Man Sentenced to Life in Prison for Brutal Murder of Mom-of-Four Uber Driver, Seen Begging for Her Life in Dashcam Footage
Christina Spicuzza was driving for Uber when she was kidnapped and murdered on the evening of Feb. 10, 2022
Calvin Crew was charged with murdering the mom-of-four, 38, after dashcam footage showed he pulled a gun after entering her car as an Uber passenger
On Monday, May 5, 2025, Crew, 25, was sentenced to life in prison with an additional 13 to 26 years
A man has been sentenced to life in prison without the opportunity for parole for the murder of a Pennsylvania Uber driver.
Calvin Crew was charged with homicide, robbery and tampering with evidence days after Christina Spicuzza was killed on February 10, 2022, according to a criminal complaint obtained by PEOPLE at the time. Dashcam footage released following the incident showed the mother-of-four, 38, had begged for her life.
He was found to be guilty of first-degree murder, robbery, kidnapping to facilitate a felony, evidence tampering and firearm charges in February 2025, according to WTAE.
Crew, 25, refused to attend his sentencing at the Allegheny County Courthouse in Pittsburgh on Monday, May 5, leaving his defense attorney to speak on his behalf. It was revealed that he maintains his innocence and plans to appeal his sentence, according to reporting by WTAE, WPXI and CBS News.
Allegheny County Police Calvin Crew's mugshot
Calvin Crew's mugshot
Related: Dashcam Footage Shows Uber Driver Pleaded for Her Life Before Being Killed
His defense attorney Adam Reynolds said that Crew 'lived a childhood surrounded by violence and neglect" and was "intellectually and socially challenged," per CBS Pittsburgh.
While he originally faced the death penalty for the execution-style shooting of Spicuzza, her family instead asked prosecutors to seek life in prison instead, citing the mom-of-four's "religious beliefs," per CBS News.
Crew's sentence includes another 13 to 26 years in prison, according to WTAE.
Victim impact statements were read in court on Monday despite Crew not attending his sentencing.
"You should have the death penalty, but we showed mercy," Spicuzza's mother Cindy Spicuzza said, according to WTAE.
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Christina's life partner Brandon Marto referred to Crew as "a coward who couldn't be here today to face this."
He emotionally added, 'Christy was everything for my family. I was lost, out of control. She saw something in me,' according to CBS News.
The victim's sister also spoke, emphasizing that her four children would not see their mother again, the outlet reported.
DON EMMERT/AFP via Getty The Allegheny County Courthouse
The Allegheny County Courthouse
Crew allegedly used his girlfriend's phone to order an Uber and then, once inside, pulled a gun on Spicuzza, according to the 2022 criminal complaint.
"Come on, I have a family," Spicuzza said in a transcript of the dashcam footage, later saying, "I'm begging you, I have four kids."
On Feb. 12, 2022, Spicuzza was found dead in a wooded area in Monroeville with a gunshot wound to the head. The dashcam footage was found days later near where Crew had allegedly asked to be dropped off.
