
'This was really traumatic for me to watch, for me and my son to be a part of,' Andres said. 'My son was the one that called the 911 with the hopes of helping the family deal with the situation that was going on. He had no idea that what was going to transpire.'
Schei said he would not answer questions about the shooting because of an investigation being conducted by the East Idaho Critical Incident Task Force.
'In situations like this, officers must make decisions in seconds,' Schei said. 'They assess threats not just to themselves but to those nearby. In this case, two individuals were within a few feet of an armed, noncompliant individual. The risk was immediate, and the situation rapidly evolving.'
The Pocatello Police Department did not immediately respond to emails seeking further comment Tuesday, including questions about whether the officers were carrying Tasers or other less lethal options.
According to the department's policy manual, all uniformed officers who have been trained to use Tasers must carry them, as well as either a baton or pepper spray.
Vazquez said Perez walked with a staggering gait because of his disabilities; he was not intoxicated. The boy's 16-year-old sister yelled to the police not to shoot and that he was 'special,' Vazquez said.
It was unclear if the police heard any such comments, which were not apparent on the video.
Seth Stoughton, a former police officer who teaches at the University of South Carolina Law School, said after watching the video that he had questions about why the officers did not use less lethal weapons or the basic tactic of backing up to create space between them and Perez.
'It does not appear to me that any officer is in immediate danger at the point where they begin shooting,' Stoughton said. 'If he had made it over the fence and officers backed up and he continued to approach … then that could change.'
Vazquez said the family had never called police for help with the boy in the past and that this was his first interaction with law enforcement.
Across the country, police departments are increasing training for officers on best ways to identify and interact with people who may have developmental or intellectual disabilities, including many trainings centering on autism.
The trainings often focus in on ways people on the autism spectrum react to outside stimulus like noise or touching, that can be seen as resisting commands or resisting arrest to someone not on the spectrum.
Some groups have started providing stickers or marked license plates for people with autistic family members as a signal for police.
Pocatello is a city of just under 60,000 residents about 165 miles north of Salt Lake City.
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Miami Herald
4 hours ago
- Miami Herald
A daughter with DACA, a mother without papers, and a goodbye they can't bear
Michelle Valdes' mom thinks she sees immigration agents everywhere: in the lobby of the building where she cares for elderly clients, at the local outlet mall, on downtown corners. The fear is constant. Driving to work, going to the store —just leaving the house feels too risky for her. At work, while she cooks and cleans in her clients' homes, she listens as stories of immigration detentions, deportations and constantly changing laws and policies play loudly in English from the TV. The 67-year-old undocumented Colombian national who has lived in the United States for more than a third of her life has stopped driving completely, opting for Uber, and ducking down in the backseat when she sees police officers. As a Jehovah's Witness, she has chosen not to do her door-to-door ministry and only attends church on Zoom. But what keeps her up at night these days is that she will soon go without seeing her daughter, likely for close to a decade. She is preparing to leave the United States after 23 years, leaving behind her 31-year-old daughter, a DACA recipient or 'Dreamer' who came to the United States when she was 8 and is still in the process of gaining her green card. Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, or DACA, is a federal program that protects undocumented people who came to the U.S. as children from deportation. 'I don't want to feel like I'm going to be spending two months in some detention center in the middle of God knows where, where none of my family members see me,' she said in Spanish during an interview with the Herald. She asked not to use her name for this story because she fears she could be targeted. 'I'm done,' she said. Her daughter's immigration situation is also precarious, even though she is married to a U.S. citizen. His family, from Cuba, got lucky when they won the visa lottery. But her family did not have such luck. Valdes' family did what immigrants often do: They fled danger, asked for political asylum, hired lawyers and filed paperwork. And they lost. Last year, only 19.3% of Colombian asylum cases were approved, according to researchers at Syracuse University. Even in 2006, when violence was at a very high point in Colombia, only 32% of asylum cases were approved. Their family's story reveals the toll a constantly changing and exceedingly complicated immigration system has on families who tried to 'do the right thing' and legalize their status. Now, under President Trump's administration, which has ramped up enforcement and the optics around it, being undocumented has become even more hazardous. People who have been living and working in the shadows in the United States are now being forced to decide if the reward of seeking a better life is still worth the risk. And those who are following the rules are afraid the rules will keep changing. The mother has already started packing boxes. Denied asylum Valdes' mom had never heard of the American Dream. She said she had never even heard the phrase 'el sueño americano' before coming to the United States. The family fled Colombia in 2002, leaving behind comfort and status. Valdes' mother had been an architect in Cartagena, a city on the South American nation's Caribbean coast. The family had a driver, a cook and a nanny. But violence by the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, the rebel group known as FARC, was encroaching on their lives: armed robbery at their home, threatening calls and the kidnapping of her cousin, a wealthy businessperson. The family was forced to pay a ransom for his release. The early 2000s in Colombia, under President Andrés Pastrana, were years of intense violence by guerrilla gangs such as the FARC, who targeted wealthier Colombians. 'They would just pick up anybody who they believed they could get money from,' said Valdes. Her aunt would often call Valdes' mom from Florida, telling her their family would be safer here. The family arrived on a tourist visa in 2002, found a lawyer and applied for asylum. It was denied in 2004. Under U.S. immigration policy, people who have suffered persecution due to factors such as race, religion, nationality, membership to a social group, or political opinion can apply for asylum. It must be filed within a year of arrival in the United States. Valdes' family's interview did not go well and they were placed in removal proceedings. They appealed and in 2006 took the case to the U.S. Board of Immigration Appeals. The family's asylum application claimed that Valdes' mom would be killed by the FARC guerilla gang if she returned to Colombia, in connection with her cousin's kidnapping. But the court ultimately found holes in her case, and said her fear is not well founded and that she failed to prove that she would be in danger if she returned to Colombia. Their final motion was denied in part because it was filed 45 days late, according to the court filing. Valdes was just 11 years old when the courts denied her family's final plea to stay in the United States. The family was issued removal orders. 'I feel like I made a mistake asking for asylum,' said Valdes' mother. 'I wasn't guided well because I was scared and didn't know what to do.' She says predatory lawyers charged her close to $40,000 but never told her the truth about her odds of winning the case. 'It's pure show,' she said in Spanish. 'I believed they would help, but they did nothing.' By then, Valdes and her brothers were attending public schools in West Palm Beach, a right undocumented children have because of a supreme court ruling which passed narrowly in the early '80s. 'I just kind of poured my whole life into school, just to kind of distract myself from other things going on in life, specifically with immigration,' she said. In fifth grade, she won the science fair. At Roosevelt Middle School she was in the pre-med program and the national junior honor society. She always had A's and B's in school. But when her middle school national honor society was invited to Australia, she had to stay behind, unable to travel because she was undocumented. At Suncoast Community High School, she was invited to sing in a choir concert in Europe, but again, she could not go. In 2007, ICE detained Valdes' parents and her eldest brother. Her other brother and Valdes were picked up from school and reunited with their parents at the ICE office. Valdes' mom said the officer told her that since the family had a removal order, they needed to deport at least one person to prove they completed their quota for the day. But to this day, Valdes and her mother can't fully explain why the father was deported but they were released. Was it luck? Did the ICE officers sympathize with their family? Then 13, Valdes remembers standing in the Miami immigration office as agents took her father away. 'He was wearing jeans, a tan coat and a gray-blue fisherman's hat,' she said. 'What I remember the most is that there was, like, some sort of feeling that I got, that I knew that I was never gonna see him again.' He was deported in January of 2007, when Valdes was in seventh grade. It was the only semester she ever failed in school, she said. Her father died at 69 in Colombia in 2022. A petition for him to get legal status and return to the U.S., filed on his behalf of his son from a previous marriage, was approved a year after his death, said Valdes. '17 years too late,' she said, in tears. DACA as a lifeline In 2012, Valdes and her mother were preparing to leave the United States for good. Flights were booked. Boxes mailed. Then, just 14 days before departure, President Obama announced the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program. The program was meant to protect children like Valdes, who came to the U.S. at a young age. Valdes was 18. Her phone lit up with messages from people in her community who knew she was undocumented. She applied that October. As a 'Dreamer,' or DACA recipient, she's protected from deportation and able to work legally — but can't travel outside the country. Her two older brothers, Ricardo and Jean Paul, had already left the country by then. After attending public schools and graduating from high school, the