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Yahoo
2 hours ago
- Yahoo
How Did Richard Ramirez Die? Here's Why the Night Stalker's Demise Didn't Happen on Death Row 12 Years Ago
Serial killer Richard Ramirez — known as the "Night Stalker" — murdered at least 13 people in the Los Angeles area from 1984 to 1985 He was sentenced to death in 1989 He died in in 2013 at 53 years oldRichard Ramirez — a.k.a. the Night Stalker — terrorized Los Angeles with his twisted crimes in the 1980s. From April 1984 to August 1985, Ramirez killed at least 13 people, sneaking into their homes in the middle of the night through open windows and unlocked doors, per CBS News. But his trail of terror didn't stop there: Ramirez also robbed, raped and beat many others, using a wide variety of weapons (including handguns, knives and even a tire iron) to inflict his brutality, according to CBS. The randomness of his attacks and methods left authorities perplexed — and allowed Ramirez to escape capture for more than a year. However, the Texas-born murderer was eventually caught on Aug. 31, 1985, as he attempted to steal a car in East L.A. An angry mob of citizens — who recognized him from media coverage as the Night Stalker — surrounded him, beating him with a steel rod until police arrived. It would take another four years for Ramirez to be brought to trial for his crimes. But on Sept. 20, 1989, the man known as the Night Stalker was found guilty of all 43 counts — including 13 counts of murder, five attempted murders, 11 sexual assaults and 14 burglaries. Ramirez was given a total of 13 death sentences, and was sentenced to be executed by gas chamber, The New York Times reported. Ramirez died in June 2013 at 53 years old, according to the Los Angeles Times. 'He never showed any remorse for what he had done,' Frank Salerno, one of the detectives who helped capture Ramirez, said in the 2017 Reelz docuseries Murder Made Me Famous. 'He was pure evil.' So how did Richard Ramirez die? From the Night Stalker's final days to his continued notoriety, here's everything to know about his death behind bars. Ramirez died while awaiting execution for the string of horrific crimes he committed in California between 1984 and 1985. Initially, California corrections officials stated that Ramirez died of natural causes, per the Los Angeles Times. However, a coroner's report released 10 days after his death revealed that he had died due to complications from blood cancer. According to the Marin County coroner's office, Ramirez had B-cell lymphoma — a common form of non-Hodgkin lymphoma. It was not clear when Ramirez had been diagnosed with cancer or whether he had been receiving treatment for it. Additionally, Ramirez had other significant conditions at the time of his death, including 'chronic substance abuse and chronic hepatitis C viral infection.' The drug abuse occurred prior to Ramirez's imprisonment (more than two decades earlier) and was likely the cause of his hepatitis C infection, the Marin County assistant chief deputy coroner told USA Today. 'It's likely something that he has been dealing with for years,' the coroner said about Ramirez's hepatitis C infection, per USA Today. 'It's killing your liver.' Shortly after his capture and arrest, a friend of Ramirez's named Donna Myers confirmed that Ramirez had started to use cocaine the year prior, dissolving it in water and shooting it up. (Hepatitis C is often spread by the use of intravenous drugs, per USA Today.) 'He had cut marks, you know, tracks, running across his left arm,' Myers told PEOPLE about Ramirez's extensive drug abuse. 'He broke off a needle in his arm one day... he got so hooked on cocaine he just got wigged out.' Ramirez died at 9:10 a.m. on June 7, 2013, according to the Los Angeles Times. Ramirez died at Marin General Hospital in Greenbrae, Calif., according to the Los Angeles Times. He had been admitted to the hospital earlier in the week from San Quentin State Prison, where he had been on death row since receiving his sentence in 1989. Ramirez, who was born on Feb. 29, 1960, was 53 years old when he died. While Ramirez's final words before his death are unknown, his statements at his sentencing made it clear that he did not fear dying. When the jury recommended the death penalty on 19 different counts at his October 1989 trial, Ramirez appeared unbothered. 'Big deal,' he told reporters, per the Los Angeles Times. 'Death comes with the territory. See you in Disneyland.' At his sentencing one month later, in November 1989, Ramirez delivered a chilling monologue to the packed courtroom — which included members of his family, victims who survived his attacks and relatives of those he killed. 'You don't understand me. You are not expected to. You are not capable of it. I am beyond your experience,' Ramirez said, according to the Los Angeles Times. He continued, 'I am beyond good and evil. I will be avenged. Lucifer dwells in us all. That's it.' Emotions surrounding Ramirez's death were mixed. 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Reyna Pinon, the wife of one of the men who helped capture Ramirez, echoed a similar sentiment: 'To me, he had a better death than all those people whose lives he took,' she said. Doreen Lioy, a freelance magazine editor who Ramirez married in 1996 while in prison, declined to comment to reporters following Ramirez's death. However, Ramirez's relatives in El Paso, Texas, released a statement asking for privacy. 'We are mourning the loss of our son and brother, Richard Ramirez,' the family told the El Paso Times. 'The world judged him, whether fairly or unfairly, it no longer matters. He is now before the true judge, the judge that sees and knows all things. We ask that you respect our sorrow and grief.' Ramirez's reputation as one of the most notorious serial killers in history has lived on since his 2013 death — particularly in the L.A. area. Signs of the terror the Night Stalker inflicted on southern Californians in the 1980s still remain intact today. 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Miami Herald