brothers could not attend college or find work. So in 2011, they returned to Colombia, and their mother sent them money to attend university. They both still live there and haven't seen their mom in 14 years. Valdes' situation was slightly better, but without legal permanent residency, she didn't qualify for most scholarships. The one scholarship she did get was a $4,000 scholarship from the Global Education Center at Palm Beach State, but $1,500 was deducted in taxes because she was considered a foreign student. Starting in 2014, Florida universities provided in-state tuition waivers for undocumented students under certain conditions. But because Valdes didn't enroll in college within a year of graduating from high school, she lost access to the waiver. That waiver was recently canceled in Florida for undocumented students, and starting July 1, at least 6,500 DACA recipients in Florida enrolled in public universities will have to pay the out-of-state tuition rate. 'When people asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I would ask for money to pay my tuition,' she said. Throughout those years, people would come to Valdes asking for help filling out their work permit applications, DACA applications and other legal forms, and they would say, 'Wow, you are so good at it.' Although she never wanted to do anything law or immigration related, she kept getting pulled in that direction, and decided to get her paralegal certificate, Valdes said. She now works at an immigration law office. Her plan is to go to law school after getting hands on training. 'I always thought: When I turn 18, I'm an adult — 'why am I still tied to my mom's case?' ' she said. 'But nobody explained it.' At her job in the law office, she finally learned the full truth of her case. Her name is still listed on her mother's asylum application — the case that was denied in 2006. So she still had a final removal order connected to her name. That case, and its order of removal, still haunts her. Although she's married to a U.S. citizen, it will take her years to adjust her status to get a green card and permanent residency status. The process will involve her husband filing petitions and waivers explaining that it would be an extreme hardship for him if she were deported. Valdes will have to leave the country and re-enter. In all, the process could take around eight years. Former president Joe Biden had a program to help people like Valdes, whose family is of 'mixed-status' but the program was shut down by Republicans. Immigration attorneys say there are fewer and fewer pathways for people married to U.S. citizens to legalize their status. The roadblocks and complications frustrate Valdes to tears. Valdes said that it is not fair that 'under our immigration system, a child, at such a young age, has to suffer the consequences of the parents' mistakes.' 'No es justo, no es justo,' she said, crying. It's not fair. But immigration laws, enforcement and policies are changing every day. 'People say 'get in line, get in line, get in line,' and then you get in line, and it's like, 'Oh, too bad, you don't apply with that anymore, or we're just going to change the laws. Or, you know, you aged out, or you didn't submit by this day,' said Valdes. In the past weeks, ICE agents across the nation have even begun detaining people as they exit immigration courthouses. Some are individuals with final orders of deportation like Valdes and her mom. Just this week, the Supreme Court ruled that President Trump can revoke humanitarian parole for over 500,000 migrants from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua and Venezuela. President Trump has spoken favorably of DACA recipients, but nonetheless, 'Dreamers' still have to reapply every two years, and there is no guarantee their right to legally be in the U.S. will not be revoked. Immigration attorneys say DACA could be the next program to be shut down by the Supreme Court. 'How shaky is DACA? How solid is it?' Valdes asked. Same fear, different country Valdes' mom says she now feels the same fear in the United States as she did in Colombia — maybe worse. 'I'm scared. Terrified,' she said. 'I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, always on alert.' For years, she tried to hold on. But after 23 years, she's tired of living in limbo. Valdes and her mom try not to think much about the fact that they are leaving each other, focusing more on the present and getting through each day. Valdes' mom says her ultimate goal was always for her daughter to get an education in the United States, and now that her daughter has a job, a husband, and is planting roots, she feels like she can go and let her daughter live her life. She left Colombia because she was 'tired of being followed. I was tired of being paranoid. I was tired of never being able to have my freedom, to just live, because I was always so scared. And fast forward, 23 years later, I'm just in the same boat in a different country,' she said. The hardest part for Valdes is imagining being pregnant and then giving birth without her mom by her side. But, she says, 'Now I tell her, I totally understand. It's your turn to finish living your life, Mom. I want her to be at peace, and I want her to rest.' As her mother prepares to leave, Michelle is left with the frustration of knowing that there's nothing she can do. 'I am still helpless. I still can't help her. I still can't help myself. It's a looming darkness you carry every day,' said Valdes.
Yahoo
12 hours ago
- Yahoo
Hopes of closure fade as police wrap up Madeleine McCann search
From the moment I arrived in Praia da Luz on Monday the word on everyone's lips was "closure". All the long-term residents of the sleepy Atlantic resort told me closure was what they were hoping for. From the English woman who lived at the time above the apartment from which Madeleine McCann disappeared in 2007, to the former neighbour of the main suspect in the case. They all said: "We hope her family get closure". Of course, any chance of a really positive outcome disappeared years ago. Closure now would mean either finding Madeleine McCann's body, or finding her living with another family, unable to remember her parents or her younger twin siblings. But, frustrated as residents are when the world's media return to Praia da Luz - year after year at the same time that purple flowers appear on the jacaranda trees - they do understand the unbearable pain that Kate and Gerry McCann must feel. How that shock of realisation that Madeleine was not in her bed turned into minutes, then hours, and then days of panic. Then tortuous, unending months and years of uncertainty. For 13 years there was no single theory as to what happened to Madeleine McCann. Did she wake up in the middle of an opportunistic burglary and have to be silenced? Was she abducted on behalf of a couple desperate for a child of their own? Had her own parents covered up her accidental death? (A theory given sufficient weight by Portuguese prosecutors that for a while Kate and Gerry McCann were officially under suspicion.) The initial Portuguese investigation failed to preserve the scene adequately, so the opportunity to gather forensic evidence from Madeline McCann's room at the Ocean Club was lost. Long-term residents remember joining in uncoordinated and ad-hoc searches of the town. The Metropolitan Police investigation that began in 2011 built to a peak in 2014, with substantial searches near Praia da Luz - but they did not appear to have any identifiable suspects. They had 60 people of interest, 38 of whom they were investigating. Portuguese prosecutors had allowed them to search only one of three sites they had asked for access to. Everything changed in June 2020 when, out of the blue, the head prosecutor in Braunschweig in Germany, Hans Christian Wolters, said he had evidence that Madeleine McCann was dead. Working with the Bundeskriminalamt (BKA), the German equivalent of the FBI, he said he had identified a suspect, later identified as Christian Brückner. "The evidence is strong enough to say that the girl is dead, and to accuse a specific individual of murder," Hans Christian Wolter said. Brückner, who spent many years of his life in the Algarve, was a drifter, a petty criminal and a convicted sex offender. It all fitted neatly into place and it seemed that the mystery might finally be solved. Brückner's long list of previous convictions includes ones for sexually abusing children in 1994 and 2016. The Braunschweig prosecution team have never disclosed the extent of any evidence they have, but we do know their suspicions are partly based on a conversation an old acquaintance of Brückner's claims they had at a festival in 2008. Helge Busching says the topic of Madeleine McCann's disappearance came up, and Brückner said she "didn't scream". Mr Busching says it was clear to him what Brückner meant. Since 2019, Brückner has been in prison in Germany for raping a 72-year-old American woman in Praia da Luz in 2005. But he is due for release in September, or in January if he does not pay an outstanding fine. Brückner told an RTL reporter earlier this year that he was looking forward to a "decent steak and a beer". The concern is that he will leave the country and head somewhere with no extradition treaty with Germany, though he appears to have no money. The Braunschweig prosecutors' confidence was dealt a severe blow last year when they put Brückner on trial for rape and unconnected attempted child abductions. Mr Busching gave evidence, but the court in Braunschweig acquitted Brückner and suddenly time was very short. Mr Wolters has made no secret of the fact that he wants more evidence to charge Brückner. That is why the BKA footed the bill for the search this week in ruined farm buildings on merciless, shadeless scrubland in the rising heat of an Algarve summer. The buildings are frequented at night by the kind of drifters and petty criminals that Brückner once was. Nearby residents told us they sometimes find looted suitcases among the ruins that have been stolen from holidaymakers. But this week's searches were not targeted on one specific building, so any intelligence they were based on was clearly quite vague. It all felt a bit like a last desperate attempt to back Mr Busching's statements with concrete, physical evidence. In some ways this search was similar to those I have seen on