5 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. 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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
11 hours ago
- Yahoo
Former Capitol attack prosecutor slams Trump pardons of January 6 defendants
A federal prosecutor who helped lead the US Department of Justice's investigation into the January 6 attack on Congress has resigned – and, in a new interview, he criticized Donald Trump's decision to pardon or commute the sentences of about 1,500 people charged in connection with the Capitol attack, saying that it 'sends a terrible message to the American people'. Longtime assistant US attorney Greg Rosen, the former chief of the justice department's Capitol siege section, sat down with CBS News after resigning over the weekend. In the interview, Rosen said that he was 'shocked, if not stunned' by the breadth of the pardons Trump issued to those involved in the 6 January 2021 attack just hours after his second presidential inauguration. Related: January 6 rioter who was pardoned by Trump arrested for burglary On 20 January, Trump granted 'full, complete and unconditional' pardons to those involved in the Capitol attack, including some convicted of violent acts. Trump also issued sentence-shortening commutations for more than a dozen cases while directing the justice department to dismiss all pending indictments against people related to the attack which unsuccessfully tried to keep him in office after he lost the 2020 election to Joe Biden. 'I think the message that they send is that political violence towards a political goal is acceptable in a modern democratic society,' Rosen said. 'That, from my perspective, is anathema to a constitutional republic.' Rosen said that the 'primary beneficiaries' of the pardons were individuals that 'judges across the spectrum, appointed by both political parties, had determined were a danger to society, individuals who were serving real serious jail time'. 'The concept that these defendants were railroaded or mistreated is belied by the actual facts,' Rosen said. 'The reality is every single case was treated with the utmost scrutiny, and every single case required the same level of due process, maximal due process afforded by the US constitution.' The pardons, Rosen said, 'sends a terrible message to the American people'. 'Individuals who were duly – and appropriately – convicted of federal crimes ranging in culpability are immediately let loose without any supervision, without any remorse, without any rehabilitation to civil society,' he added. 'The reason those juries convicted – and the reason those judges convicted – individuals was not because of some bug in the due process,' Rosen continued. 'It was because the evidence was overwhelming. It was the most videotaped crime in American history.' Rosen also criticized the Trump administration's decision to fire or sideline some of the prosecutors who handled the January 6 criminal cases and to disband the Capitol siege section. 'It's ridiculous,' Rosen said. 'To see those talented prosecutors be marginalized or removed from office is an affront to the independence of the department.' Rosen has joined Rogers Joseph O'Donnell, a private law firm in Washington DC. In a LinkedIn post on Monday, Rosen said he was 'beyond excited' for the 'new adventure'. Speaking to CBS, he added that it felt like 'time for a change – and a time to take what I've been doing and what I've learned over the course of 15 years in state and federal practice – and bring it to the private sector, where I can benefit clients who are being scrutinized by the government'. In a statement, the law firm said that Rosen would join its white-collar defense and government contract practice groups. It hailed Rosen for being 'entrusted with supervising more than 1,000 prosecutions connected with the January 6, 2021 breach and attack of the US Capitol, the largest federal prosecution in American history,' the release added. In a statement sent to the Guardian in response to Rosen's comments, a spokesperson for the Trump administration-led justice department said the president 'doesn't need lectures … about his use of pardons'. The spokesperson alluded, in part, to a pardon Biden gave his son, Hunter, who was convicted of federal gun and tax charges. And the spokesperson also said Trump was 'acting reasonably and responsibly within his constitutional authority'. In late May, one of the pardoned Capitol attackers was arrested on allegations of burglary and vandalism in Virginia in what was believed to be the first instance of new charges – since the president's clemency – for a person who took part in the uprising against Congress. The attack on the Capitol by Trump supporters was linked to nine deaths, including the suicides of police officers who were left traumatized after having defended the building.