previous trips. The use of shovels in the heat, digging up stone-hard ground. But the German team were mostly targeting old farm buildings. This meant they needed a large, yellow mechanical digger to break up the concrete floors and sift through the resulting rubble. They also made extensive use of a ground-penetrating radar, slowly pushing the device across the buildings' floors, looking for anomalies and cavities underneath. The Portuguese fire brigade helped on the first day, pumping out an old well so it could be safely searched. The officers were looking for traces of Madeleine McCann, or some of her clothing. Every time I travel to Portugal for a new search it always begins optimistically. Could police find something this time? But on every occasion it quickly becomes apparent the searches are not tightly targeted. The police work always clearly based on quite vague intelligence - or just an investigator's hunch. Luis Neves, the National Director of the Polícia Judiciária, the Portuguese equivalent of the FBI, said at the end of the week that, "nothing is in vain, not least because doors are being closed". As we watched the German detectives packing away it felt like the spring of hope of a resolution that had bubbled up in June 2020 was evaporating in the thankless heat. Diggers brought in to help latest Madeleine McCann search in Portugal Madeleine McCann search goes on but is it 18 years too late? Madeleine McCann disappearance: A timeline


Boston Globe
14 hours ago
- Boston Globe
Consultant behind AI-generated robocalls mimicking Biden goes on trial in New Hampshire
Get N.H. Morning Report A weekday newsletter delivering the N.H. news you need to know right to your inbox. Enter Email Sign Up 'It's important that you save your vote for the November election,' voters were told. 'Your votes make a difference in November, not this Tuesday.' Advertisement Kramer, who owns a firm specializing in get-out-the-vote projects, has said he wasn't trying to influence the election but rather wanted to 'Maybe I'm a villain today, but I think in the end we get a better country and better democracy because of what I've done, deliberately,' Kramer told The Associated Press in February 2024. Advertisement Ahead of the trial, prosecutors sought to prevent Kramer from arguing that the primary was a meaningless straw poll because it wasn't sanctioned by the Democratic National Committee. At Biden's request, The state argued such evidence was irrelevant and could confuse jurors, but Judge Elizabeth Leonard denied the motion in March, saying the DNC's actions and Kramer's understanding of them were relevant to his motive and intent. She did grant the prosecution's request that the court accept as fact that the state held its presidential primary election as defined by law on Jan. 23, 2024. Jurors will be informed of that conclusion but won't be required to accept it. Defense says the only attack came from the DNC In his opening statement, defense attorney Thomas Reid said the robocall was Kramer's 'opinion and commentary' on the DNC's initial decision to block the state's delegates to the convention. 'That, ladies and gentlemen, was a brazen attack on your primary,' he said, referring to the DNC's actions. 'And it wasn't done by Steve Kramer.' 'He didn't see it as a real election, because it wasn't,' Reid said. Kramer faces Advertisement Kramer's attorney argued that his client didn't impersonate a candidate because the message didn't include Biden's name, and Biden wasn't a declared candidate in the primary. He also said the robocall message didn't tell anyone not to vote, a point quickly contradicted by the first half dozen witnesses for the prosecution. 'How else would one take it?' said Theodore Bosen, a retired lawyer from Berlin who received the call. 'That was horrific to my sensibilities that anybody would be trying to influence the vote in any election,' he said. On cross-examination, O'Donnell, the prosecutor, told jurors that Kramer tried to minimize his connection to the calls, including using his father's online banking account to pay the magician and fabricating the name of a 'client' when emailing a company involved in sending the calls. And he didn't contact authorities until the magician publicly identified him and authorities had begun tracing the calls to him, O'Donnell said. 'He knew it was wrong and was trying to get away with it,' O'Donnell said. Trial begins as the national landscape on AI is shifting Kramer The agency was developing AI-related rules when Donald Trump won the presidency, but has since shown signs of a possible shift toward loosening regulations. And though many states have enacted legislation regulating AI deepfakes in political campaigns, House Republicans in Congress recently added a clause to their signature tax bill that would ban states and localities from regulating artificial intelligence for a decade. Advertisement